by Emlyn Rees
Checking the rear-view mirror, I see Ug stumbling back to join Jack, Jimmy and Damien, who are sitting on the back seat. Jack’s brother, Billy, is comatose in the row behind me, sleeping off the beers he drank in London. There’s a pair of his wife’s knickers around his neck and an empty bottle of Tia Maria by his side. I glance across at my co-pilot, Stringer, who’s sprawled against the passenger door with his eyes closed and tissue paper sticking out of his ear. The poor sod’s shattered, not due to booze, just work. I told him to catch some zeds and that I’d wake him up when we reach our journey’s end. On current progress, that could be some time in the next millennium.
Turning my attention back to the road ahead, I see that for the first time since we left the motorway the traffic’s starting to thin out. Not that this will make any difference to our journey (this rust bucket’s top speed is 55 mph). Panpiped ‘Save a Prayer’ by Duran Duran bleeds from the sound system and the exhaust rattles disconcertingly. There’s a roar of laughter from the back.
‘Hey, Matt,’ Jimmy shouts. ‘What’s all this about you shagging H?’
H
Friday, 21.15
‘I don’t believe it!’ I slap the reception counter with my booking form.
‘As I said, we’ve got your booking,’ trembles Shirley, the Leisure Heaven receptionist behind the desk. ‘Only there must have been some mistake. There was a double booking. There’s only one chalet available for your party. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ I choke. ‘Sorry? There are seven of us! I’ve had this booked for weeks . . . Months! You’ll just have to find us another one. Now!’
Shirley is fiddling with her desk as if she’s looking for a panic button. ‘There isn’t one. We’re fully booked, madam.’
I grit my teeth, clamp my hand to my forehead and turn away before I hit her, or someone, or something. I’m too tired to deal with this.
‘What’s the matter?’
It’s Susie. I might have known she’d interfere.
‘There’s been an administration cock-up,’ I say, glaring at Shirley. ‘Apparently we’ve only got one chalet. I specifically booked two. Where are we all going to sleep? That’s what I want to know? Look, why don’t you just get me the manager?’
Susie shoves me out of the way and smiles sycophantically at Shirley.
‘I’m sure it’s not your fault. We’ve had a very long journey,’ she slurs, glancing at me and pulling a face. ‘One chalet’ll be fine. We’ll all cooch up.’
How dare she!
‘I’ll sort this out!’ I snap, barging my way back towards the counter, but Susie bars my way.
‘There are other people waiting,’ she points out. I look behind me at the long queue of punters, lining up like lemmings for this . . . this . . . hell. They’re all staring at me as if I’m stark raving mad. As if I’m the odd one out.
‘If you’ll just give us the keys, I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Susie says, crinkling’ up her eyes annoyingly. Shirley smiles at her gratefully and hands over the keys.
‘You’re in the French Riviera section. Apart-i-ment 328,’ she mumbles.
‘Thank you,’ says Susie, taking the key.
‘Please remember that your car has to be moved to the car park by 8 a.m.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a car-free zone. Didn’t you know? It’s bikes only,’ says Susie. ‘We’ll hire them in the morning.’
I scowl at Shirley and storm towards the exit sign.
Right. Brat’s going to pay for this! I tear out my mobile phone and angrily punch in his – for use in emergencies only – home number. A home firing. Could this be a first, I wonder? But surprise surprise – there’s no reception.
I stamp outside and bite my lip hard as I stare at the dark sky above the regulation pine trees. I thought Brat would’ve checked the booking, but then again, I didn’t ask him to. I should have done it myself in the first place. What was I thinking of, leaving all this to someone else? Now I’m going to have to explain to Amy that it’s all my fault.
I check my phone again, feeling an increasing sense of panic. But there’s still no reception and if there’s no reception that means I’m cut off from civilization all weekend . . .
Which means he won’t be able to call me.
This is a disaster.
I try my phone again, but it’s useless.
‘What’s your problem?’ demands Susie, catching up with me.
‘My phone doesn’t work!’
‘Well, you don’t need it here,’ she says, looking puzzled and then scowling as I growl in frustration.
‘This is Amy’s weekend,’ she points out. ‘Will you just calm down?’
‘I am calm!’ I shout. She raises her eyebrows and I know I’m over-reacting. I hate this place, already. It’s worse than a prison camp.
‘Don’t spoil this? OK? Just don’t,’ she threatens, grabbing my arm. I’m too cross to shake her off as she marches towards Kate who is standing by the queue of cars, talking to Jenny who has just arrived with Lorna. Amy’s asleep in the back of the Beamer.
‘. . . Horrible van. We played tag with them for ages,’ laughs Jenny in her ridiculous Northern accent. ‘There were this right group of lads. But we saw them a few miles back and they’d broken down. Flat tyre, by the looks of things.’
That must have been the van I gave the finger. Maybe there is a God after all.
‘Found her!’ announces Susie, pushing me forward, so that I trip in to the hen party.
Stringer
Friday, 21.30
It’s amazing. I feel like I’ve been here for ever, like this is my home. I stare across the lushly vegetated valley to where the foothills of the Andes start their climb towards the clouds. It’s so beautiful, I never want to be anywhere else. I never want to set foot in London again. I simply wish to remain here. For here there are no stag parties or crappy old minibuses. Here there is only the simple communal existence of the tribe. I watch an eagle soar high on the crest of a thermal. The woman at my side – her name is Karoonamigh (meaning she whose hair shines golden as the sun) – squeezes my hand tightly and I know that we shall never be apart. I turn back to the village shaman and he smiles his ancient, toothless smile.
‘Have you any further requests, child?’ he asks.
‘Your words will be my truth,’ I answer, sitting cross-legged before him and making the sign of peace. ‘I am happy. My soul is at one with the earth.’
He nods in understanding and raises his panpipes to his lips. ‘“Footloose” by Kenny Loggins,’ he says. ‘A particular favourite of mine.’
Matt
Friday, 21.31
‘Whu . . . ?’
‘I said, wake up.’
‘Whu . . . ?’ Stringer repeats, beginning to stir. He opens his eyes slightly and squints at me through their sleep-clogged slits. Then he reaches over the gearstick and grips my hand. ‘Karoonamigh?’ he asks in a quavering voice.
I stare uncomfortably at my hand for a second, before turning the engine off. The absence of panpipes drops the minibus into silence. ‘Karoona-what?’ I ask.
‘Karoona—’ His eyes open properly this time and he sits up, startled. His hand recoils as if it’s just been stung. ‘Oh, hi, Matt, it’s you.’ He glances at his hand reproachfully, muttering something about a weird dream, then looks around, confused. ‘Are we there, then?’ he eventually asks.
‘That depends on where you mean. If you’re referring to our final destination for the stag weekend, then I’m afraid you’re going to be very much disappointed. But if’ – I indicate the dimly lit building to our left – ‘you mean the Black Bull Inn, middle-of-bloody-nowhere, Wiltshire, then you’re spot on. We’ve broken down,’ I conclude. ‘Flat tyre. No spare. Easy Riders strike again.’
Stringer shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Have we got cover?’
I pick my RAC road-cover card off the dashboard. ‘They should be here in about another half-hour.’
He removes hi
s seatbelt and swivels round. ‘Who’s that?’ he queries, turning back to face me.
‘The corpse?’ I ask, not bothering to look, assuming that his enquiry concerns the prostrate and motionless Billy.
‘With the puddle of drool under his chin . . .’
‘That’ll be Billy. He hasn’t moved since we turned off the motorway.’
‘Oh.’ He takes another look. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’
‘Ug took his pulse,’ I inform him. ‘Says he’s fine.’
‘I didn’t know Ug could count high enough for that,’ he comments, peering out into the dark. ‘Where’s the rest of the squad?’
I nod towards the pub. ‘In there. You want to join them? You might as well. There’s no point both of us being stuck out here. Sober’ – I turn the engine back on and Living in a Box’s eponymous single starts up – ‘and freezing.’
‘Look, mate,’ Stringer says. ‘About the minibus. I’m sorry. I screwed up.’
I shake my head at him. Stringer’s one of those people it’s almost impossible to get angry with – particularly when he’s got tissue paper sticking out of his ear.
‘Forget it,’ I tell him. ‘It’s my fault for not fixing us up with something else.’
He opens the door and gets out. ‘Do you want me to get you a soft drink or anything?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m fine.’
I watch him walk over to the pub, then pull out the Leisure Heaven brochure they sent me from the glove compartment. I scan through it again. It’s great. Great for parents with young kids who want to muck about all day in the extensive adventure playground and waterslides complex. And it’s great for people who love the countryside. And it’s great for healthniks like Stringer who want to take advantage of the wide variety of indoor and outdoor sports on offer.
But apart from that, it’s shit. It’s shit for Jack, who probably wants this weekend to involve memories that will stay with him for the rest of his life. And it’s shit for Jimmy and Ug, who are probably hoping we’re heading for some hush-hush rave that’s so leftfield that even they haven’t heard of it. And it’s shit for Damien, who probably wants to go on a record-breaking pub crawl. And it’s shit for Billy, who, judging from the state he’s in, probably wants to report to a doctor at the first available opportunity and have a total mind, body and soul transplant.
I just hope I manage to track H down, because without that, I’ll have gone and sold my friends down the river for nothing.
Susie
Friday, 21.40
‘It’ll be fine,’ I whisper.
Amy looks anxiously towards the bathroom door. ‘But she’s been in there for ten minutes.’
‘She’s just wound up and stressed, that’s all. I know H. A few moments alone and she’ll get over it. But she’s right,’ I add, looking round as we put the bags down. ‘How are we all going to fit in? Look at this place. It’s hardly big enough for four.’
Amy follows my glance around the tiny chalet. We’re in the wood-effect kitchenette, unpacking H’s shopping, whilst H herself sulks in the bathroom. Jenny, Kate and Lorna are in one of the bedrooms, sorting out the bedding. Fortunately, Lorna, being a bit of an outdoors type, has brought a sleeping mat with her. She’s also brought a stereo and she’s put on a Best of Funk CD.
‘Forget H. How are you feeling?’ I ask, boogying along.
Amy looks at me. Her eye make-up is smudged and she’s got bloodshot eyes. She crinkles up her nose. ‘My head hurts.’
‘You fell asleep, you daft moo. You’re hungover before you’ve even started. You need some more,’ I say, waggling the bottle.
Amy groans. ‘Do I have to?’
I smile and re-pin the veil I’ve made her. ‘Yes. You’re the hen, remember.’
‘But I thought tonight was supposed to be the quiet night,’ she whines. ‘I thought we were all just going to chill and then we’d celebrate tomorrow night.’
‘I like tequila! It makes me happy,’ sings Jenny, in reply, conga-ing out of the bedroom with a huge carrier bag. She’s changed in to leggings and trainers.
‘So much for that idea,’ tuts Amy, shaking her head at me, as I laugh.
Jenny is Amy’s mate from work and she seems like a real laugh. Sam, her other work friend, is coming along later.
Jenny pulls salt, lemon and a bottle of tequila out of the bag.
‘Slammers, girls?’ I call, and Lorna and Kate come through.
H opens the bathroom door. Nice of her to join the party, at last.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Amy.
‘Yes, fine,’ she says, quietly. ‘I could do with a drink.’
I pull the glasses out of the cupboard and fill them up, but there aren’t enough to go round. ‘We’ll have to go in relay.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll have a beer,’ says H. ‘Sorry about all this.’ For once she sounds genuine.
If it comes down to it, I don’t mind sleeping out here, but I’d rather be with Amy.
‘I’ll toss you for the other bed, if you like?’ I smile at H. ‘Heads – you’re in the bedroom with Amy. Tails – I am.’
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ pipes up Amy, looking anxiously between us.
‘No!’ I say, flicking a coin. I clap my hand over it. ‘It’s tails,’ I say, showing H. ‘Tails for Wales, never fails.’
I learnt that one off my old Dad.
‘Settled then,’ I smile, but H looks like she’s got something stuck in her throat. ‘You lot are all right in the other bedroom, aren’t you?’ I ask, handing out the tequilas to the girls and they nod. Jenny passes round the slices of lemon and the salt pot.
I think this weekend’s going to be a complete laugh.
‘Right then,’ I say, when we’re all ready. ‘One, two, three . . .’ We all slam our glasses down, lick the salt off our hands, down the tequilas and shove the lemons in our mouths, except H, who fiddles with her beer can and looks like she’s biting her tongue.
‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’ she asks.
‘Let’s go to the Global Village Dining Complex,’ I suggest, looking it up in the guide. ‘We can take the tequila with us.’
‘It’s miles away,’ says Amy, looking over my shoulder at the map.
‘Shall we risk it in the car?’ asks Jenny.
‘Good idea. I’m sure we’ll all fit in to H’s.’
H hesitates, then looks at Amy.
‘That’s OK, isn’t it?’ asks Amy.
‘Fine. Come on then, let’s go.’
On the way out, Amy grabs my arm. ‘Do you think Jack’s all right?’
‘Are you missing him?’
She nods and I smile at her. She looks so sweet. ‘He’s probably missing you too. Come on. I’ll look after you, darling, don’t you worry.’
Stringer
Friday, 22.30
Jimmy’s the first to break the silence that’s suddenly descended in the minibus.
‘You have got to be joking,’ he says, staring in disbelief, along with everyone else in the back of the bus, at the Leisure Heaven sign in front of us, eerily lit like the Frankenstein place in Rocky Horror. He looks at Ug imploringly. ‘Tell me you’ve spiked my drinks and none of this is actually real.’
All Ug does is shrug wordlessly and continue to stare at the sign, transfixed.
I think we’re all fairly shocked, to tell the truth. When Matt told us he’d used our hard-earned money to book an awesome weekend destination, I doubt that any of us envisaged Leisure Heaven. Personally, I’ve got nothing against the place. There’s tennis, squash, swimming and a host of other activities. Personally, however, doesn’t come into it. I can understand why the others are a tad miffed. Exercise and fresh air are hardly intrinsic elements of their lifestyles. Ug removes the plastic breast from his head for the first time this evening. The situation, it seems, is that grave.
‘Well, Matt,’ he asks, ‘is this for real?’
Matt parks the minibus by the reception lodge and
switches off the engine. Delicious silence reigns in the place of panpipes for a few moments. Then Matt turns round and stares straight into Ug’s eyes.
‘I want you to know, Ug,’ he says, his eyes moving on to traverse the other onlooking faces. ‘I want you all to know: Leisure Heaven is a wonderful place. We have no transport worries. We have no licensing hours to contend with. Out here in the wilderness, there is nothing that can interfere with the pure and unadulterated fun that I have planned for us.’ He looks back at Ug. ‘Do you understand?’
Ug frowns for a moment. ‘Sort of,’ he says.
‘Good,’ Matt replies.
Jimmy, however, isn’t as simply convinced. ‘But it’s a dump,’ he snaps. ‘An anti-fun zone. Everyone knows that. They treat you like sheep the moment you drive through the gate. You spend your whole weekend queuing and the nearest club’s about two hours away and there’s nowhere to score . . .’ Jimmy glances at me. ‘You got any gear on you?’ he asks.
I tell him, ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
I reply automatically: ‘You know why not.’
He smiles slyly. ‘Come on,’ he says with a sneer. ‘Once a player, always a player. You telling me you haven’t got so much as one itsybitsy pill on you? Not one spare line? Not one cheeky plug?’
I make a circle with my forefinger and thumb. I can feel myself flushing, angry with him for putting me in this situation and not backing off, but I’m determined not to lose it or let him know that he’s succeeded in winding me up. All it will do is make matters worse. ‘Zero,’ I tell him.
‘Will you two just chill out?’ Ug says, rearing up at the back. ‘I’ve got a fat bag of grass back here. There’s plenty to go round.’
