Beach Bodies, Part 2

by Ross Armstrong

As the weeks rolled on and crutches, effortful daily walks and a physiotherapist were employed to help, the situation became hardly any better. Dawn even felt an occasional numbness in her hands, a tingle that felt like a threat of things to come. An MRI scan was called for.

  Dawn couldn’t help a feeling of satisfaction that moved from her inner parts to her outer, that the situation was indeed as serious as she had protested it was all along, and that she had continued to fight it off without complaining, waiting patiently for the malady to disappear while knowing all along that something desperate, terrible and terrifying was happening to her. She had a strange sense, she told one of her many new friends who accompanied her on her difficult walks near the sea, that defeating this was in some way ‘her destiny’.

  The tone Murthy took on the day he was charged with relaying the results was one neither Dawn nor her mother had noted before. His sleeves were rolled up, the crumples around his elbows bulging and straining, contorted as if in a struggle to the death.

  ‘Dawn, I feel partly responsible.’

  ‘For what?’ she said. ‘Should I have been given medication?’

  She noted the tiniest hint of triumph in her own voice, just one of the voices in the room she no longer recognised. She felt somehow her coming-of-age had been played out almost entirely in this room.

  ‘No, I feel responsible, because I let this go on so long.’

  Her mother hung her head.

  ‘Bu—’

  ‘But don’t get me wrong. Just because there is no muscular or cerebral issue, it doesn’t mean you aren’t, I mean, that you’re not—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Let us talk of psychosomatic disease. Let us say that this is no less a disease than any other. A disease of the mind is just as valid as any other, even though the wounds are not observable to the naked eye. Let’s remind ourselves of soldiers who after trauma needed recuperation, some of whom… became poets. Let’s consider that just as a broken bone under the skin requires definite attention, so too does the mind. Let me tell you that the medical profession is only recently agreed on this, historically speaking, but that the public may be more sceptical. Let us agree that the therapies we need to help solve this are more to do with the inside than out.’

  He said other things, but Dawn barely heard them. The inside took over, a kind of glow arresting her, numbing her to the rest of the difficult words that followed, which despite claiming not to invalidate her condition, invalidated her condition in the same way that a piece of paper balled-up then set alight and watched until it turns black can no longer be considered a piece of paper.

  The trip home was silent as her mother sped over speed bumps and through fords, distractions like lambs lying in fields languishing under a strong autumn sun.

  There were no raised voices in her mother’s new kitchen, surrounded by the marble worktops and brass handles. Dawn was not questioned to the point of being asked to prove her illness in the living room, which did not climax in Dawn barely being able to breathe through tears, as her mother pushed her out of her chair and her forehead connected with the newly stripped-back floorboards next to the kitchen island. No, this is not that kind of story.

  Dawn returned to her essays and friends and abundant attentions of female friends, and men who were occasionally invited to take her on dates and even fumble around with her. Each of those men considered themselves better people for wheeling her along the cinema multiplex carpet, despite an attractiveness differential not in their favour that didn’t even occur to them when they were never invited on a third date. ‘She has her issues,’ they recounted to friends, while smiling with saintly looks on their faces. ‘Dawn is brilliant, we had a short but awesome time together.’

  And slowly, in the first weeks of the third term, as exams approached, Dawn began to stand freely again. And when the word miracle was mentioned, she reminded the speaker that ‘This was never going to be forever, I knew it wouldn’t be.’ And when her female friends of that whole era receded into hallway well-wishers, and her male friends swelled as the student body saw that she looked just as good upright, she entered into a new life she barely looked back from. Her chair was donated to the theatre department, and that was that.

  The first one inside the Sex on the Beach villa, Dawn skips past the pool, giggling as she dips her fingers in the chlorinated water, aware that cameras are watching her close, and imbuing her performance with all the day-glo colours of excitement they would expect.

  ‘Oh – my – god – this – is – flames,’ she says, in a kind of chant. ‘I hope that I look okay.’ And as she leans back over the pool like a latter-day narcissus, to catch her reflection, she hears another pair of heels enter the villa. She turns, glances over her left shoulder, feeling particularly grounded and statuesque, and looks up to see another pair of eyes meet hers so perfectly on cue it was as if the whole thing had been staged.

  ‘Oh – my – god!’ says Summer. Her blonde waves of hair look like she’s sitting on the back of a speedboat in front of a sun-soaked ocean.

  ‘You look amaze,’ Dawn says, running over to give her a hug.

  ‘Aw, you too, my love. That neon bikini is TD.’

  ‘Ha – is that good?’

  ‘TD? To die.’

  Dawn squeals and internally berates herself for not getting that sooner.

  ‘What’s your name, darl?’ says Summer.

  A pause. A hint of concealed disappointment. Of course, Dawn realises…Summer doesn’t know who Dawn is. Dawn is just one of five hundred thousand to Summer.

  But Dawn rallies quickly. ‘Dawn. Like the early morning,’ she says. A hand clasp. Summer pulls her in. Bare right shoulder meeting bare left. Dawn squeezes back.

  ‘Summer. Like… what it is now,’ Summer says.

  And she kisses Dawn on both cheeks. Summer smells just like Dawn thought she might. It’s such a coincidence, her being here, but Summer doesn’t think so. Summer doesn’t realise at all, as she runs her hand along the outdoor furniture, the sheen of the hot tub, the kitchen island counter.

  Dawn watches her, recalling those girls she used to admire from sports outings. So competitive on the day. Then with a brush of hair across their reddened faces, they became fast friends. The Maynard School: Summer Charles. How can she forget? She used to stare at those pictures before bed. Just an idol, just a role model, no harm in it.

  ‘Hey,’ Summer says, running back to her to take Dawn’s hands. Is that an embarrassed look on her face? A remembrance, at last?

  ‘When do you think the boys get here?’ Summer says.

  Dawn shakes her head in silence, blowing a curl of flame hair out of her eyes.

  ‘We’ve got the rest of the girls to come first,’ Dawn says.

  ‘Yes!’ Summer says, extracting enthusiasm from every surrounding atom. ‘Oh. Dawn?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to us becoming best friends.’

  And Dawn feels the glow within her again.

  4.29 p.m.

  Dogger. Fisher. German Bight. Humber. Thames. Dover.

  Many miles away, the comforting sound of the voice that reads the shipping forecast describes still waters around the United Kingdom, but the sea around its furthest flung territory rises and falls with venom, like a great dark blanket shifting high into the air and crashing down many metres below. The water’s fingers shooting white spray into the air after crashing themselves onto the unfriendly rocks of Tristan Da Cunha.

  The island’s two trawling ships are in, having retreated for the day after an early start in the navy-blue morning. Their modern motorised winches pulling in huge ancient nets, rudimentary things compared to those of many fishing vessels that sail the rest of the wide world, but strong enough to feed the residents of the island.

  The British developed the first kind of trawler and christened it Dogger. A name that later was given to a patch of sea off the east coast: the pathway to Holland, co-star of the shipping forecast
. It also happens to be the name of the larger of the two outrigger trawlers lying in wait, left to be beaten down in the harbour until the storm relents, which is scheduled to be some time tomorrow.

  The Dogger’s fishermen left an hour ago, dressed in work-boots thick with various slimes. Above them begin the bib and brace overalls, a wet blackness at the ankles soon dissipating into the luminous orange they are intended to be. Rising to the stomach, they become caked in the grey remnants of assorted innards, and higher still, spackles of various hues of red, that are especially thick around the barrelled chest of one man in particular, dripping rain-diluted blood, from fish guts and whatever else, which fall down onto the front door step of the villa.

  It is this that greets Simon, backed by his two makeshift henchmen, in the open doorway. The man in the stained overalls that once were orange. A long blunt instrument in his right hand, that rests low at his side for the moment.

  ‘HI!’ Roberto shouts, the noise escaping from him, far louder than intended. But Simon says nothing, waiting for the shock to settle as he looks at the fisherman’s face, shadowed by the premature darkness the storm has brought with it.

  He is bearded and his eyes shine, though their intent can’t be judged with any accuracy at this point. Within the beard, his glistening red lips, caught by the light spilling from the hallway, open.

  ‘Storm on the way,’ he says, a growl in a minor key with little effort behind it. And as he says this, the one streetlamp blurred in Simon’s vision behind the man’s left shoulder flickers, then goes out, the orange glow disappearing from the wet concrete.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Simon. ‘We know. But it’s very good of you to—’

  ‘You’ll need things. I brought some.’

  Lance watches that blunt instrument in his hand.

  ‘Er… what – what like?’ Simon bumbles.

  The fisherman lifts his weapon, Roberto bundles Simon out of the way and grabs the cold steel pipe. The fisherman lets it go and stands back.

  ‘Decent torch, for a start.’

  Roberto nods, puffs out a short breath, mostly composed of embarrassment, as he examines the weight of the metal in his hand. ‘Hmm, thanks.’

  ‘You fellas… all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Simon, a little too like he’s got something to hide.

  ‘Bit scared… by the weather,’ Lance says, finding himself completely outmanned by the wilting look he gets back.

  ‘Making TV, right?’ the fisherman says, examining the three of them in turn.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Simon.

  ‘Going to ask me to come in?’

  Roberto backs away a touch, thinking about that body upstairs. There’s no reason for the man to want to go up there, he supposes. No reason he can think of.

  ‘Yes. Do come in,’ mumbles Simon.

  And as the fisherman places a sodden foot on the tiles of the villa, making his way past the three men, he mutters, ‘Thank you, Simon.’

  Floundering, Simon gasps, ‘How did you know my—’

  The front door closes and they follow the fisherman’s long strides inside as the rain pounds on the makeshift street beyond.

  Liv is the first to flinch when the unannounced fisherman appears in their living room. He raises his hand in greeting, then reaches back and slings his waterproof pack from off his back onto the ground between them. It lands with a wet thump.

  Liv catches Lance’s eye, as he follows behind. And you’re supposed to be a bouncer? she thinks. She feels stupid for what she clutched before he came in now – for what she still has in her hand, obscured from everyone including the fisherman, behind the kitchen island. She grips it, looking for a neat way to get rid of it before anyone sees her with it.

  Summer’s fingers twitch by her sides, the tension hardly dispelled by their new guest. A hand slides along her back. Dawn’s. Summer has never been big on inter-female touching, but appreciates the contact is intended to calm her.

  ‘Cold?’ the fisherman says.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ Summer says.

  ‘Cold,’ he repeats, flat and expressionless. ‘You will be.’

  Summer stills her hand by placing it on the small of Dawn’s back, trying to look comfortable.

  ‘Storm. Heat’s always first to go. Light’s next.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ says Simon. ‘Thank you, but we’ve got back-up generators, we’ve thought of all eventualities. The electricity will stay on.’

  Simon throws this out to them all with an unfounded confidence, but one he needs to keep if he’s to convince them these cameras are still watching over them…

  To be watched is to be safe, keep being observed, keep playing the game, it’s the best way to stay alive.

  ‘If you say so,’ says the fisherman, with a single shot of doubting laughter.

  Zack crouches down to place his hand on the tiles. ‘He’s right. Underfloor heating’s gone already.’

  A few noises of concern from surrounding boys and girls, who are now shivering with folded arms. Psychosomatic, Simon thinks. Tell them they’re cold and that’s what they believe. You could put whatever you want into heads like these.

  ‘Lights next,’ Justine says, with her eyes all over Simon.

  ‘No,’ says Simon, turning back to the fisherman. ‘We have a system.’

  ‘System, eh?’ says the fisherman, immediately triggering Simon.

  ‘I know the technology,’ he says.

  ‘I know the island.’

  There’s a stand-off. All eyes on the two men in front of them, but the fisherman merely blinks and turns his gaze to Liv, who straightens and starts when she sees his sallow skin, yellowing eyes and the dark bags beneath.

  ‘Jumpy ones, aren’t you?’ he says, his eyes running along Liv, who gives a non-committal wince and shrug, a serrated kitchen knife in her hand, out of view.

  ‘Maybe a little,’ Dawn says. Offering a smile that the fisherman chooses not to reciprocate.

  ‘And I know why,’ the fisherman mutters.

  Their eyes dart around the room. Simon swallows a sour taste. Behind the intruder, Roberto takes a step in, but to do what, he doesn’t know. Zack’s eyes go to Liv’s, catching her priming herself for something.

  ‘Because of the storm,’ the fisherman says. And the other bodies in the house relax, their muscles loosening. ‘You won’t get storms much like this back where you’re from.’

  He reaches down for the package he carried here on his back; thick, rippling with weight and bound in a makeshift sack made from tarpaulin.

  Then a sound stops him in his tracks; thunder that sounds more like a distant drill, trying to pierce its way into their world through the heavy clouds. The kind of noise that lodges in your bones and leaves a cold white shiver there.

  The fisherman nods. ‘Not your average storm, I’d say. Not that I’ve anything to compare it to. Never left the island myself.’

  ‘No?’ Dawn says, placing the hand not wrapped around Summer onto a nearby sofa, like an actor in a soft-furnishings commercial, desperate to appear natural.

  ‘Nope. But I see things. We do have television. I watch it closely.’

  He locks eyes with Dawn and smiles for the first time. She smiles too, and her face falls as she wonders whether he is referencing those two days when she sunbathed topless before being advised by Simon that, despite her efforts, she wasn’t out of view of the camera, and that this therefore might have undue consequences. She was only trying to make sure her tan was consistent while on the nation’s most-watched television show, but the result was Simon informing her to expect screenshots through the post when she returns home, with requests for her to sign them, which he warned her not to. Dawn hardly needed to be told that. But she didn’t expect to come face to face with a grinning fan happy to infer to her how familiar he is with her more secret parts.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Zack says, drawing the fisherman’s eyes his way. ‘What’s in the package?’

  As Summe
r ponders why the fisherman is giving Dawn so much attention when she’s in the room, Liv considers what could possibly be inside…

  Pump action shotgun, explosive, crossbow; she flips through the first few options that spring to mind.

  ‘It’s this…’ says the fisherman, before being stopped in his tracks, one hand on the damp tarpaulin package lazily slung on the cream tiles.

  ‘Can I ask?’ says Simon. ‘How did you know my name?’

  The fisherman stalls, an odd stasis coming over him, his hands clenching in front of him. Simon raises his eyebrows as if to cue the man, but nothing comes out of him other than a low grunt, a long channel of air through which more confusion arrives into the room. All his imposing weight seems to disappear like someone has put a pin in him, all his previous character suddenly excusing itself from him.

  ‘Zack, Lance, Summer, Tabitha,’ he finally gasps. Tabitha, who had stayed skulking nearest the door in the half-light, planning to bolt if necessary, steps forward on hearing her name. ‘Er, Dawn,’ he says, smiling that weathered smile and lingering on her with his eyes. ‘Justine, er—’

  ‘We know you know their names,’ Simon says. ‘You must’ve seen them on television. But I’m not on the show.’ He’s incandescent, squaring up to the fisherman. It’s the first time the group notice this thin man can be quite imposing at full height. ‘How did you know my name?’

  The fisherman smiles at the group, lost for words. He seems to look older by the second and is currently approaching 50. Justine pinches herself to check she’s not dreaming, such is the departure from reality they seem to have taken.

  Simon closes in on him and grabs him by the strap of his overalls, voice rising with every syllable. ‘How. Did. You. Know. My. Na—’

  ‘Sandra told me it. The producer. When she left, she gave me instructions. And a retainer.’

  Simon drops to a crouch as the others take a step in towards him, Sly getting close enough to give him a manly pat on the shoulder. They have, perhaps, neglected the strains it puts on a man when his job is to keep the strain off them. But none of them will be able to recall this abstract outburst with any ease.