Beach Bodies, Part 2

by Ross Armstrong

  Simon puts his pen down. Sly hears it.

  ‘Did you feel rage? The urge to do something about it? For revenge?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sly says, without missing a beat. ‘All those things.’

  He closes his moleskin. Simon knows what he thinks of Sly now. Knows what he thinks of all of them. Sly was the last one to pin down. And now there he is. Pinned.

  ‘So after that I did kill. You can’t say the two things were linked, not directly. You find yourself where you find yourself and act accordingly. You can’t will these situations to come up. But when I did kill, the rage disappeared, it gave way to a warm feeling. Like I’d just eaten.’

  Sly pictured the skirmish. An Islamist militia that turned out not to be ISIL, but had similar aims. They were detailed to support a US raid on a facility where training took place and arms were held. An abandoned school facility, which the militia were supposed to have left. He colours the image in. He pictures the face that appeared in what was once a classroom, turning, a gun by his side. Sly and another officer took him down before he got a shot off. Before he could lift his weapon in truth. Sly stood over him to have a closer look. Thought about putting another bullet in him, but didn’t need to. He was looking into his eyes when his lights went out.

  He didn’t close the guy’s eyelids. Didn’t kick the guy, giving them one for his friend, or say a prayer. Nothing so dramatic. He left and hoped for more similar.

  ‘I tried to bring the pooch home, but another lad had grown more attached to her. Someone who’d seen worse things than me. The contact can help with PTSD. So I contacted a charity that helped him bring the dog home.’

  ‘Right,’ says Simon.

  Sly blinks, watching the dust motes fill the air, caught in the light coming through the single window of Simon’s office.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m used to this,’ says Sly. ‘I’ve had therapy before. Don’t know what I’d do without it, to be fair.’

  Simon picks his pen up and taps it. Unsure quite what to say.

  Sly didn’t mention his time as a soldier until he knew he was on the show. It wasn’t until the final vetting stage that it came up. Even then he didn’t suggest he’d been abroad on operations, nothing like this.

  But now, all of a sudden, they have someone in the villa who says he has killed. And Simon doesn’t quite know what the protocol is for that.

  7.49 p.m.

  The form in the doorway is big enough to be Sly, so Summer runs straight into his arms, kissing him on the mouth.

  ‘I was so worried, so worried,’ she whispers.

  But unfortunately for her, it’ll be a little longer before her worries go away.

  ‘Sorry, Summer, love, it’s me,’ says the voice.

  ‘Christ,’ she says, retracting her body from his grasp. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Thought the accent was a dead giveaway,’ whispers the voice. ‘It’s Roberto.’

  That’s a kiss he’s been waiting for, for some time, thinks Summer. But one he’ll never get again.

  ‘Where’s Sly?’ she says.

  ‘I thought he was up here with you, lovely. He ain’t downstairs.’

  The creeping worry in Roberto’s voice does nothing to quell the tide of blood in Summer’s ears. There are two sets of stairs. Two ways up here. Roberto must’ve come up one. Sly down the other. Unless he’s still up here somewhere.

  ‘How bad does the body look?’ says Roberto.

  ‘What body?’ says Liv, her voice silent in the dark until now.

  ‘What body? The fucking… body, love. Tommy’s—’

  ‘There’s no body, Rob,’ says Summer. ‘That’s what Liv’s saying.’

  He laughs, and they can just make him out shaking his head as he does.

  ‘But Lance said he saw—’

  ‘Yes. He did say that,’ says Liv.

  The laughter runs dry and Roberto straightens up, collects himself and blows out a short breath. It sounds like a ‘phew’ but that would suggest the danger was over.

  ‘You’re saying there’s no body up here, loves?’ repeats Roberto. Always quick on the uptake.

  ‘There’s no body up here,’ says Liv.

  As the door closes, Simon locks it from the inside and falls back into his chair, breathing heavily.

  Dawn turns his way and watches the shutter roll electronically down with a hum, triggered by the remote control Simon holds. Like the last moments of sunset, when the day is just a golden line on the horizon, the metal sheet closes out the last breath of light as his lounge has become a cell.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Lance’s futile shouts can be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he’s afraid for Dawn. Perhaps he should be. But she knows Lance can’t get in without a key. And she can’t get out either.

  ‘Why’d they build this room?’ says Dawn, a tiny quake in her voice. ‘Were they expecting something like this?’

  ‘Ha,’ Simon laughs, his hand still inspecting the bruises around the throat. ‘These rooms are for home invasion, terror attack or tornado. I think they were thinking of the last one more than the other two.’

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  And over Lance’s shouts, you can hear the wind whipping up outside, planning another attack.

  ‘On an island like this you’re vulnerable from all sides,’ says Simon.

  ‘I know the feeling,’ says Dawn.

  ‘And every channel takes terrorism very seriously these days. Every terrorist really wants to be a rock star or a soap star. They thrive on the exposure. A bigger audience for their horrors—’

  She stops his mouth. They’re the last words he’ll say for a while.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. More shouts from outside.

  And inside, Dawn kisses Simon, straddling him on his chair, as his limp arms then rise and slowly find their position on her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry he hurt you, I tried to stop him. But I didn’t want to give the game away.’

  She kisses him some more, and suddenly he finds his belt loosened.

  ‘I think letting on about us may’ve only escalated things,’ says Simon.

  They can hear him breathing on the other side.

  You don’t get much back from banging on a triple-enforced door, and Lance seems to have given all he’s got.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ says Simon, as she undoes her wrap dress and his hands reach her bare hips.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s the tension.’

  Simon wants to ask if she means she needs a release from the tension or if it’s the tension that does it for her. But as he watches the freckles and supposed imperfections of the skin below her breasts rise and fall in front of him, instead he casts his mind back to their sessions here.

  Dawn had been the first to kiss Tommy. Memes of their faces in hearts were shared online, odds were slashed on whether they would be the eventual winners, so they were told.

  By the end of week two, rumours had spread that Tommy, while loveable, was not the most constant lover. There were moments with Liv and Tabs, and when it looked like he would switch partners to be with the latter. Dawn jumped ship first. Into the arms of Lance.

  By week three, Dawn had talked of her illnesses in this room, of how they seemed like the problems of another person now. Despite her public slighting, she was blossoming before Simon’s eyes. Dawn was gaining a keener sense of her actualised self and putting her minor obsession with Summer behind her, though she still dressed like her from time to time. In fact, Simon noted that Dawn’s quest to be like Summer had given her a kind of inner-stability, while paradoxically, Summer’s quest to act like Summer started to concern Simon more all the time. But Simon’s thoughts rarely lingered too long on the authenticity gap in Summer’s personality, as his thoughts were mostly full of Dawn, who started talking of how much she trusted him and once put her hand on his and said, ‘Thank you so much for our talks.’

  By week four, the public were guessing whether Lance and Dawn, a su
per-couple nicknamed ‘Lawn’, could go all the way. But when their relationship did become physical, people weren’t entirely convinced it was ‘trill’, true or real. At least on Lance’s side.

  Privately, Dawn would say she didn’t mind playing the jilted girl. The edge of her beauty was softened by her disappointments and people began to root for her.

  ‘If your ego can take it, it’s a great way to stay on the show,’ she said with a slow blink. And when she opened her eyes, Simon was standing over her. She laughed at first, and his face fell. Before telling him it was ‘just the shock’. Then they kissed. The session ending with him on the couch and her on top of him.

  ‘I’ve always had a thing for doctors,’ she said that day. ‘Maybe that’s why I always wanted to see so much of them.’

  Their sessions became physical therapy. She’d undress, he’d look surprised, like it was the most unlikely thing happening anywhere in the world at that moment, even though it had happened many times before, and suddenly Dawn’s needs were being fulfilled on and off screen.

  If one night is a long time on television, four weeks is a very long time indeed, long enough for even a man like Simon to have an effect on a woman like Dawn.

  She breathes in satisfaction as she gets to her feet and ties her hair back.

  Simon’s lounge had been partially soundproofed for reasons of discretion and Lance’s muffled shouts were testament to the good workmanship. Shouts that died way some seconds before Dawn climaxed.

  ‘What do we do now?’ she says.

  ‘No safer place than here,’ says Simon, his voice quite frail in the dark.

  She sits back on the couch and starts to dress.

  ‘For us,’ she says. ‘But what about the others, doctor?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, standing over her. ‘I should’ve told you a long time ago. I’m not technically a doctor. I could see that annoyed you. But, please, don’t ever use that computer without asking. And don’t ever take his side, even for a second.’

  And he kissed her again, a little harder.

  Justine finds Lance curled up at the foot of the lounge door. Fear for Dawn is his prevailing emotion, as well as tiredness and the shame of being no match for a door. The potion of all these things has left him crumpled and easy to catch unawares.

  ‘She’s trapped in there,’ says Lance.

  He sounds to her a like a little boy. Perhaps it’s his position, laid out on a kind of naughty step, but Justine is sometimes amazed how people doubt that a woman can overpower a man. Of course, if both were well and someone were to ring a bell, Lance would pummel Justine and it would be a pretty ugly scene. But Justine could do similar to Lance, under the right circumstances, the correct angle, the appropriate weapon. It really only takes one to wait for the perfect moment.

  ‘It’s Simon that’s done it, done it all,’ he says, stumbling over his words. ‘Simon or Sly. One of the two.’

  ‘Strange,’ says Justine. ‘Not being funny, but upstairs we are starting to believe it is you.’

  Lance looks up at her, his intentions unclear, his face turning in the grey light. A face he gets a slap in for his trouble. ‘Ow. Shit. What was that for? It’s not me.’

  ‘Then you better wake up, come upstairs and explain why it isn’t then. Hadn’t you?’

  Tabs is bent over in a C-curve, trying to catch her breath like she’s hyperventilating when Liv and Summer arrive back in the living room and hold her.

  ‘It’s all right, babe,’ says Summer, running her hand through Tabs’ hair.

  ‘What?’ says Tabs, her body stiffening under their grip.

  Liv pulls away and sees Tabs’ face is less vulnerable and rather more irate than it appeared as they first entered. ‘We were just worried about you,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t be,’ says Tabs, still tight in Summer’s death grip. ‘Get off!’

  It’s enough to startle Summer and as she takes a couple of steps back her eyes meet Tabs’, and tell Liv that she had no idea that Tabs seemed to find the attention uncomfortably cloying. Nor has Summer seemingly noticed the way Tabs seems to look at her from time to time, not the way Liv has. It takes being further away from a relationship to really see what’s going on in it, Liv resolves.

  The silence that follows is broken by Roberto bounding down the stairs. They’d barely noticed that they’d somehow left him behind.

  ‘You okay, Tee?’ says Roberto, going to Tabs immediately.

  ‘Fine. It’s nothing. I’m fine,’ she says, leaning back into the sofa, gaining her composure. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re just… a little flushed,’ says Liv.

  ‘No, no,’ Tabs says, shaking her head, avoiding their gaze as Liv and Roberto sit either side of her.

  ‘We’ll never leave you alone again. Promise,’ says Roberto.

  This extra attention puts Tabitha on her guard. Those moments when you feel perfectly in order, barring one understandable thing or another, a storm and a power cut here, a murder there. And then suddenly people are looking at you. It doesn’t settle a girl’s nerves. Especially when the game is to stay unnoticed.

  ‘You can leave me whenever you like, I’m fine.’ She shrugs, which results in Roberto squeezing her arm and pressing his mouth into her shoulder in the kind of show of unearned intimacy she has never enjoyed.

  ‘It’s okay to be scared,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not scared. Well, no more than is reasonable,’ says Tabs.

  Summer, with issues of her own, ducks down by the comfort of the fire, coughing a little.

  ‘Summer?’ says Tabs. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Summer says. ‘I’m just concerned about you.’

  ‘I’m fine!’ says Tabs, the room stopping as she reaches fever pitch. ‘I can look after myself, I can even be trusted to do things – despite having the disability of living while being a woman, and worse, a well-spoken one who doesn’t talk over people, who you imagine had a butler to butter her toast, which I didn’t. My mother and father aren’t even particularly well-off! We’re just… fine. Which is what I am. Fine.’

  The rest of the room is a collection of nods.

  ‘Other than the fact that Tommy’s dead body is upstairs and one of you bastards did it.’

  Liv opens her mouth to speak.

  Footsteps bound upstairs, and the others brace themselves as Justine comes through the door, shortly followed by a recovering Lance carrying a blue moleskin.

  ‘Are you guys… all all right?’ says Justine.

  And now the rest of the group understand how Tabs must’ve felt when they charged into the room and immediately started staring at her and asking her if she was all right.

  ‘Tabs?’ says Justine, seeing the flames reflecting in her glazed eyes.

  ‘Yes, she’s okay!’ says Roberto, swelling with righteousness. ‘She’s just a woman. And she’s well-spoken. And she had a butler. So what?’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Justine. The rest of the group try to stop themselves from cringing.

  ‘Simon’s locked Dawn in his room. Been shoulder charging it for ten minutes. There’s no way in, it’s reinforced,’ says Lance.

  Justine gives them a knowing look, having picked Simon as her prime suspect in the first place.

  ‘What’s he going to do with her in there?’ says Summer.

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ says Lance.

  ‘Is there another way in?’ says Roberto.

  ‘There’s a window,’ says Liv. ‘I remember looking up at it during the sessions. We could go around there and kick it in from the outside. If we’re sure that’s the best thing to do?’

  And their heads turn to the dark garden, where the wind throws water from the pool onto the grass occasionally and shadows of deckchairs are pitched across it by the howling wind.

  ‘Which would mean going outside,’ says Tabs.

  ‘No one goes outside,’ says Lance.

  ‘Zack’s outside,’ says Summer, like it’s no big
deal.

  Lance lowers his head in shock and goes over to put his hand to the glass to feel the cold, cogitating on the safety of this. For them, for him, and lastly for Zack. Though none of them want to say it, they thought Zack would be back by now.

  ‘And where the hell is Sly?’ says Summer, by the fire.

  ‘Er…’ says Lance, parting his lips as the group wait for his answer.

  Inside Lance’s head, he’s trying to piece together a few things, confusions it’s difficult to keep track of when your adrenaline is high. But he’s used to operating at such a state: Romford, Saturday night, no laughing matter. He’s used to keeping his eye on two or three targets at a time; trouble-makers can try and hide, but no one knows the layout of Mirage better than Lance, so he stalks his prey under the flashing lights. Delicate footsteps under deep house music. Pickpockets, gang members, arse-pinchers and harassers know how to keep their heads down, so you have to wait, softly, softly, something about a monkey. Then it’s the sleeper hold, one wrist under the throat, which grips your inner elbow and it’s ‘night night’ before their numb heads hit tarmac outside.

  Problem is, Lance used to box, white-collar stuff, and that brain of his has taken its fair share of beatings itself, and at this present moment he feels it melting. Not a good sign, he thinks. And all he can say to the question of where Sly is, after a decent silence and a hand to his temple, is…

  ‘I thought he was with you.’

  Then the lights burst back into life, with an underwhelming click and the muttered calls of ‘thank god’ that soon drift away as they look outside, past the glass, into the dark of the garden.