Cruel Summer
Authors: James Dawson
CRUEL
SUMMER
James Dawson
Indigo
In loving memory of Amy Breen
1921–2008
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts . . .
From
AS YOU LIKE IT
by William Shakespeare
A
gainst the white cliffs, the girl in the red dress was as vivid as a drop of blood. Even by moonlight, the rugged shoreline was visible for miles
at sea: two vast cave mouths yawned, black stains scarring the chalk. The tide was coming in, advancing on a dark, rocky beach; the surf sighed over the shingle as the waves crept closer.
The girl knew the cliffs like old friends. She’d lived in Telscombe Cliffs her whole life. This was backwards though; usually she looked up at the cliffs from the beach, not down on them
from the top. They seemed bigger from up here; the pebble beach was a long way below. It was dizzying. Vertigo played tricks with her eyes, so that they focused then unfocused like a wild camera
lens. The tips of her shoes were level with the edge of the cliff. All it would take was one step forwards. One step and it’d be over.
The shoes were brand new, never worn before tonight. They pinched her toes and heels. She’d bought them especially for the ball. Red satin to match her equally new dress. Fresh tears
rolled down her face.
How could he do this to me?
What a state she must look, the folds of her dress flapping in the wind. The sheer fabric clung to her legs. Streaks of eyeliner stained her cheeks. Angry gusts of wind whipped around her,
blowing ribbons of her thick chestnut hair across her face so that it caught in her lip-gloss. Only hours earlier she’d had it curled at the salon, excited to the point of giddiness about the
night ahead. Her leavers’ ball. It should have been the night of her life. Now it would be her last.
They humiliated you. You are a laughing stock.
She looked again at the beach. A mosaic of sand, shingle and seaweed. Salt air filled her nostrils – a promise of what was to come. The tide would roll in to collect her body, to swallow
her. She would become part of something bigger, joining all those souls lost at sea. The thought spurred her on. It was dangerous, romantic and dramatic. Another inch. If the soil crumbled, she
would go over. How long would it take to die? Would it hurt? She edged her toes another centimetre over the edge.
Just do it, you coward. Show him what he made you do. They’ll never forget you after this.
But what about Mum and Dad? What about Harry? Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. She couldn’t do it. Another gust and she staggered away from the cliff edge and fell to her
knees, her dress fanning out across the grass. The sobs came heavily now, wracking her body.
You are so weak! You’re pathetic. You can’t even do this right.
She wiped away the trails of make-up that ran down her cheeks, her breath shaking. What was she meant to do now? She was shamed. Everyone had seen. Everyone knew. It felt red and sore and fresh.
In the course of a single evening, her perfect world had been broken into pieces and stamped on for good measure.
Footsteps. Even over the wind ringing in her ears, she heard footsteps. She turned away from the sea and looked towards the path. She pulled a damp tendril of hair out of her eyes. There was no
one there. The pub had long since closed and only a few windows of the hotel cast light over the grassy clifftop. A cloud drifted across the moon and suddenly it was too dark. In the dim light of
the coast lamps, the grass seemed to ripple silver as the breeze rolled over.
The town was dead at this time of night and she felt like the only person awake in the world. More footsteps, though: the telltale crunch of gravel. She wasn’t alone. In the other
direction there was a car park, but that only held the icecream van, which, all closed up, was a sad-looking shell.
So why did it feel like there were eyes on her skin, watching her every move? She still couldn’t see anyone. It must have been someone arriving at the hotel. No one was coming to save her.
No one cared enough.
They didn’t even chase after you.
The cloud rolled off the moon. When she was younger she had often sat on the beach and asked the moon questions. Her father had been away so often, but it had brought her comfort to know that,
wherever he was, they both looked up at the same moon. ‘What am I meant to do now?’ she said aloud, her voice trembling.
The moon, as ever, didn’t answer, but gazed down at her sympathetically.
More footsteps, someone running, coming closer. She whirled around. There
was
someone there.
A figure watched from the shadows, almost blending into the night. Whoever it was now stood motionless, arms hanging at their sides. Her heart fluttered, her chest suddenly tight. If it was a
dog-walker, they wouldn’t just stand. Also, no dog.
The figure started towards her, but walked clear of the coastal footpath and its lanterns.
‘Who’s there?’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Fumbling with her gown and unsteady on her heels, she rose to her feet and scanned the plateau, worry furrowing her
brow.
The silhouette came closer. She squinted at the shape.
‘I said, who’s there?’ Moonlight revealed who approached. ‘Oh, it’s you. Don’t come anywhere near me! I mean it. I don’t wanna talk to you.’ She
took a step backwards, her heel only inches from the very edge of the cliff.
The figure came closer. Arms reached out towards her.
‘Stay away!’ she snapped.
As she fell, she didn’t even scream. The red dress. The white chalk. She really did look like a drop of blood.
‘K
atie? What do you think really happened to Janey?’
The first line is a voice-over. Opening shot: Pan from endless, star-spattered sky to a linear and deserted stretch of road in the middle of the Spanish countryside. You can tell it’s
Spain because of the arid landscape, chatter of crickets and accompanying overture of flamenco guitars. The vista is barren; almost alien. It’s late at night. Slivers of wispy cloud trail
over a jaundiced, sickly moon. Zoom in on a lonely silver rental car. It’s caked in thick orange dust as it pelts along the asphalt.
The headlights, even on high beam, only managed to cast a feeble pool of light along the abandoned highway. The road was rod straight – to Ryan, this really was the road to nowhere. He
suddenly felt a long way from home.
RYAN HAYWARD RETURNS FOR A FEATURE-LENGTH HOLIDAY SPECIAL.
Ryan often imagined his life as a long-running TV show in which he was the star. The high-school series had come to an end
with Janey’s death and the last year had been his solo spin-off:
Ryan: The Drama School Years
or possibly
Ryan: Acting Up.
This holiday was supposed to be a ‘summer
special’ – a ratings-winning reunion of the original cast:
Ryan: One Year On.
It was pretty sick, but what had happened to Janey had made quite the series finale. He knew it
was wrong, but thinking of it all as a TV show, with himself and his friends as famous actors, made it somehow easier.
Janey wasn’t dead, she was just some actress whose contract was up.
‘What do you mean?’ His companion, Katie, was a pretty redhead with alabaster skin, almost luminous in the dark.
‘Oh, come off it! You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’ Katie wrinkled her nose. ‘She . . .’ a difficult pause, ‘killed herself.’
Ryan put his feet on the dashboard. The night was sauna-dry, like that wave of hot Spanish air that greets you as soon as the plane doors open. His bare legs stuck to the leatherette seats. He
popped a duty-free sweet in his mouth. ‘And you believe that?’
Katie grabbed a sweet too. ‘Must we talk about Janey? Maybe we could pick a more cheerful subject, like vivisection or famine or something?’ she quipped. She focused on the road
ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter.
When someone young and beautiful dies, a shroud falls over a community. The sun stopped shining on Telscombe Cliffs when Janey Bradshaw vanished. It felt as though there were a blanket ban on
laughter and no one was allowed to say her name except in reverence. You certainly weren’t allowed to ask questions. Ryan had questions.
‘Yeah, but don’t you think—’
‘Ryan, knock it off!’ Katie interrupted. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide, blue and sweet. She’d grown up this year – like all of them. She looked tired and thin, even a
little gaunt. That was the ‘story arc’ this year –
the aftermath.
Katie Grant was Ryan’s high-school best friend and, quite literally, the
‘girl-next-door’. She was the first person he’d told that he was gay. She was pretty, but relatable; she was clever, but never aloof; she was deep, but not tortured. Or perhaps he
was overthinking it slightly. In Ryan’s head, she was second in the credits after himself.
‘Talking about Janey was not the purpose of this holiday,’ Katie continued. ‘I think . . . I think we need to jolly well move on. It’s been a whole year. A monumentally
hard year. You’ve been in Manchester. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in books. What we need now is R and R. I have had my fill of teen angst. I was starting to feel like the protagonist in
a vampire novel.’
