The Wicked Girls (6 page)

‘Come on,’ wheedles Stan. ‘A quick drink and a sausage-an’-chips will set you up a treat. I’ll lend you my dongle.’

‘You know how to get to a girl, Stan,’ she says. ‘No, look, I’ve got to get the kids’ tea on once I’ve filed. I can’t be sitting
there on the lager with you all afternoon.’

Stan tuts. ‘I dunno. Journalists aren’t what they used to be, are they?’

His phone too starts up in the pocket of his mouldy old parka. He gets it out, doesn’t even bother to look at it, answers.
‘Stanley Marshall?’

He puts his computer bag down on the tarmac, listens intently. Then: ‘Fuck me. Where did you say? In the hall of bleeding
mirrors? Someone’s got a sense of humour.’

Kirsty gazes round the car park as she waits for him to finish, sees that all her colleagues are glued to their phones, nodding
animatedly, scribbling stuff on the back of their hands. Shit, she thinks, that
was
work, wasn’t it? There’s some sort of big story kicked off, and I went and sent it to voicemail.

‘Yeah,’ says Stan. ‘Yeah, sure. I’m in Kent anyway. Yes, with the car. Don’t worry. New Moral Arsewipes? Yeah. Sure. I can
probably be down there in couple of hours. Fine. Yes. I’ll call when I’m
in situ
.’

He’s already picking his bag up as he hangs up, pulling a pack of Drum from his jacket. Looks down at Kirsty as he drops his
phone back into his pocket. ‘If that was the
Trib
, you’d better call ’em back pronto,’ he says. ‘You don’t want this going to anyone else.’

‘What’s up?’ she asks, her heart sinking and leaping all at the same time.

‘Well, looks like this lot are off the news agenda, that’s for sure. A murder. Down in Whitmouth. Third this year, and it
looks like there were two more with the same MO last season.’

‘Whoa,’ says Kirsty.

‘Yup,’ says Stan, with a happy chuckle. ‘Looks like I’ve got what I wished for. We’re off to the seaside!’

‘Living the dream,’ says Jackie, and cracks open her tinny.

‘You’re easily pleased.’ Amber throws her a grin.

‘Well, come on,’ says Jackie. ‘Who would want to be anybody else right now, right at this moment in time?’

‘Jackie!’ says Blessed pointedly.

Jackie frowns at her, then glances at Amber and remembers. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant
– you know. Whitmouth. On a sunny day.’

Amber can’t suppress a smile as she looks down the beach. Half a mile of brown shingle overshadowed by a silent rollercoaster,
a run-down pier, a couple of dozen bright-decked fast-food stalls strung along the edge of the pavement, canvas awnings flapping
in the Channel wind, a towel and a plastic beer cooler.

‘You have a point,’ she replies.

‘This is why I live here,’ says Jackie.

‘Me too,’ replies Amber. It was the sea that first brought her here. But the sea’s not the only reason she stays. There are
better bits of sea, she knows, and better towns, and probably better neighbours than this group of hers who’ve come down here
together, but Whitmouth, with its lack of glamour and its contempt for aspiration, with its ceaselessly changing, unobservant
crowds, makes her feel safe. She felt when she got here that she could put down roots, but still feels a tiny thrill of surprise
every time she realises she’s actually managed it.

‘So how
are
you, Amber?’ asks Jackie, her voice syrupy with unaccustomed sympathy. ‘Are you holding up all right?’

You know what? thinks Amber. I’m shit, thank you very much. I found a murdered body thirty-six hours ago and I keep seeing
it when I’m trying to get to sleep. ‘I think I prefer it when you’re being a hard-faced cow, Jackie,’ she says. ‘At least
it’s sincere.’

Jackie lets out a cackle.

‘It’s true, though,’ says Blessed, who is sitting on a cushion she’s brought down specially, and knitting a jumper to protect
her precious son from the bitter winds of winter. ‘It’s not really appropriate, is it? For us to be taking advantage of the
situation like this.’

‘Oh, Blessed,’ says Jackie, ‘what were we going to do? None of us killed the girl, and none of us knew her. It’s not our fault
that we’re not allowed to go to work, is it?’

Blessed takes a sip of her ginger beer. Picks up the tongs and pokes at the coals of the barbecue. ‘I think this is ready,’
she announces. ‘No, I know what you mean, Jackie. But a party … is this the appropriate response?’

Maria Murphy rubs sun cream into her skin as though she were on the Costa Brava, and watches her boys frolic on the shingle.
‘It’s not really a party, is it, Blessed? It’s just, like, everyone who lives here actually getting to use the beach for a
change, isn’t it? It’s not like anyone
planned
it. Oh God, he’s going to send that ball into the sea, I swear he is.’

They follow the direction of her gaze. The men from the estate are playing a scuffly, laughing game of six-a-side, sliding
about on the shingle, breakwaters for goals. Funnland’s backbone, unexpectedly at leisure, rioting like schoolkids on a snow-day.
It was Jackie’s idea in the first place, though it was Vic who told Amber about it, and who persuaded her that staying locked
in the house wasn’t going to bring the girl back, or make Amber’s part in it go away. And she’s glad he did. He’s right, of
course. Nothing will undo what she’s seen, but life has
to go on. She doesn’t spend enough time with her colleagues as friends, these days, and it sometimes feels as though a clear
glass barrier has dropped between them since she took her management position.

‘It’s true, though,’ says Amber. ‘Staying indoors isn’t going to change anything, is it? Lying in a darkened room crying isn’t
going to make me unfind her.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ says Maria. ‘I wish I could have a bit of whatever you’re always on.’

‘Ray of sunshine, that’s me,’ says Amber, and beams.

Maria sits up sharply and glares at her eldest son. ‘Jordan!’ she shouts. ‘If that ball goes in the sea, you’re going in to
get it!’

Jordan Murphy glances over his shoulder with all the insolence of fourteen. His brothers – matching no. 3 cuts and a real
diamond earring in each left ear – are romping in the sea with other boys off the estate, fighting for primacy over the old
inner tube from a juggernaut.

Jackie narrows her eyes. ‘Hah. Who wants to see
his
skinny little bod? I’m holding out for Moses or Vic. In fact,’ she drains her tinny and throws it carelessly on to the pebbles,
‘if I thought your Vic was going to get his top off, I’d kick the ball in myself.’

‘Steady,’ says Amber.

‘Oh, come on,’ says Blessed. ‘Even I would be happy to see your husband go into the sea. You have to admit that he’s quite
beautiful.’

Amber laughs uncomfortably. She knows their intention is harmless, but people referring to Vic’s good looks – and invoking
the marriage they never had – has always made her feel like she’s dancing on the edge of a precipice. I know he loves me,
she thinks. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that. And I know I’m just paranoid. Vic’s as loyal as the day is long.
But I wish other women wouldn’t keep reminding me how many of them would be in the queue if there was ever a chance. ‘He’s
not just a pretty face, you know,’ she says. ‘There’s more to him than that.’

‘Yeah, but he
is
a pretty face,’ says Jackie. ‘And Jesus, the arms on him.’

‘Arse?’ asks Maria. ‘Jacks, did you really just talk about Amber’s bloke’s arse? You’re awful. You just don’t know when to
stop, do you?’

‘Arms,’ protests Jackie. ‘I said arms!’

‘Yer, right,’ says Maria. ‘C’mon. We should start cooking, if we’re going to.’

Amber gets up on her haunches, and the dogs, lying on a corner of the rug, prick up their ears. She shushes them down and
flips the top of the cooler. She’s been to Lidl; she’s the only one who has a car. And besides, she wants to do something
for them all. The loss of wages will hit them hard in a couple of days, and she feels strangely responsible. As though she
didn’t just find the girl, but planted her there.

‘OK. Burgers, chicken, sausages. Blessed, there’s rolls in that placcy bag over there.’

‘Amber Gordon, I love you. What would we do without you?’ says Jackie.

‘Find someone else to twist round your little finger, I should think,’ Amber replies. But she feels warm and pleased. Glad
she made the effort. She separates out the burgers and lays them on the grill of the nearest barbecue. They’re fatty. A cloud
of cheap-meat smoke rises from the coals.

Maria waves a hand in front of her face and lights a cigarette. ‘Oi oi,’ she says, looking up the beach towards the pier,
‘you’ve got company, Jacks.’

They turn to look, and see Martin Bagshawe standing by a waste-bin, watching them.

‘Dear God,’ Maria frowns at him, watches him catch her stare and look away, ‘does he never take that anorak off?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ says Jackie. ‘Never seen him without it.’

Even when you were fucking in the Cross Keys car park? wonders Amber. Slaps her own wrist.

‘He still calling you?’ she asks.

Jackie nods. ‘Yup. Creepy little fuck. I wish he’d just –
go away
.’

‘We could get the boys to have a word,’ says Maria, ‘if you want.’

‘No worries,’ says Jackie. ‘Looks like your steely glare’s done the job anyway.’

Martin turns away, trudges off towards the manky dark bit under the pier. There are steps on the other side, leading up on
to the boardwalk, and an exit on to the Corniche. Doesn’t want to walk past us, thinks Amber. Afraid we’ll say something.
And he’s probably right too. Behind them, Moses executes a sliding tackle on Vic, shingle showering out on either side. The
women roll, as one, to their knees. ‘Whoa!’ shouts Jackie. ‘Oh my
Gaad
!’ yells Maria. Amber leaps to her feet. ‘Are you OK? Baby?’

The two men sit up, look at the women with surprise, pull each other upright and barrel away towards the far goal.

‘Don’t you want to play, Ben?’ Amber turns back to Blessed’s fourteen-year-old son, who leans silently against the breakwater,
reading a biology textbook. Benedick glances up, shakes his head and goes back to the page. He’s a serious, slightly pudgy
child. Amber suspects that the weight of his mother’s hopes for him hang heavy on his shoulders. He’s got the MP3 player plugged
into his ears; he shrugs without taking the earphones out to hear what she’s said, and carries on reading. I hope he’ll be
OK, thinks Amber. I hope he gets to be happy.

‘How’s he getting on at school?’ she asks his mother, flipping the burgers as she speaks.

‘OK,’ replies Blessed. ‘He’s high in his class,’ she adds proudly.

‘That’s good. He’s clever.’

‘He’ll be a doctor one day,’ says Blessed firmly.

‘I’m sure.’

‘And he’s good with computers.’

‘Is he?’ She’s not surprised. Benedick is just the sort of solitary child you’d expect to spend his free hours indoors. ‘Likes
the internet, does he?’

‘Yes,’ says Blessed. ‘I suppose it’s a good thing we don’t have it at home, or I’d never see him.’

‘You don’t have the internet? I thought they all used it for their homework these days.’

‘He goes to the library for that. They have computers there.’

‘You don’t have a
computer
?’

Blessed shakes her head. ‘He had one, but something called the motherboard died. That’s what they said. Anyway, something
that can’t be mended, and only one week after the guarantee ran out.’

‘Oh, Blessed,’ says Amber, ‘that’s a bummer.’

‘I’m saving for a new one,’ says Blessed. ‘Maybe for Christmas. They’re so expensive.’

‘Oh, wow,’ says Amber. ‘I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Blessed shrugs. Takes up her knitting again.

‘Well, it’ll keep him off the porn sites anyway,’ says Maria. ‘My Jordan’s a bugger for those. I can’t go into his room most
nights, I’m so scared of what I’ll find.’

Behind her, Jason Murphy punts the ball as it flies towards the goal. It’s a wild shot, and hard. The women watch as it flies
high and wide over the beach and bounces on the surface of the water.

‘Aah,’ says Jackie, and opens another can. ‘Showtime.’

Kirsty looks up at the rusting network of struts and pillars that supports the walkway from the turnstile on the seafront
to the pier’s end. It’s dark here, dank and smelly – not just the brine-and-fish tang of rotting seaweed, but the fug of generations
caught short, of picnics half eaten and discarded, of a leaking something pooling beneath the rocks.

It’s not the nicest town she’s ever been in. But in terms of why she’s been sent here, that’s no bad thing. Her job is to
find fifteen hundred words of the sort of Sunday feature that makes readers feel better about their own lives. To skim over
the rides and the ices and the bright animal-shaped inflatables, the exquisite pleasure of chips hot and salty from the packet
in a stiff sea breeze, the joyous shock of Channel water on naked skin, and show instead the mile upon mile of grey post-war
prefabs blotched back into the marshland around the estuary, the crumbling plastic fast-food shopfronts, the stressed lives
of a largely itinerant population whose employment prospects are seasonal, the Georgian façades peering out between plastic
and neon. To make Balham look balmy in comparison. No town where a killer is on the loose is allowed to be a nice town: it’s
an unwritten law. If things like this happened in nice towns – the places where people buy Sunday papers and read them – then
who would be safe?

And yet, she can’t help liking it. Despite the run-down, ill-stocked shops. Despite the pallor of skins that should be brown
from seaside living, the fact that there’s not a colour that occurs in nature to be seen on the Corniche. Despite the tears
on the faces of Hannah Hardy’s hungover friends when they discovered why she’d never made her way back to their static caravan
last night, despite the fact that everyone here who is over fifteen looks closer to forty, there’s a gaudy, gutsy bravery
to Whitmouth that she finds surprisingly charming. Part of her, despite the grim nature of the work that brought her here,
feels like it’s on holiday. She likes Whitmouth and she thinks she likes its people.