Beach Bodies, Part 2 Read online

  ROSS ARMSTRONG is an actor and writer based in North London. He studied English Literature at Warwick University and acting at RADA. As a stage and screen actor he has performed in the West End, Broadway and in upcoming shows for HBO and Netflix. Ross’ debut title The Watcher was a top-twenty bestseller and has been longlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger.

  Also by Ross Armstrong

  The Watcher

  The Girls Beneath

  Beach Bodies:

  Part Two

  Ross Armstrong

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Ross Armstrong 2019

  Ross Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008361365

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

  Change of background and font colours

  Change of font

  Change justification

  Text to speech

  Praise for Ross Armstrong

  ‘Addictive and eerie, you’ll finish the book wanting to chat about it’

  – Closer Magazine, Must Read

  ‘A twisted homage to Hitchcock set in a recognisably post-Brexit broken Britain. Tense, fast-moving and with an increasingly unreliable narrator, The Watcher has all the hallmarks of a winner.’

  – Martyn Waites

  ‘Ross Armstrong will feed your appetite for suspense’

  – Evening Standard

  ‘Unreliable narrator + Rear Window-esque plot = sure-fire hit’

  – The Sun

  ‘Brilliantly written… this psychological thriller is definitely one that will keep you up to the early hours. Five Stars.’

  – Heat, Book of the Week

  ‘A dark, unsettling page turner’

  – Claire Douglas, author of Local Girl Missing

  ‘Creepy and compelling’

  – Debbie Howells, author of The Bones of You

  ‘The Watcher is an intense, unsettling read… one that had me feeling like I needed to keep checking over my shoulder as I read.’

  – Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me

  For my wonderful mother, who barely watches TV and falls asleep in the cinema.

  ‘I want to speak about bodies changed into new forms’

  Ovid, The Metamorphoses

  (trans. A.S. Kline)

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  PRAISE

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Previously in Beach Bodies…

  Dawn: Before

  4.29 p.m.

  Summer: Before

  5.49 p.m.

  Liv: Before

  6.16 p.m.

  Meanwhile…

  6.57 p.m.

  Sly: Before

  7.49 p.m.

  Zack: Now

  8.32 p.m.

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  About the Publisher

  Previously in Beach Bodies…

  - Tommy’s head hits the sun-lounger, while his body leans against the Love Nest window high above.

  - Every single contestant on the show is in some way accounted for when it happens.

  - To further the mystery, Tommy is said to be the most universally loved of the group.

  - The only other person in the villa, Simon, their handler and psychiatrist, finally appears from his office below the building to tell them the show is over and they will be picked up in fourteen hours. They just have to see out the night. He tells them that because the motion-intuitive cameras were still feeding back to London, the villa is, as strange as it may seem, the safest place to be.

  - However, during her session with Simon, Justine sees that the live feed is actually down. But has he sold them this lie to keep them safe, or does the fact that Simon was the only one unaccounted for at the time of Tommy’s death make him the prime suspect?

  - Lance doesn’t think it’s the latter. He’s more concerned about Zack, who he senses isn’t ‘being real’.

  - Liv is suspicious that Lance is the only one who saw the body and seemed adamant that no one else should see it.

  - Lance is currently partnered with Dawn, who was previously partnered with Tommy. Dawn seems very close to Summer, who is partnered with Sly, who seems to be admired by Liv, who doesn’t seem to admire her partner Zack at all. But all of them are big admirers of themselves.

  - Justine, who is in an intense relationship with Roberto, is sure she saw Tabs and Tommy talking late one night in the garden. But then she herself has a dark secret she hasn’t even shared with Roberto.

  - It’s Tabs that seems to have had the closest connection with the now deceased Tommy, and is unable to get over the last secret thing he said to her before he died.

  - When we left the villa, a storm was gathering over the island. That meant they couldn’t leave even if they wanted to.

  - The camera tracked along their beautiful faces, its dead eye staring at them, one by one, though the images aren’t feeding anywhere in particular.

  - And then came a knock at the door.

  Dawn: Before

  Dawn’s story can mostly be told in the language of disease. Disease that has left its mark: cave paintings, little signatures on the otherwise smooth turns and straights of her skin.

  The chicken pox pockmarks, thankfully now only visible under her chin after half a life sentence of vitamin E oil, Aloe Vera cream, cocoa butter and oat meal baths. The discolouration of skin, hidden behind her ear, which when found caused a forty-eight-hour panic marathon before she visited her doctor and was told it was ‘non-actionable’ (oh god, inoperable?) ‘and certainly non-cancerous’ (okay, fine).

  The cold sore, which flares up so rarely at this point, earned from a week of kissing a Belgian boy called Bertrand on a Year 10 exchange, who told her it was only a lip zit, a ‘petit bouton’, and received half-a-dozen angry missives weeks after their encounters for his carelessness, messages which detailed the sudden death of their relationship, how there would be no return trip to visit EuroDisney, and how their plans for marriage and a life in a chateau would now be consigned to the recycle bin of rash teenage promises. The anger of words like ‘imbecile’ and ‘saboteur’ undercut by the Care Bear embossed notepaper she used. Love notes which still sit in the bottom drawer of Bertrand’s dressing table, hidden occasionally from his current fiancée because of the hold Dawn’s lips a
t the disco, the piscine, the bowling alley, still hold over him.

  The psoriasis irks her the most, fully concealable only in long sleeves that don’t suit her. This single Isle-of-Wight-shaped slight on the back of her elbow blights an arm her personal trainer once told her had been made ‘perfect’ by their kettlebell work; the sort of earnest compliment she daydreams of during her long walks she has been prescribed for maladies, inside and out.

  Ah, the inside. The ear discolouration was not the first melanoma-fearing thought to plague her mind and lead her to voyage into the arms of Dr Murthy, the childhood physician she has retained into her young adulthood. At the tender age of 16, her mother was solicited to take her to the good doctor four times that year so he could assess various abrasions, bumps and possible carcinomas. Enough visits to make even the indulgent Murthy utter through his perfect white smile, ‘Perhaps, Dawn, you are just not a happy-go-lucky girl.’ A line delivered with such kindness, but one that would stay glued to her mind whenever she thought of her fundamental self, like a caption under a painting, so succinct was the description of her character: ‘Dawn, 23, just not a happy-go-lucky girl. Died painfully of rare cancer.’

  Horsham, Sussex, gateway to the beautiful South Downs, was an idyllic place to grow a child, particularly if you only intended on having one perfect single one, Dawn’s parents had decided, but the silence of its beauty seemed to take its toll on the young. A gaggle of beautiful infants talking with precise diction, blossoming through the years while talking of how lucky they are to grow up in the countryside, then choosing every spare moment to plan secret trips into London, find secret boyfriends with cars to take them there, and take secret Adderall and Oxycontin at lunch to make the days go faster.

  Sadly for the pill-popping in-crowd, they were unable to secure the services of Dawn, dubbed by them as PGIS (prettiest girl in school) for this exploratory stage in their lives, as she had confided in them that the polluted London air would not be good for her asthma, and that she’d tried ‘most drugs’ and they played havoc with her sinuses; both stories hinting at afflictions and experiences her friends had curiously never heard her mention before. So the in-crowd simply resolved that as they approached the navy-blue period of their youth, that dusk when children tread onto the routes they believe adults take but using the gait only a child would, they would do so without Dawn. But Dawn wished them well with their plans, as only pupils at ‘the most polite public school in the country’ (according to the Sunday Times) can. After all, she told them, her grades were already against her and so was a possible allergy to animal fur she had recently developed, and she would have to solve at least one of those problems if she wanted to achieve her dream of becoming a vet.

  ‘Good luck with your wild adolescence,’ Dawn said in the hall after lunch.

  ‘Good luck with your allergies,’ Fleur Masterson said with a sympathetic smile. Then, in the only moment that bordered on passive-aggressive, she added, ‘and your asthma.’ They had never even seen her with an inhaler, and Dawn had been known to tell tall tales.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dawn said, producing a small blue telescope-shaped item to the girl’s surprised eyes, taking a hit on it as she pulled up her socks and walked away.

  This parting of terms ushered in an extension to the silence of home and gave her even more time to think. She often sat in the living room, her eyes running over lines in her biology textbooks, not really reading, her mind instead wandering to various ailments she’d heard about: flesh-eating viruses, ME, locked-in syndrome. She imagined what they would feel like inside. While she did this, she rubbed her eyes, but her mother noticed that despite Dawn’s claims, this wasn’t when the cat was near, raising the possibility that Dawn was rubbing because she thought she could be allergic to the Siamese, rather than because she ‘felt an actual itch’. She said as much but Dawn met this suggestion with stillness – a silent chill that had grown in her late teenage years due to her self-prescribed quiet hours in her room – and without saying a word in reply she headed back to her sanctum.

  And her alone hours came to be broken only by one catalyst.

  Because physical exercise was always championed at her school for the development of well-rounded young women, and because the PE teacher, Mr Thomas, admired her long legs, she was invited to take part in every sport that she could stand. This found her travelling to schools that fitted the standing of her own, so she could show off her limited ability at hockey and netball, while occasional doting boys enhanced her self-esteem on the side lines; including Mr Thomas and the other school’s equivalent Mr Thomas.

  Despite the newfound attentions of others that brightened the corners of her sixth-form years, Dawn continued to ignore any attempts to get her to meet up with any older boys, especially the ones spoken of by the in-crowd, who they had met in that mecca, spoken of in hushed tones: Clapham. She also ignored the stares and contrived collisions of boys her age, and Mr Thomas’ messages on Facebook. Instead, as she started to think about personal statements and UCAS forms, she decided on regular kissing sessions with a boy called Stuart, two years below. This started as experimental touching in the boys’ toilet cubicles, reported by a smaller child as ‘a strange knocking’, an encounter that climaxed in a knock on the door with an authority that could only belong to a teacher. Dawn mouthed an expletive and prepared to pretend she was helping to get something out of Stuart’s eye. The knocking came again. ‘Yes?’ Stuart said, fists clenched in tension. And an assertive voice came back ‘Err, look. I can see two sets of feet. Come out.’

  Dawn proceeded with her amateur optician act, blowing into the eye of the shorter Stuart, as he awkwardly opened the door a crack, which was immediately thrown wide open by a pale-faced Mr Thomas, who looked more startled than angry, Dawn noted. Rather than a reprimand, he merely looked momentarily sad, was speechless in contemplation for a moment, then nodded as if in agreement with some private thought only he was privy too. He muttered, ‘Sorry, you can’t’ over his shoulder as he hurried away.

  One night as the sun was going down, Dawn met Stuart in a cornfield, with a windmill bearing down on them in a scene she seemed to have contrived from one of those well-thumbed books she found on her mother’s dressing table. Stuart found himself dragged to the ground, and after the passion was done they lay watching the long corn sway in front of the darkening canvas of sky.

  ‘What are those marks?’ he said.

  ‘What marks?’ she said.

  ‘On the back of your arms? Did you do that to yourself?’

  ‘No, Stuart,’ she said, feeling his brain lurching for some self-harm psycho-drama he’d had impressed on him by an issue-based TV show he’d seen. ‘That’s just my psoriasis.’

  She didn’t see him much after that – not by design, it was just that she was spending more away days with her various teams and developing a certain ‘interest’ that she could follow up on Instagram. An interest concerning the girls on other teams. There’d often be at least one, but sometimes two, who’d be particularly striking in some unusual way and she’d find herself trying to talk to them in the dinner hall during the free lunch you got on enemy territory after fixtures. If she didn’t manage to speak to them, she could always get a name, and then she’d follow her interest up later online. It was a method that turned into a system. She had a few favourites, role models really, people who she found classier than the girls at home. The fashionable, the statuesque, the exotic, she learnt, could even be found in girls from nearby counties: Kent, Dorset, Devon. She’d see them wear clothes she particularly liked and asked her mother to order them for her, who appreciated Dawn’s sudden interest in all things aesthetic. She’d think about starting chats with these girls and then delete the DMs, not out of shyness but more because it felt more appropriate for them to be idols, so they could retain their glamour. Obsession would be going too far when describing all this. A powerful word, bolted together by a trinity of syllables. The ‘b’ that brought the lips together, that ‘
shh’ that implied a secret. It wasn’t as dramatic as all that, she thought.

  And that period would soon be usurped, as often in a long youth, by a time when other preoccupations would rise, prevail, then dominate.

  The strings attaching her to her doting parents didn’t stretch long, and at 18 she found herself at the University of Sussex, basing herself in Hove so she could cultivate a deep intellect, sourdough bread and her hypochondria. She made friends, ate better than most, drank even more than most and generally did quite well at making friends and getting older. Then, one morning after reading week, she found it particularly hard to get out of bed. Eventually, after five days bedbound and with no symptoms other than lethargy and neck pain, she was taken back to see Dr Murthy, who she trusted implicitly.

  ‘Can you feel this pinch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it painful?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Can you give it a number out of ten?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘How about… this?’

  She saw her mother take an intake of breath, she steeled herself.

  ‘Still a two.’

  ‘Well, okay,’ he said, and began tapping hard at his computer.

  The tests that followed were unclear and as she was used to her wheelchair for now, her parents and Murthy grew confident the situation could pass. She even heard a mutter through a closed door about it being ‘a symptom of adjustment’, which sent a chill of resolve down her spine, a sense that she must steel herself, but in what direction and how, only her inner parts seemed to know. She was allowed to go back to university without so much as a handful of pills, (‘Don’t know of any that would do her any good’) and to continue going to lectures in pursuit of living a reasonable if not wholly normal life.