Ross Armstrong - Beach Bodies - Part Three

Praise Praise for Ross Armstrong Praise Dedication Epigraph Previously in Beach Bodies … 8.41 p.m. London, Waterloo, Rennie Street… 10.10 p.m. London, Waterloo, Rennie Street… 11.08 p.m. Zack: Outside 00.32 a.m. Zack: Afloat 01.01 a.m. London, Waterloo, Rennie Street… 01.33 a.m. 02.10 a.m. 02.52 a.m. 04.44 a.m.: London, Waterloo, Rennie Street… Far away. But not so, so far… Acknowledgements Dear Reader About the Publisher ‘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

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

Epigraph ‘My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed to bodies new and strange!’ Ovid, The Metamorphoses (trans. Brookes Moore)

Previously in Beach Bodies…

8.41 p.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

10.10 p.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

11.08 p.m.

Zack: Outside

00.32 a.m.

Zack: Afloat

01.01 a.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

01.33 a.m.

02.10 a.m.

02.52 a.m.

04.44 a.m.: London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

Far away. But not so, so far…

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

About the Publisher

Outside, Lance smashes the side gate in with one big kick of his size twelves, gaining some manliness back after he failed to even make Simon’s office door aware of his existence.

He leads Summer and Roberto, who are engaged in another whispered argument, down the corridor-like path the window looks out on.

The window that has metal shutters, just in case. Shutters that Simon took pains to close lest anyone see Dawn and he ensconced in that secret of their own. But, these three bodies, beaten by wind and rain, terrified by the volume of the thunder cracks violating the clouds, don’t know that yet.

While Zack at least managed to grab his yellow mac from the hallway, these three are making do with the thin maxi dresses and tight T-shirts they were wearing when the day began, before any of this was even vaguely foreseeable, to all but one of them.

The bedroom where their warmer clothes lie is exactly where Tabs, Liv and Justine are heading, having instantly opted to stay pro-active, and stay together. The three women turn the opposite way at the top of the stairs, away from the Love Nest, and down a slim corridor.

As sheet lightning continues in the distance, Tabs proceeds to remind them how little she wanted to come up here, but not wanting to be left on her own again, felt she had no option.

Cold air hits even before they get to the bedroom. Air they are all in need of; the extent to which smoke had filled the room from the fire was only visible when the power came on again. They’re thankful the dark is no longer adding to their high anxiety, but the foreboding of the cold shooting at them as they enter the bedroom confirms their suspicions.

These are strange days when the world turns upside down. When day becomes night. Black becomes white. When the sun turns cold. And it rains indoors.

The swirling rain pours onto them through the broken window. Liv is drawn to it immediately, joined by Justine, who whispers to herself in French as together they look down at the trajectory the body took and its landing point.

The wind claws at Liv, beckoning her out to join him. But Justine holds her hand, as they look out to the sea pounding against the rocks, mere metres beyond the boundary of the garden.

But Tabs stays back, hands partially over her eyes, looking at the two of them, their forms low lit by the mood lighting in the bedroom and occasional sparks from the heavens. She doesn’t think she can join the coven. Because she doesn’t trust all of its constituent parts. She ponders her way out of all this. And seeing only dead ends and bodies, she sprawls a hand over her mouth, and tears fall from her eyes.

Summer leads them around the small lip of wall, towards the window, and she sees it immediately.

Something. Poking out of it. It’s been soaked by rain until the matter is difficult to recognise. It resembles a piece of material, rag-dolled, muddied and bloodied by the elements.

Lance ducks down to see what it is in the darkness. It’s the eyes that give it away. Eyes he’s looked into in passion, eyes like stone, drained by lack of oxygen and fluid.

As Lance’s cries ring out, Roberto holds him and Summer kneels to get a closer look.

She mutters gentle words to Dawn as she examines her, but it’s no good. She’s half in, half out of that window, but resolutely the whole way out of this fragile world; her head nearly cut off by the shutters which have cleaved into her neck, until the bone and cartilage jammed the mechanism.

These shutters aren’t made to stop. They’re made to stop intruders.

Summer strokes the curls of hair she’d helped her highlight the same shade as her own. She kisses Dawn’s forehead. It’s one of those things that mammals do. A show of love when the dark around them suggests nothing but animal imperative and coldness. Which, after Lance kisses her head, running his thumb along a chicken pox mark still visible on her neck, they know they must get out of.

As they descend the stairs, having confirmed that Sly was indeed pushed from the communal bedroom window, Liv and Justine hold Tabs’ hands, as they too battle to grab some human warmth from the brutal end they have just witnessed.

Perhaps there are words, maybe thoughts and wishes to calm each other, touches that are intended to sooth, but none feel them. It’s like it’s happening to other people, as each woman falls into a state of stilled panic. It’s all rendered in slow motion, only the reality of the steps beneath them reminding them that this is happening now. That it’s real. That they are alive, and that that is a thing to be clung to, like a raft in a storm, for as long as they possibly can.

In the living room, they see wet footsteps lead to the sofa, where in front of the fire, a figure turns their head. The blinds are drawn, so the body can no longer be seen. The fire has had extra logs added to it for its health.

And warming his hands, wet shoes and socks strewn out in front of the fire, sits Simon who, as if without a care in the world, looks up at the three women and gives a gleeful smile.

Far away. But then, not really so, so far. The night watchman takes over from the day concierge.