‘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?’