Out of Towners Read Free

starts stuttering, trying and failing to get his words out.
    I’m just getting used to the idea that the holiday’s over before it’s even started when I hear a crackling noise. It’s the big copper’s radio. He unclips it, listens for a while, then mumbles something in reply. When he’s finished, he looks at us.
    â€œGot to go lads,” he says. “Duty calls.”
    I feel a wave of relief splashing over me. But we’ve not got away with it yet. The red-haired policeman is having another long hard look at Dylan.
    â€œYou chaps have a good time then,” he says finally. “And take care. There’s an element amongst the local fraternity who aren’t so keen on visitors.”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “I think we found that out.”
    The coppers get back in the Focus and pull away.
    I let out a big breath. Then we all start laughing.
    When we’ve got ourselves sorted, we carry on the way we were going. We’re starting to see more and more people, which I take as a sign that we’re getting nearer to civilization. We take a left and we’re in what looks to be the middle of Whitbourne. It’s a square with block paving and benches and wooden planters full of flowers gasping for water. There’s a big shopping arcade over to one side, with all the usual places. Boots. WH Smith. Costa Coffee. I can see a McDonald’s down a lane to the right.
    Robbie points to a signpost. Directions to the pier and seafront.
    â€œThere you go Dylan,” he says. “You think your little legs can keep going for a bit longer?”
    Dylan says nothing.
    We cut through the town centre and the market place then head down a road filled with cafes, ice cream parlours and shops selling seaside stuff. Rock and windbreaks and buckets and spades. Up ahead, the seafront is coming into view. Everyone’s gone quiet. The excitement is building. I feel like I’m five years old again. I’ve forgotten all about Kirkie and his mob now.
    Another thirty seconds and we can see the pier. Against the backdrop of grey sea and grey sky, it’s fairly rickety-looking. A jumble of wood and concrete and metal, all flaking white paint, peeling roof lead and seagull shit. It looks like one big gust of wind could send it crashing into the English Channel. But then the sun breaks through the clouds and the pier suddenly seems a whole lot more impressive.
    Robbie looks at us. He points to the sky.
    â€œHow’s about that for timing?”
    Nobody says anything. We’re too busy grinning again. The temperature seems to have gone up by five degrees in the last couple of seconds and the rays of the sun are bouncing off the surface of the sea. We all put our sunglasses on.
    â€œRight then,” Robbie says. “The lads are officially on tour. Wonderland here we come.”

two
    We go along the seafront, away from the pier, heading out of town. On the left of us, beyond a row of yukka plants, some fancy flowerbeds and the prom, is the beach. Grey, white, yellow and red pebbles slope gently down to the sea. Every hundred metres or so, a heavy wooden groyne stretches out into the waves. The tide is going out, but it’s still quite high. It’s a good time for swimming, but nobody’s in the water. There’s a few family groups dotted about on the stones and a bloke in big earphones ambling up and down with a metal detector, but not much else.
    â€œNot very busy, is it?” I say.
    Robbie pushes his sunglasses up his nose.
    â€œIt’s not really the holiday season yet. The schools down here don’t break up for weeks. It livens up at the weekends though. Londoners, mainly.”
    I look across to the other side of the road at the big old hotels with their fading whitewash, dirty net curtains and dusty windows staring out to sea. The Devonshire. The Heatherdene. The Glenroy. They’re impressive buildings, but they’ve seen better days. It