Out of Towners Read Free Page B

he’s wearing a purple shirt and a yellow paisley tie with a knot the size of a cricket ball. Paedo chic. He’s got thin brown hair, thatched into a massive bouffant with gallons of hairspray, and a suspiciously orange tan. He sees me looking and smiles. His teeth are pearly white. Too white for a bloke of his age. A good half-inch of gum is showing under his top lip.
    Dylan sees the bloke smiling at me.
    â€œHey, Chris. I think you’ve pulled.”
    â€œPiss off,” I say.
    We go along the row of shops on the right and then turn down a path through a field with chalets on one side and an outdoor swimming pool and adventure playground on the other. Blue Zone , the signs say. The skies are clearing now. The grey clouds have gone and there’s just a few little fluffy white ones scudding about. The sun feels warm on my face. It’s turning into a proper summer’s day.
    â€œHow much further?” Dylan asks. He seems to be struggling with his rucksack. He keeps adjusting the shoulder straps.
    â€œNot far,” Robbie says.
    George switches the handle of his suitcase from his left hand to his right.
    â€œI hope this caravan’s got running water,” he says. “We borrowed my auntie’s caravan once, and we all had to crap in a bucket.”
    Robbie laughs.
    â€œYeah. That’s the sort of caravan you hitch to the back of your car. This is a static. It’s luxury.”
    George looks chuffed.
    â€œWhat’s it got then?”
    â€œHot water on tap, electricity, gas. There’s a telly, a fridge. You name it, it’s in there, mate.”
    We’re through the first field now, heading into the second. Green Zone . This field is full of caravans. A group of young kids is playing on a patch of grass. Two lads and two girls. They stop kicking their ball about when they see us coming. The smaller of the two lads steps out into the path. He’s six or seven, with lines cut into the sides of his hair and a Ben10 T-shirt.
    â€œAre you here on holiday?” he asks.
    â€œGot it in one,” Dylan says.
    The kid looks quite pleased with himself.
    We keep on going and the kids get back to their football. Another hundred metres and we’re turning right.
    â€œCheck it out,” Robbie says.
    I look where he’s pointing. The caravan. I recognise it from his holiday photos. He’s been coming here every year since he was little. Green 64 . It looks sound. The walls are cream and white rippled metal, the windows are slightly tinted and the curtains are brown with white chevrons. Three wooden steps lead up to the door.
    Robbie pulls a set of keys from his pocket. He goes up the steps, unlocks the door and heads inside. The rest of us follow him in.
    It’s cool in the caravan. The carpet is cream and the upholstery is oatmeal and brown tartan. The kitchen units and the storage cabinets are mock pine. The whole place smells of citrus air freshener. We go up to the far end and dump our bags, flopping onto the seats under a big window looking out across Green Zone. Robbie fumbles about under the sink in the kitchen area, making sure the gas and electricity are ready to go, and that the hot water’s on. When he’s finished, he comes and sits next to me.
    George opens up his suitcase. He pulls out four cans of Fosters and plonks them down on the low table in front of us.
    â€œHelp yourselves,” he says.
    Nobody needs to be asked twice. We all crack open a can and bash them together.
    â€œWe’re here lads,” Robbie says.
    I nod. We’re here. It’s properly starting to sink in now. I have a gulp of Fosters. It tastes good. I put the can back on the table.
    â€œWe almost didn’t make it though,” I say. “Running into those dickheads in the cars.”
    Robbie smiles.
    â€œWe don’t like out of towners,” he says, voice gruff like Kirkie’s mate.
    We all laugh.
    Dylan shakes his head.
    â€œThey were a