Beach Bodies: Part One. Ross Armstrong

within hearing distance that might make this situation any better.

      But Dawn’s howls eclipse even theirs, as she gathers her quaking alabaster limbs, moving closer to what she slowly realises is the worst possible thing that could be lying directly in front of her.

      The brutal sun drenches Zack as he sees it, having wandered back outside from the darkness of the diary room; his knees buckle underneath him as his gaze meets Tommy’s vacant eyes.

      Lance, taking a more direct and less scream-y route towards Tommy’s head, quells the other villa dwellers as he approaches like he knows exactly what to do in scenarios such as this. He bends over the head of the best friend he had in this place. The most ‘together geezer in here’, he claimed yesterday, though, of course, the subsequent irony of that statement has inevitably passed him by. With his middle finger and thumb, as softly as he might touch butterfly wings, he pushes Tommy’s eyelids shut.

      Meanwhile, two floors up, Tommy’s feet dangle two inches above the terracotta tiles of the Love Nest, his torso cantilevered against the window ledge, his headless body leaning half in, half out of the villa, having found that perfect balance point, like a can of fizzy drink just full enough to lean on its rim.

      It can be assumed that Tommy’s head has been given assistance in finding itself two floors from his body. As cutting one’s own head off is not only an unusual method of leaving the villa and this fragile existence, but, certainly in this case, physically impossible due to the force required to sever one’s own spine just below the cranium.

      Tabitha, in the pool, barely sees the shadows, having imagined the whack to be something to do with Zack larking about with that watermelon again. The sun swells above her. The feet that beat the grass and concrete, and even the cries of her new friends, are dampened and blurred by the water that engulfs her ears.

      She contemplates that strange thing Tommy said to her just before lunch.

      Tommy: Before

      He hugs his little sister one last time. Tommy’s mum, stepdad and sister Scout say their farewells before he passes through customs, tearfully putting his laptop into the grey X-ray container, but forgetting to take his change out of his pocket, then forgetting to take off his belt, then forgetting his house keys are in his back pocket, then realising he has put his change back in his pocket.

      The whole episode takes a full four attempts, so many in fact that he hears one of the suited officials mutter the word ‘suspicious’.

      Which only serves to prove that they do not know Tommy. A man who, four years ago, at the tender age of 18 and bereft of his house keys decided to barge down the back door of his Edinburgh family home using only his shoulder and a short run-up. It took him eleven separate attacks. And when the door did give way it was due to his understanding stepfather opening it, who was rather less understanding the next day when he saw the damage Tommy had done to the door jamb. Particularly as one minute after opening it, Tommy realised that his house keys were in his back pocket the whole time.

      If looks could strangle.

      This same look greets Tommy like an old friend as the customs lady brushes his person with some contraption that he believes is intended to remove lint from his designer polo shirt. He decides to soothe her in the usual manner, by offering his pearly whites and that resonant voice of his. ‘Sorry, I’m excited, I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’

      But she must be one of the few people in Britain who haven’t heard of it, because with a tilt of her head she ushers him away without so much as an ‘oh my god, oh my god, oh my god’.

      He fares rather better with the pink-haired girl at the coffee shop:

      ‘Hi, I’m Tommy, can I have a coffee I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’

      While she doesn’t appear to believe him, she still gifts him with a free flat white, which is lucky because the only money he has with him – the change his mother gave him – is currently sitting in a grey tray on the other side of the scanners where he left it.

      The pink-haired girl even seems to have written his name on the coffee cup. But why? Is it flirting? Best not to smash one on her straight away as he normally would, Tommy tells himself. Keep your powder dry early, son, his stepdad has advised him. The airport would certainly be too soon.

      The woman with the fringe at the currency exchange seems like she might be of use too. And he notes she’s particularly taken with his accent – he’s become adept at noticing that – as he runs his hand across his close-cut bottle-blonde hair and says:

      ‘Could you help me out with some money? I’m going on Sex on the Beach, you know.’

      ‘Really?’ she says, eyebrows raised and voice climbing.

      ‘I’m no’ beggin’. I’ll give you some money, for the money.’

      ‘I mean, you’re really going on Sex on the Beach?’ she says.

      ‘You’ve heard of it?’

      ‘Of course I’ve heard of it. Really?’

      Tommy wonders how much longer her saying ‘really’ will go on for. He got up at 3.30 a.m. and doesn’t have much oomph left in him. What oomph he does have, he is saving for the island.

      ‘Yes, really,’ he says.

      ‘Well, wow. Good luck! I’ll be watching! Now, can I ask what currency you need?’ she says.

      ‘You can ask,’ he says. ‘But, you see, I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m dyspraxic, you see.’

      Tommy has been told this is to do with spatial awareness rather than numbers or facts, but he has come to believe there may be a link between all these things, and after twenty-two years of his existence his mother has come to believe that too.

      ‘Err,’ she says. ‘Where is it that you’re going?’

      ‘Tris… tan Da Cunha,’ he says, like he’s navigating broken glass in bare feet.

      ‘Where’s that then?’ she says, resting her chin on her knuckles.

      He blows out his lips, before he’s interrupted. ‘Tommy?’ comes a voice to his right. ‘I thought it was you!’

      Hugs. A kiss on both cheeks. He lifts the girl with the dusty blonde bob off the floor, her feet dangling. He kisses her on both cheeks again. Flashes the pearly whites, places his hands on her shoulders, all as he considers when might be the right time to ask exactly who she is.

      ‘So psyched to see you…’ he says.

      ‘Oh my gosh, I knew you’d get through. All the producers thought you were so finessed at the final audish. I’m V excited. I’m literally buzzing. We’re gonna be on Sex on the Beach!’ she says.

      What is her name? A classy girl. Posh. From London or one of the posh bits near there that Tommy’s never been to. His mind is working not so much overtime as over time. But she can’t see it ticking away, the magic happening unseen, for he is not dyspraxic when it comes to women. Oh, he knows where everything is in that respect; he has been told as much by the 67 or 177 women he has slept with (the number adaptable depending on whether he’s talking to men or women).

      ‘Tab… itha!’ he says, almost without missing a beat.

      ‘It’s just Tabs,’ she says, an air of triggered seriousness in her eyes.

      Tommy notes she’s one of those people who has tried all available options and is very clear on how her name must be delivered. Branding is everything.

      It suddenly feels to Tommy like the show has already begun.

      ‘Got it,’ he says, tapping his temple. ‘Locked in.’

      ‘So, what are you doing here, you nutcase?’ she shouts with a