Beach Bodies: Part Three. Ross Armstrong

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.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

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

      ‘Anything happening?’ says the Night man.

      ‘In this place?’ says Day.

      ‘Yeah. Any trouble?’

      ‘A hell of a lot. It never stops,’ laughs Day.

      ‘Sure,’ chuckles Night.

      It’s an in-joke between the two. Not a hilarious one, by any measure, but a joke all the same. They’ve exchanged these exact words nearly a hundred times.

      It’s not funny because of the content, not anymore. The content has faded away and the humour is in the repetition. The words have become sound; a musical leitmotif that describes their relationship. They allow themselves this moment of kinship, at 8 p.m. whenever the two meet: eight days out of every month.

      You have to rotate people a lot in a place like this. Because concentration is difficult. It’s been worn away by smartphones and rolling news and constant content. And these guys need to stay ready, stay awake. Just in case.

      The work isn’t strenuous. You just have to check around once in a while. Shine a torch around. It’s a waiting game unless the worst happens. Then it’s life and death.

      So they rotate between six guys. But these two guys, they get on best.

      What makes Day laugh even more, is that Night’s last name is actually Knight. Which would be even funnier if Day’s surname was actually Day. They have laughed about this many times. But it isn’t. It’s Lambert or Butler or Hedges or Rothman. Some brand of old cigarettes anyway. Knight can never remember which.

      Knight takes a seat and assumes the posture, waving Day away. Years ago, he might’ve stuck his feet up on the desk, but these days a higher standard is expected, and someone is always watching.

      Instead, he trains his mind. Mr Knight clears his inner chambers from intrusive thoughts and focuses on the phone, because sometimes it rings and it looks good if you pick up straight away. The odd phone call from some suit who wants you to check on a few things.

      Some mad question, they always ask. Do this, do that. Makes a change from sitting watching the thing. They use an old white phone, a real one, from days gone by. It’s a professional joke, Mr Knight has been told. And he enjoys the opportunity to interact with old technology. He likes handling the thing. It feels cold against his ear. The weight, the ceremony of it all. It’s this sort of thing that made him take the job in the first place. It’s one of the little privileges.

      He doesn’t have to be here. He gets his Basic Income. He could take that and use it to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Not quite a tropical island, but not too far off. But he likes being here. And it’s nice to have a purpose. At his age.

      Mr Knight takes the phone off the hook and puts it to his ear, just for the feeling of it. He mimes a few words into it that no one will ever hear; he’s from a generation that never grew up. Then he puts it down and stares at it, indulging in the most basic pleasure there is: breathing, feeling well, and feeling time pass by.

      Four hours later, the thing rings and Mr Knight picks up immediately.

10.10 p.m.

      The heat from the fire reaches Roberto and Justine first, the flames licking out towards his granite biceps and her sculpted figure.

      The heat moves on to the next two bodies; Summer and Liv, the former recently widowed by the body that lies beyond the patio glass. Summer rests her head in Liv’s lap, and Liv strokes her hair.

      The heat, now downgraded to a subtle warmth, then reaches Lance and Tabitha. Lance placed his hand on her back a few minutes ago, but Tabs wriggled away. She’s the only one who hasn’t found herself in intimate contact with anyone in the time they’ve been cooped up in this place, and she’s not about to start now.

      In the middle of the room, Simon leans limp against the sofa, his arms fixed to his side, tied up with an orange extension cord Lance found under the sink.

      After Simon’s appearance was met with a volley of screams, he had to be shown through the patio window the fresh body he had apparently missed in the garden. When he turned back, his ashen face was met with the pounding fist of Lance. The punch looked like it could’ve taken Simon’s head off, as Lance had charged, barely breaking stride, before making the connection.

      As Simon comes to, he meets Lance’s eye and tries to stand on impulse, falling back down into the tiles when he realises his legs don’t work as well when bound with two metres of extension cord.

      ‘We do not want to hurt you, we want to talk,’