ROSS ARMSTRONG is an actor and writer based in North London. He studied English Literature at Warwick University and acting at RADA. As a stage and screen actor he has performed in the West End, Broadway and in upcoming shows for HBO and Netflix. Ross’ debut title The Watcher was a top-twenty bestseller and has been longlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger.

Beach Bodies:

Part Three

Ross Armstrong

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Ross Armstrong 2019

Ross Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008361372

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Praise for Ross Armstrong

‘Addictive and eerie, you’ll finish the book wanting to chat about it’

– Closer Magazine, Must Read

‘A twisted homage to Hitchcock set in a recognisably post-Brexit broken Britain. Tense, fast-moving and with an increasingly unreliable narrator, The Watcher has all the hallmarks of a winner.’

– Martyn Waites

‘Ross Armstrong will feed your appetite for suspense’

– Evening Standard

‘Unreliable narrator + Rear Window-esque plot = sure-fire hit’

– The Sun

‘Brilliantly written… this psychological thriller is definitely one that will keep you up to the early hours. Five Stars.’

– Heat, Book of the Week

‘A dark, unsettling page turner’

– Claire Douglas, author of Local Girl Missing

‘Creepy and compelling’

– Debbie Howells, author of The Bones of You

‘The Watcher is an intense, unsettling read… one that had me feeling like I needed to keep checking over my shoulder as I read.’

– Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me

For my wonderful mother, who barely watches TV and falls asleep in the cinema.

‘My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed to bodies new and strange!’

Ovid, The Metamorphoses

(trans. Brookes Moore)

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

Previously in Beach Bodies…

8.41 p.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

10.10 p.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

11.08 p.m.

Zack: Outside

00.32 a.m.

Zack: Afloat

01.01 a.m.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

01.33 a.m.

02.10 a.m.

02.52 a.m.

04.44 a.m.: London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

Far away. But not so, so far…

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

About the Publisher

8.41 p.m.

Outside, Lance smashes the side gate in with one big kick of his size twelves, gaining some manliness back after he failed to even make Simon’s office door aware of his existence.

He leads Summer and Roberto, who are engaged in another whispered argument, down the corridor-like path the window looks out on.

The window that has metal shutters, just in case. Shutters that Simon took pains to close lest anyone see Dawn and he ensconced in that secret of their own. But, these three bodies, beaten by wind and rain, terrified by the volume of the thunder cracks violating the clouds, don’t know that yet.

While Zack at least managed to grab his yellow mac from the hallway, these three are making do with the thin maxi dresses and tight T-shirts they were wearing when the day began, before any of this was even vaguely foreseeable, to all but one of them.

The bedroom where their warmer clothes lie is exactly where Tabs, Liv and Justine are heading, having instantly opted to stay pro-active, and stay together. The three women turn the opposite way at the top of the stairs, away from the Love Nest, and down a slim corridor.

As sheet lightning continues in the distance, Tabs proceeds to remind them how little she wanted to come up here, but not wanting to be left on her own again, felt she had no option.

Cold air hits even before they get to the bedroom. Air they are all in need of; the extent to which smoke had filled the room from the fire was only visible when the power came on again. They’re thankful the dark is no longer adding to their high anxiety, but the foreboding of the cold shooting at them as they enter the bedroom confirms their suspicions.

These are strange days when the world turns upside down. When day becomes night. Black becomes white. When the sun turns cold. And it rains indoors.

The swirling rain pours onto them through the broken window. Liv is drawn to it immediately, joined by Justine, who whispers to herself in French as together they look down at the trajectory the body took and its landing point.

The wind claws at Liv, beckoning her out to join him. But Justine holds her hand, as they look out to the sea pounding against the rocks, mere metres beyond the boundary of the garden.

But 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,’ says Justine.

Simon breathes hard, blood ribboning from both of his nostrils, his eyes darting around to assess the danger level of the situation.

Roberto’s eyes flick to Lance’s. ‘Well, some of us do want to hurt you. But they won’t be allowed to. For now.’

Simon avoids Lance’s malevolent gaze as his mind rattles through the chain of events that led him here. ‘It’s not supposed to go like this,’ Simon whispers.

Liv, in particular, is disturbed by these words, her mind spinning off down a host of avenues in search of possible meanings.

‘Don’t play punch-drunk,’ says Lance. ‘I only gave you a tap. If I’d really wanted to hit you, you would’ve known about it.’

‘Please – I don’t know what’s going on,’ says Simon.

‘Don’t worry, we’ve pieced it together for you, mate,’ says Roberto. ‘We just need you to fill in the last couple of blanks. If you do that for us, we won’t hurt you. We’ll hand you over to the police once that boat comes, and you can deal with—’

‘We don’t even know if he called anyone. If there even is a boat coming,’ Summer says.

‘There is a boat coming. It’ll be with us at… 5 a.m.,’ says Simon, struggling to check his little round watch on his bound wrist. ‘That’s less than seven hours.’

‘Lie,’ says Lance. ‘That’s his first lie.’

‘How do you know?’ says Tabs.

‘I can tell. When you’ve worked the doors, you can tell a lie: I found the pills on the floor, I was just brushing up against her, this ain’t my Bowie knife. Trust me, I can sniff this shit out.’

‘I’m not lying,’ says Simon. ‘If you believe nothing else, hang on to this. I really don’t know how this is going to go. But if I don’t make it, remember, you just have to make it to 5 a.m.’

The group want to be buoyed by this, but any glimmer they’ve had in the past few hours has been quickly snuffed out.

‘Okay, mate, here’s the meat of it,’ says Roberto. ‘We know you locked Dawn inside that office with you, and when she tried to escape you killed her with the shutter.’ Simon’s eyes look like they’re doing long division. ‘Then we figure you made your way upstairs without anyone noticing, saw Sly was apart from the group, you slit his throat and pushed him through the window. But how did you get the knife back into the kitchen without any of us noticing?’

Simon lowers his head. They can’t see his eyes – he could be laughing or crying. ‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘Dawn’s dead?’

He moans, heaving large sighs.

‘Oh, give the man an Oscar,’ shouts Lance. ‘It’s you that ended her!’

‘Can’t be dead. Not her,’ he mutters.

‘Don’t act like you care!’ Lance shouts, Tabs holding on to him as he leans in further. ‘What d’you care?’

Then Simon pushes his face towards Lance, their heads almost touching.

‘Because I lo…’ In the briefest fraction of a second Simon gives a rueful smile, then shakes his head again. ‘Because… she was a sweet and beautiful person. And this isn’t what was supposed to happen. It’s not…’

Lance sits down, a look of triumph on his face. ‘I know you wanted to finish your plan, you probably had some order you wanted to pick us off in. But we got to you first.’

‘Someone’s making you look like fools. Someone here. But it isn’t me,’ says Simon.

Uncomfortable glances get passed around as Simon spits, his mouth filled with blood, his chest with grief.

‘Dawn and I were locked safe in the office,’ says Simon. ‘I thought for a moment we could stay there together. Until the boat came. But I knew the one person who didn’t do this was her, which meant we were leaving all of you in the dark with a murderer. She said we had to do something. The least I could do was get those lights back on using the back-up generator.’

‘A real heart of gold, eh?’ says Lance.

But he’s soon met with shushes, from the others.

‘So I opened up the shutter, climbed out the window into the rain, and told Dawn to wait for me and that she should pull down the shutter immediately if anyone else came. I found the generator and got everything working again. You didn’t think about how those lights came back on?’

‘But then you came back into the living room. You didn’t go straight back to Dawn, where it was safe. Why?’ says Tabs.

‘Conscience got the better of me,’ he says. ‘I brought you all here, and I know each and every one of you, maybe… better than you know yourselves.’ This isn’t a sentiment that sits well with any of them. ‘I am responsible for you. I decided I couldn’t very well leave you to fend for yourselves. I had to come back. But Dawn was safe and that was enough.’

‘Only she wasn’t, was she?’ Roberto scoffs, his tone getting him cold looks. He remembers it’s best not to stick your head above the parapet. Heads on display in this place have had a habit of being detached from their owners.

Liv recalls a phrase she once heard: ‘The weak speak too much.’ Or perhaps it wasn’t a phrase, perhaps it was something her dad once said. But it was still true.

‘So,’ says Justine, picking up the pieces. ‘Tell us how a woman gets killed, when she’s all alone in a locked room.’

And all eyes stay on Simon.

London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…

The phone rings and Mr Knight picks up immediately.

Check the temperature, he’s told. Never done that before but he knows where the meter is and is thrilled to be asked.

All controlled remotely of course, what happens in there, but you need to have someone look over the hard copies. Cos although everything can be everywhere, everything is really only somewhere. And these things are here. The hard copies.

As he taps the readout – tactile, real, a nice feeling – Mr Knight notices the darkness in the cold storage room. So little light in a place of such importance. His eyes wander, picking out the interruptions to the dark. Shelves, lit by neon, a line of small drawers, almost like the ones Mr Knight remembers as a kid, that held index cards or public records, before all of that really was placed elsewhere and the real things destroyed. Because you don’t need hard copies of everything. Only some things.

The only other light in there seems to be coming from a screen. He cranes his neck to see. It’s a smaller one that he’s used to seeing, that reminds him of old times. And there are old illusions flickering away on it.

Mr Knight remembers they’ll be waiting for the okay at headquarters. One of the oldest and best tech companies around. He stretches his arms, his back, gives his neck a crack as his feet tap on the gleaming floor, the noises echoing around, his lonely reflection staring back at him in the glass as he walks. And past the glass, the river, chopping away in the dark and overflowing as it often does this time of year.

‘Fine and checked,’ he says into the phone and the voice repeats back some kind words for his efforts.

He sits back in his chair and feels the pleasure of being active in the working world. Half an hour later he spins around on it. He has tap danced alone in this place. How he remembers tap dancing went anyway. He has wandered the corridors in the dead of night. He has rested his tired body on the gleaming floor at 4 a.m. He used to wear a suit.

His mind wanders, and he observes the movement of his thoughts. He thinks of his mother in an old hospital bed. She was in a coma, but he still spoke to her. Left the radio on the whole time she was in there. Just in case.

Mr Knight gets up and runs a hand through his wave of salt-and-pepper hair. He glances at the extravagant chandelier above, part glass, part diamonds, part feathers from rare birds, as his feet echo back to him from high ceilings. He approaches the temperature readout, tapping it. All fine. Then looks through the window at the glow of the screen.

He presses his face and hand against the glass to getter a better look at the screen in there. It shows an old television show repeat. Beautiful men and women in some exotic location. Just playing away in there on its own. For no one in particular.

Tap, tap, tap. That hasn’t happened in a long time. Another pair of footsteps in the building. Unannounced. Impossible, he thinks. And his heart quickens a beat.

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