“Jesus,” Corey exclaims as he grabs onto the ‘oh shit’ handle by his head. “Where have you brought me? The moon?”
“Not quite.”
We continue down the lane another hundred yards or so before arriving at a large gravel car park, empty of other vehicles at this hour. I choose a space, the lines loosely demarcated by a different coloured gravel, next to the footpath we will be heading down, and we climb down from the truck.
As soon as the doors open, the sound of waves crashing can be heard from beyond thetowering dunes that surround us.
“The beach?” Corey asks, his face alight. “I love the beach.” Oh, just wait, I think to myself.
“This way,” I say, and he follows me through the kissing gate at the start of the carefully signposted footpath to the beach. The sharp points of the marram grass stab our skin even through our jeans, and Corey stops for a moment to tuck his jeans into his thick socks.
“What?” he asks. “It’s making my skin itch. It always has. I used to go to the beach a lot with my parents when I was a kid.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mmhmm. Before they kicked me out, they were pretty good parents, all things considered. We went on holidays, day trips, and we used to spend a lot of time at the beach. Ironically, we visited Great Yarmouth a few times, which is quite near here, isn’t it?
“Yeah, it’s maybe twenty miles down the coast from here.”
“I always remember getting these unbelievably delicious chips in a cone from the stalls on Yarmouth market with so much salt and vinegar it dripped out the bottom.”
“Ugh, I haven’t had chips off the marketin so long. But you’re right, they’re incredible. I don’t know what they do to make them taste different to any other chips,” I say, my mouth watering at the memories.
“Witchcraft.” He nods sagely.
“It’s the only reasonable explanation,” I agree, and we grin at each other.
“Oh my God.” He stops in his tracks, and for a minute, I panic. I grab both of his hands in mine and pull him towards me.
“What? Are you OK?”
His rambunctious laugh startles me, so big and outdoorsy it almost takes his strength from him, and he leans into me slightly. I hold him up as he tries to calm down, but laughter being the way it is, I’m soon leaning into him as well.
“What are we even laughing at? I thought you’d hurt yourself.”
“No, sorry. I’m fine. I just remembered that rollercoaster on the seafront. The Snails? Is that it? What’s the name of the amusement park it’s in?”
I scoff, knowing exactly where this is going. I school my features into a very serious expression.
“Excuse me, Mr Wells. The Snails at Joyland are an institution in our county, and I cannot have you disparaging them.” We both crack up again.
‘The Snails’ are, in fact, an institution, and yes, the amusement park is legitimately called ‘Joyland’. They are also the single most terrifying children’s ride you’ll ever see. Not because the rollercoaster itself is a high-octane, adrenaline-filled, ride-of-your-life type of rollercoaster. No.
Rather, because the snails themselves, the cars you ride in, are painted in such oddly dated colours and faces so strange they’re almost grotesque. Cole had nightmares after the first time he rode them and would never go again.
“Anyway,” I say once we finally manage to curb our laughter. “We need to be quiet now.” He frowns in confusion, and I simply smile and say, “Come on.”
We finally reach the top of the dunes, and Corey stops dead in his tracks.
He sucks in a gasp at the sight before him, and my heart thumps harder in my chest.
I knew he’d love this.
Eleven
Corey
“What the fuck?”
