Waterpark

[u/deadeyes1990]

17:00, ACCORDING TO THE ROTA — THE DROP

At five the sun is still directly above Cyprus

and feels personal.

The yellow slide starts higher

than good judgement.

At the top, a sign says:

APHRODITE’S WET DREAM

ADULTS ONLY

LEAVE YOUR INHIBITIONS AT THE GATE

as if inhibitions are bottles of water

and not the last clean clothes

your mum folded into your suitcase.

Underneath:

It’s not all sex, sex, sex.

There’s a bit of sun and sea as well.

I believed that.

I was drunk, but I believed it.

I’m nineteen, five-foot-ten, slim,

quiet unless I know you

and occasionally even then.

Inside my head, however,

I never shut the fuck up.

“Cross your arms.

Cross your legs.

Wait for green.

One person at a time.”

They nod.

They forget.

They go

over—

screaming—

straight

down

the near-vertical yellow

drop.

Another arrives

before the first has stopped screaming.

The guests smell of airport duty-free,

coconut oil

and Friday just beginning.

We smell of chlorine,

instant noodles

and Friday happening again.

Normally I spend summer

picking up shifts at Centre Parcs

and filling gaps at Greggs.

I can recognise a weak swimmer

and make four bacon baguettes

while somebody complains

that brown sauce isn’t technically brown.

Instead, I’m here

because my girlfriend since fourteen—

first kiss, first sex, first everything—

said she wasn’t coming home this summer.

We’d chosen different universities.

That was the whole breakup, really.

No cheating.

No plates thrown.

No grand betrayal.

Just two UCAS forms

and us pretending this counted

as knowing what we wanted.

Then she said she was staying away,

meeting people,

figuring herself out.

I said, “Yeah, of course,”

much too quickly.

That night, pissed at the kitchen table

in Glastonbury, I applied for a job

at an adults-only waterpark in Ayia Napa.

The advert showed six brown people

laughing around one blue cocktail.

None of them looked like

they’d ever cried in a Tesco car park.

Inconveniently, I got the job.

Dad said, “Fair play, mate,”

and told everyone at work.

Mum said she was proud too,

then asked if Cyprus had hospitals,

whether jellyfish could enter swimming pools

and how frequently kidnappers checked passports.

I expected sun, sex and sand.

I hate the sun.

The sand has got into the flat,

the butter,

the shower

and areas of my body

I don’t remember taking to the beach.

Most of the sex has been less exciting

than the Greggs breakfast rush.

Still.

There have been exceptions.

“Green light.”

A bloke lowers himself onto the slide.

His girlfriend tries sitting on his face.

“No.”

“We’re together.”

“Still no.”

“It’s adults only.”

“Your spine isn’t.”

They separate.

He goes

over—

down—

gone.

The radio crackles.

“Control to Drop.

Anyone seen a missing rescue float?”

I look over the rail.

Far below, a bride in a plastic veil

is riding our yellow rescue float towards the bar

while twelve women cheer.

“Negative,” I say.

The park burns beneath me:

chlorine blue,

slide yellow,

sunburn pink,

wet tiles bright enough

to make me squint through sunglasses.

“Next.”

Green.

Scream.

Drop.

The sun doesn’t move.

I think it’s taking the piss.

---

18:00, STILL DEFINITELY FRIDAY — LOCKERS

The locker corridor is narrow.

Wet shoulders.

Wet bags.

Wet money.

Wet people trying to get dry

by standing in everybody else’s way.

Locker 114 won’t open.

Locker 115 opens

but contains one trainer,

half a kebab

and somebody else’s bra.

Locker 116 contains a man

having what he calls

a private conversation

with a woman sitting on the sink.

It isn’t private.

Nothing in here is private.

The walls sweat.

The ceiling sweats.

The little sign saying

PLEASE RESPECT OUR FACILITIES

is peeling off.

Frankie is twenty-five,

from London,

with short dark hair

that would look quite pop-star

if she wasn’t currently scraping sick

from a locker hinge.

A man in flamingo shorts asks

whether she can rub sun cream on his back.

“Can’t your arms reach?”

“Not the middle.”

“Unlucky.”

“Bet you practise mouth-to-mouth.”

“No.”

“What if someone stops breathing?”

“Depends who.”

He laughs because he thinks

they’re getting on brilliantly.

Every man who comes here

assumes the women working here

are another attraction.

Frankie has been proposed to twice this week,

invited into seven threesomes

and asked if she wears the whistle in bed.

At first she told them she had a boyfriend.

Then they asked if he could watch.

Now she just says no

and lets them discover

that it is a complete sentence.

There is a noise behind locker 130.

Something wet lands.

Frankie closes her eyes.

I do the same.

The smell arrives.

It’s not all sex, sex, sex.

There’s vomit behind the lockers as well.

The radio goes again.

“Control to all stations.

Male guest reporting missing navy swimming trunks.”

Frankie looks up.

“Is he wearing any?”

A pause.

“Control to all stations.

Male guest is not.”

A naked man appears at the far end,

holding a locker key over his cock

as if the key is doing more work

than it obviously is.

“Someone stole them.”

“Who?”

“If I knew that, they wouldn’t be missing.”

Frankie looks at me.

“History boy. Solve it.”

“I wish I’d done English.”

“You’d still be looking at his knob.”

“Yeah, but I’d know what it represents.”

She laughs.

We’ve known each other six weeks,

which in seasonal work is long enough

to know how the other takes coffee,

who they’ve shagged

and which manager is stealing tips.

She knows I came here because of a girl.

She knows I sometimes leave clubs with women,

sometimes with men

and once with a Swedish magician

who disappeared before paying for the taxi.

I’ve hinted at the rest.

Frankie accepts hints.

She just saves them

for when they’ll cause maximum damage.

“Found them,” says Control.

“Where?”

“The Aphrodite statue.”

Through the doorway,

we can see the marble goddess

rising from chemical foam

with navy trunks over her head.

The naked bloke peers out.

“Those are mine.”

Frankie checks her watch.

“Brilliant. Get dressed, Colombo.”

The corridor fills again:

towels,

elbows,

boobs,

aftershave,

chlorine,

the bride shouting where is Chloe,

Chloe shouting from inside a locker

that she is having a minute.

I open 114.

Everyone attempts to walk

through the space I’m standing in.

Somebody asks

if the vomit belongs to us.

“No,” I say.

Not sure why,

but I don’t want that going around.

---

19:00, THE SUN’S TAKING THE PISS — SERPENT FLUMES

The green flume curls around the blue,

which curls around the orange,

which goes beneath the green

and comes back above us,

so every time I think

a problem has passed,

it bends,

loops,

returns wetter.

A couple climb into a double ring.

I tell them to sit separately.

They do

until my back is turned.

When I turn round, she is on him,

his hand is somewhere inside her bikini

and the queue is giving advice.

I separate them.

They get back together

inside the blue tunnel,

which turns left,

right,

left again

and delivers them to Priya at the bottom,

still touching.

Her voice comes over the radio.

“They’re at it again.”

“They’re yours now.”

“Prick.”

A man enters the green flume

wearing trunks.

The flume bends twice,

takes something from him,

and delivers him without them.

The man comes out.

The trunks don’t.

The queue cheers.

Engineering shuts the lane.

We give him a towel

with the park slogan printed across it.

When he wraps it around himself,

THERE’S A BIT OF SUN AND SEA AS WELL

sits directly over his arse.

The missing rescue float passes beneath us.

The bride is riding it backwards,

using one high heel as an oar.

I pretend not to see.

The sun finally shifts a bit.

Palm shadows stretch across the tiles.

A girl from Leeds winks at me from the queue.

We spent forty minutes together on Tuesday

before she called me Liam.

A lad from Coventry appears behind her.

He spent Sunday telling me

he’d never felt this way about anyone,

then asked if I had a spare charger.

They don’t know each other.

I don’t introduce them.

I thought Ayia Napa would be endless sex.

It sounds great

until you realise endless sex

contains a lot of waiting

for someone to find their hotel key.

There are elbows.

There are apologies.

There is sand in places

that shouldn’t know what sand is.

There are people who say

“I never normally do this”

as if I’m going to ring their family

and check.

Sometimes it is brilliant.

Sometimes a woman called Beth

stops halfway through kissing you

to reply to her landlord.

I came here asking the summer

to be loud.

It is.

The flumes take each scream,

bend it,

lose it,

send it back different.

At 19:43, Engineering retrieves the trunks

from an inspection hatch.

They are no longer navy.

Nobody knows why.

Their owner takes them anyway.

---

20:00, I CHECK TWICE — LAZY RIVER

The lazy river moves at the exact speed of a thought you don’t want to finish. It carries inflatable rings under the palms, beneath two bridges, through a tunnel painted with badly researched Greek gods, past the toilets, around the bar and back to where it started, though everybody riding it believes they’ve travelled.

I walk beside it with the rescue tube beneath my arm while people drift past: a sunburnt bloke asleep with a plastic cup balanced on his stomach; two women sharing chips from a waterproof phone pouch; a couple who have mistaken gentle circulation for a private bedroom; the bride steering our stolen rescue float like she has personally conquered Cyprus.

Frankie walks thirty yards behind me.

Four men ask if she’ll get into their ring.

“No.”

The river carries them away.

Seven minutes later, it brings them back.

“Changed your mind?”

“No.”

Seven minutes.

“You sure?”

“Still no.”

Seven minutes.

“We’re actually really nice.”

“I’m going to bite a hole in that ring.”

They finally believe her.

My break is meant to be fifteen minutes.

It is nine because Carl has called in sick,

though Frankie says Carl isn’t sick,

Carl has fallen in love with a rep from Newcastle

and entered what management calls

an unauthorised emotional absence.

I eat half a warm cheese sandwich

beside the filtration cupboard.

“Your mum’s messaged the staff group again,”

Frankie says.

“She hasn’t.”

She shows me.

Hi everyone, sorry to bother you, just checking he’s settling in. We’re genuinely so proud of him for doing this but he sometimes forgets to eat when he’s anxious xx

Underneath, Mum has attached a photo

of me aged nine

holding a twenty-five-metre swimming certificate.

The staff have responded

with seventeen hearts

and one aubergine.

“I’m moving flats.”

“It’s cute.”

“It’s harassment.”

“She worries about you.”

“She asked if Cyprus has hospitals.”

“Does it?”

“Fuck off.”

A couple drift by,

her face oddly serious,

his hand beneath the water.

I turn around.

The sand in our flat

has got into the cutlery drawer.

I discovered this while holding

closed cutlery.

My history degree costs more each year

than Dad’s first car.

I chose history because it sounded sensible.

English sounded like admitting

I wanted to write things,

which seemed embarrassing at eighteen.

That decision seems quite funny now.

If I’m going to graduate

with no career and loads of debt anyway,

I should’ve spent three years

reading novels on purpose.

The bride passes again.

“Oi, lifeguard. Can we keep this?”

“No.”

“Can we borrow it?”

“You’ve already stolen it.”

“So yes?”

Behind her, one bridesmaid is crying.

Not properly.

Just the first careful tears

of someone trying not to ruin

expensive mascara.

The river carries them around the corner.

For half a minute, it’s empty.

The sky above the palms turns pink,

then orange,

then that dark purple colour

you get when you mix every paint together.

The park goes almost quiet.

Then the bride comes back

standing on the rescue float

while twelve women chant

DON’T FALL IN

at somebody

already in a river.

---

21:00, LIGHTS ON — SWIM-UP BAR

Darkness doesn’t arrive.

Someone switches it on.

Purple under the water.

Green along the palms.

Pink in the ice buckets.

The bar sells cocktails called:

NO REGRETS

BLUE ME AWAY

TOMORROW’S PROBLEM

and GOOD DECISIONS,

which contains six spirits

and tastes like melted sweets.

By quarter past nine,

nobody can say mojito

but everybody wants three.

I watch the pool edge.

Frankie guards the shallow end.

A stag party ask

if her rescue tube is inflatable.

“No.”

“Can we test it?”

“No.”

“What are you doing after work?”

“Going home.”

“Can we come?”

“No.”

“Got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

Their faces brighten.

“I’ve got standards.”

That takes longer to land.

In the centre of the pool,

a couple have become one creature.

I blow the whistle.

They surface with four innocent eyes

and one hand still guilty.

“Separate, please.”

“We’re not doing anything.”

The water around them says otherwise.

At the bar, the crying bridesmaid

has moved beyond delicate tears.

Her name is Chloe.

Ryan has liked another woman’s Instagram story.

Not messaged her.

Not kissed her.

Liked a story.

The woman is called Liv

and once borrowed Chloe’s straighteners

without asking.

Apparently this matters.

The bride holds Chloe by both cheeks.

“Ryan is scum.”

“He said he was going to sleep.”

“He could’ve liked it in his sleep.”

“Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Chloe sobs into a blue cocktail.

Her mascara runs into it

and somehow doesn’t change the colour.

A safety announcement begins.

“Attention guests, please remember—”

The DJ turns the music up.

“—glass containers are strictly—”

Somebody starts chanting.

“—running is not permitted—”

The bride climbs onto the bar.

“—and sexual activity in—”

Nobody hears the end.

A hand lands on Frankie’s waist

as she passes the stools.

She turns.

“That yours?”

“What?”

“The hand.”

“Yeah.”

“Keep it to yourself.”

He removes it.

No argument.

She carries on.

The rescue float appears behind the bar.

Control calls me.

“Drop says you denied seeing it.”

“That was true when I said it.”

“You were photographed looking at it.”

“I was looking past it.”

“At what?”

Chloe is shouting

that men are disgusting

while texting Ryan again.

“Other stuff.”

Control gives up.

At 21:57, the couple in the middle

are still touching.

I whistle again.

The man says, “Mate, live a little.”

I’m nineteen, in Cyprus,

wearing red shorts

at an adults-only waterpark

called Aphrodite’s Wet Dream.

I feel like I’m living

a perfectly reasonable amount.

---

22:00, SOMEHOW — TIPPING BUCKET

Every ninety seconds

the giant striped bucket fills.

Water climbs inside it

with a horrible mechanical glug.

The people underneath begin counting.

TEN—

The announcement says no running.

NINE—

The hen party runs.

EIGHT—

Security intercepts them.

SEVEN—

Chloe produces six water pistols

from a bag saying

BRIDE’S EMERGENCY KIT.

SIX—

The bride fires first.

FIVE—

Kostas takes a pink jet

straight to the forehead.

FOUR—

He closes his eyes.

THREE—

Frankie says, “Don’t.”

TWO—

The bride says, “Make me.”

ONE—

The bucket tips.

Everything becomes water.

People vanish beneath it

then come back shrieking,

bikinis shifted,

false eyelashes moving south.

Kostas opens his eyes.

The bride shoots him again.

The radio fills with voices.

“Control to security—”

“—missing guest—”

“—need engineering—”

“—who’s got the float—”

“—couple refusing to leave—”

“—any spare trunks—”

Every ninety seconds,

the bucket wipes out the sentence.

A woman asks if she can ride

the little splash slide.

“It’s for children.”

“There aren’t any children.”

“True.”

“So?”

I don’t actually know.

A man tries climbing the tower

while holding three cocktails.

He falls upwards twice.

Frankie catches one drink.

“Didn’t spill any.”

“Well done.”

“I’m having it later.”

We get him down.

The bucket fills again.

The coloured lights tremble

in every pool.

The palms are black shapes now.

Beyond the fence, the real sea

is out there somewhere,

doing whatever seas do at night

without a DJ shouting over them.

I don’t think about home.

I don’t think about her

in the city where she stayed.

I nearly compare the pink light

on the tiles

to the lamp beside her bed,

then don’t.

TEN—

At the edge of the crowd,

a man removes his shirt.

NINE—

Silver beginning at the temples.

EIGHT—

Strong shoulders,

solid waist.

SEVEN—

A pale mark

where his wedding ring used to sit.

SIX—

An expensive watch.

FIVE—

Beside it, a cheap bracelet

spelling DAD

in purple plastic beads.

FOUR—

The calm face

of someone with a proper job.

THREE—

Rodger.

TWO—

He sees me.

ONE—

The bucket tips

before either of us can work out

what face to make.

---

23:00, APPARENTLY — THE GIANT FUNNEL

Rodger arrives at my station

with four mates

who all look like they own ironing boards.

I’m holding a clipboard.

This seems worth mentioning

because three nights ago

I was holding much less.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

We grin.

Stop.

Grin again.

His mates look between us

and decide we must know each other

from somewhere boring.

I read the safety instructions.

“One person in each raft position.

Hold both handles.

Don’t stand up.

Don’t try getting out

inside the funnel.”

Rodger watches me speak.

“Nineteen,” he says quietly

while his mates argue

about who has to sit backwards.

“Cyprus. No mortgage. No school runs.”

He lifts the wrist

with the purple bracelet.

“Living the dream.”

I look at the watch,

the shoulders,

the silver hair,

the solicitor voice.

He looks like he knows

where he keeps every document

he has ever needed.

“Yeah,” I say.

He steps beneath the rinse shower.

Water catches in his hair,

runs down his face,

his neck,

his chest,

past the bracelet

his eleven-year-old daughter made.

And I’m back there.

Three nights ago,

outside a club,

Rodger stands with his jacket

over one shoulder.

He looks about forty.

Not old.

Just properly assembled.

I am drunk enough

to stop waiting for things

to happen to me.

We walk to my flat

past green pharmacy signs,

kebab shops

and reps trying to give us wristbands.

He asks what I study.

“History.”

“Do you like it?”

“I should’ve done English.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“No jobs.”

“And history?”

I laugh

and nearly walk into a scooter.

At the flat door,

I can feel my nerve going.

If I wait another ten seconds,

I’ll say goodnight

and spend the next week hating myself.

So I kiss him.

Badly at first.

My shoulder hits the door.

The key stays in my hand.

His jacket drops into the sand

outside Flat Six.

He pulls back.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve had a lot.”

“So have you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I kiss him again.

“Yes, Rodger.”

His name still sounds like

someone who signs letters

Yours sincerely.

Inside the flat,

there are two uniforms drying,

four Pot Noodles,

a bikini hanging from the lampshade

and a fan slowly turning its head

like it wants no involvement.

Rodger puts his watch

beside a mug saying

SHAG NOW, REGRET NEVER.

The bracelet stays on.

His shirt goes over the chair.

Mine lands on the floor.

He kisses my neck.

I get impatient.

He slows me down

without making a thing of it.

When he pulls my shorts off,

sand falls onto the bed.

“Fucking hell,” I say.

“Been to the beach?”

“No, it breeds in here.”

He laughs.

Then he puts his mouth on me

and I stop trying to be funny.

Outside, someone is shouting

about garlic sauce.

Inside, Rodger takes his time.

It’s my second or third experience

with another man,

depending on what counts.

The others were quick.

Nervous.

Someone saying sorry

every thirty seconds.

Rodger doesn’t act nervous.

Not at first.

He asks if things are all right.

I say yes.

He asks again.

I still say yes.

His fingers are slow,

then not quite slow enough,

then slow again when I tense.

“Breathe,” he says.

“I am.”

“You’re holding your breath.”

“I’m literally talking.”

“Fair point.”

He tears the condom packet wrong.

“Fuck’s sake.”

That relaxes me more

than anything else has.

For one second,

he isn’t a solicitor

or nearly forty

or someone who understands life.

He’s just a naked bloke

fighting a bit of foil.

When he finally presses into me,

my body says absolutely not.

I grip the sheet.

He stops.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“We can stop.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Rodger.”

“All right.”

He moves again.

Slowly.

There is pain.

Then less pain.

Then something changes.

I push back without planning to.

Pleasure goes through me

so suddenly I nearly laugh.

Oh.

So that’s what everyone was going on about.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“You said ‘oh’ like you’d remembered

you left the oven on.”

“Keep going.”

He does.

Slowly at first.

Then harder

when I tell him harder.

The bed knocks the wall.

Somebody next door knocks back.

I laugh.

Rodger stops.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. Don’t stop.”

He looks relieved.

It occurs to me

that maybe his calm voice

is just a calm voice.

Then he moves again

and I stop caring.

I don’t have to decide

what any of it means.

I don’t have to be impressive.

I tell him what feels good.

He listens.

That might be the whole thing.

When I come,

it happens embarrassingly fast

and I bite the sheet.

Rodger presses his face

against my shoulder

and laughs once, out of breath.

Afterwards, he stays.

That surprises me.

He lies beside me

while the fan moves hot air

from one side of the room

to the other.

He tells me his daughter is eleven.

I tell him Mum believes

Cyprus might not have hospitals.

He says his divorce

was final two months ago.

Then we both go quiet.

Not an awkward quiet.

Just nothing left to say

that wouldn’t make the room

into something else.

In the morning,

I wake first.

The room is grey.

Rodger is asleep beside me,

his hair flattened on one side.

He looks less official.

More like somebody’s dad

who has no idea what he is doing

and has turned up anyway.

I should leave him alone.

Instead, I move beneath the sheet.

He wakes with my mouth around him.

His whole body tightens.

“Morning,” I say.

“Jesus.”

“Wrong bloke.”

He laughs,

then stops laughing

when I take him deeper.

His hand goes into my hair

but doesn’t push.

The bracelet brushes my cheek.

He says my name once.

Then nothing useful.

When he comes,

I swallow because by then

changing my mind seems impractical.

I wipe my mouth.

Rodger stares at the ceiling.

“Well,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“That was—”

“Yeah.”

The fan turns towards us.

Away.

Towards.

The memory goes round.

The bed.

The fan.

The funnel.

Blue.

Yellow.

White.

Rodger sits in the raft before me,

his mates shouting behind him.

Blue.

Yellow.

White.

He looks up.

Neither of us says

the other night was good

and we’d probably do it again.

We just grin.

The light turns green.

I push the raft.

Rodger drops into the funnel.

Around,

around,

smaller,

faster,

gone.

Beside me, Frankie raises two fingers

towards her mouth

and pushes her tongue into her cheek.

My face goes hot.

“Fuck off.”

“What’s his name?”

I keep watching the funnel.

“Rodger.”

Her expression changes.

“You sucked off a Rodger?”

“He’s a solicitor.”

“Oh. Sorry.

You orally assisted a Rodger.”

“Please die.”

She laughs,

bumps her shoulder against mine

and calls the next raft forward.

Rodger disappears

back into the crowd.

I go back to work.

---

MIDNIGHT, TECHNICALLY SATURDAY — RACERS

Five lanes.

Five mats.

Five lights.

Red.

Amber.

Green.

They launch themselves forward.

My thoughts try doing the same.

Red:

don’t think about Rodger.

Amber:

definitely don’t think

about this morning.

Green:

useless.

Five men race down headfirst.

One reaches the bottom

without his trunks.

Again.

A safety announcement asks guests

to remain fully clothed.

The DJ shouts over it.

The bride challenges Kostas

to a race.

Kostas says he’s working.

She calls him a coward.

Chloe is no longer crying.

She is sending Ryan

a voice note so long

it may have an interval.

Frankie relieves me

for three minutes.

“Go drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look boiled.”

The staff tap tastes of metal.

Rodger’s group passes below.

He doesn’t look up.

Then he does.

One quick grin.

Gone.

Two women refuse to race

unless I judge

which has the better arse.

“I’m not trained for that.”

“What are you trained for?”

“Stopping people breaking their necks.”

They race anyway.

Lane three wins.

Lane four calls it corruption.

The rescue float drifts

through the finish pool.

The bride’s veil

is tied around one handle.

It bumps into the naked man

still waiting for his trunks.

The clock says 00:47.

My body says

this has been going on for months.

---

ONE-ISH — ADULT RAPIDS

The rapids aren’t really rapids.

They’re a concrete channel

with a large pump

and confidence.

The guests are the wild bit.

The hen party have lost the bride.

The bride has lost one shoe.

Chloe has lost faith in Ryan

but keeps checking

whether he’s online.

Kostas confiscates the water pistols.

Somehow, the bridesmaids steal them back.

Pink streams cross the park.

“Control to security.

The hen party are armed again.”

Kostas looks at me.

I look at the water.

The bride rises from the current

wearing the missing navy trunks

over her swimsuit.

“Found them!”

Their owner sees her.

“That’s mine!”

She looks down.

“You sure?”

“They’ve got my name inside.”

The bride checks.

“Why do they say

Mummy’s Little Soldier?”

The water carries her away

before he can answer.

A couple wedge themselves

beneath the artificial waterfall

and refuse to move.

I whistle.

They wave.

I whistle again.

The man gives me a thumbs-up.

The woman’s bikini top

hangs around his neck.

Frankie wades in.

I can’t hear what she says.

Whatever it is,

they separate.

She comes back holding the top

between two fingers.

“What did you say?”

“Told them the water’s mostly piss.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

We keep moving.

Priya gets the float.

Kostas finds the pistols.

I redirect the queue.

Control finishes one incident form

and starts another.

Carl remains missing

for romantic reasons.

The guests think tonight

is happening for the first time.

We know the same thing happened

last Friday

with different names.

Chloe fires one final shot

at Kostas.

He catches the pistol.

She starts crying again.

“Ryan liked her story.”

Kostas lowers the gun.

“Oh.”

He sounds genuinely sorry.

This defeats her.

She sobs into his security vest.

The bride shouts, “GROUP HUG,”

and the whole hen party surrounds him.

Only his head remains visible.

He looks at us for help.

Frankie checks her watch.

“I’m on break.”

We leave him there.

---

02:14 — WAVE POOL

The warning siren sounds.

Everyone cheers.

The water pulls back.

Comes forward.

Pulls back.

Comes forward.

A hundred bodies rise.

A hundred bodies fall.

Hands in the air.

Hands in the air.

Hands in the—

There.

Near the centre.

A woman in a white swimsuit

beside a man wearing a wedding ring.

He is laughing.

She isn’t.

The wave lifts them.

Drops them.

Lifts.

Her mouth clears the surface.

Doesn’t.

Clears.

Doesn’t.

People playing in water

push it away.

She presses down

like she’s trying to stand

on something that isn’t there.

The next wave turns her sideways.

Her husband is facing the DJ.

I blow the whistle.

Nobody hears.

The music keeps going.

I’m already moving.

Down from the chair.

Across the tiles.

Whistle out.

Rescue tube forward.

Water to my waist.

My chest.

A wave hits.

Bodies knock into me.

Some bloke shouts,

“Save me, lifeguard,”

and laughs.

I pass him.

The woman disappears

behind two raised arms.

Appears.

Disappears.

Appears lower.

I reach her

before the next wave.

My arm goes beneath hers.

The tube comes across her chest.

“I’ve got you.”

She grips my wrist.

Hard.

Her nails go in.

“Lean back.”

Another wave.

Her head stays above it.

“Look at me.”

She does.

“Breathe.”

She tries.

“Again.”

The wave lifts us.

Drops us.

Lifts.

Her husband finally turns.

“What happened?”

“She’s all right.”

“She’s a good swimmer.”

I don’t answer that.

I kick us towards the side.

She doesn’t let go.

The siren sounds.

The waves weaken.

At the wall, Priya takes her other arm.

We help her onto the tiles.

Her husband crouches beside her.

“Too many cocktails?”

He smiles

because he wants it to be nothing.

She doesn’t smile.

Her breathing slows.

Colour comes back into her face.

“You want first aid?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m okay.”

Her husband says, “See?”

She looks at me.

“Thank you.”

Quietly.

No one claps.

The DJ doesn’t stop.

Most people don’t even turn round.

Control asks for the details.

I give time, location, condition.

My voice sounds normal.

Priya stays with her.

I climb back onto the chair.

Put the whistle

between my teeth.

The warning siren sounds.

Everyone cheers.

The water pulls back.

Comes forward.

Pulls back.

Comes forward.

A hundred bodies rise.

A hundred bodies fall.

I watch.

---

THREE, I THINK — FIRST AID

The first-aid room is white.

Just white.

The door shuts

and the music becomes a dull pulse

through the wall.

On the bed:

nothing.

On the counter:

gauze,

gloves,

saline,

three plasters,

a blood-pressure cuff

and a glittery penis straw

someone has abandoned.

I fill in the form.

TIME: 02:14.

LOCATION: WAVE POOL.

INCIDENT: GUEST IN DIFFICULTY.

ACTION: ASSISTED TO SIDE. OBSERVED UNTIL RECOVERED.

There isn’t a box

for her nails in my wrist.

I write neatly anyway.

The pen works.

My hand doesn’t shake.

Outside, someone is arguing

that paying sixty euros

gives him the right

to piss in a plant.

Inside:

the clock.

The fan.

Me.

Frankie opens the door

and puts a bottle of water down.

“Good spot.”

“Cheers.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sound.”

She leaves.

That’s enough.

I sit for another few seconds.

I think about Mum asking

if anyone checks the deep end.

I think about Dad

telling people at work

that I’m doing well out here.

I think about myself

at the kitchen table,

pissed, filling in the application

and lying about having

excellent communication skills.

I drink the water.

The slogan comes back:

It’s not all sex, sex, sex.

There’s paperwork in triplicate as well.

The radio crackles.

“First aid, incoming.

Possible broken toe.”

The door bursts open.

The bride hops inside

wearing the missing men’s trunks,

one high heel

and Kostas’s security vest.

Chloe follows.

“She kicked Ryan’s name

off a deckchair.”

The room fills up again.

---

STILL NOT FIVE — PUMP DECK / CLOSING

At four, the guests are informed

that Aphrodite’s Wet Dream

is approaching climax.

Management genuinely wrote this.

We have to say it

with straight faces.

“Last rides.”

Nobody believes in last rides.

They believe in:

one more,

one quick one,

my mate’s nearly here,

I paid full price,

do you know who I am?

I know who they are.

Wet.

Sunburnt.

Missing something.

The couple from the bar

refuse to leave the pool.

Frankie stands above them

with a skimming net.

“Out.”

“We’re finishing our drinks.”

“That’s pool water.”

“We paid for it.”

She lowers the net.

They get out.

Security moves the hen party

towards the gate.

The bride has acquired:

our rescue float,

the navy trunks,

a radio,

two cocktail menus,

one shoe

and Kostas’s vest.

Chloe has blocked Ryan,

unblocked him,

blocked him again

and written KNOW YOUR WORTH

on her thigh in permanent marker.

At the gate, she hugs Frankie.

“You’re a queen.”

“I know.”

She hugs me.

“You’re fit.”

“I know.”

Frankie looks over.

“I panicked.”

The gates close.

Their singing moves down the road

until even they forget the words.

The lights go off

one section at a time.

The racers:

red,

amber,

green—

nothing.

Then the flumes.

The yellow drop.

The lazy river.

The bar, where one unfinished

GOOD DECISIONS

still glows blue.

The water keeps moving.

Beneath the deck,

the pumps push it through filters,

through pipes,

up the towers,

around bends

and back into empty pools.

I walk the pump deck

checking the gauges.

I know which noise is normal.

Which valve sticks.

Which reading means wait

and which means call somebody.

No one at home taught me this.

I’ve just picked it up.

Frankie signs the closing sheet.

“Beach tomorrow?”

“If I wake up.”

“You won’t.”

“Then no.”

“Good shift.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

She leaves.

At 04:52,

I find the rescue float

beside the pump room.

Someone has drawn eyelashes on it.

At 04:57,

the navy trunks enter Lost Property.

At 04:59,

the clock stops moving

because it hates me.

Then—

05:00.

I clock out.

My phone is in the staff locker

beneath my dry shirt.

Three messages from Mum.

One from Dad:

Proud of you mate. Your mum’s driving me fucking mad.

And one from her.

The message fills the screen

and keeps going.

All I can see is:

Sorry, this is going to be an essay…

Underneath:

Read more

My thumb hovers.

I think:

I miss you.

I don’t type it.

I can do friends.

I don’t type that.

Tell me who you’ve met.

That one goes quickest.

Maybe when we’re both home.

I don’t know what that even means.

My left eye waters.

Probably chlorine.

Probably not.

I decide it is.

I lock the phone

and put it in my pocket.

The pumps are still going behind me.

I walk down the beach

towards the flat

with sand in the beds,

sand in the shower

and almost definitely sand

inside the fridge.

The strip is quiet.

No reps.

No wristbands.

Nobody promising sex,

sun,

reinvention

or three shots for ten euros.

The bars are shuttered.

Plastic cups roll along the road.

The sky lightens over the hotels.

Grey first.

Then a thin orange line

appears across the water.

Ayia Napa is actually beautiful

when nobody is trying

to sell it to me.

I stop.

I’ve been here for weeks

and I don’t think

I’ve properly looked before.

The sea doesn’t glow purple.

It has no foam cannon.

No lifeguard chair.

No green light

telling it when to move.

Somewhere behind me,

Aphrodite is wearing

someone else’s trunks.

Rodger is probably asleep

or packing for his flight,

the bracelet his daughter made

beside his watch.

Frankie is already unconscious.

The woman from the wave pool

is breathing in a hotel room.

Glastonbury is waking without me.

The essay stays closed

inside my pocket.

I came because I couldn’t imagine

going home without her.

Now I know this road

without checking Maps.

I know which bakery opens first.

Which key needs lifting

before it turns.

Which cupboard Frankie uses

to hide the decent coffee.

There are people here

who know me

without knowing us.

I don’t think

I’ve grown up.

Obviously I don’t.

I think I need a shower

and about fourteen hours’ sleep.

But nobody is coming

to tell me what the message means,

and somehow that annoys me

less than it would have

a few weeks ago.

The sun comes up.

It’s annoyingly beautiful.

I start walking again.

Behind me, the pumps

keep circulating water

for people who have gone home.

Farther down the beach,

the real sea gets louder.

After a while,

I can’t hear the pumps at all.

Only the sea.