It was her summer, the one that would remain unsurpassed for the rest of her life. Jenny was 16 and her beauty was at the precipice of slutdom. Her lips carried the dew of morning strawberries and the glisten of apples just ripe to be picked; her eyes bashed as though she was reading the thoughts of the boys whose eyes swung around her honeyed being; her bikini perched beyond gravity over the pertness of her bronzio butt and her peachy full tits. More svelte than a supermodel, she was fresher than any fantasy, hotter than any horny pornstar and innocent enough for her sexual awareness not to blare out like a used hotel room.
“Are you wanting any dinner tonight?” her mother yelled,
“Nah, we’re just gonna have a burger down the valley” she shouted back.
“Not at that the fucking Alacazar? You know a fucking Paki’s taken it over, don’t you?” bellowed her dad, from the roof terrace of their Palladian-style finca on the edge of a village near Torrevieja, on the western coast of Spain.
“No dad, you know I would rather eat fuckin’ Spanish food that eat there, doncha?”
“Alright petal, make sure you’ve got your mobile and you wear your lid, for the moped, woncha?”
“Course, see ya later!”
Jenny left her helmet in the garage, behind her dad’s work van. She didn’t wait to hear her parents say goodbye. She was off, the summer heat rippling through her bountifully bodied dark hair, she channelled J-Lo, but was as off-the-hook as a shrieking Christina Aguilera. People always thought she was Spanish, for which she was truly thankful. Even at her part-time job in one of the British supermarkets that stocked everything from The Sun to Pataks vindaloo sauce the customers would always try to cobble together a few Spanish words for her, sometimes she’d pretend to be Spanish, singing English songs with a Spanish accent. She wasn’t ashamed of her British roots, but she wished her parents would bring down the fucking Saint George flag down from the front terrace, and get a car without GB stickers. To be accepted in Spain, it was cool to blend, not erect mushy pea carnivals and battered fish shops.
Streaming through the valley’s orange groves she smiled hearing the dogs howl in the distance, as they did when she first got to the Costa Blanca as a child. She watched Spain change, the dodgy cowboy builders from South America who were always trying to undercut her dad were nearly as bad as the Irish who arrived on the shores of Torrevieja like there was another potato famine to escape from. And the Spaniards, they had no idea what foundations were, the buildings would never stand up in England. She questioned her dad once, on whether they really needed damp-proofing and double layered walls when the climates were so different, but he bashed her in the stomach, shouting that it made him sick to think standards could be so sloppy. So she never discussed it again, she tried to with her friends at school, but their vocabulary only went so far, the problemo with living in a village is that all the native old school were inbred and stupido. There was a nose of the village, a forehead, and a way of thinking. Her mum said Jenny got her intelligence from her, Jenny asked her why she thought it was so bright to regularly shop all the mothers who signed on back in the UK thus leaving her with only Spanish friends and no one left to call when they returned to Blightly, “Because one country full of them is enough. Shysters, blaggers and thieves. It’s why we left Essex, there were so many criminals there, didn’t realise we were following them, did we? Should have gone to the bleedin’ Algarve, I don’t know why we didn’t” she complained.
Her grandfather had been a bent socialist copper in the UK. He was the first of the family to make a home abroad. He had a castillo down in Marbella. He was found dead in his pool one day, garrotted by a burglar apparently, that’s why they moved up the coast, but what had begun as a village was soon increasing like the disease of progress itself. “It’s like a bleeding Lowry painting down here!” her dad would say, “First phase of industrialisation, attracts bleeding agrarian peasants from every half-bitten economy in el mundo”.
“Buenos Paulo!” Jenny said, parking her moped up at the bar where DJ Paulo was playing that night. He sat outside the bar in the square with a crew of guys she’d not met before, they were probably from Benidorm, they had flash clothes and greasy skin.
“Where are your friends tonight?” he asked her, in Spanish.
“I’m meeting them here soon, I just thought I’d maybe get a minute with you first?”
He walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. He tasted of pork scratchings and salt. To him she tasted of Haribo and cucumber.
Paulo then went back to hang with his friends. Jenny laughed whenever he said something funny, he was so hilarious, his revolutionist nature had got the better of her, they hadn’t slept together yet, but she was sure she would find time alone with him soon, and then he’d ask her to marry him and that would be it. They’d get a casa blanca together and kiss in the sunset for good. She’d be accepted as a Spaniard and everything was as rosy as a cuppa. As he told jokes about the English and their lack of understanding for the intricacies of his motherland, she chewed on sunflower seeds, spitting them out on the floor like a true favela chic. Then, one by one, her three amigos arrived. Juan, Dogtooth and Azy. Azy was actually called Azalea by her hippy leftover mum, but she hated it, and she thought Azy sounded more Spanish. Dogtooth’s parents were sub-subsistence farmers from Andalucia who came over to Torrevieja for the money, they got part time jobs selling houses to the incoming immigrants from the UK and Ireland, and then returned back to their farm, but he’d been coming every summer for six years, and he was cool, if not slightly annoying. Jenny’s dad couldn’t stand him. Juan was Azy’s gimp.
As the night went on, they drank more and more, and DJ Paulo spun some brilliant music, it was all Spanish, English words mainly, so as they got more pissed they sang louder and louder. Jenny tried getting the mic from Paulo to do karaoke with, but he wouldn’t let her. Not in front of his posh friends. It was normally fine, with just her and her mates. The Spanish had a funny game they played with the English, they’d pounce on them and see which language came out of their mouths as their first response. It was always English, usually swearing. Jenny had got better at shrieking in Spanish, but she still fuzzed up when she’d been drinking and dithered between exclamations.
Then at around 2 o’clock when the fireworks lit the sky from a fiesta over the mountains, in walked a stylish bitch. She was sassy and grown-up. She’d driven a car, not a bike to get there. She wore black heels with belts going around the arches, black stockings, and a black dress which was low cut with folk embroidery trimming the neckline and the hem. Her hair swished from side to side like a shampoo ad, she smelt good too. Jenny hated her on sight. The woman didn’t even notice Jenny as she took strides past her straight over to Paulo. The bitch then leant over the decks, took the needle off the record he was playing, caused the place to stand still in silence and she snogged him. In front of everyone.
Little Jenny then went up to the decks, split her drink on purpose over Paulo’s records and ran out, Azy, Juan and Dogtooth followed her.
“Fucking hell” she screamed in an annihilating storm of embarrassment. “I’m going to kill that fucking Paki bitch!”
Dogtooth looked at her, “What do you mean, ‘Paki’, she’s like Spanish isn’t she?”
“Uh, durr, stupido, haven’t you seen where she fucking works? At the fucking Paki joint, the Alcazar”
“The Alcazar, it’s a Spanish place, not a cuzza house” he replied
Azy looked at her, and at Dogtooth and at Juan. They were visibly embarrassed and perplexed.
“It’s a Spanish joint, babe, chill out, huh?”
“Eet’s been takan ovir by some people from Madrid” confirmed Juan.
“I’ve seen her fucking face. And I don’t fucking like it. I’m going to kill her”
“Nice!” said Dogtooth, “You know what, I’m gonna split now, laters, Azy, you want a ride?”
“Sure” she replied. Juan followed. All taking a lucky escape.
Jenny was left to smart in the balmy heat. She pushed her bike down the valley towards the Alcazar, just letting it roll, out of gear. She’d had enough. Coming over here and taking her man.
As the night grew longer she waited behind the stables of the restaurant for her prey. The sparrows flew all night and the swallows created art in the sky as the sun hinted at its return. She’d got a sharp rock in her hand, she thought it looked like the shape of a fox.
At around 4.30, the waitress’s car pulled up into the carpark for the restaurant. Like a ninja Jenny slipped through the shadows to bash her in the face and head. She made gouges in her head quickly and easily, but her skull was too tough to crack. The girl put up no fight, because she didn’t see it coming, and Jenny acted so professionally and quickly. Pulling her onto the back of the moped, Jenny pulled the bitch’s lump of flesh tight over the seat behind her, she made her arms fall around her back, she wasn’t sure if there was a pulse or not.
Driving back through the orange groves, she stopped where the rose bushes marked an orange growers grave. Next to it was a shovel and a pile of fresh soil.
As Jenny dug the hole she told off her victim for pretending to be Spanish, but she was greeted with a terrible surprise. The girl moaned, “Por favor, por favor, por favor…ayudeme!”
It was then that Jenny realised it was her native tongue, there was no way this girl was anything other than Spanish. She hated her anyway, and continued to dig. She then got to the bottom of the hole to be met by the carcass of an orange farmer and a dog. “Fucking hell!” she swore.
Jenny then heard a moped coming through the valley, she buried the girl alive. As quickly as she could. The lights from the bike were catching her goose-pimpling skin.
The mounds of earth behind her moved as she got on her bike, she had a nasty feeling it was gonna be her dad looking for her, he always accused her of fucking peasant boys in the orange groves, so she chose to spin the other way, but there was also a bike coming from that direction. She felt the world closing in on her, and decided to get off the road and escape through the orange groves, but it was too late. The waitress was running at her like a possessed zombie, and in seconds Jenny’s dad crashed into her earth covered body. He flew over his handlebars, hurtling into Jenny, knocking her down. Both the Brits were out cold.
The waitress then saw her father on the moped looking for her.
“Papa” she screamed out. He was always accusing her of fucking peasants in the orange groves, and had woken earlier when he heard her car arrive back in the carpark. He thought he’d find her with her knickers down against a farmer’s hut, but instead he saw his daughter, his beloved only daughter, covered in soil, looking like she’d been abandoned` by god. A hole grew in his heart,
“Que pasa?” he screamed…
Father and daughter then buried the dirty foreigners in the hole Jenny had dug for them.
IT WAS HER SUMMER
2 MAR 2008