Pleasure Island Page 7

  “McKenzie crushes hopes and dreams like the rest of us crush an empty crisp packet – and then discards it with as much contempt and consideration for its onward journey … .he displays a frighteningly diminished interest in the psychological well-being of his contestants … his narcissistic leanings suggest he conducts himself without reproach, or conscience … I imagine he shouts out his own name at the point of orgasm …”

  Publically, McKenzie had dismissed the writer’s rhetoric as ‘amusing’; privately, however, it had been a different story, culminating in a rage that had seen him destroy his office and sack his press officer, a loyal member of his team for over a decade.

  ‘All will be revealed in good time, I assure you,’ McKenzie stated, Angelika’s written words resonating like poison inside his mind. She had been rather laize faire with the word ‘sociopath’ in her description of him. Now she would discover first-hand what this truly meant.

  ‘It’s the hack’s husband; the barrister’s the biggest problem,’ the Japanese man said. ‘He’s a little bullish, hot-headed, certainly very intelligent and more than a touch arrogant, which will be his ultimate downfall, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ McKenzie agreed.

  ‘Have you noticed that there’s a spark of something in the footballer’s eyes whenever he looks at her … the journalist, I mean,’ the woman interjected, ‘I’d like to explore this.’

  ‘All in good time, my dear. All in good time.’

  The American stared at his computer screen, at the chaos ensuing in real time, panic and fear etched upon shocked and horrified faces. He had muted the sound of the live stream so that he could make the telephone call; frankly he found all the histrionics more distasteful than he’d thought he would, though admittedly the stunt had had been impressively executed, right down to the last detail, even the way the footballer’s jeans had been deliberately ripped and the skirts torn from the women. Very authentic indeed.

  ‘We agreed this would be a purely social experiment, McKenzie,’ the American reiterated his fellow voyeur’s earlier sentiment, ‘a calculated insight allowing us to study the human condition.’ His nasal voice was whiney. ‘We’re paying a premium and this kinda shit ain’t really my bag, you know.’ A super-intelligent forty-five-year-old somewhat-sexually-deviant professor of psychology he may be, but he wasn’t a complete sadist, at least not generally speaking. ‘I didn’t sign up for a Goddamn horror show. Now we got a situation on our hands. There’s a man, hell, he’s practically a boy, down there in agony, probably bleeding to death. Lucky that the barrister had the good sense to apply a half decent tourniquet and stem the flow.’

  ‘Yes,’ a new voice interjected, a British one, ‘we can’t let him die. Look, I don’t give a rat’s arse about the odd deviation from the script, unforeseen or otherwise. I mean, that’s the whole premise, right? And unlike my American friend here, I don’t have a stick up my arse, but I don’t want to be up for a ten stretch either, you understand?’

  McKenzie swallowed back his burgeoning irritation. This was his show; he was the puppet master, the director. He didn’t care to be questioned. The arm had been an accident pure and simple, the best laid plans and all of that; but it was just a minor problem, nothing McKenzie couldn’t handle in a heartbeat. Their lack of faith, however, displeased him immensely. McKenzie needed, no, he demanded full compliance and unwavering praise and loyalty from everyone he was in contact with, lest his fragile ego be challenged or broken.

  ‘Relax gentlemen,’ he said measuredly, ‘we have a surgeon waiting. He’ll be good as new once he’s finished with him. It’s an open fracture, not heart surgery.’

  He almost felt the palpable relief from down the line. ‘I have to say though I’m somewhat disappointed; I was of the mind-set that you would welcome such an unexpected twist. I mean, now is not really the time to have an attack of moral conscience. Besides, isn’t this what you signed up for? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study the human condition when faced with adversity and moral dilemma. …?’

  ‘I don’t like surprises,’ the American said flatly. ‘We’ve got to remain in control.’

  ‘Well, in that case please accept my sincerest apologies.’ Like hell. The Yank was a deviant. He wanted tits and ass; McKenzie could tell. But he wasn’t the only one of the Super Eight that needed pleasing in this pantomime.

  The line sizzled like a snare above the silence that followed.

  ‘So, what is next?’ A French accent finally broke it, or perhaps German; he couldn’t quite tell.

  ‘What would you like to be next?’

  ‘Let’s get this party started properly, shall we? No more playing, how you say, silly buggers?’

  ‘Yes … but before all that you need get that goddamn boy seen to, pronto.’ The American was insistent.

  McKenzie smiled thinly, though his telephone guests could not be aware of this.

  ‘Like I said, relax. The rescue plane is already on its way.’

  10

  Mia Manhattan had regained full consciousness but as yet did not feel strong enough to stand. Instead she had dragged herself through the sand and debris over to where her very young lover was lying. His face was pale as a ghost’s. She had not noticed the injury at first.

  ‘Joshua darling, wake up. Come on now …wak–’ She spied his arm and horror attacked itself to her aorta, nausea rising up through her intestines and threatening to spill out over her expensive designer kaftan, what was left of it. ‘Oh dear God, no … oh, no, no, noooooo.’ She collapsed onto his body, her chest heaving with gut-wrenching sobs, a primal scream rising from deep within her.

  ‘Help!’ she screamed, alerting the others who had gathered by the plane wreckage, ‘Somebody hellllllp!’

  ‘Mia’s awake,’ Rupert remarked deadpan as her urgent screams rang out across the sand like a ship’s horn.

  Nate made his way over towards her, practically dragging a tearful Billie-Jo with him.

  ‘He’s hurt.’ Mia was sobbing as they approached. ‘His arm. … dear God. This is all my fault … all my fault. Is he going to die?’

  Nate knelt next to her on the sand and placed a hand around her shoulder as Billie-Jo stood back, too fearful to go any closer, her stomach lurching, eyes unable to deviate from the bloody stump that was protruding through his skin. Nate didn’t like to see a woman cry, least of all an older woman. He felt Mia’s vulnerability as he put his arm around her, and something else as he held her: the need to protect her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Nate reassured Mia, as she had clung onto him, ‘Shhh, it’s OK.’ He couldn’t, however, answer her question. He looked down at JJ’s injury; the tourniquet that Rupert had fashioned from strips of his shirt earlier was soaked burgundy with blood. The ugly truth was that unless they found help soon he would be in big trouble. And they all knew it.

  Rupert joined them, Angelika close behind.

  ‘The wound needs dressing,’ Nate said, ‘it will become infected unless it’s cleaned.’

  Rupert rolled his eyes.

  ‘And here I was thinking you footballer’s were a bunch of brainless buffoons.’

  Angelika looked at Nate in horrified apology.

  ‘We need to move him out of the sun,’ Nate said, ignoring the remark, ‘get him in the shade.’

  ‘Precisely what I was thinking,’ Rupert agreed, a trifle irked that the footballer appeared to be asserting control. ‘Then we need to find some water.’

  ‘Inside the wreckage?’ Mia suggested. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper, her lips beginning to stiffen as she licked them in a bid to keep them moist.

  Angelika shook her head.

  ‘We’ve already searched … nothing …’

  ‘But there must be –’

  ‘Didn’t you hear her, Mia, or are you deaf as well as stupid,’ Rupert snapped, turning away from her. ‘We looked and couldn’t find anything, no sustenance whatsoever.’

  ‘Fuck you, Deyton,’ Mia croaked, ‘there’s a man in
distress here.’

  ‘Child, you mean. Shame on you, Manhattan.’ He shot her a derisive glance. ‘If he dies, I will hold you personally responsible.’ It was an unfair comment and Rupert knew it but Mia Manhattan was an easy target for his growing frustration.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rupert,’ Angelika screamed, ‘Just fucking stop, OK?! Stop!’

  ‘I hold you responsible, Deyton,’ Mia shot back menacingly, eyes like slits disappearing into her skull, ‘I wouldn’t have been on that goddamn plane if you hadn’t destroyed my fucking career in the first place by being such an incompetent prick.’

  She turned to Angelika, her enraged face streaked with black tears, her aging-yet-beautiful features defiant in their anguish.

  ‘I feel sorry for you being married to such a bastard. You seem like a decent woman, as well; I’d get out while you can, while you still have both your youth and looks to rely on. Don’t suppose he ever told you what really went on all those years ago, during the trial, did he?’

  ‘Shut up, Mia!’ Rupert boomed, lunging forwards as if to strike her.

  Mia smirked, though she was more rattled than she let on.

  ‘Ahh, so you didn’t tell her, did you? Did you? Unscrupulous fucker –’

  ‘Tell me, how is Richard these days, Mia? Oh yes, that’s right, gold ol’ Dickie is putting his dickie to better use with another woman, isn’t he? A younger one. Saw the light eventually then. Always knew he had more sense …’

  ‘You...!’ Mia launched herself at him with what little strength she possessed but Nate wrestled her back, surprised by her considerable strength given her stature.

  ‘Don’t rise to it,’ he said.

  Billie-Jo watched the drama unfold from a safe distance. Usually she would have thoroughly enjoyed such a scene but this was all way too real to be pleasurable. All she wanted was to go home. She didn’t even care about the Vuitton cases and watch anymore.

  ‘Guys, please.’ Nate was hyperventilating, holding a struggling Mia by the crooks of her arms. ‘This is not the time to start evening old scores. We have to stick together; we need to stick together if we’re going to survive this.’

  ‘He’s right, Rupert,’ Angelia conceded, pleading with her husband. ‘We have to find water … we need to take a look around … we need shelter, food. Please, let’s think about Joshua … put him first.’

  ‘It’s not looking good,’ Rupert looked down at Joshua with a sense of pitiful resignation, as he composed himself, he’d stopped groaning and thrashing around now and was pale and silent.

  ‘How long has it been?’ Nate wondered aloud, ‘Since we came round from the crash, I mean?’

  The light was beginning to change, the first suggestion of dusk hovering like a threat.

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ Angelika replied.

  ‘Seems odd,’ Nate said, ‘It was dark when we were flying, right? The middle of the night? And we all came round about the same time … within a few minutes of each other. And now it’s getting light …’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Rupert asked, his anger diminishing along with his hope.

  ‘Meaning …I don’t know,’ Nate said, ‘meaning something’s not right …’

  ‘None of this is fucking right,’ Mia interjected, ‘Pleasure Island, my goddamn arse … more like hell on earth.’

  ‘Much the same as one of your concerts I should imagine, Mia.’ Rupert couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Don’t start, Rupert,’ Angelika begged him, ‘Please, for God’s sakes, don’t …’

  ‘Look, we’re going to get out of this, I know we are,’ Nate said, ‘I don’t know where the hell we are but I’m pretty sure it’s not where we’re supposed to be. McKenzie would have expected us by now. He’ll send out a search party; he’ll have alerted the necessary services already – I feel sure.’

  ‘Well, let’s bloody well hope so,’ Mia snorted derisively, ‘because so far I see nothing pleasurable about this place.’

  Her attention was suddenly caught by something above her.

  Billie-Jo, a safe distance from the others, looked up and put a hand over her mouth, instinctively sinking to her knees.

  She could only point as she struggled with the words that were forming in her mouth, a river of relief flooding her body and momentarily paralysing her facial muscles.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, though her voice, weak, lacked any projection above the arguing.

  ‘Hey!’ she was louder this time, enough to catch Angelika’s attention.

  ‘Billie-Jo...? Are you OK? What is it?’

  Salty tears were rolling down Billie-Jo’s face, stinging her eyes and blinding her as she pointed to the sky. ‘P … P … plane!’ she managed to say, before passing out on the sand.

  11

  The pilot, a small, dark-skinned man in a white T-shirt and matching trousers said nothing throughout the mercifully short plane journey until it came to an end.

  ‘The boy, he come with us … we fly to the hospital,’ he whispered in broken English as they disembarked.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ Rupert asked, protective of their wounded comrade, ‘Who are you? Did McKenzie send you?’

  ‘I’ll go with him,’ Mia said even though she was exhausted, lethargy claiming every inch of her.

  The pilot shook his head. ‘The boy, he fly alone.’

  Nate felt lightheaded with adrenalin, high almost. He’s wanted to speak, to object, say something, anything, but it felt as if the right messages were being sent to the wrong place inside his head.

  ‘Did McKenzie send you?’ Rupert repeated once more, he was struggling to focus, the situation too surreal, his mind confused, his mouth dry as the sand he stood upon. He felt a little woozy but above all he felt relief. They were on their way to Pleasure Island. They were saved.

  ‘You sleep,’ the pilot said, pointing in the direction of the warm, inviting glow of the luxurious cabanas that had just come into view.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ Angelika breathed, ‘we’ve made it.’ Nate had been right; McKenzie had called out a search party for them. She hoped that by tomorrow this would all seem like a bad dream.

  Through sheer exhaustion they’d surrendered to sleep in the end with little choice and minimal fuss. Angelika had struggled to keep her eyes open; she’d felt groggy, a little confused but even in the dark it struck her that the island was quite beautiful. An expanse of untouched, white sand illuminated in the inky blackness, a row of vast cabanas stood on wooden stilts in the shallow water’s edge as if suspended in mid-air, welcoming warm, orange candlelight emanating from the vast terraces, enticing them in. Behind the villas, set further back from the shoreline was a huge mansion, colonial and majestic, a little sinister even, or so it appeared in the darkness.

  A small welcome committee had gathered on shore to greet them; unfamiliar faces with comforting sounds and soft blankets as they’d finally made it onto sand. Angelika could not tell if they were men or women. It didn’t matter. They were alive; they had made it.

  A female member of the greeters began to gesticulate wildly, banging and crashing her hands together like cymbals, running her fingers up towards the sky and down again.

  ‘What happened here?’ Angelika asked her, watching as she continued with her silent mime. ‘A storm?’

  The woman shook her head animatedly.

  ‘There’s been a storm on the island?’

  So a storm had caused the plane to crash. It all made sense now.

  ‘I need to make a phone call immediately,’ Rupert’s authoritative voice severed Angelika’s thoughts like an axe.

  The woman simply shook her head, her expression apologetic.

  ‘The lines?’ Angelika attempted to communicate with her once more, ‘The telephone lines are down?’

  Nate sighed; he had never felt so heavy, so exhausted, as if his limbs were made of lead. Billie-Jo had already begun to follow one of the guides up towards the low-lit cabanas, her need to rest ameliorating anything else. She was safe, an
d for now that’s all that mattered.

  ‘You will let me know if you find my Rolex,’ she said, her voice a husky rasp, ‘It was a wedding gift from my husband you know. I loved that watch …’ Her voice trailed off ‘… so pretty ...’

  ‘Where’s McKenzie?’ Rupert wanted to shake the man’s hand and thank him personally for sending a rescue plane. It suddenly hit him just how close to losing their lives they had come but the woman simply continued to stare at him blankly.

  ‘Let’s go, Rupert,’ Nate nodded at him, his arm draped protectively around Mia’s slim, delicate shoulder, ‘We can ask questions in the morning.’

  Angelika came to with the sound of his voice.

  ‘He’s right, Ru,’ she said, ‘Let’s sleep. We’ll get our answers in the morning.’

  Though in truth something told her not to be so sure.

  ‘Feeling better now, my American friend?’ Super8#3 enquired as he watched the group alight onto the island, bedraggled, exhausted, their faces pale and drawn in the moonlight. ‘They’ve landed safe and the boy has been flown off to get fixed up so I guess you can relax now.’