The Last Resort

by Susi Holliday

  For now, at least.

  Brenda

  Brenda is furious, but she tries hard to keep her anger in check. She doesn’t want any of the others to see how much the revelations have rattled her. It’s lies, of course. Investment professionals are always getting this sort of misinformed treatment. It’s not like she hasn’t heard it all before. But dragging her family into it was a low blow. Yes, she had suggested that Maggie get rid of those bonds, and yes, maybe it had been partially in her own interests – but Brenda was the one taking the big risks. She was the one entitled to the big pay-offs. Besides, it wasn’t actually cancer that her stepdaughter was diagnosed with. She had a dodgy-looking mole, and it was being removed. No big deal.

  The thing that bothers her most about all this, though – ridiculous sensationalism aside – is where the information came from. The company had made it clear through what they’d sent over with the invitation that they had significant knowledge of her business and family dealings that Brenda wouldn’t want leaked. And the offer of some serious insider-trading deals in exchange for her co-operation had of course piqued her interest. But Brenda is stringent about her privacy, both professional and personal. As soon as she gets off this island and back home, she’ll be getting her assistant to launch a proper inquiry. The last thing she needs in her line of work is indiscretion.

  None of the others’ so-called lies had been particularly shocking, but just like anything else, it’s all relative. That pathetic Tiggy girl looks forlorn now, sitting there nibbling at the edges of her nails. Her boyfriend is obviously a player – Brenda can spot the type a mile off – and the girl’s own lie was so obviously fuelled by self-loathing and an excruciating desire to please that Brenda can’t help but feel sorry for her. Normally she’d be telling her to sort herself out, but it’s obvious that she’s so downtrodden – so acquiescent and used to putting on her fake smile – that goading her would be worse than kicking a puppy.

  Anyway, the main thing for now is to get out of this stifling little room and on with the next stage – whatever that might be. And right now, it’s not Tiggy that’s causing the delay. It’s the other girl, the one whose ear-clip tracker didn’t work and who had to be given a wrist-version instead. Brenda is keeping an eye on that one. She can’t be the only person to think this lack of a proper tracker is all a bit convenient. If they really do tap into their neurological pathways, then this girl is going to be exempt – and Brenda is not sure yet what that might mean for the rest of them.

  ‘Are you doing this, then?’ she snaps, addressing Amelia, who seems to have lost herself in a trance, gazing at the door as if expecting it to magically open.

  The girl blinks. ‘Yes, sorry. Gosh, I was miles away there. It’s all a bit surreal, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’s right,’ Scott says. ‘We’re waiting on you, lady.’

  Amelia takes a deep breath. ‘OK,’ she says, then taps the tracker on her wrist. ‘My turn to share.’

  The words appear on the ceiling in the familiar green, stuttering script. She directs her wrist towards one of the walls, quickly realises that the text is now upside down, then flips her wrist to project it to the other wall. ‘Can you all see this?’ she says. ‘I guess it’s because of the different sort of tracker . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucy says. ‘I can see it.’ The others nod.

  Amelia doesn’t bother to read the words out loud.

  NAME: AMELIA LAWRENCE

  AGE: 30

  NATIONALITY: BRITISH

  CURRENT RESIDENCE: WOKING, SURREY, UK

  MARITAL STATUS: SINGLE

  JOB: HUMANITARIAN AID WORKER

  WHY YOU’RE HERE: THAT’S FOR YOU TO FIGURE OUT

  The words stop flowing; the cursor blinks. Then stops.

  ‘Well,’ Giles says. ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because of the different device,’ Lucy says. ‘Harvey did say that the little prong in our ear-versions was connecting to our neural pathways.’

  Scott laughs. ‘That’s complete bull though, right? It’s a trick. Has to be. There’s no device that can do that.’

  ‘How do you know?’ James says. ‘None of us knows what Timeo actually does. Maybe this is what they do. Maybe we’re trialling these tech prototypes, not just messing about playing a game on a random island.’ He pauses. ‘Talking of which, does anyone know where we are? Did any of you recognise that bay outside?’

  ‘We didn’t get much of a chance,’ Giles says. ‘The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can work out what’s going on.’ He frowns and tugs at his device. ‘Interesting theory though, about the device. The technology in wearable trackers is a lot more sophisticated than most people realise, you know. There’s a tech guy in Sweden who’s been firing nanochips into humans for the last few years – the chips are just like the ones in your bank card, except even more minuscule. You think all that near-future sci-fi you watch on Netflix is still years away, but it’s not . . . it’s the next big thing in gaming. Virtual reality is just the start. This biometric tracking stuff is almost old news.’

  Brenda shudders. ‘I’m no dinosaur, but I hate all that stuff. It scares me. Artificial intelligence is going to cancel out the human race one day. I know it.’

  ‘But what would be the point in that?’ James says. ‘Who’d be around to benefit from the machines?’

  Brenda wants to say more, but she holds herself back. She’s scared that all this tracker stuff might be real after all.

  Tiggy giggles, but when she speaks her voice wavers. ‘You’re all getting a bit carried away . . . let’s just get on with the game, shall we? Because this is totally a game. I think we must’ve signed something saying they can do what they want . . . and I think they’re watching us right now. We’re probably being live-streamed on TV.’ She pauses, turns round and flicks her hair. Pouts. ‘I can’t see any cameras, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? And if we’re live right now, then they want us to fight . . . and it’s working! We haven’t even got properly started yet and everyone’s driving each other mad.’

  ‘I, um . . . I think we need my information thing to finish first.’ Amelia taps her tracker again. ‘Continue?’

  She taps her wrist-device once more, and the text recommences scrolling.

  YOUR GREATEST FEAR: INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE

  YOUR LAST LIE: INFORMATION NOT AVAILABLE

  ‘Not available? What the hell is this crap?’ Scott strides over to Amelia and grabs her wrist.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, pulling away from him. ‘Don’t grab at me.’

  ‘That’s enough now.’ Giles steps towards them and Scott holds his hands up in surrender, muttering a quiet ‘sorry’ under his breath before sitting back down.

  ‘This is all because she’s got the wrong tracker,’ Lucy says.

  ‘Or,’ Tiggy says, pausing for effect, ‘it’s because she’s the wrong person.’ She glances around the room again, winks. Brenda observes her little performance as she plays to the cameras she’s clearly sure must exist.

  ‘Huh?’ says James. The others gather round.

  ‘Amelia Lawrence, right?’ Tiggy says, emboldened now, addressing the girl. ‘Humanitarian aid worker?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Amelia says. ‘I’ve been doing it since I left university.’

  ‘And why would you be needed here?’ Tiggy says. ‘This is supposed to be a luxury game.’ She curls her fingers into air quotes as she says the last word. Then she pouts again and raises her hands, gesturing towards the others. ‘We’ve got a games designer, a gossip columnist, a photographer. We’ve got finance and medical. And there’s me – a well-known influencer. All of these things hang together. But then there’s you.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Brenda says, impressed by Tiggy now that she’s come out of her shell and made these deductions. Not such a pathetic little creature after all.

  ‘So where do you think you fit into this, Amelia?’ James says gently.

  Amelia shakes her head.
‘I don’t know . . . I thought maybe it was something to do with the infrastructure. I’ve worked on all sorts of projects. Maybe they want my advice on the logistics of it all . . .’ Her voice trails off when she notices the sceptical faces.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Tiggy says. ‘I think you’re not meant to be here at all—’

  ‘But, I—’

  Tiggy holds up a hand. ‘There’s a high-profile marketing agency run by Amy Lawrence. She’s about the same age as you. She works with start-ups, and she knows everything there is to know about social media marketing. She was behind the orange square campaign for Fyre Festival, although they didn’t credit her with it – which is just as well, as that whole thing changed the landscape for influencers . . .’ She pauses. ‘Anyway, my point is – I think it’s her who’s meant to be here, not you.’

  Everyone stares at Amelia, and she seems to shrink into herself. She opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind.

  Tiggy smiles sweetly, obviously pleased with herself. She walks over to the door and tries the handle. There’s a small click as the lock releases. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she says, and everyone follows, casting glances at Amelia, who holds back to the end. James waits for her, beckons her to follow, and after a moment she does. Brenda watches as he leans in and whispers something to her, and then Amelia nods and gives him a smile.

  Outside, the sun is fierce. Seven small backpacks are lined up on the path, each with a name attached. The group make their way towards the bags, each picking up their own and flipping open the top to see what’s inside. James and Amelia are close together, and he whispers to her again.

  Brenda picks up her bag and sidles closer to the pair. She wants to know what he’s said to her, and whether this is yet another little nugget dropped on them to try and unsettle them – or if she really is here by mistake. And if she is – how is that going to affect the rest of them?

  A screech of static, then a tannoy announcement stops her from having any more time to think about it.

  ‘Welcome to The Island, everyone. Please take your kitbag and follow the instructions according to your devices. There’s a change of clothes in there for anyone who might need it. Have a wonderful day, and we’ll see you soon for the end-of-day party. It is now T minus 18.’ It screeches again, and then stops.

  Brenda looks around at the others. Lucy and James are already picking up their bags. James hands Amelia hers. Tiggy and Giles are cuddled up, leaning against the wall of the visitor centre; his head is dipped, so Brenda can’t see if he’s whispering to his girlfriend or if they’re kissing. Scott is standing on the rough path that leads to the beach, hands on hips, looking out at the sea. No one seems bothered about Tiggy’s outburst. No one seems bothered about whether Amelia is meant to be here or not.

  No one seems bothered that they might be getting streamed on some TV show, all around the world.

  Money, she thinks. It’s the only explanation. This is why they’re bound by the NDA, even among themselves. Everyone here has been offered a lot of money.

  But what for?

  ‘Right then,’ she mutters to herself. It’s only a day . . . and who knows what it might bring? She squints into the harsh brightness of the sun.

  ‘Best get on with it.’

  Tiggy

  T - 18

  Once everyone has collected their bag and sorted themselves with sunscreen, hats and sunglasses, they head off together as a group. Tiggy had assumed that they would each be following the instructions from their own trackers, but inside their bags they’d all had one piece of paper, telling them to follow the arrows for clues. Paper! How retro.

  The first arrow – painted onto a flag like you usually see on the holes at a golf course – is to the side of the visitor centre, pointing up a sandy track. The track is overgrown in places, and the plants and brush growing either side are not like anything she has seen before. She’s not much of a hiker, and she’s never been anywhere like this. Not that she can recall anyway. The landscape is a mix of sand dunes and luscious green foliage, and as the path gently inclines, the vastness of the sea comes into focus. A deep blue with sparkling diamonds of sunlight bouncing off the waves.

  ‘I think we’re somewhere in the Med,’ she announces. ‘Look at the colour of the sea.’ Giles murmurs something she can’t hear. The others look out towards the sea.

  Scott cups his hands around his face as if it will help him see further. ‘It’s kinda weird not knowing where we are,’ he says, ‘but I don’t mind it. You’re probably right about the Med though. Aren’t there a bunch of small islands off the Spanish coast?’

  James veers closer to the edge, peering over. ‘We’re pretty much on a rock. Has anyone here been to the Channel Islands? I’m thinking it might be one of those . . . one of the smaller ones that no one goes to.’

  ‘It’s pretty, wherever it is,’ Lucy says. ‘Have you seen these?’ She bends down and lifts the rose-shaped head of a bright green plant poking out from a gap in between some rocks. ‘It’s a succulent, I think. I don’t know what the species is. I have one like this in a little pot on my desk. I’ve never seen them growing wild.’

  ‘Kind of tropical-looking, isn’t it?’ Brenda says, leaning over and inspecting the plant. She stands up and pushes her sunglasses up her nose. ‘We can’t be anywhere tropical though, can we?’ She turns to address Amelia. ‘Five hundred miles, you said, didn’t you? We can’t even be in the Med, can we?’

  Amelia shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘So when does it start being customised to what we actually want?’ Tiggy asks. ‘Because if it’s meant to be tapping into my brain to pull out my ideas of luxury, then something has gone seriously wrong there.’ She marches past Amelia and James and stops when the path levels out, widening into a clearing. It looks as if the shrubs and brush have been removed on purpose, rather than normal erosion from people walking by. But how many people do walk by, she wonders. She turns round slowly, taking it in. She’s about to say more when the tracker vibrates above her ear. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Something’s happening, I think.’

  ‘What?’ Giles bounds up the hill towards her like an excited puppy. ‘Has Big Brother spoken?’

  ‘Ha,’ Tiggy says. ‘No. But my tracker vibrated.’

  The others join them at the clearing.

  ‘Mine hasn’t done anything yet,’ Brenda says, disappointed. ‘Did you do anything to it?’

  Tiggy shakes her head. ‘Nope. But I did say I thought it wasn’t working. Perhaps we have to speak what we want out loud, rather than just think it. Maybe it’s just not that sophisticated yet?’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Scott says. ‘I thought we covered this. It’s not really connected to your brain. It might be measuring your heart rate or something, but don’t be fooled that it’s any more than that.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ James says, folding his arms.

  ‘We actually don’t know anything,’ Lucy agrees.

  Tiggy turns away from them and puts her hands on her hips, stares at the path winding to the right up ahead. A narrow track disappears off to the left, to a place she can’t see. She’s too hot already, and this is not her idea of a fun activity to do in the blazing sun. ‘I would love a cocktail and a sunbed right now,’ she mutters. ‘And a big umbrella. And something else to wear. I already feel sweaty. But I am not wearing those shorts and T-shirt they’ve put in the bag.’ She wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘Do they think I want to dress like I’m part of a cut-price tour group?’ The tracker vibrates again.

  ‘Take the path to the left,’ a voice whispers in her ear. ‘Tell the others to keep going up to the right.’

  She whirls round. ‘What the . . . ? Who said that?’

  ‘Who said what?’ Giles is at her side now. ‘Oh wait, my tracker just vibrated too.’

  Tiggy’s eyes widen, and her heart starts to beat faster. The tracker pings above her ear, making her flinch, like she’s been flicked with an elastic ban
d.

  ‘Chill out,’ the voice says. ‘It’s a transmitter. What did you think it was?’

  She raises a hand to her ear and touches the tracker. She feels calmer now, but she doesn’t know why.

  ‘We’ve just targeted one of your pressure points. Don’t be alarmed. You’ll get exactly what you’re looking for in just a moment.’

  ‘Wow,’ she says, turning back to the group. ‘It’s doing some sort of acupressure thing now. Is anyone else getting anything?’

  Brenda nods. ‘Mine is kicking in too. I’ve been given some instructions and then there was a little sort of shock, and I feel—’

  ‘Relaxed?’ Lucy says. ‘Me too. I suppose this is where we all start to get our tailored programmes then?’

  The group murmurs its assent. Everyone seems slightly dreamy, or maybe that’s just how she’s seeing them all. She walks away from them now, taking the path to the left, as instructed. It stays level, heads across and inland instead of up and hugging the coastline. ‘You guys should keep going that way,’ she says. She doesn’t bother to wait for Giles, assuming that he’s following behind her and not trailing off with the rest of the group.

  She feels hot and slightly shaky, and wonders for a moment if she might have sunstroke. But she hasn’t been exposed to the sun for long enough, has she? She walks for a few more minutes and then stops. Ahead of her, a piece of land has been cut away, recessing down into a dip. There are stone steps and a couple of large white umbrellas. Just visible are the ends of what look like two sunloungers.

  She grins. Now this is more like it.

  She walks down the steps and the loungers come into full view. Thick, padded beds with cushions and soft blankets folded neatly across the middle. Between them, a round white table, on top of which sits a small tray with two martini glasses. Inside, something pink, topped with white foam. Condensation running down the outsides. In front of the glasses, a bowl of green olives. Underneath the table, an ice bucket with a few bottles of the fancy water from before. Nestled in beside them, a bottle of sun cream.