Power Games

by Victoria Fox

  ‘We’ll look after each other,’ said Angela kindly, thinking Kevin’s screw-you attitude wouldn’t welcome the slightest bit of looking after. The Kevin Chase the world knew was a spoiled teen tyrant. Every day, a new story got splashed across the web: Kevin smoking dope outside a police station, Kevin drinking too much and ploughing the rear end of his Escalade into a mini-mart, Kevin shouting obscenities from a hotel window and flashing his tiny white ass over the balcony …

  She felt sorry for him. This was his life. Everybody wanted fame but fame was only tolerable if you knew how to handle it, and that meant preserving some iota of privacy, whatever the cost. No one had told this to Kevin, and so Kevin didn’t know.

  As Angela moved to greet the senator, she heard Sketch mutter, ‘Now you’re sure you have enough pills?’ and Kevin’s yapped, exasperated response.

  Mitch Corrigan was casual in slacks and a shirt, a regular all-American golf dad, but his handshake was tense. ‘And this is my wife, Melinda.’

  A shrewdly assembled blonde extended fingers heavy with rings, palm down, as if she expected Angela to kiss the back of her hand. Angela cradled the limp offering in hers, a lifeless paddle. Melinda seemed to be only half there, gazing off into the distance and thinking, quite clearly, of something or someone else.

  Mitch’s smile was rigid. ‘Not a great flyer,’ he admitted. ‘You?’

  ‘Hate it.’

  ‘They call it luxury but, jeez, these light aircraft rock about like crazy …’

  Angela preferred not to consider the crossing to Salimanta. ‘It’ll be tough seeing the wreckage,’ she said instead. ‘All those people … all those lives. It’s awful.’

  Mitch seemed to think that should have been his line, instead of complaining about their lavish transport. ‘If we can do anything to help,’ he put in, ‘right?’

  An attractive woman joined them. Immediately the senator turned away. His abrupt departure struck Angela as odd for a man so versed in greeting new faces, and she wondered if he and infamous news-hound Eve Harley had locked horns in the past. It wouldn’t be the first time the reporter had pissed off someone important.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Eve. Good to finally meet you.’

  Finally seemed an odd choice of word.

  ‘I know Orlando,’ she explained. Eve had the inquisitor’s manner of making a statement into a leading question, as if Angela should already know this information.

  But Angela was surprised. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eve looked as if she had been expecting a different response, and was relieved not to get it. ‘He and I have met, a few times actually. You don’t look alike.’

  ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day.’

  They smiled at each other. Angela knew straight away that Eve was pregnant, even though her bump wasn’t yet obvious. The reporter’s auburn hair and bright-green eyes gave her a likeable girl-next-door appeal, and Angela identified something else there, too: an edge of steeliness, of defiance, something not unlike herself.

  ‘I didn’t know about Donald,’ said Eve. ‘Not until it came out. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Angela didn’t want to dwell on it, least of all accept pity. She nodded across the room to where a dark-haired woman was sitting alone. The woman was absorbed in her Kindle. A thick fringe obscured her features.

  ‘Celeste Cavalieri?’ she presumed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eve. ‘She price tags for the super-elite—art, jewellery, antiques. She’s quite the enigma. Doesn’t talk much.’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be much work where we’re going,’ said Angela drily.

  ‘I did wonder when I saw her name. She’s not like the rest of you.’

  ‘The rest of us?’

  ‘Celebrities.’ Eve smiled.

  Angela laughed. ‘Right …’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I’m just here to write it up.’

  ‘And what a job that must be.’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  Angela went over to the Italian and introduced herself. ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘Uneventful.’ Celeste’s accent was strong.

  ‘Where in Italy are you from?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘My mother’s Sicilian,’ offered Angela, wishing Celeste would make eye contact. ‘It’s a great country. I don’t get back as often as I’d like.’

  Celeste nodded, quickly returning to her tablet. Angela couldn’t decide if she was shy, or rude, or possibly both, and so it was a relief when the door burst open and admitted their penultimate member. The playboy had arrived.

  ‘Well, hey,’ said Jacob Lyle, cocky as ever, as he let an enormous bag slip off his shoulder.

  Kevin leaped to attention. Celeste glanced up briefly.

  Angela remembered from society functions that Jacob was tactile to say the least, so it came as no surprise when he strode over and embraced her, giving her waist a light squeeze just to make sure. Jacob had propositioned Angela in the past, on more than one occasion. The temptation had never been there. He had bedded more women than she could count, and his attitude, while fun in small doses, was rooted in what she suspected was a nest of severely tangled morals.

  ‘Where’s the lucky guy, then?’

  She didn’t connect.

  ‘Your fiancé?’ He smiled. ‘Hey, if you wanna forget he exists then that’s fine by me.’

  ‘Never going to happen, Jacob.’

  ‘What? It’s an innocent question.’

  ‘Like hell it is. Dino couldn’t come.’ In fact, her betrothed had pushed so hard to accompany her that in the end she’d fibbed about her flight time just to get away.

  ‘How you doin’, man?’ Kevin was quick to ingratiate himself, clapping Jacob on the back and grinning like he’d just met his hero. ‘Didn’t you get my calls?’

  Jacob appeared taken aback by this best-buddy display but, to his credit, went with it. ‘Yeah, er, sorry we didn’t hook up yet, you know how things get …’

  ‘Sure do!’ said Kevin desperately.

  Seamlessly the entrepreneur turned to Eve, raking her with his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Jacob.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘All you gotta do is ask.’

  ‘Eve Harley,’ replied the journalist coolly.

  ‘Your reputation precedes you.’

  ‘So does yours—I’m not interested.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  A final voice joined them. ‘Sorry, sorry, they had to close Duty Free!’ Tawny Lascelles’ lilting pitch carried through the lounge, a burgeoning LV suitcase trailing behind her. ‘It was a total drag trying to shop with people coming up every minute!’

  Sympathy did not come quickly. Angela knew the model through her affiliation with FNYC, and couldn’t help feeling that Tawny was a bad apple. She wore an artificial skin that was impossible to reach past. Nobody had a thing on her before she became famous.

  ‘Well, Mr Lyle,’ said Tawny flirtatiously, drawing to a stop directly in front of him. ‘This is a surprise.’

  Jacob lifted an eyebrow. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Another jet roared from the runway. Kevin’s dachshund barked shrilly.

  The supermodel slipped on her Gucci shades.

  ‘So, are we getting this show started or what?’

  They boarded in a private field. A stream of paps followed as far as was possible, snapping as the group climbed the air stairs and clicking wildly whenever an arm was raised in farewell. The sun melted behind a low horizon, orange and gold.

  The Challenger 350 was elegance epitomised, its slender white body and powerful twin engines the latest model in luxury travel. It waited like a giant bird on the melting asphalt, the captain and first officer standing to greet them.

  Before stepping inside, Kevin turned to the viewing suite, where his mother and Sketch were waving goodbye. Joan was holding Trey the dachshund, raising the dog’s paw to help
him join in. Goodbye, Trey, thought Kevin dejectedly.

  He stepped into the air-conned interior. The cream cabin seats were soft and throne-like, plush leather, and arranged in pairs with a wide carpeted aisle in between. A screen could be drawn to award privacy. Media centres accompanied each station, complete with iPads, DVD players and Wi-Fi access, touch-screen controls and large Bose speakers. Towards the rear, a bar was replete with an array of drinks and snacks. Kevin decided he would get a beer as soon as they were airborne, now that there was no Cut N Dry to tell him he was acting irresponsibly, or Joan to feebly rebuke.

  Amber sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the furnishings in a warm, treacly glow. Tawny Lascelles was already seated, checking her reflection in a compact mirror before snapping it shut and replacing it in her Mulberry tote. Jacob Lyle chose the base furthest from hers, and Kevin followed, slumping down next to the entrepreneur. Jacob shot him a half-hearted smile, before tipping a couple of tablets out of a bottle and swallowing them without water.

  ‘Takes the edge off,’ he said. ‘Want any?’

  Kevin shook his head. He had endured the plane crash nightmare yet again—the deep ocean and the terrible screams of panic. Now was not the time to think of it.

  So long as he kept gulping his pills, everything would be fine.

  Angela and Eve took seats opposite. Angela wore dark shades, and faced the window. Up front, Mitch Corrigan was next to Tawny. Celeste completed the line-up.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking—and it is my pleasure and privilege to welcome you on board this Challenger jet bound for Salimanta. Our flight time tonight is five hours and sixteen minutes, and we will be cruising at an altitude of 29,000 feet. The local time in Salimanta is nine p.m. and the weather out there is a calm and comfortable seventy-Fahrenheit …’

  The jet eased from its moorings with a gentle tug and taxied onto the runway.

  Kevin drew down his window blind.

  The engines began to roar, louder and louder still, the force of acceleration pinning him back. Violently they raced to max throttle. Kevin jammed on his headphones, but even Jay-Z and Kanye weren’t enough to eclipse the juddering throes.

  Fuck, he hated this part. His teeth chattered with the motion. His knuckles strained on the armrest. To his right Jacob was nonchalantly chewing gum, staring out at the blur of runway as it rushed past; the airport turned to liquid. Eve Harley was reading a magazine. Tawny was sitting sideways, long legs spilling abundantly into the gangway. The top of Mitch Corrigan’s head was a glossy chestnut arrangement. Their attendant faced them on a jump seat, her smile neatly in place.

  In a surge, they were airborne. Far below, the ragged shoreline gave way to open sea. Clouds lifted them to altitude, the sphere further above a still, cool indigo.

  The last thing Kevin saw was the fading sun glinting off a pearl-white wing, before he closed his eyes and drowned in sleep.

  PART TWO

  31

  Koloku Island, Southeast Asia, the Palaccas Archipelago July 1, 2014

  Angela Silvers opened her eyes to the sound of screaming. It was a raw, blood-curdling cry, and she couldn’t fathom where it was coming from because her own position was uncertain. She was out of her body. The mind that was thinking this no longer belonged to flesh and bone. She did not know where she was, which way up she was, if she were here at all. She must be here, she thought, if she was asking.

  The scream was not human. Then, in echoes, it was. She lay, or sat, or stood, or hung, or whatever it was she was doing, and listened, indifferently, as one might to an overheard dialogue, trying to pick out the parts that could be useful.

  Sensation crept up on her, and with each advance she slotted a piece at a time back into her skin. Every part of her hurt, but the pain did not register on any scale she understood. It was a new kind of pain. Her bones stung. Her legs burned. Her lungs, as they dragged in and threw out oxygen, were tight as fists. Her lips were cracked and dry. She blinked and a dagger slid into her eyes.

  If only the screaming would stop. Then she could think.

  Think.

  She asked her hand to move. At first it did not respond, but then, in the dark, she sensed it touch her neck, inside which her pulse fluttered fast and strong. She felt for Noah’s silver band, his name beating as firm as her heart, Noah, Noah, Noah, never forgotten, not even now, and when she found it she wanted to cry.

  With fear came adrenalin. Palms out, she groped into the purple pitch. The air was alive, hissing and shivering. It smelled extreme, a tangy wet leaf smell that was bitingly fresh and intimate, mixed with the acrid stench of died-out smoke.

  She became aware of bodies next to her, heaps of still, black matter, and she did not want to touch them. Instead she encountered a jagged edge of metal and prised her fingers around it, using it to raise her bones. The movement prompted a searing blow to her stomach. She needed to see. She needed light.

  Angela was inside something. Her eyes strained to decipher shapes and form, to separate the night out there from the one in here. The shell was not entire. It had been blown open and she found she could peer through into infinite dark. The world around her was unfamiliar, impossibly dark and whispering. There were trees. She was in a tree house. If she reached she could fumble through a nest of foliage, the huge leaves waxy and smooth, like plastic, and the coarse twist of twigs and shoots.

  A tree house …

  Funny the memories a panicked mind will throw up. Her tenth birthday party, Angela and her friends, high in the branches and laughing, and a boy on the ground, the boy nobody spoke to, trying to climb, his sad, pale face and his whimpering stammer …

  A thing, big and dark, shot into the canopy. Animal shrieks exploded, a burst of vicious, witch-like cries, high-strung and hectic. The wall of leaves shuddered and Angela backed up, scrabbling for something to hold on to as the capsule lurched precariously from its station. They were still in the sky.

  Can anyone else smell smoke?

  There it was—something she remembered.

  She couldn’t figure out the context. An old conversation, one she had had in a previous life, with people she no longer knew.

  Close by, one of the lumps moved. It was a subtle eclipse, black within black.

  Angela dared not follow. Her head felt heavy, as if the thoughts inside it were lead-weights and somehow she had to shift them, clearing a door she had to get through. Down below, far away, the screams that had woken her died.

  She waited, and waited, because she did not know what else to do.

  Next it was light. The pain in her stomach was worse. Angela put her hands to it, thinking there might be blood. There wasn’t. A hard metal buckle was digging in, and a distant part of her brain knew without hesitation how to undo it.

  The catch released, and with a lurch she was falling, falling through nothing, falling up into the sky. Her leg slammed against something solid and she reached out to grasp it, to save herself, but she wasn’t quick enough. The jaws of the tree canopy yawned open, the ground far below—too far to make it, too far to be OK—and she thought how stupid it was to die so quickly upon realising she had survived.

  A hand landed in hers. Angela was brought up sharp, her legs dangling out of the torn fuselage, seventy metres above the forest floor.

  ‘Here,’ said a female voice. ‘Take it.’

  A strip of coarse fabric hauled her back in.

  She grabbed the arm of a seat and gazed down at the distant drop, soft dawn sunlight cast in shafts through the fragrant air, and back up at her saviour.

  Eve Harley had blood slashed down her face. Her auburn hair was matted, her skin blackened by smoke and grease. Her eyes were alert.

  Angela’s voice, though she knew it to be her own, sounded unfamiliar. She sounded like she did on tape recordings, not how she imagined.

  ‘We have to get down.’

  Eve asked: ‘Are we dead?’

  The women stared at e
ach other, in sight and breath and touch corroborating the second’s existence, and the question, huge and strange, dissolved.

  ‘I don’t know what’s holding us,’ said Angela, ‘but it won’t hold for long. We have to get down. We have to get to the ground.’ The simplicity of this goal, some objective they could recognise and understand, was vital.

  Caught in the spilled intestines of the aircraft, it was impossible to decipher the cabin’s former layout. Seats were shredded, clumps of plastic and metal strewn at random. Where the tail had been was a dense barrier of shivering khaki, through which sunlight could be snatched in white, dazzling glimpses.

  Angela was thirsty beyond a desire to drink; it was a primal, essential urge. Her body needed water. The plane had flipped, the ladder of seat backs a climbing rung so she was able to clamber onto them and haul herself up. Towards the rear, a wreckage of glass gave up the suggestion of the in-flight bar, words and vocabulary making shapes of the ghosts, stickering her trauma with profile and contour. In a smashed compartment she found a bottle of Evian and tore off the cap, her fingers trembling. She drank it, cold, sharp, invigorating. Awarning sounded in the back of her mind, told her to stop, to save what they had. She passed the bottle down to Eve.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said another voice.

  This one came from behind. One of the mounds she had seen in the night now had shape, features, and a crouched look of terror in its milk-white eye.

  ‘He’s dead,’ it said again.

  Kevin Chase. His T-shirt torn, the sallow skin of his chest visible beneath, inflating and collapsing. His face was charred; grey, smudged rivers threaded across his cheekbones where he had wept until the tears dried out. Angela had a flash of the last time she had seen him, grappling with the mask that had fallen like entrails from the overhead compartment. Can anyone else smell smoke?

  Kevin had vomited. Eve had crouched forward, her arm latched across her stomach. Words in Italian, a pleading whisper: Celeste Cavalieri’s prayer.

  Ave Maria, piena di grazia …

  ‘Jacob.’ Angela understood. ‘Jacob’s dead.’