Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  Tracy had been a stunner herself once, just like Billie-Jo was now, but somehow it hadn’t been enough to pull her from the clutches of the reprobates she seemed to attract and the gutter from which they came, her looks rapidly disappearing along with her human spirit.

  That’s what years of being ground down did to a woman; it robbed you of everything. Still, she’d done her best by her kids, by and large; they may have been shit poor but they had never been starved of affection and she had worked three cash-in-hand jobs to make sure they got the occasional treat.

  Tracy Glynn loved her kids and she wanted a better life for them, actively encouraging her pretty daughter to cash in on her merchandise. ‘If you got it, flaunt it, or better still, sell it!’ Billie-Jo had never confided in her about the abuse she had suffered at the hands of one of her uncles but she was close to her mum and although resolute that she would rather sell her own eyes than end up like her, she secretly admired her.

  In a funny kind of way, Billie-Jo knew that her tough upbringing had instilled in her some positive qualities, namely survival, ambition and unrelenting determination. Every cloud, she supposed.

  Now she was seriously minted, however, it gave her no better buzz than to be able to bung her mum a decent chunk of change every now and again, take her out on lavish shopping sprees and spa days, pay for a car and holidays and treat her. Watching the grin on her old mum’s boat-race as they rapidly melted one of Nate’s many credit cards simply confirmed to Billie-Jo that it was a lorry load of bollocks when people said money didn’t buy you happiness; that was something only rich people could afford to say. Yeah, but it could certainly buy you out of the fucking misery of poverty and Primark clobber, that was for sure.

  Angelika sipped at her champagne glass tentatively, quietly observing her surroundings as the jets above them pumped out a spray of fine mist, presumably to keep them cool in a heat that what was already intense, even at such an early hour.

  ‘Have you noticed?’ she asked, addressing Nate mostly, largely because he was looking at her.

  ‘Noticed what?’ he responded. Her nose wrinkled when she was in thought. He liked it; it made her look cute.

  ‘None of the staff has uttered a word, not even to each other …’

  Before Nate could answer however, the door to the mansion opened.

  15

  ‘Please accept my sincerest apologies.’ The woman was unsmiling but seemed ingenuous enough, ‘I can only imagine what you’ve all been through these past twenty-four hours.’ Her voice was low and masculine, her accent reassuringly British. ‘I’m Elaine, Elaine McKenzie.’

  ‘Where is your husband?’ Rupert marched towards her. ‘I’d be very keen to talk with him.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s with great regret that my husband cannot be here to greet you all as planned,’ she said in monotone. ‘Please accept my deepest apologies on his behalf. It was his every intention to greet you in person, I assure you, but unfortunately the inclement weather conditions has prevented him from flying out –’

  ‘Inclement weather … the storm, you mean?’ Angelika met Elaine’s steely gaze.

  ‘That’s right,’ Elaine gave a succinct nod as if Angelika had passed some kind of test. ‘We received a Met Office warning a couple of days prior of its imminent arrival, but were not quite prepared for the devastation it would cause.’

  ‘So that’s why the plane crashed?’ Angelika mused. ‘The storm …’

  Nate looked sideways at Angelika. There was something considered about the lawyer’s wife that he instinctively liked. She had been calm and dependable throughout the crisis they’d just faced, shown strength of character and capability, the total antithesis of his wife. He liked the sound of her voice, too, clipped Home Counties with the lightest northern burr. He found it strangely soothing. ‘I suspect it was, yes.’

  ‘You suspect? You suspect?’ Rupert was repeating himself, which meant only one thing: he was irritated. ‘You do realise the pilot’s dead, dead … and the girl – the Jap – God only knows what happened to her...drowned I suspect, poor bloody bitch. We could’ve all died. Nothing short of a miracle we didn’t, really.’

  Elaine’s face remained solemn as she absorbed his words.

  ‘She’s Thai, actually,’ she corrected him. ‘It was an unforeseeable tragedy about which I deeply sympathise. It must’ve been a dreadful experience for all of you. It’s understandable that you’re shaken and upset, which is why, on behalf of my absent husband, it is my responsibility to ensure your stay here, from now on, will be the most enjoyable, memorable experience for all the right reasons.’

  Rupert was stunned. He hadn’t quite known what he’d expected to hear but somehow this wasn’t it.

  ‘Where the hell has Joshua been taken?’ Mia’s voice cut through Rupert’s incredulity like a pickaxe. ‘Two men carted him off in that rescue plane last night. So I’ll need a telephone, Mrs McKenzie.’ Her eye caught Rupert’s for the briefest second in a fleeting moment of solidarity. ‘I need to contact my husband and agent and get them to send a plane for me and Joshua.’

  ‘And we lost all our stuff, you know,’ Billie-Jo joined in, ‘my Rolex, iPad, all my Vuitton luggage. I mean, who’s gonna pay for all that?’

  Nate felt himself redden; that Billie-Jo was even entertaining matters of a fiscal nature in such a moment showed her up to be shallow and greedy. Sometimes he wished she’d at least have the grace to try and disguise it.

  ‘A telephone.’ Rupert reiterated Mia’s request. ‘I’m assuming you do have one?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Elaine McKenzie replied calmly, ‘only I’m afraid all lines of communication have been down since the storm hit. We’ve no Internet access, no satellite signal, nothing I’m afraid.’

  Billie-Jo’s lip curled in protest. No fucking phones? No Internet? How would she brag to all her Facebook followers now? She’d been planning daily Tweets and had fully intended to post as many Instagram pictures as possible throughout her stay in a calculated bid to up her profile while pissing off a few haters to boot. She was gutted.

  Angelika’s eyes were drawn to the pipes that were pumping out fine mist above them once more. ‘But there’s light and hot water.’ She could feel the beginnings of a headache, her thoughts starting to merge like watercolours in her mind.

  ‘The emergency generator is working, we have utilities, running water, heat … we’re lucky we didn’t lose that as well.’ She turned to Mia. ‘As for the injured man, he was flown to a hospital on a local island, I believe. I know no more than that as there is no means of communication. Like I said, the network is down.’

  ‘They took him in the plane, the same one that was used to rescue us,’ Angelika said calmly, though her voice still conveyed some authority. ‘If the plane was OK to fly, could it not fly us over to a neighbouring island as well?’

  She thought she detected the slightest wry smile on Elaine McKenzie’s otherwise-expressionless face.

  ‘I’m afraid the whole north side of the country has been affected by the storm; you’re safer here for now – besides, why on earth would you want to leave? We have everything we need here and more: food, drink, shelter, all in abundance. Besides, I know my husband would want business to continue as usual. Our aim was always to make your stay as comfortable and enjoyable as possible, as was the original plan.’

  ‘But if it was safe for the pilot to take off, to rescue us and then fly Joshua out –’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been no contact with the light aircraft that took your friend,’ Elaine McKenzie cut her off. ‘The pilot took great personal risk in choosing to fly him off the island. We can only hope they made it to their destination safely.’

  ‘And where might that destination have been?’ Rupert had switched into professional mode, pacing like he did inside a courtroom when cross-examining a witness.

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot answer that,’ she replied, ‘I’m assuming they either flew to the mainland or perhaps one of the neighb
ouring islands.’

  She turned swiftly to Billie-Jo.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry for any personal loss you’ve incurred; I do hope you will find everything you need within your accommodation, which I trust has met with your requirements?’

  Billie-Jo nodded; she couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘So the gear’s all ours then? The clobber and the jewellery and the bags and –’

  Nate nudged her sharply. ‘Shut up, Bee.’

  ‘What?’ she hissed at him, ‘I got a right to ask, I lost practically every fucking thing I own in those cases.’

  ‘Everything you find within your accommodation is complimentary. That’s to say it’s all yours,’ Elaine drolly explained, the grim line of her lips broadening slightly, though you could hardly call it a smile.

  She addressed the group as a whole once more. ‘And so, I should really commence by giving you each a welcome pack which details everything you need to know about the island, its history, how my husband discovered it, the purpose of your trip here …’

  ‘Well, yes, that would be good to know, because we’ve all been wondering exactly what that might be,’ Rupert said, ‘this whole charade has been shrouded in secrecy from the very beginning.’

  ‘All will be revealed in good time I can assure you. Now,’ Elaine said, ‘this island lives up to its name, as I’m sure you will discover to your own delight in due course. It is completely without restriction; you are free to explore, roam and go where you please, whenever you please, as you please, though do take care to ensure you are wearing the appropriate footwear should you wish to go walking, climbing or indeed hiking. Champagne cocktails will commence here on the veranda every evening at half-past seven, followed by a six-course gourmet meal using the finest produce and prepared by some of the most-accomplished chefs in the business, giving everyone a chance to convene and socialise, discuss the day’s events. Plus it’s a wonderful vantage point to watch the sunset, though there are many places on the island that will afford you as beautiful a setting. Dinner is the only compulsory event of the day, the rest of which is your own to do as you so wish and take full advantage of the facilities my husband and I offer you. Regretfully the full entertainment schedule we had planned has been scuppered by the storm, so –’ she paused momentarily ‘– I’m afraid you will have to make your own entertainment. Though this shouldn’t be too difficult, I assure you. There is a plethora of activities available to you, including bicycles, mountaineering equipment, a state-of-the-art games room, steam, sauna, swimming pools, your own private Jacuzzis, a floatation tank, plus full and extensive complimentary spa and beauty treatments, for which bookings can be made here via reception. There is also a personal stylist, machinist and jewellers available should you ladies, or indeed gentlemen, require any bespoke alterations or designs made.’ She clicked her fingers and on cue three practically identical brothers appeared, forming a military line behind her. Young and tanned, their torsos accentuated by tight white T-shirts, they were each carrying a shiny, black box, their Hollywood grins dazzling in the bright sunshine. ‘And now I would like to introduce you to Remi, Rani and Raj, your personal butlers for the duration of your stay. Should you wish for anything, and I mean anything, day or night, then they will endeavour to meet your every need or requirement.’

  ‘Does that include a telephone?’ Rupert said, though this time under his breath.

  ‘I should explain,’ Elaine continued efficiently, ‘that along with the rest of the staff here on the island, Remi, Rani and Raj are selective mutes.’

  ‘Selective what?’ Billie-Jo pulled a face. ‘What’s one of them when it’s at home?’

  Nate cringed at his wife’s ignorance.

  ‘They don’t talk is what it means,’ he whispered to her.

  ‘They understand perfect English, of course,’ Elaine continued to explain, ‘but please don’t attempt to engage them in conversation as this can cause them some considerable anxiety.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ Mia enquired.

  ‘Not at all.’ Elaine shook her head. ‘My husband deliberately sourced them for their specific – how shall I say – lifestyle choices.’

  ‘Bet the interview process was scintillating,’ Rupert deadpanned. ‘Just another of McKenzie’s little quirks, eh? Whatever next, Oompa Loompas? Fire-breathing midgets?’

  ‘What’s inside the boxes?’ Angelika couldn’t hide her intrigue. She placed her champagne glass down onto the table. She felt lightheaded, a little giggly, even.

  ‘There is a box here addressed to each couple. It’s a surprise my husband organised. I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that as frankly I don’t know what’s in them myself. What I do know, however, is that he left strict instructions for them not to be opened, at least not just yet.’

  Elaine deliberately paused, satisfied that her guests had been duly subdued into submission by her announcement.

  ‘Right then,’ she said, smoothing her small, stubby fingers down her black slacks, ‘are there any questions?’ She scanned their faces, her narrow, grey, watery eyes evaluating them carefully.

  ‘Yes.’ Angelika raised her hand as though in a school room; she felt odd, her head a tad woozy, limbs light and airy, even though she’d only had a few sips of champagne. ‘Where exactly are we?’

  Elaine McKenzie smiled, finally, exposing a set of small neat teeth that didn’t quite fit with the rest of her face. ‘You’re in paradise, my dear. Welcome to Pleasure Island’.

  16

  Martin McKenzie poured a generous measure of Glenfiddich 1937 into a heavy-bottomed crystal tumbler, a special treat from an exceptionally rare bottle of single malt Scotch, which he’d recently, procured at auction. At 64 years, the same age as himself incidentally, it was the oldest bottle of Scotch in the world and with a price tag at a little over £50k possibly one of the most expensive. Whiskey was his thing and he’d built up quite an impressive collection over the years becoming something of a connoisseur in the process. If it was a toss up between a rare bottle of Scotch and a shiny new Bentley, McKenzie knew where his heart lay.

  Tonight, as he booted up his state of the art iMac and put his feet up onto the solid oak antique hand-carved Italian desk, he’d decided a nip of the best stuff was very much in order. It had been a bitch of a day: endless meetings with Japanese TV executives followed by the usual publicity and press junkets, a long and tedious lunch at Scott’s in Mayfair with one of his PA’s wittering on, endless telephone calls followed by a late dinner at Nobu, again with the Japs, and onto a very exclusive gentleman’s club where he’d shelled out a little over £60,000 on distinctively average tits and arse and vintage Krug. Such vast wealth made anything and everything available to McKenzie but there was a downside to such infinite freedom and choice. Like a drug addict his epicurean practises needed to be bested each time to give him a buzz to match, or ideally exceed, the former and when nothing was forbidden to you, you were forced to get creative.

  The computer screen flickered slightly as he went through all the necessary security checks to gain access to the Super Eight site and smiled as the action came into focus. He could see that Super8#6, 2 and 5 were also online.

  ‘So, how is everyone faring today?’

  He squinted at the images, all sixteen split screens playing simultaneously, and his eye was immediately drawn to screen three. Billie-Jo was taking a shower, soaping her nubile, naked body with alacrity, no crevice overlooked. Her nakedness wasn’t especially arousing; he’d seen a million Billie-Jo’s in his lifetime, it was her obliviousness to him that turned him on. She had absolutely no idea that she was being watched, playing a starring role in a highly exclusive soap opera for a selected few – there to be studied, observed and, above all, controlled.

  ‘So, what’s the schedule?’ Super8#6 was keen to know if McKenzie would give his suggestion the go ahead.

  Martin McKenzie smiled.

  ‘All is in place number six. The game is being made and will
be delivered shortly, in time for a little surprise party anyway.’

  ‘Good show.’

  He was chuffed. His idea had made the cut.

  ‘Let’s hope it is Super8#6.’ McKenzie switched screens. Angelika Deyton and that dreadful husband of hers came into view. They were in the bathroom together, having a heated discussion from what he could make out. McKenzie turned the volume up. She was asking questions. Bloody Frenchman had been right; they would have to watch out for Angelika Deyton. Perhaps that bitch really was smarter than he’d given her initial credit for. Not that he was unduly concerned just yet, especially with the bombshell he planned to drop on her in good time. She’d be asking a hell of a lot more questions soon enough. He took a slug of the expensive Scotch and pulling his lips over his teeth watched the couple intently.

  ‘… it’s like I feel a little … “tipsy” is the only way I can describe it …’ Angelika said, ‘even when I haven’t been drinking …’

  McKenzie gave a wry smile. She was the first of the ‘players’ to make such an observation, and he wondered how long it would take her to work out that the champagne was being spiked. Xanax, otherwise known as Benzodiazepine, was quite a multi-functioning little drug primarily prescribed for anxiety, panic attacks, social disorders, stress and insomnia. Low doses such as the ones he, or rather Elaine, was administering weren’t quite enough to give an individual any noticeable high, but it was enough to take the edge off any anxiety and instil a little apathy. It was also known to lower inhibitions, something he was actively seeking to achieve. He made a mental note to ask Elaine to up the journalist’s dose next time. She was a troublemaker – he could sense it – but then he already knew that thanks to the vitriolic biography the bitch had written on him. It had been this breech of his good nature that had secured her place on this little social experiment. No one got the better of Martin McKenzie, least of all some jumped-up, wannabe-controversial journalist with delusions of grandeur. Tonight, however, he needed them clear-headed and didn’t want to arouse any more suspicion.