Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘You got it, Cinderella,’ he smiled at her as he pulled up the sleeves of his suit and began to row.

  * * *

  ‘I can’t believe we made it here, Nate,’ she said, her body close to his in the confined space of the heaving club. She felt the heat of him against her; his strong body pressed tightly against her own, her heart thudding in time to the base line of Ne-Yo’s ‘Closer’ – an irony that was not lost on her. What had happened on the boat, the intimate moment between them that had felt so right, was still lingering on her skin, her desire undampened.

  ‘Do you realise what this means? It means that we can go back for the others, let them know that there’s a way off the island. We were so close all along we could’ve practically swum it.’

  They had only been rowing for ten minutes when thousands of tiny lights came into view, illuminating the sky, twinkling like diamonds and causing her to gasp aloud: ‘Nate! Look!’

  He’d glanced behind him and began to row faster. The island had been there all along, hidden from view behind the huge mountains and rocks.

  Angelika looked down at her wrist, at the watch that wasn’t on it.

  ‘Don’t panic, we’ve got plenty of time. Let’s just enjoy ourselves now that we’re here, get a drink, shall we?’ he said, pulling her through the gridlocked crowd towards the bar that groups of young women were dancing upon with careless abandon, lost in a moment of hedonism, stolen by the music.

  He ordered them two Jagermeisters and two gin and tonics, consumed by a sense of freedom and relief at finally being off the island, boyed up on endorphins, the taste of her still on his lips. It was only then he realised he didn’t have the means to pay for them and signalled to the barman but as luck would have it he’d moved onto the next reveller and so he slipped away quietly with the drinks. Let’s celebrate, Ange. Let’s celebrate the fact that in spite of everything that’s happened we found each other; that among the madness and mayhem we found each other. Because none of it matters to me anymore – what happened on the island – now that I’ve met you.’

  He downed the shot and she followed suit, conscious of eyes upon them. People were staring. The noise was deafening and the music went through her like it was attached to her aorta, almost painful. She felt conspicuous in her evening dress, more befitting for the opera than a night’s clubbing in a sweatbox, and it only added to her paranoia. It was too much too soon – the music, the lights, the crowd – complete sensory overload, the antithesis of the comparative solitude of the island.

  How quickly one adapts to one’s surroundings, she thought. How quickly one accepts a situation in which one has no control.

  ‘Have you noticed, Nate?’ she asked, enjoying the bitter taste of the alcohol as it slipped down her throat. It felt good to drink something other than champagne. If she never had another glass in her life it would be a day too soon.

  ‘Noticed what? How beautiful you are? How much I think I’m falling in love with you?’

  She shook her head, unable to help but smile at his exuberance, at his sudden candidness. Suddenly she was serious once more. ‘We’re being watched.’

  Nate consciously looked at the faces around them – faces that appeared to be nodding in recognition as they observed them.

  ‘We think you make a really lovely couple,’ a young girl said as she danced close, bodies touching through lack of space, the crowd moving in unison, a human wave.

  The girl beamed at them, her neat, white smile aglow in the neon lighting.

  Angelika looked at him. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s like they know who we are, Nate. How do they know?’

  ‘Maybe it was just an observation.’ He beamed at her, his handsome features lit up. ‘Maybe we do really make a lovely couple.’ He pulled her closer into him, swaying his hips in time to the beat, grinding his pelvis into hers once more, losing himself in the stolen moment; a moment he hoped would last forever. It was finally just the two of them, together and it felt right; she felt right.

  Angelika scanned the club; it was hot and sweaty, nothing chic about it, just pure hedonism in a box. For a moment it felt like she had jumped from the frying pan into the furnace.

  People know who we are, she said again, only this time more to herself.

  ‘You want another drink?’ He was smiling; lost in the moment, almost forgetting the reason they were there in the first place.

  ‘No, Nate, I just want to sit down … to think.’

  ‘I’ll get us another,’ he said. ‘You find a table and I’ll bring them over.’ He squeezed her fingers between his reassuringly and she nodded, realising it futile to argue. She wanted to tell him her theory as to why McKenzie had invited them all to the island in the first place … only she could barely allow herself to think it, let alone say it. Besides, she couldn’t prove it. She could prove nothing. Not yet.

  Throwing back her gin and tonic, Angelika surveyed the erupting room. So many young, beautiful people having the time of their lives, their lack of cynicism almost palpable. Would she do any of it differently if she had this time over again? Ha! Only regret the things you didn’t do rather than the things you did, right? Yeah, well, what if you regretted both? What if you regretted everything?

  ‘We need a phone,’ she thought, ‘maybe someone here will lend us one?’ She was conscious of time and it occurred to her that it was late and they had no idea where they were. Who would she call anyway: the police? And say what? She wasn’t even sure a crime had been committed. With her despair growing, Angelika frantically tried to think what to do next. And then it came to her: Kirkbride – her boss! She’d call him, get him to book them a flight on the company, explain later. If she promised him an exclusive, then he’d probably fly the damn plane himself.

  ‘Hey –’ Angelika smiled at a couple of young guys who were dancing drunkenly, staggering along to the music as they spilled beer down their slogan T-shirts and whistled at every girl who came within spitting distance ‘– where are we?’

  ‘What you say?’ one of the young men lurched forward, his breath smelled of strong alcohol and weed. Thankfully he spoke English.

  ‘I said where are we?’

  ‘The Scandinavian Bar!’ He announced this to her as if she had died and gone to heaven, his eyes wide, like he was on something. ‘Best fucking disco on the planet, yeah!’

  ‘No, I mean where are we? What’s the name of this island?’

  The guy stopped for a moment and looked at her as if she had just come down with the last shower. But, before his brain could register such confusion, the DJ shouted over the mic: ‘Mykonos! Let’s go fucking craaaaazzzzzy!’

  ‘Did you hear that, Ange?’ Nate was back and shouting over the music which seemed to be getting harder and louder by the minute. ‘He said Mykonos … we’re in Mykonos.’

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ Angelika gave the boy the best seductive smile she could muster under the circumstances.

  ‘My phone?’ The guy gave her a look that clearly said he thought she was weird. ‘For what?’

  ‘Please, it’s an emergency. I just need to make a quick call.’

  The guy stared at her blankly wondering if he recognised her from somewhere; she had a familiar face. He handed it over reluctantly but without much argument.

  ‘Hey! Oh, my fucking God!’ Another young reveller had approached them, her mouth wide, eyes like saucers, her crop top barely containing her pert, bouncing tits, her toned midriff on proud display as she bobbed up and down in time to the beat excitedly. ‘I can’t believe it!’ She turned behind her, checking to see if anyone else had spotted her find. ‘It’s you!’ she squealed excitedly.

  ‘Me?’

  And then she saw him through the crowd; it was him, wasn’t it? The boot-polish dark hair slicked to one side like something out of Bugsy Malone, the crooked smile that had instantly made her feel uneasy the moment she had boarded that godforsaken plane, and those shifty eyes. His head was thrown back in abandon, laughing; he w
as dancing, throwing shapes with alacrity. He looked happy to be alive …

  ‘Excuse me –’ Angelika pushed past the girl, making her way towards him through the crowd.

  ‘Yeah, well, screw you, too!’ the girl called out after her. ‘Think you’re someone special now that you’re famous, right?’

  ‘Hey! My phone!’ the drunk guy said. ‘That bitch just took my phone!’

  But Angelika was gone, lost in the crowd. She was moving towards him with tunnel vision, pushing her way through clammy bodies, paying scant regard for manners she had always been so meticulous about, her heart knocking against her ribs half a beat faster than the music. It was him. She gasped as she grew closer, her hand automatically covering her mouth in shock. He was dancing – with her. It was him and her … together. And in that moment it all suddenly made terrible, diabolical sense. In that moment she understood everything so clearly.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said as she approached him head on, his euphoric expression dropping like a stone. ‘Don’t you guys dance pretty well for a couple of dead people?’

  50

  ‘Lady, what the fuck is your problem?’ At first he hadn’t recognised her but then suddenly he remembered exactly who she was; it was the woman from the plane, and the guy, too: McKenzie’s guests, the ones who had been in the staged plane crash, actors he’d presumed, although he had never asked because when McKenzie requested you to do something you just did it. You didn’t ask questions, not if you wanted to keep your job anyway. And he did, as did his wife Aki. McKenzie had paid them a small fortune for what he called their ‘invaluable contribution’, enough for them to buy their own place outright with change left over, and he’d been more than happy to sign a confidentially agreement once he’d seen the fiscal rewards for such loyalty. Hell, for that kind of money he would’ve crashed the plane for real and done a stint in the hospital if needs be.

  ‘What the …’ Nate stared at them as he reached Angelika, his mouth forming an O-shape in disbelief. ‘The pilot … but … but you were dead,’ he said. ‘I saw you myself.’

  Angelika saw the panic on Aki’s face as she began to back away from them.

  ‘How did you do it?’ she asked. ‘How did you stage the crash?’

  ‘Hiro, let’s go,’ Aki spoke quickly, her eyes searching for the exit.

  ‘Hiro …’ Angelika snorted with mirth, though it belied her nervousness within, ‘now there’s a misnomer if ever I heard one.’

  ‘Listen, lady, you’ve got the wrong guy,’ he said but it sounded lame and they both knew it.

  ‘Were we drugged? Was there something in the champagne? Is that why we can’t remember properly?’

  Hiro looked at her through his dark, narrow eyes. ‘Lady, you don’t know who you’re dealing with … If I were you, I would go quietly. Don’t make a fuss now … it’ll do you no good.’

  Aki suddenly made a run for the exit, pushing a young partygoer to the floor in her haste.

  ‘Jesus!’ the girl screamed after her. ‘Don’t fucking mind me, bitch!’

  Hiro was quick to follow her and Angelika lunged in a bid to prevent him but he slipped from her grasp.

  ‘Leave them,’ Nate said. The crowd was just too dense. It was pointless trying to give chase.

  Angelika looked at the phone. It was 11.38pm.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Ange,’ he said, grabbing her hand he began pulling her through the bustling throng. ‘We’ve need to get back to the island, tell the others what we’ve seen, and decide what to do.’

  ‘It never happened, Nate.’ Angelika felt tears of frustration prick her eyes. ‘He staged it all … the crash … faked the pilot’s death and took all our possessions, kept us virtual prisoners … goldfish in a bowl.’

  ‘I know, Ange,’ he said gently, as he dragged her towards the exit of the bar, ‘I know.’

  The music was deafening now, hard core trance pulsating in her ears until they felt like they might bleed, yet still it could not drown out the question that was screaming inside her mind.

  But why? WHY?

  The water was slightly choppier on the return journey and Nate’s muscles were burning as he struggled to control the small, wooden boat.

  ‘C’mon … come on … Oh, God, Nate, there’s hardly any signal.’ Angelika held the phone above her in blind panic. ‘One bar at most.’

  ‘Just keep trying, Ange,’ he said, breathless; it was pitch-black now and he prayed he was rowing in the right direction; if he took them further out to sea they would be screwed. The air was chilly now and he could see she was shivering. He took off his suit jacket.

  ‘Put this on.’

  ‘No really it’s –’

  ‘Please.’

  She wrapped it around her shoulders, and then punched in the digits. There was a long, protracted silence while she waited.

  ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’

  ‘Shit, Nate, I can’t remember the bloody number.’

  ‘Yes, you can, just don’t panic … stay calm … take your time.’

  His voice momentarily soothed her and she took a deep breath and dialled again.

  ‘For God’s sake, John –’ she held her breath ‘– please still be there … please …’

  51

  On a busy news day it was not unusual for John Kirkbride to do what he referred to as a ‘writer’s all-nighter’. ‘News doesn’t stop because you need some shut-eye’: that’s what he told his exhausted team between coffee breaks anyhow. Besides, in his years of experience, it was always while you slept that the best stuff seemed to take place, which was probably why he looked more like 65 than his 55 years, and why a bottle of Brandy never even touched the sides.

  As expected, yesterday’s headlines had sent every news desk on the planet into a virtual feeding frenzy. Anything to do with McKenzie always made headline news but this … this was the scandal of the century. McKenzie had links to a lot of people in high positions, including politicians, judges, celebrities and royalty, and the establishment was quite rightly shitting itself lest it be exposed. Many had already begun the process of disassociation. Now it was simply a battle between the rags over who could get the latest scoop. The links had gone viral by now, and with the competition having equal access, it was a race to come up with the next sensational splash.

  McKenzie’s people weren’t talking, however, and had closed ranks but the very fact that the high courts had already put an injunction out there to shut down the live feed spoke volumes. That dirty bastard had been filming his guests for his own perverted pleasure and now, with his reputation in steep decline, he had a lot of questions to answer, if only anyone knew where the fuck he was.

  John Kirkbride looked at his phone. It had been ringing off the goddamn hook ever since they’d broken the story and during the past 24 hours he had spoken to everyone from the PM’s right-hand man to Billie-Jo Simmons’ mum, who was clearly willing, if not keen, to sell a story on her daughter. The high-court writ from McKenzie’s people banning him from publishing anything they deemed ‘defamatory’ against their client had already hit his desk, and as such his hands were tied until he could garner more evidence, another side of the story, ideally from the guests themselves.

  Kirkbride was pushing his luck and he knew it but he’d run with this because his gut told him it was the real deal, and there would little more pleasurable experiences in his career than to go down in history as one of the men who brought down the great Martin McKenzie, exposing him for the twisted, psychotic, ruthless fucker he’d always suspected him of being.

  Cath Redmond poked her head round the door. She looked like he felt: shit.

  ‘Starbucks run,’ she croaked. ‘Coffee and a muffin?’

  Kirkbride shook his head.

  ‘Liquid supper,’ he said, opening his top drawer and producing a half bottle of cheap cognac.

  She pulled a face. ‘That stuff’ll kill yer.’

  �
�Could think of worse ways to go … Any news on the hacker yet?’

  ‘Yep, some kid called Cody Parker in the US, but he ain’t talking … yet. It’s gonna be a difficult one, John, because the boy – well, he’s a man really – is autistic. They’re protecting him already. But we’re on it; I’ve offered the mum some serious wedge and a huge charity donation, said we’ll fly them over here and put them up in the fucking Ritz if we have to. It won’t be long … ’

  ‘Make sure it isn’t, Cath; if those bastards at the Sun usurp us on this I’ll piss nails.’

  ‘Drink too much of that shit and you’ll be pissing blood.’

  ‘Like you give a shit.’

  His phone rang and she shot him a wry smile before closing the door.

  He rubbed his gritty eyes.

  ‘Kirkbride.’

  ‘John! John, oh my God, you’re there! He’s there, Nate!’

  Kirkbride sat bolt upright in his knackered, old office chair, knocking his bottle of brandy clean over.

  ‘Jesus shitting Christ … Angelika, is that you? Angelika?’

  The line crackled like the embers of a bonfire and he winced, placing a finger in his ear in a bid to hear her better.

  ‘Yes, John, it’s me! Listen, John, I really need your help.’

  ‘Where are you? Angelika can you hear me?’ The line was atrocious.

  ‘I can hear you, John … just about … I’m in a boat … listen, John –’

  ‘Who are you with? Is McKenzie with you? Ange … Ange, we know what’s been going on.’

  ‘What?’ Angelika strained to hear him. ‘You know? What did you say, John … John?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here, Ange. Are you OK? Is everyone else OK? Listen, you need to get the hell out of there. McKenzie has been filming you all. You need to leave. Immediately.’

  ‘There was plane crash, only it wasn’t real. He staged it and –’ Angelika suddenly paused ‘– how did you know we were being filmed, John?’ Icy fear shot through her body and Nate’s jacket slipped from her shoulders.