Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

‘And so,’ McKenzie continued, ‘to the bit you’ve all been waiting for. Why us?’ He stood then, clearly revelling in being the centre of attention, albeit by proxy. ‘This was no random selection process. There really was a method to the madness.’

  He paused for a moment, took a sip of his Scotch before carefully placing it down on the desk and addressing the camera once more. ‘Revenge –’ he said the word as though he were recording a TV commercial and explaining to the viewer why they should buy his product ‘– is of course a dish best served cold. But I feel it one of the most underrated of the sins, if one can call it such a thing. Let me elaborate. Many years ago, decades in fact, I discovered a young singer –’

  Mia froze.

  ‘Ahhh, the beautiful Mia, or should I say June? I do hope you’re listening, I want you to savour every word of this.’

  ‘June?’ Billie-Jo stifled a snigger.

  ‘June truly was the find of my career: young, beautiful, supremely talented, I’m sure she won’t mind me saying.’

  Mia gulped back her drink, swallowing down nausea with it.

  ‘I made her an overnight sensation, a household name. I gave her everything she was, and still is to some extent today. June had – has, in fact – me to thank for the life she’s been privileged enough to experience: for the glittering career; the riches and the adoration and success; the cars and the homes and the places she has travelled. None of this would have been possible without me.’

  ‘He’s absolutely insane, a despot, completely certifiable … He’s going to prison, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Shut up, Rupert!’ Mia snapped. ‘I need to hear this. We all do.’

  ‘Only instead of her loyalty, instead of the gratitude due to me in abundance, dear June decided there was something better out there for her and so she dismissed me … betrayed me by taking up with a rival label – an unforgivable act of treachery that I am sure you can all comprehend. I made Mia Manhattan the person she is today. It was I who bankrolled her first-ever world tour. I who convinced some of the world’s greatest artists to collaborate with her. I who changed her name, took her from a plain, frumpy nobody and turned her into a mega star and it was I who fixed it all for her when got herself pregnant with a son, whom incidentally she went on to give up for adoption. But I digress slightly, for now at least.’

  Mia swallowed. She felt lightheaded with rage. That bastard, how could he? Given up for adoption? Forced into it by that evil heartless cunt more like! Mia had been just nineteen years old when she discovered she was carrying a child, news made all the more bittersweet by the fact that on the very same day she had also scored her first UK number one with ‘Dreams Like These’. Terrified, she had concealed the truth for six weeks before finally plucking up the courage to break the news to her formidable mentor.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ he’d instructed her coldly. ‘You have that child and you can kiss goodbye any hopes of a glittering career, Mia, because it won’t happen, you hear me.’ She had begun to cry then.

  McKenzie’s shocking brutality had blindsided her; her tears replaced by silent sobs. How could he be so cold, so cruel? She had thought that he loved her. How stupid she had been.

  ‘I’ll arrange it all, pay for a private doctor, make sure you’re looked after. You’ll be back at work within the week.’

  Only it wasn’t as simple as that. Mia had lied to him about how far gone she was and had left it too late; and had felt the child kicking inside her belly, the sensation of arms and legs connecting with her body, causing a deep bond within her. She was attached to the child already, the desire to see the pregnancy through as strong as her ambition.

  ‘I’m having this baby; I’m already twenty-five-weeks gone, maybe more.’ She didn’t tell him that the child was his. How could she now? He didn’t want her, didn’t love her.

  McKenzie had looked at her with such disgust that she’d felt ashamed.

  ‘You fucking foolish girl.’ He’d rubbed his temples in angst, struggling to think. ‘ I can keep you in the studio away from the limelight, build up a bit of mystique until the child’s born, but once you expel that thing you put it up for adoption and it’s back to business.’

  On the twenty-first day of September 1981, two weeks ahead of her due date, Mia Manhattan had given birth to a tiny baby boy. The sound of his cry as he’d entered the world for the first time haunted her like a recording to this day. Those lungs! He was her son all right! She had made to put him to her breast instinctively, an overwhelming rush of endorphins contaminating her with such intense feelings of love that she never wanted to let him go. She wanted to protect him, comfort him, feel the warmth and newness of his skin against her own, her boy, her son. And in that moment Mia had understood everything clearly; her own parents, her own mortality and what real, unconditional love felt like.

  ‘Kit,’ she’d said the name softly to him, her fingers lightly stroking the softest downy fuzz on his warm bloodstained head. It had been her grandfather’s middle name and she had always loved it, just as she’d loved him, a gentle, kind man who had always adored his ‘little singing princess’.

  ‘Welcome to the world, Kit.’ She’d kissed his little head, breathed him in as he’d snuffled and snorted around for her breast. And that’s when they had come for him; two stony-faced women in suits, their stiff fingers brutally prizing him from her loving arms.

  The weeks that followed post-partum had seen Mia sink into the darkest abyss of deep depression, plagued by images and dreams, the scent of her newborn son omnipresent in her nostrils. Even sleep offered little solace; she would hear his birth cry inside her mind, the trilling of his virginal lungs as they had met with air for the first time. She would awake in the night and search for him thinking she could hear him, smell him, aching for his tiny body against her own. She had never experienced pain like it – emotional pain so intense it had manifested into the physical, rendering her bed-ridden and paralysed. And the tears, oh, the crying … she’d sobbed until her skin was tender and raw to the touch, her diaphragm on the point of collapse.

  It had been thirty-three years since Mia had given up her son. Although time had seen her with little choice than to come to terms with it, it had not eased the pain she felt whenever she thought of that grey abysmal day in September, a day that by rights should’ve been one of the happiest a woman could experience. She’d often contemplated searching for him; the need to know he was alive and safe, happy and looked after had never waned. She’d endlessly daydreamed about him: how he might’ve looked as a toddler; did he have her eyes, her smile, her determination? Was he married with children himself? She had driven herself half-mad with thoughts of ‘what if’. And now, suddenly, there was a strange, new thought running through her mind. What if her adoptive son was closer then she thought...?

  55

  Rupert shook his head. He didn’t understand what Mia’s shameful secret had to do with anything. Surely, this wasn’t just about settling old scores? Mia’s deflection to another record label had taken place years ago, and McKenzie was a businessman, if nothing else. Surely he understood that all was fair in love and business. But he realised in that moment that McKenzie was worse than a narcissistic maniac; he was truly psychotic and dangerous.

  ‘This leads me on nicely to the fragrant Angelika Deyton.’

  Angelika almost crushed Nate’s hand as she squeezed it tightly. It was her turn.

  ‘I can’t watch this, ‘ Billie-Jo said, although she couldn’t take her eyes from the screen.

  ‘Once upon a time, not so long ago, I very graciously accepted the lovely Ms Deyton’s invitation to interview me for what she herself described as a ‘first-person insight’ into my good character. After much due consideration, I made the – with hindsight – unwise decision to accept her offer and welcomed her into the realms of my private inner sanctum. However –’

  ‘I knew it.’ Rupert turned to Angelika. ‘I knew it was that bloody piece you wrote on him. I told you so,
didn’t I?’

  Angelika ignored him, her eyes transfixed upon McKenzie’s image; it was the proverbial car-crash that she couldn’t look away from.

  ‘– instead of the “insightful and thoughtfully written biography” that Ms Deyton had so carefully duped me into believing she was planning, she instead produced the most unflattering, defamatory portrait of my entire career, and subsequently caused me great embarrassment and considerable distress; a truly unforgivable act of betrayal.’ He paused again momentarily. ‘I’m afraid your husband has simply been collateral damage in this little experiment of mine, Angelika. I only hope he can forgive you for dragging him into your mess. Although it does seem he has exacted his own revenge somewhat already –’

  Rupert felt weak. Oh God, here it comes …

  ‘– but this you will discover in good time,’ he added quickly, smiling affably.

  ‘So where the fuck do we fit into this fucking pantomime?’ Billie-Jo shrieked at the screen. ‘What about me and Nate?’

  ‘And as for Nate and Billie-Jo,’ McKenzie said as if he’d heard her question, ‘well, the contents of the boxes will explain. Though I would like to say to Nate Simmons how truly sorry I am for what you are about to discover, genuinely so. This was never anything personal against you. In fact, I rather like you, Nate. Out of everyone you appear to be the most likeable. And as for the divine Billie-Jo, well, what a fine performance indeed. You, my dear, are a star in the making, something our specially hired masseur can certainly vouch for.’

  Billie-Jo felt a disconcerting mix of fear and elation at the same time. McKenzie had called her ‘a star in the making’ but … the masseur … So he had seen what had taken place at the spa that time.

  ‘Why is he apologising to me?’ Nate said. Whatever the reason, he got the distinct impression he wasn’t going to like it.

  ‘The keys to the boxes are underneath the cushions of your dinner seats. I do hope you will accept my parting gifts with the good grace in which they were intended. At the very least I hope you will find them most insightful. Tomorrow, the telephone lines will be reconnected and the staff will duly arrange for a plane to take you back to reality – that is, your new reality – in the comfort and luxury of one of my private jets. Now I know what you’re all thinking, and the distress you may be feeling at this very moment in time, so perhaps it would be prudent of me to remind you of the confidentiality clause, number 7a, and the agreements you, plus every member of the team, all signed before coming into the island, which clearly stipulates that there shall be no public disclosure following your return. Oh, and Rupert, as you well know, this clause is recognised quite clearly by the law. So should you have any inclination to go to the press or even the police, then I am fully within my rights to sue you for breach of contract. But let us hope that it will not come to this. After all, I think you’ll all agree that it is in all of our best interests to adopt the motto that “what happens on Pleasure Island stays on Pleasure Island”.’ He beamed broadly into the camera as it panned in for a close-up. ‘So, all that is left for me to say is thank you all –’ he placed a hand onto his chest in mock sincerity ‘– for being the most entertaining and enlightening of guests on my new pilot TV show, which I think you’ll agree is bound for future success. None of it could’ve happened without you. Adieu, my friends. Until we meet again.’

  The screen went blank, the silence deafening as they all stood staring at it, paralysed.

  Rupert was the first to speak.

  ‘I think we all need to be philosophical about this,’ he said, adopting a professional tone as if to offer a panacea. ‘And as much as I am loathe agreeing with that sick piece of shit, I think perhaps he is right. We really should think about keeping this to ourselves. I mean, if we let this get out, then we’ll all be under scrutiny, won’t we? Our privacy invaded even more than it already has been.’

  Angelika knew what her husband was saying and more over why he was saying it.

  ‘Taking on a man like McKenzie is akin to taking on the establishment; if we keep calm, stick together, then we may all come out of this better off yet.’

  ‘But he’s been watching us!’ Billie-Jo was incredulous. ‘Dirty old perv, him and his little gang of nonces, the Super Eight or whatever the fuck he called them. And he’s been putting drugs in our drinks … he can’t get away wiv it!’

  ‘Well, it seems to me you don’t have too much of an issue when it comes to narcotics, Billie-Jo.’

  ‘I do when I’ve no idea I’ve been taking them,’ she shot back. Rupert’s stance had surprised her. She thought he’d have been the one screaming the loudest blue murder and threating McKenzie with all sorts. Now it seemed he wanted it all brushed under the carpet.

  In that moment Billie-Jo realised that she’d probably been under the influence of something in the dalliance with the masseur and the thought knocked her sick. She’d shagged that bloke while she’d been unwittingly off her face. That was tantamount to rape, weren’t it?

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘He’s had his fun,’ Rupert interjected, ‘his twisted little revenge. Him and his little club of voyeurs. Perhaps we should all just try and put this nasty little experience beh –’

  ‘Only it’s not just him that’s been watching us, Rupert,’ Angelika interrupted him.

  ‘So there were eight of them in this sick little club.’ Rupert shrugged. ‘Strangers, people we’ll never meet. They’re nothing to us, nor us them. They’ve had their sick fun, these eight freaks, whoever they are.’

  ‘Eight.’ Angelika squeezed her eyes tightly together for a moment. ‘If only it was just those eight.’

  ‘What you chatting about?’ Billie-Jo said. ‘Don’t tell me there’s more of them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nate said, looking at Angelika’s pained expression, seeing that she was struggling, ‘much more than eight.’

  ‘Much more …?’ Mia was confused. ‘How many more have been watching us, Nate. Tell me?’

  He looked at her with weary resignation.

  ‘The whole world.’

  56

  Gifts. This was the one word from McKenzie’s speech that had stood out in Billie-Jo’s mind and she rushed to her seat to locate the key to the box. She hoped that whatever was inside would be enough to compensate her for what she had just learned, that the world had watched her getting fucked by her husband, the massage dude and Joshua Jones, not to mention shovelling coke up her nose like there was no tomorrow. She was finished after this.

  ‘Open it, Nate.’ Her fingers were shaking so much that she couldn’t quite manage it herself.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to do this,’ Angelika said, ‘I don’t think I want to know what’s inside them.’

  ‘Are we being broadcast now?’ Rupert looked at his wife despairingly and she wished she could go to him and comfort him but it was too late for them now; too late for them all.

  ‘Kirkbride says the high court shut down the links some days ago.’ She didn’t tell him that Kirkbride had also told her that he had seen the footage of her husband with a dark-skinned man down by the rocks; that conversation was for another time. ‘I think we’re safe.’

  ‘Let’s open them in unison,’ Rupert said.

  ‘I agree,’ Mia said. She took the black box in her hands and began to unlock it.

  ‘Let’s finish this sick game once and for all.’

  ‘She’s right, Angelika,’ Rupert said. ‘We need to see this through.’ He was clinging on desperately to the hope that his afternoon with Raj was not now something of an Internet sensation. He thought about McKenzie’s speech and evaluated it in his mind; something in the man’s demeanour told him that McKenzie knew nothing of the fact the footage had been leaked at the time he had made that recording. Had the injunction been made active in time? He, above all people, knew how quickly these things could be turned around and he grasped onto this thought like a comfort blanket. Had he been outed via the Internet, for the whole world to see? He’d be a
laughing stock, a figure of public ridicule, or maybe even hate. Would he lose his job, the support of his family, his son’s respect. Good God, his own son may have seen. He wanted to throw up and thought he actually might, bile rising up through his diaphragm, his mouth watering, consumed with self-loathing and humiliation. He knew he had no choice but to come clean.

  Miserably it also occurred to him that perhaps Raj had actually been paid to find him attractive; that their encounter had simply been an act, albeit a convincing one, and the very idea was somehow more painful than the thought of the entire world watching him getting fucked in the arse.

  Mia opened the lid and pulled out the document that was inside it.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She began to cry hysterically, her hands shaking violently as she read it. ‘Oh dear God, no …’

  McKenzie had picked his PC up off the floor, rebooted it and was watching the drama unfold while swigging neat Scotch from the bottle. The years he had spent planning this whole operation, the expenses he’d incurred buying the island and making it habitable, the research and private investigations … it had all culminated this very moment and yet he could not bring himself to enjoy it as he had hoped he would: the sublime sense of schadenfreude as he watched that bitch Mia’s face, to feel her pain and suffering first-hand; witnessing Angelika Deyton’s life implode as she realised her entire marriage had been a farce – it had all been marred by the thought of the impending fate that awaited him. Still, he attempted to reassure himself; he was one of the richest men on the planet – he would find a way out of this thanks to his chequebook and some considerable blackmail. First, however, he had some TV to watch. He wasn’t going to miss this final episode for anything.

  57

  Billie-Jo stared at the photograph of a cute-faced baby – a newborn, practically, by the looks of it, in the arms of a young woman with dark hair and a pretty face – and peered into the otherwise-empty box. There were no jewels, no car keys, no platinum membership cards to private clubs or luxury hotels, no hard cash … nothing. Just a Goddamn fucking dog-eared old photograph of some kid. Her palpable disappointment erupted into uncontrollable rage.