Survive

by Tom Bale

  They file into a large elevator, along with another British family who Jody vaguely recognises from the plane.

  ‘Mummy,’ says Dylan in an earnest voice. ‘Does a king live here?’

  There’s affectionate laughter from the other family, and Jody can’t help but join in.

  ‘Not exactly. But it’s where a king would stay, if he came on holiday.’

  Even the lift is padded and mirrored and cleverly lit, like a luxury apartment all of its own. Sam’s first impressions have left him stunned and a little confused. Is he thrilled, won over, or is he angry about the money that’s been spent on this place? All this marble and gold. There’s a word he’s trying to find: op… opulent?

  He isn’t totally sure, but when he whispers to Jody, she nods. ‘It is. Though decadent is what my dad would say.’

  The lift arrives on the top floor and they’re escorted into a function room that seems larger than the arrivals hall at the airport and nearly as busy. There’s a long bar curving around one end of the room, a stage at the other end, and the sea-facing side is mostly open to a wide timber deck with rails like those of a ship. Beyond that, nothing but glassy blue ocean and just a misty smudge on the horizon that might be the tip of a neighbouring island.

  The other British couple are similarly impressed. The mum’s already talking to Jody, and Sam can tell the dad is psyching himself up to speak to him. At least these two don’t look as snobby as Trevor and Kay – and they’re a bit younger, fortyish or thereabouts. They have a teenage daughter with them, a surly-looking girl with garish make-up and an outfit so brief it looks more like she’s going pole dancing.

  As well as maybe a couple of hundred guests, there are dozens of hotel staff, all of them virtually identical in age and appearance. On the stage there’s a band playing with such casual expertise that Sam wonders if they’re famous. Given the surroundings, it wouldn’t surprise him if it was bloody U2 or somebody.

  A lot of people are drifting on to the terrace. Despite the room being open to the elements on that side, the air-conditioning system is pumping out cooled air to mix with the sea breeze, and the result is a perfect temperature. For practically the first time in three days, Sam doesn’t have a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  He takes a cold beer from a passing waiter, then plunges into conversation with his fellow Brit. The man’s name is Gareth Dowd, married to Michelle, and he’s a self-employed plasterer. They’re from Sevenoaks, and Gareth supports Crystal Palace. Sam quickly relaxes. He can talk easily about the building trade, and what Seagulls supporter doesn’t relish a bit of sarcastic banter with an Eagles nut?

  The women are chatting together, involving Grace and the couple’s daughter where they can. Only Dylan is ignored, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Sam makes sure to glance round every few seconds, tracking his son’s confident exploration of the room.

  More drinks arrive, and plates of strange finger food: little pastries, lots of things with fish, some dubious-looking stuff that Gareth reckons is caviar.

  ‘You like to try, sir?’ a waiter asks.

  Sam shakes his head. ‘Maybe later.’

  Michelle overhears and offers her opinion in a loud whisper – ‘It’s hideous!’ – and the two pairings link up to form a single conversation.

  ‘You know, this place is really amazing,’ Jody says, already sounding a bit tipsy, ‘but the weird thing is...’ She breaks off, giggling.

  ‘What?’ Michelle asks.

  ‘It sort of reminds me of…’ Jody shakes her head at Sam. ‘You’re gonna think I’m bonkers.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The De La Warr pavilion.’

  ‘In Bexhill?’ Sam thinks about it, then he laughs too. ‘Yeah, it is a bit.’

  Gareth starts nodding. ‘I think I know where you mean. That art deco place on the front?’

  Jody splutters: ‘Can’t see many movie stars or royalty heading to Bexhill-on-Sea for their holidays, can you?’

  What a lightweight, Jody thinks. I’m drunk already. Then again, what does it matter if she is? They’re on holiday. And this couple are fun to be with, not all snooty and prim – although Michelle has been trying to prise out the reason why she and Sam had children at such a young age.

  Steering the conversation away from personal stuff, Jody indicates the waitress who has dispensed yet more drinks. ‘Is it me, or are all the staff here drop-dead gorgeous?’

  Gareth rocks back on his heels, surveying the room as if sizing up for a quote. He’s a tall man, with long arms, narrow shoulders and a thin neck: the perfect shape for plastering ceilings, Jody thinks, and swallows down a burp of laughter.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he says. ‘Every single one of ’em.’

  ‘She means the fellers as well,’ Michelle points out.

  ‘And not just physically,’ Jody says. ‘They all look bright – intelligent, I mean – but with the bodies of…’

  ‘Porn stars?’ Gareth suggests.

  ‘I was going to say athletes.’ She’s teasing him with a strait-laced tone. ‘Isn’t that a bit annoying for the guests, though? Paying all that money to be surrounded by people who’d make you feel inferior?’

  Gareth and Michelle nod thoughtfully but Sam has another view of it.

  ‘If you can afford to stay here, you’re not gonna feel inferior to anyone. They probably get an extra buzz from getting all these “gorgeous” people to run round after them.’

  ‘Good point there,’ Gareth says, which has Sam swelling with pride. He can do this stuff, Jody realises: socialising, small talk. If only he’d believe in himself a bit more.

  She drifts out of the conversation for a moment, wanting to savour how mellow she’s feeling. Grace looks star-struck in the presence of Gareth and Michelle’s daughter, Alice. The girl is showing off her iPhone, something that Grace desperately wants for her next birthday; and no doubt before long her brother will be pestering–

  Looking round, Jody gasps. ‘Where’s Dylan?’

  18

  Jody sees that the pitch of her voice has grabbed Sam’s attention. It’s a tone they both associate with panic. He’s gone all floppy. I can’t get him to wake up. I think there are spots appearing…

  This, for a moment or two, feels just as terrible. There’s a gut-wrenching fear when Jody considers how high up they are. Of course he’d be drawn outside, and the railings are easily climbed: a challenge for a boy who came all too close to death and now seemingly knows no fear.

  Sam is already moving; Jody instructs Grace to stay put and hurries after him. She realises that the band has stopped playing. The atmosphere in the room has changed, the buzz of chatter reduced to a low expectant murmur. More and more people are drifting towards the decking, as if drawn by some irresistible curiosity.

  Ghouls, she thinks, and her heart is ready to break even as Sam, momentarily hidden from sight, straightens up to reveal a small lost boy in his arms.

  Oh thank you thank you…

  ‘Went exploring, didn’t you?’

  As Jody hugs her son, a man in evening dress steps up to the microphone and says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please make your way outside for the next stage of today’s entertainment. Meine Damen und Herren...’

  He runs through a few other languages but everyone’s got the gist. They and the Dowds join the throng, milling around in the glare of the afternoon sun. The staff continue to circulate, replenishing drinks, while another small team is busy preparing something.

  Oddly, they bring out three long metal plates that look like girders, which they attach to the outside railings, a couple of metres apart. Jody and Sam work their way closer and see that they are narrow platforms, extending way beyond the deck. Heavy-looking steps are wheeled out and bolted on at one end to provide a counterweight.

  By now, the crowd is starting to grasp what this could mean. There are exclamations as those closest to the railings peer over to see what lies below. Although the building is stepped, the differen
ce between the floors looks greater from a distance: a clever optical illusion to enhance the impression of an ocean liner. But there’s no illusion when it comes to their height. They’re at least fifty or sixty metres above the level of the sea.

  Three slender figures thread through the crowd: two women and a man in black lycra suits. In perfect unison they climb the steps and then stop, possibly to allow for dozens of phones to be set to video. Sam lifts Dylan on to his shoulders, and Jody immediately warns him not to get too near the edge.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the MC says. ‘Let us count down together. Five, four, three…’

  The divers tense on two, drop into a sprinting stance on one, and take off a moment later: two measured strides and then a leap, coming down heavy and bending the boards below the level of the railings, springing up with all the momentum of their weight and speed to launch into the air. Their bodies straighten on the ascent, then fold and fall and straighten again, arrowing down towards the water, and not a single spectator dares to take a breath – because surely they’ll never be able to clear the rocks at the base of the hotel?

  To Sam it feels like a suicide mission: three lives sacrificed purely to entertain a load of boozed-up tourists. At first he backs off, not wanting Dylan to witness the bodies hitting the rocks, and so he hears the gasps of amazement before he sees what causes them.

  The divers came prepared. Hidden within those lycra suits are flaps of material that fan out like wings. The divers spread their arms and sweep outwards as well as down, giving them the few extra metres they need to avoid the rocks. In the final second their arms point downwards again and they cut smoothly into the water, to whoops of celebration and relief from the watching crowd.

  ‘Batman!’ Dylan is clawing at Sam’s face in his excitement. ‘They were being Batman, Daddy!’

  Cutting through the cheers is a strange hissing noise, like gas leaking from a pipe. Sam wonders if the air conditioning is playing up – if it is, there’ll be hell to pay for the poor bastard who fitted it.

  The sound seems to be getting louder. Rising. And now there are more gasps and laughter, more heads shaken in disbelief, for someone – not one of the divers, but a man wearing a helmet and a black bodysuit – is flying through the air towards them.

  ‘Batman and Superman,’ Sam mutters. The man has a jetpack, which looks like a set of gas tanks strapped to his back, controlled by a joystick in each hand. He zooms up past them like a rocket, and Dylan isn’t the only one to let out a squeal of pleasure at the sight.

  With real skill, the man eases downwards, slowing as he glides towards the terrace, clears the railings and nudges forward, hovering in mid-air while people spill backwards to give him room, finally landing as effortlessly as if he’d stepped out of a limousine.

  Inside the lounge, the MC’s booming voice announces: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you our most esteemed guest of honour, His Excellency Borko Radić.’

  There is thunderous applause. The staff who set up the diving boards cluster around the president’s son, removing his helmet and the jetpack while he steps out of his bodysuit. Beneath that he’s wearing the full dinner jacket, white shirt, bow tie: like James bloody Bond.

  True to that image, two beautiful women approach him. One hands him a glass of champagne, then they link arms and escort him into the main room. Sam and Jody exchange a look.

  ‘This place…’ she says, and laughs.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he agrees. Her earlier comment about the attractiveness of the staff has got Sam idly wondering if there’s some unfortunate part of the country, perhaps on the mainland, where the only inhabitants are thin, fat, ugly – whatever – because all the perfect people have been rounded up and brought here to work, like that old fairy tale about the guy who gets rid of the rats.

  For a second, Sam sees Borko in a different light. Not Superman or James Bond, but the Pied Piper. And he can’t help shivering.

  There’s an electric buzz to the air as they head back inside, Sam only just remembering to duck down because Dylan is still on his shoulders. The way everyone is smiling and chatting, you can tell this is an event they’ll be talking about for years to come.

  Thank God Gabby gave them another chance to attend.

  The women all want to fuck him; the men want to be him. Jody can’t remember who that was originally said about, but she suspects it applies to Borko Radić, pretty much.

  The president’s son isn’t how Jody had pictured him – the reckless, law-breaking big game hunter that Trevor Baxter so admired. She would have imagined him to be a shorter, burlier man than this, somewhat rougher around the edges. He and his dad might run the country, but by the sound of it they came from fairly basic – if not to say savage – beginnings. And that kind of background has to leave a trace, doesn’t it?

  Well, not if Borko is anything to go by. He’s tall, slim and athletic, his dark hair just long enough to be mussed up from the helmet he was wearing. He’s a fair distance away, but she gets the impression of olive skin and strong features, along with the two-day stubble that seems to be obligatory on this island.

  Certainly there’s no missing his charisma; as he takes to the stage he looks suave, relaxed, graceful.

  The MC steps back, bowing respectfully. Borko stands at the microphone but says nothing for a few seconds. He wants to let the room settle, let them appreciate who he is.

  Then, in a suitably dry tone, he says, ‘My apologies for the method of transport. I was running late.’

  There’s laughter, most of it completely natural. Borko’s voice is rich and powerful, and his English is spoken with hardly any trace of a foreign accent. Even more impressively, he goes on to repeat the joke in German, and then in Russian.

  ‘Before I continue,’ he says, ‘we have arranged for your sons and daughters to be entertained elsewhere. Children and speeches do not make for a good match!’

  This time the laughter’s slightly muted. As he translates the message, a group of what look like circus performers enter the room. They are wearing dance outfits, and have faces painted to resemble various wild animals. Some are juggling as they walk while others perform acrobatic tricks, climbing and flipping over one another. They move through the crowd, accompanied by waiting staff bearing trays of confectionery, and collect up the children as they go.

  ‘We have many surprises in store,’ Borko says to convince those who are wavering. And to the parents: ‘I assure you, they will be perfectly safe.’

  Alice does that teenage huffing and shoulder-jerking to her parents. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Grace begs her, and the Dowds look relieved when their daughter gives in.

  Dylan, who has never been a clingy child, does seem to hesitate at first. Then a young man with the face of a leopard brushes a hand against his ear and produces an egg from it. Dylan touches his ear and grins, enchanted by the trick.

  ‘Do it again!’

  The man nods his head to one side: Come this way.

  ‘See you in a minute. Be good!’ Jody calls, but they’re already oblivious to their parents. She watches them go, and doesn’t notice that for a second Sam looks absolutely stricken.

  19

  I can’t say anything. Jody will think I’ve gone nuts.

  Sam tries to rid his mind of the Pied Piper story. Of course they’ll be safe.

  He takes a sip of beer but doesn’t really like it. He has developed a fine understanding of his limit where alcohol is concerned, and knows he’s nearly there.

  With only the adults present, Borko starts by explaining how his country enjoys good international relations; his father regularly meets other presidents, prime ministers, financiers and chief executives.

  ‘Myself, I am a frequent visitor to your countries. I love to spend time in the clubs and casinos of the West End, or skiing in the Alps, sailing in Denmark, hunting in Siberia. And now, when it is your turn to visit my country, I wish to leave a good impression with, uh, peop
le of all backgrounds. Unfortunately it is not possible to offer a reception on this scale to everyone who visits Sekliw, so instead we hold the competition at each hotel.’

  He translates swiftly, and when he resumes again in English, Borko’s eyes seem to narrow slightly.

  ‘Some might believe there is an ulterior motive at work here.’ A little chuckle. ‘Not true, though it is my sincere wish that afterwards you will tell your friends what an inspiring holiday this has been.’

  He moves on to the issue of the nation’s troubled past, and the tough challenges his father had to face in order to make the country stable. As a result it has become, in Borko’s opinion, ‘a glorious place to live, to work, to take a vacation.’

  He pauses, scanning the audience as if daring anyone to disagree. Sam notices that some of the waiting staff look slightly nervous.

  Finally Borko winds it up, urging his guests to enjoy the party. ‘If there is anything you require, you have only to ask. Today, we are at your service.’

  It seems a bit over-the-top to Sam, but most people around him are clapping enthusiastically, Jody and the Dowds among them.

  A flare of light catches Sam’s attention, coming from the terrace. All he can see above the heads of the crowd is a jet of flame. He grabs Jody’s arm, wondering how quickly they can find the kids and get out of the building, but stops when he hears whooping and laughing.

  Then a gap opens up to reveal yet another incredible sight: fire-breathing stilt walkers.

  Sam has to blink a few times before his brain will accept what he’s seeing. Three stunningly fit women dressed in what is basically bondage gear – skimpy leather bikinis with various straps and studded belts around their neck and wrists – marching along the terrace on stilts while twirling flaming torches in their hands. Their bodies are gleaming as if coated in oil, six-pack stomachs rippling as they walk.