by Tom Bale
Borko turns her to face him. As usual, the scan of her body is so thorough it’s like walking through one of those machines at the airport. His hair and skin immaculate as ever, his eyes a provocative gleam of danger and delight. He kisses her on both cheeks and deftly leads her away from the gathering. Most of the guests get the hint, but not the young American.
‘Gonna introduce me here, Bork?’
Bork? From the shadow that crosses his face, Gabby wouldn’t be surprised if Borko pulled out a gun and shot the American on the spot. It’s something his father is rumoured to have done once or twice back in the bad old days – days that the international community have to come to agree were greatly exaggerated, if indeed they happened at all.
But Borko recovers his good humour and makes the introductions, only for Jesse to interrupt with his own résumé’. He’s permitted a couple of minutes to brag about the ‘world-changing apps’ that he invented, before Borko breaks in, saying lightly, ‘Who would have thought when it started that social media could turn out to be so important?’
‘I did,’ Jesse says flatly, and there’s another moment when an on-the-spot execution might be the answer. ‘Hey, this is the era of toys. Toys and games – like this.’ He sweeps a hand at the screens, and then fixes his gaze on Gabby. ‘No one grows up anymore, and kidults make the perfect product for social media. You happily tell us everything about your lives – things that businesses used to spend billions trying to extract from you. Now we get it for free, and we take that information and use it to sell you stuff, and even more importantly we tell you who to vote for and what to believe.’ He stops, his mouth bubbling with saliva, and laughs. ‘Can you tell how much I love it?’
‘More than life itself?’ Gabby asks drily, but Borko is already speaking over her.
‘Jesse has suggested that next year we introduce drones.’
‘Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing? I hear Bork’s dad is already using them for, like, surveillance and stuff. Get a couple and modify them. Weaponize them.’ Jesse cackles, and lets off a couple of explosive finger snaps. ‘Imagine every time a drone flies over, and they don’t know if it’s gonna drop a food parcel or, like, napalm or something!’
Borko laughs with what might be genuine enthusiasm, while Gabby smiles politely.
A minute or two later, the American is palmed off on an intense young man with a huge and prematurely bald skull, introduced only as, ‘One of the whizzkids from Tufton Street.’
And then Borko has Gabby to himself, muttering as he leads her away: ‘Can you believe he’s one of the richest men in America?’
‘Really?’ Gabby reacts with a kind of double-take, which Borko obviously misinterprets.
‘You are interested in him?’
‘No,’ she hisses. ‘Of course not.’
He isn’t convinced, taking a careful look into her eyes that causes her stomach to churn. Then he tuts. ‘Oh, Gabby, if you were to choose Jesse over me, I don’t know what I would do.’
49
It was at a more conventional party a couple of months ago that he had taken her into his confidence, hinting at some unorthodox entertainment put on each summer for the delight of a hand-picked group of VIP guests. He might want her help, he said, but first he needed to know she was capable of complete discretion.
Totally, she’d promised him, because this was fun-loving Gabby in charge. So he sketched it out, and Gabby was duly confused, stunned, sceptical, horrified, amazed and all the rest of it – as anyone would be in the circumstances. But then, with characteristic boldness, she set aside the more diplomatic questions and went instead for the jugular: ‘Why do you do it?’
Borko had been genuinely taken aback. She guessed that no one had ever asked him this question – perhaps, she realised later, because no one dared.
His explanation, such as it was, drew on a number of comparisons. He spoke enviously of an Indian businessman whose purpose-built home in Mumbai was a twenty-seven storey building – his very own tower block – which cost at least a billion dollars to construct and offered nearly forty thousand square metres of living space. When he summoned up a picture on his phone, it looked to Gabby like an unevenly piled stack of shipping containers. And she said as much.
‘That’s your opinion, truly?’ Borko said, with spluttering laughter. ‘What about all that marble? All that glass?’
‘Yeah, okay. A stack of vajazzled shipping containers.’
Then came other comparisons: the super-rich moguls pouring billions into space exploration, often with the aim of getting into space themselves, or cryonic preservation, because they were determined to cheat death. He spoke of an Australian who’d flirted with the possibility of bringing real dinosaurs back to life before settling for a vast theme park full of animatronic creatures. The same man had ploughed money into building an exact replica of the Titanic, while an American oil billionaire had recreated an entire Wild West town on his Colorado ranch, solely for his private entertainment.
Borko was rambling somewhat by this point, and his eyes kept flicking towards her chest, distracting them both. But Gabby felt she had got the gist. She could sum it up in three words, in fact. Because I can.
Why do you go to all this time and trouble? Why do you spend all this money? Why do you treat other human beings as your personal playthings?
Because I can.
They move to a discreet corner, where he enthuses over what he considers to be the important scientific integrity of his project. To Borko, this is far more than a spectacular piece of entertainment. It is a groundbreaking study of human nature in the raw, and as such he believes its data should be available for review by experts in the fields of psychology, anthropology and sociology.
Gabby knows from their previous conversation that it is Naji who vetoed such involvement. At first it puzzled her that Borko hadn’t gone ahead regardless, but now she considers whether the aide is using Borko’s father as leverage. Is it possible, she wonders, that the president has no idea what his son is doing on Sekliw?
If so, it’s a dangerous game. Another very good reason for Gabby to get the hell away from here.
The super-rich guests are handpicked, he tells her, men and women of jaded appetites for whom genuinely original thrills are increasingly hard to come by – though as yet there hasn’t been much excitement for them, not on the live feed, at least.
Borko is fuming about various technical difficulties, particularly a lack of sound coverage around the family’s makeshift camp. ‘We’re reliant on the camera mikes in the trees, but the slightest breeze and we lose them completely.’ He sighs, then remembers more bad news. ‘Your text?’
Fearfully, Gabby says: ‘A couple of the guests were asking after Sam and Jody. I gave them the cover story, but I wouldn’t put it past them to phone the Conchis…’
She’s expecting fury but Borko is already shaking his head. ‘It’s nothing. Forget them.’ And he moves on to Jesse’s suggestion of drones, revealing that he has a much better idea: ‘Hunter robots. There’s a firm called Boston Dynamics who have produced some remarkable devices…’
Gabby is lost for words. For Borko, problems are like snowflakes, destined to melt within seconds of contact with the burning force of his personality.
It takes him a minute to register her astonishment. ‘What?’
‘Doesn’t any of this worry you at all – the risks you’re taking?’
‘No. Because those risks are carefully managed. We do this no more than once a year, and each time I choose a different nationality, from a different hotel, a different tour company.’
‘Even so, something’s bound to get out sooner or later. So many people must be aware of it.’
‘Only people I trust,’ he says coldly. ‘The numbers are kept low for good reason.’
‘I don’t mean the guests. But the staff–’
‘My staff are not so foolish that they would betray me.’
Gabby doesn’t like where this conversat
ion is going. Fortunately Naji comes over, signalling that Borko is wanted. The aide looks concerned – and Gabby has a moment to reflect, as she watches them conferring on the terrace, that perhaps it is Naji’s role to worry for them both.
Retreating to a safe vantage point, she notices how the guests tend to form small groups where they chat for a minute or two, looking vaguely bored, then break up and drift away to repeat the process. Like some sort of high-status animals in search of nourishment. Sharks, perhaps.
She smiles to herself, with no discernible humour: of course, sharks.
As Borko comes back inside, the main screen shows movement at bay three: a small dhingy is gliding towards the shore. Borko claps his hands together like a pistol shot, and in a room devoid of bodyguards many of the guests flinch or duck.
Pretending he hasn’t noticed, Borko says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the afternoon’s entertainment is about to begin.’
The dhingy glides ashore and half a dozen figures spill out, all but one of them dressed in black. The exception is a slighter form, female, wearing a long white robe. She and two of the men hurry in the opposite direction to the other three, who are carrying tool bags and equipment of some kind.
As the figures recede, the camera cuts to a view of the sleeping family. They are in pairs: Sam and Grace under the boat, Jody and the boy on the far side. In the distance the afternoon sun glitters on the water. The woman in the robe approaches slowly, the men appearing to hide behind her. She reaches the sleeping figures and stands over them, hands clasped together and head bowed, her face hidden by the hood.
Gabby shivers, just as Borko materialises at her side. ‘She’s a dancer and a mime artist, from Latvia. Very accomplished.’
Gabby can hear the unmistakeable note of possession in his voice: conquest number eight thousand and whatever.
Then the screen goes blank. Gabby assumes it’s another technical glitch but Borko wears a sly smile, assuring his guests that the transmission will resume imminently. The last thing they see is the shadow of one of the men behind Jody, moving towards the bodies.
Not bodies, Gabby corrects herself. People.
They’re still alive.
50
It takes Sam a while to wake up. He’s woozy, nauseous, but unlike last time there’s no confusion. He knows the deal straight away.
He’s lying on his side, facing away from the boat, but he can feel the heat of another body behind him. He rolls over. Grace is fast asleep or unconscious, but her breathing is quiet, regular; it doesn’t seem as though she’s in any distress, which is one small comfort.
So why did they–?
He climbs to his feet, peering over the boat because he remembers that’s where Jody and Dylan were when he left them. He just has time to note that the sun is slightly lower in the sky. And then he sees her.
He runs round the boat, stamping and skidding on the powder dry sand. He’s gasping for breath, the air coming out in a kind of desperate growl. His fists are clenched so tight they’re making his arms shake. A lot of anger welling up, but Jody’s still out cold. It’s not her fault. They’ve all been drugged again.
He kneels by her side and grasps her shoulder. ‘Jode. Jody. Wake up.’
‘Uh?’ Her eyes flutter.
‘Wake up, quickly!’
That does it: the alarm in his voice. ‘What is it?’
‘Dylan’s not here. He’s gone.’
Gabby tries to subdue her fears while she waits for the live feed to resume. She’s beginning to appreciate how much she’s been misled – to put it mildly.
Borko has played her for a fool, and this poor family are suffering as a consequence.
Several times she catches Naji giving her a stern glance. From her first acquaintance she regarded him as a total slimeball, but more recently she’s learned that he was originally recruited from the Syrian republican guard to work as chief interrogator for Dragan Radić, back in the days when Borko’s father was a ruthless, ambitious warlord. There’s a rumour, gleaned from a fellow rep, that Borko himself was expelled from one of his posh schools – Charterhouse, she thinks – when a couple of boys in his House were caught sharing the video he’d given them, showing a journalist being forced to eat his own excrement. It was Naji doing the forcing.
Borko calls for their attention. The screens are broadcasting again. ‘They are awake.’
Sure enough, Sam Berry is now crouched over his partner. Gabby can’t make out much more than a shadow beneath the boat, which is where Grace had gone to sleep. Her brother had been lying next to Jody, but there’s no sign of him now.
Watching more closely, she sees that Sam is tense, agitated, while Jody looks confused, her movements sluggish.
It’s the boy, then, Gabby understands.
Dylan is the next party piece.
Dylan’s gone.
The strange thing, Jody will realise later, is that she never actually felt she was unconscious. But she does recall plenty of vivid dreams, and the most disturbing of them featured a woman in a white robe. The angel lady.
She was here, on the beach, standing over them. Hands clasped together, head bowed in prayer. Her absolute stillness contrasted with what felt to Jody like a flurry of movement all around her. In the dream the intense glare of the afternoon was so ferocious that it had the same effect as darkness, cloaking the activities of the wraith-like figures in the background.
Then Sam is at her side, urging her to wake up. The dreams don’t matter; not when… not when Dylan…
‘Sam, stop.’ Her head feels like it’s swelling, about to burst. Afraid she’ll vomit, she clamps a hand over her mouth. But nothing comes up; there’s only a sour taste in her throat, a pounding in her head and heart and of course the constant desperate craving for normality. For her family to be safe.
‘Jody, listen. They must have drugged us again. That fucking food. And Dylan’s disappeared.’
Sam paces up and down. She can feel his impatience, his fury and fear.
‘Maybe he woke up and… wandered off?’ she says.
‘There are tracks.’
Jody manages to sit up, then rises to her feet. Sam makes no move to help her: too intent on studying the mess of footprints. From more than one person, by the look of it.
They exchange a glance, understanding the significance. No sweeping the sand this time. They’re supposed to follow the trail.
‘It’s another frigging test,’ he snarls. She can hear something in his voice: not just disgust but a longing to refuse. I’m not playing this game anymore.
But he can’t do that, and neither can she.
Jody takes a deep breath, wishing her head would clear. Then the dream comes back: dangerous wraiths.
‘The angel lady.’
‘What?’
‘Maybe she was…’ This is unhinged, but she’s going to say it. ‘Wh-what if she was… a vision?’
‘A vision?’
‘Of... of his death. An angel, like he said.’
‘Ah, Christ.’ The scorn in Sam’s voice is actually a relief. She’d welcome any degree of contempt over the possibility that she’s right. ‘You don’t believe in any of that crap,’ he mutters.
‘No, I don’t – or I didn’t, not when we lived in a world that was…’ She shrugs. ‘Sane.’
Sam can’t believe what she’s just come out with. As if there wasn’t enough to worry about.
What’s clear is that this was all planned. The food or drink had something that knocked them out. Now, like obedient pets, they’re supposed to go running off to find Dylan.
Sam examines the footprints and decides one set might belong to a woman. So maybe this angel lady is real. Perhaps Dylan really did see someone earlier.
‘I’ll go,’ he says, noticing how pale and ill Jody looks. She’s unsteady on her feet, utterly drained. But she shakes her head.
‘You were right before. We have to stay together.’
‘What about Grace?’
�
�It can’t be helped. We don’t know what we’re up against.’
They rouse their daughter. She sits up, her face streaked with dust and tears.
‘How are you feeling?’ Jody asks.
‘Bit better.’ Grace looks round. ‘Where’s Dylan?’
‘We’re not sure,’ Sam says.
‘We have to look for him,’ Jody adds. ‘I’m sorry.’
Grace only nods, fighting back tears. A quick sip of water from the second bottle, and then they set off. Grace’s leg is still red and swollen, but her temperature seems slightly lower than it was. She walks hand-in-hand with Jody, a few paces behind Sam. He’s holding one of the shorter stakes, while Jody has a couple of bungee cords.
The footprints fade out as they reach the harder ground of the ridge. There’s no sign of a detour towards the woods, so Sam decides to keep going. All the time there’s a voice in his head, begging him not to think too much about what might have happened to his son. He can’t imagine how he’ll react if–
And then Sam hauls himself over a rock and spots a tiny figure on the beach, about a hundred metres away.
‘That’s him!’
‘Is he all right?’ Jody shouts. Sam doesn’t respond. He needs to be sure before he raises her hopes.
‘Sam! Tell me if he’s–’
‘I think he’s okay. Come on.’
Jody and Grace scramble up. The trail resumes below them and leads straight to Dylan. He’s lying on his back, his body twisted slightly, one arm across his face. Not the sort of position he’d normally sleep in.
Then his leg twitches. Jody groans as if she’s been punched in the stomach. ‘Why have they left him there?’
That’s what Sam is wondering. He notices something at Dylan’s feet, long and thin, snaking through the sand between Dylan and the sea.
