The Islanders

by S. V. Leonard

  Chapter Eighteen

  Spyland.co.uk – News, Scandals and all the latest Gossip from your favourite celebrities

  BREAKING NEWS: Islanders held hostage in REAL nightmare scenario

  Posted on Sunday 27th July at 11:39 a.m.

  Footage, streamed live from LoveWrecked villa, seems to show that Islanders are being held hostage following the death of Jack Peaks. An unknown person dressed as a court judge took control of the video feed to announce that Jack Peaks was murdered, and that Kimberley King is tasked with solving the crime.

  It is unclear why Kimberley King has been chosen to complete the challenge, but rumour is that before becoming a barmaid, she served for a number of years as a police officer, though her reasons for leaving the force remain unknown. We’ll keep digging, don’t worry.

  ChannelUK, the broadcasting channel of LoveWrecked, have blocked the video stream but channels such as Channel Z continue to broadcast this despite the show’s producers urging them to take it down. It is unclear how Channel Z have been able to access the footage but we’re sure it won’t be long until they too are forced to remove it.

  All major news channels are now reporting the story as a crisis and just minutes ago the Minister for Foreign Affairs announced that both the British and Greek governments are involved.

  Greek police were sent to the address that LoveWrecked’s management team had as the villa’s location, but the police were greeted with a rustic-style farmhouse, nothing like the villa shown on our screens and, according to reports, empty. Furthermore, sources have told us that the company who rented the villa to LoveWrecked have been questioned by police but they vowed that they had no idea that the villa was not being used due to the no-greet check-in facility. Even the livestream is providing no clues to their whereabouts; the high hedge and specific focus of the camera makes it impossible to pick up features which may distinguish the island.

  Though we know the Islanders flew into Heraklion Airport, Greece is made up of thousands of islands (depending on which estimates you look to, anything between 1,200 and 6,000) and there is nothing to say if they are on an island near Crete or whether they’ve ventured further afield.

  The Islanders are, therefore, being held captive in an unknown location.

  Fans remain unconvinced that this is reality and continue to share their excitement at this new and immersive challenge. #LoveWrecked is the top trending hashtag on social media. Plan or not, the producers got their wish: this is the most talked-about show in the world right now.

  SpyLand will keep you informed as the situation progresses.

  Comments section

  @Scandalina: THIS IS THE BEST SEASON EVER!!! #LoveWrecked #realitytv

  @dangerousgrl: WTAF?!?! Is this real or not?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kimberley

  Sunday 27th July, 11:40

  The words blare out from the television screen and seem to smash against my body like a freight train. My body throbs from the impact.

  What did he just say?

  Silence hangs in the air like a noxious gas. In unison, my fellow Islanders’ heads spin around so fast they’re at risk of whiplash; all of their eyes are on me and somehow, through the lens of Daniel’s blinking camera, I feel the eyes of the half-a-million-strong audience burn into me. It’s as if the audience are transported from their homes to sit among the other Islanders and stare at me. My cheeks warm under their piercing gaze and the movement of my chest rising and falling quickens as I breathe short, shallow breaths. The sound of the Judge’s voice rings in my ears and seems to ping off every corner of my brain.

  The Judge said Jack was murdered.

  The Judge said my name.

  He knows I used to be a police officer and he wants me to solve the crime live on television. What the fuck is going on?

  ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ I whisper. I shake my head, my body involuntarily rejecting him and his horrific instruction. My thoughts go from asking myself, What is going on, what is happening? to denouncing what I’ve heard, telling myself that no, this simply cannot be happening.

  I get to my feet. I spin from left to right. I need to get away, away from the television screen, the cameras and the prying eyes of the Islanders.

  I stumble as I careen on trembling legs towards the kitchen. Step by step, I move away from the screen and the Judge’s demands and from the stares of my fellow Islanders.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Kim? Why does he want you to do this? What have you done?’ asks Mo, standing by my side. When did he approach me? Despite his proximity, he sounds miles away.

  My heart beats so loudly it pounds in my ears. It roars in my head, threatening to consume me. I reach out for the back of a nearby bar stool; the metal of it is cool against my sweating palm.

  The analytical part of my brain, the part that singled me out for the fast track to detective, kicks into gear. I need to review the options.

  Could this be a dream? I’ve had many vivid dreams in my life, particularly after I left the police force all those years ago. But those dreams were different to this. Dreams and nightmares are all-consuming, an experience that is somehow deeper than real life. No, this isn’t a dream. I’m awake and experiencing this in the flesh.

  Could this be a joke? A prank thought up by the producers? My brain changes tack. LoveWrecked challenges are infamous in their complexity, something which gets the British nation excited like nothing else. And if it is a challenge, then none of this is real. Jack’s murder, the Judge, the request for me to investigate is all fake. Nothing more than a set-up.

  They said this would be a series to remember, nothing like anything that had gone before. My breathing momentarily eases and the heartbeat I feel in my throat slows.

  But the moment of respite is short-lived because the idea that this is made up doesn’t fit either. Reality television producers will sink to deep depths to attract audiences; the plethora of horrendous reality shows available to the public testifies to that. But fake the death of one of the contestants – is that really something they would do?

  I glance over at Rosalind. The seemingly sweet but out-of-her-depth producer of this year’s LoveWrecked has broken into a fit of violent shivers completely incongruous to the ever-rising temperature of the Greek island. If this is a set-up, the LoveWrecked management team have neglected to bring Rosalind in on the deceit.

  And then there’s Jack. It might have been possible to fake a dead body for the other Islanders. There are some convincing dummies out there, or the producers could even have gone so far as to stick a golf ball under Jack’s armpit, giving the illusion of his pulse stopping, falsifying his death for the uninitiated. Plus, for the inexperienced, even checking for a pulse is riddled with complications. When I found my first dead body, my heart raced so fast my fingers had their own heartbeat, so it was impossible to tell where my own pulse began and the girl’s ended. I’m not ‘the uninitiated’; I know a dead body when I see one and the body of Jack Peaks was real and very, very dead.

  I came on this show for the chance to escape my past and the death it saw. I’m not going to relive it; I don’t have the strength. Jack is dead and there’s nothing I can do that will bring him back. There is no way in hell I will indulge the Judge in this game of his.

  And even, even if I agreed to do it, could I do it? I must consider that my investigative skills are extremely out of practice.

  No, I shouldn’t even be thinking like this. I won’t give into his demands. I won’t.

  The eyes of the Islanders bore into me; their stares sear my skin. No one says a word and I don’t intend to be the one to break the silence first. I’m going to make myself a drink, a stiff one.

  My fingers tremble as I unscrew the cap from the gin bottle and lift it to my lips. My stomach protests at the smell of it; I’m not even properly over last night’s hangover.

  ‘Hey, hey, easy now,’ says Daniel in a gentle voice; he’s pushed his camera away, so it isn’t f
acing me. He tugs the bottle away from my lips and attempts to prise it from my fingers. Reluctantly, I give in.

  My family might be watching and despite all I have done to them, I don’t really want them to see me like this. My chest squeezes when I think about my family. When did I last speak to them? When did I last see them? It’s funny that they should come to my mind now; I’m well practised at pushing them from my mind.

  ‘Why is he asking this?’ I whisper to him. ‘This is fucking crazy. Why has he done this? Doing this?’

  Daniel shakes his head, his eyes bloodshot and raw. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. I wish I knew.’

  ‘I’m not doing it. He can’t make me.’ I welcome the squeeze that Daniel gives my hand. It’s a show of solidarity and I’m grateful for it but he can’t possibly understand. I’ve been singled out for reasons I don’t understand and as much as he wants to stand by me, I am completely alone.

  ‘Come on, let’s get back to the others,’ says Daniel, pulling my hand and leading me back towards them.

  Clammy hand in clammy hand, we walk across the grass. I focus on my feet, unable to meet the gazes of the others. I can’t stand their watchful, questioning eyes.

  Pop.

  I jolt, stopping short as the screen turns itself on for a second time. My breath catches in my throat and my hand slips from Daniel’s. I fold my arms across my chest; the only thing I can do to protect myself. It is the Judge, again.

  A sheen of sweat gathers on my forehead but I resist the urge to wipe it away. I won’t show the Judge how nervous he is making me.

  ‘Hello, Islanders,’ he says in a voice that may have been an attempt at mock cheeriness but instead sounds deranged. ‘This is your presenter; you are live on most UK and international channels – please do not swear.’ He chuckles humourlessly at the line made famous by one of the previous presenters of LoveWrecked. My face twists in disgust; the man is a monster.

  ‘Let us out of here. You’re fucking insane, let us go,’ shouts Mo.

  ‘Mo, Mo, Mo. You’d better watch that temper of yours. What will the viewers think? Talking of viewers, do you want to hear what the public have been saying about our little challenge, Kimberley?’ The Judge pauses.

  I ball my hands into fists and direct all my energy there; it’s the only thing I can do to stop myself erupting into angry shouts. What do the public think of the challenge? A man has been murdered. This isn’t a challenge, this is torture.

  ‘Great,’ says the Judge, taking my silence as assent. ‘Let me see.’ The screen changes and the Judge’s image is relegated to a small square at the bottom corner of the screen while the rest fills with comments from social media. My heart sinks as I read; half of the comments don’t even make sense. The Judge’s stunt has blown open the gate for the trolls and conspiracy theorists.

  @Givesacrap42: why’s everything always hidden? bravo #LoveWrecked for exposing the abuse and corruption of the police

  @Thisis1984: @LoveWrecked is turning the tables. Instead of the police spying on us like they always do, we’re spying on them. Taste of your own medicine #werewatching #georgeorwell #justice4Jack

  @Eyeofthetigger: Judge Justice slamming that gavel #thejudge #LoveWrecked

  @Scandalina: THIS IS ALL FAKE. It’s a ploy to hook viewers. @LoveWrecked it’s a rather desperate attempt but not gonna lie… lovin it

  @trashqueen2000: @Scandalina if this is staged, the Islanders are convincing actors

  ‘It seems,’ says the Judge, his image re-filling the screen, ‘that #policetransparency seems to be the most popular hashtag at present and, despite the fact it doesn’t really make sense, I’m also pleased to see that #judgejustice is doing respectfully well in the UK and America. All in all, the general public are pretty pleased that the realities of a police investigation will be streamed live, and they don’t like all the secrecy. Oh, and for added fun, people have been sending in all of the examples where the police didn’t serve them well and all the mistakes the police have made over the years. But we don’t have all day to review those now, do we?’

  Blood surges through me, warming my cheeks and ears and my whole body seems to vibrate with the fury of it. I can’t stand here. I can’t watch this. Listen to this.

  I storm to the kitchen, grab an empty gin bottle and hurl it at the screen. The bottle shatters upon impact and the Islanders shield themselves from the shards of glass that fly through the air. I ignore their protestations and anger at my actions.

  Me? They’re annoyed at me? I’ve only thrown a bottle; I haven’t killed anyone. As the hubbub quietens and the glass settles into the grass, I see the Judge’s image wobble. The screen has cracked ever so slightly, but his image doesn’t die. I’ve barely scratched him. I groan; my inability to hurt him riles me.

  ‘My colleagues put their lives on the line every day. Every single bloody day to protect the public.’ I’m shouting at the screen now. I don’t care how I look. Deranged, probably. But the judge’s outrageous accusations override everything else. ‘They’re only human. And they work all manner of hours, for barely any money. Why? Because they care.’

  I shake off the hand that tries to pull me away from the shards of glass. So what if I’m in danger of standing on them? All I see is the Judge and my anger. ‘They’re not superheroes, they’re people protecting people. Yeah, mistakes are made. But who are you to talk? You don’t seem to be risking your own safety for anyone. You’ve even hidden your face to protect yourself. And do you know what? If the danger, the hours, the pay weren’t bad enough, we must live with those mistakes. Carry them with us for the rest of our lives.’

  My chest heaves as much from the emotion as from the effort of shouting. The Judge keeps his face neutral; his lips don’t even twitch. As if he’s just waiting for me to burn myself out.

  ‘Thank you for that, Kimberley. You’ve hit the nail on the head when you said we live with our mistakes. Will you be able to live with the mistake of not accepting this challenge?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my breathing still heavy. ‘I don’t see it as a mistake to not accept your horrid, distasteful challenge. I don’t want to play your game.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he says with all the glee of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. ‘Drumroll please. The longer it takes Kimberley here to solve the crime… the more people will die. It is 12 p.m. Kimberley King, you have one hour to find out who killed Jack Peaks or you’ll find another of your number dead. Start the clock.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday 27th July, 12:01

  59 Minutes Until The Next Murder

  The villa changes before my eyes. The sun is too hot, the grass too perfect and too green. It’s as though a monster has been unleashed. This villa, the place that was meant to be an escape, a last-ditch attempt to move forward with my life, a potential place of comfort and hope, has turned on me. Any final feeling that this might still be a joke evaporates. The Judge is out for blood and I’m the only person that stands in his way.

  My head swims as the Judge’s words swirl around inside me, ricocheting through me. It’s as if I’ve been shot. I want to scream, to yell at the top of my lungs that I won’t do this. The Judge can go to hell. But hell, it seems, has come to me.

  Around me, all is chaos.

  Rosalind clamps her hand over her mouth and falls to the ground, as if finally giving in to the emotions that have threatened to overwhelm her all morning. Tears stream down our producer’s cheeks.

  Valentina screams at the television screen, banging her tiny fists against it and begging the Judge to reconsider.

  Carly’s previously calm demeanour snaps and she stands by Valentina, their shouts mingling into one mighty roar.

  A vein throbs so violently in Mo’s neck that it threatens to explode.

  And even Daniel, who dutifully followed the Judge’s request to film, pulls his head away from the camera and swears loudly.

  I want to curl into a ball and block out the
sounds of their panic. Their screams of why me, what have I done to deserve this, make me want to jump in the pool, sink to the bottom and never resurface.

  Space. I need space to think. But how can I do it when all around me is chaos? And what the hell am I meant to think about? The Judge, whoever the hell he is, wants me to solve a murder, live on television, and the longer it takes me to, the more people will die.

  Rosalind told us when we first arrived that the villa was controlled by the producers, which means it is possible for someone else to take control. Plus, we’ve already discovered that we’re trapped. Locked gates, high walls. There’s no way out.

  The air seems to press against my body making it hard to breathe. But it’s the former police officer in me that stops me from flying off the handle, from reacting instantly to accept the Judge’s demands.

  I remember the acronym. The steps I must go through before responding. SARA: shock, anger, reflection, acceptance. Like the stages of grief, it isn’t wise to respond when still gripped by the effects of shock and anger.

  The garden, the source of the horror, isn’t a place that will allow me to think clearly. I need quiet. I turn my back on the group and head in the direction of the bedroom. Fingers squeezes around my arm. I inhale sharply as Mo’s strong fingers dig into my flesh. He’s going to break my arm in two.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he says in a voice so full of nerves it pitches with every word. Grabbing my other arm, he pulls my face up close to his. The red wine he drank last night still lingers on his breath. I yank my arm, trying to twist away from him, but he grips tighter. He is too powerful.

  ‘Let go of my arm, Mo,’ I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. I don’t owe him any explanation of where I’m going. This is my challenge, my lot, and I will handle it as I deem appropriate. It’s nothing to do with him.

  ‘Not until you agree to do this.’ His fingers dig in deeper. I wince; his fingers are like hot brands burning my skin, his eyes are wild.