The Islanders

by S. V. Leonard

  ‘Valentina. Valentina!’ I shout, my voice getting louder the longer Valentina remains unresponsive.

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ says a voice from behind me but I ignore it. I need to focus on Valentina, on saving Valentina.

  ‘What can I do? Tell me what I need to do,’ says Rosalind; her voice flutters as she speaks. I ignore her – I know she’s trying to help but all I see is Valentina. My knuckles sear as I continue to rub them over her bony chest. But I don’t stop, I can’t stop. My chest tightens with a sadness that threatens to consume me. It’s too late. I can’t save her. Valentina is dead.

  I glance at the countdown timer; there are still eight minutes left on the clock but Valentina is dead. The clock flashes and the time changes.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. The countdown timer ends.

  ‘No!’ I whisper, placing my forehead onto Valentina’s still chest. Her chest is red and hot from the force of my rubbing. My body is heavy, weighed down my failure. My tears fall and splash against Valentina’s skin. A scream builds in my throat and I clamp my mouth shut as hard as I can to stop it from erupting.

  I’ve had over an hour to solve this thing with only five suspects. What haven’t I figured it out? Thoughts I’ve had many, many times before surge through my body. I’ve failed. I am a failure and I have cost an innocent woman her life. My breathing increases; I feel my chest rise and fall jaggedly as I struggle to catch my breath. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I feel as if I’m on the precipice of one right now.

  The others gather behind me. I know they’re there. I hear their yelps of horror and tears of shock, but I don’t acknowledge them. It’s as if I’m separated from the others by a sheet of glass. I’m completely alone in my grief.

  It is no one else’s fault but mine. Valentina is dead. Dead! And now I will have to add her name to the baggage I lug around with me every single day. My eyes blur with tears and I slump onto my bum, pressing my face into my hands.

  ‘What… should… we… do?’ someone asks, each word interspersed with a sob. The question is directed at me, but my ears feel as if they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool.

  Why are they asking me? What do I know? I know nothing, nothing except this fresh pain that stabs in my heart like a knife.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ says a gentle voice close to me. I feel a warm, soft hand clasp my own. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’

  My eyes find Daniel, who is crouched beside me. The camera operator’s face, too, is wet with tears. He looks as shellshocked as I feel. I blink at him, barely able to register his words. My arm tugs as Daniel tries to coax me into a standing position. But I make no effort to move myself. I don’t want to move. I want to stay here guarding over Valentina’s body until I shrivel away from lack of sleep and lack of food.

  Without warning, a sound so violent rips through the haze that has settled upon me. I open my eyes to see a violent shake take over Daniel’s body. Bile rises in my throat. So powerful and evil is that sound to me now. It’s the alarm that signals the return of the Judge and whatever hateful message he has to deliver.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. ‘All remaining Islanders, please report to the Fire Pit.’

  Daniel tugs at my arm again and this time I allow myself to be dragged. The others sit like zombies around the Fire Pit, their faces pointed towards the screen.

  As we’ve obeyed the Judge’s request without complaint, the alarm stops, and the garden is completely silent. The aftermath of Valentina’s death is different to that of Jack’s. Gone are the shouts of disbelief.

  ‘How can this be happening?’ whispers Rosalind, more to herself than anyone else.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ says the Judge. His image looms over us like an evil god. ‘How are we all?’ The Judge’s question rings out, but no one answers. My head has been commandeered by a tension headache so intense I can barely think, let alone speak. ‘Silly question, I guess.’

  The Judge shifts his focus, so his pixelated eyes are directed more towards me. It’s an effort to lift my head to look at him; my head is heavy and my temples throb. My eyes linger over his face and I realise that the anger that has consumed me for the last few hours has passed.

  No, not passed, numbed. Apart from my headache I feel nothing.

  ‘Kimberley,’ says the Judge with a sigh. ‘Here we are. Another hour later and because you didn’t solve it, Valentina Novak is dead.’

  ‘She died before the timer ended. You said we had extra time; yet again, you lied to us.’

  ‘It isn’t easy to time these things, Kimberley. Valentina regularly takes medication for her anxiety and, given the stress of this situation, my little helper recommended she take one of her pills about an hour ago to help her keep calm and focused. We’d tampered with her medication. Based on the dose and her size, an hour seemed about right but poison really isn’t a great choice for murder – very unpredictable. I’m sure the audience will forgive me eight minutes; you’ve got to admit, it was close.’

  ‘And what would you have done if I’d solved it? If I’d figured out who killed Jack,’ I ask.

  ‘Then Valentina would have been an unfortunate victim of my lack of faith in you. It’s not nice when people don’t believe in you, is it, Kimberley?’

  I know what he’s getting at and it’s impossible for me to muster any reaction apart from a curt nod. This is my fault, but I know that already. There’s no way the Judge can make me feel worse about it. The heaviness in my body threatens to crush me. I place my hands on the seat and lock my elbows, using my straight arms to keep me upright. I want to crumble, to fall to pieces, but I refuse to give the Judge the satisfaction.

  ‘I can see how upset you all are by Valentina’s death, but I really don’t want you feeling too bad about it. Between you and me, she wasn’t that nice of a person anyway.’ The Judge pauses. ‘It is two thirty-five in the afternoon. There will be one hour to the next death. Start the clock.’

  Pop. The Judge vanishes from the screen.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Contact Me form

  Type your message in the box below. I read every piece of correspondence that comes to me and I will aim to get back to you as soon as I can.

  Your Name: Tristram Campbell

  Your Email Address: tristram@thecampbellfamily.com

  Your Message:

  By all accounts, I’d say I’m a pragmatic man, someone who believes in the law and the verdicts that it gives us but here, the law has failed me and my family and allowed the manipulation of a young woman to win the day. Let me start by saying, I loved my father and despite my anger at what has happened I don’t blame him at all. He was a vulnerable old man who could not resist her charms and she took advantage of him in the worst way.

  My father, Philip Campbell, was a well-respected and, at his retirement, a high-ranking public servant. Upon his retirement he was looking forward to spending the wealth he accumulated over years of hard work and intended to travel, eat at all the best restaurants and just generally live his life to the fullest. Unfortunately, and it breaks my heart to write it, he fell ill quite soon afterwards and became housebound. My wife and I arranged for a carer for him, someone who would come in the morning and help him around the house but would also be there in case he hurt himself. As time went on we noticed a change in my father; he looked at us differently and was more distant than usual. When I confronted him about it, he said he knew about the affairs and that he was disappointed. I was shocked at this; I’d never had any affairs in my life.

  As it transpires, the carer was also a budding social media celebrity or whatever the appropriate terminology is here. She liked to dig for gossip and, unfortunately for my family, there were secrets to be found. Nobody is perfect, you have to understand that, but I could never have imagined that my private life would have become fodder for a young woman’s pursuit of fame. She discovered that early on in our marriage my wife had str
ayed and that my eldest son was in fact not my son and as such, my father was of the opinion, my son should be cut from the will. I should stress that although my father was unwell he had a strong moral compass and infidelity, especially on the woman’s side, was a treasonable offence. So, my son was cut off and the funds that should have gone to him were redirected to this truth-teller. This girl used the indiscretions of my family as a subject for her YouTube channel and as a means to turn my father against us. Naturally, when I discovered this I fired her, but it was too late, my father had made up his mind and no matter how much I reasoned with the lawyer that he was not of sound mind it did nothing to change it. My father was determined to give her something to ‘pursue her passion’, if exposing other people’s secrets for money can healthily be called a passion but there we are.

  My father died over a year ago now, but I have recently discovered this girl’s Internet success has only gone from strength to strength. I find it astonishing that she has made her money exposing other people’s secrets for entertainment when she exploited a man at the most vulnerable stage in his life. I am of the opinion that someone needs to expose her for what she truly is, and I think you could be the person to help me. I did inherit something from my father, even if it wasn’t money, and that is the propensity to be a workaholic. This means that even without the money I am an extremely wealthy man and I’d certainly be willing to pay you for your troubles.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kimberley

  Sunday 27th July, 14:35

  60 Minutes Until Next Murder

  Valentina is dead, murdered right in front of me, and I could do absolutely nothing to stop it. A feeling of shame creeps over me. I turn my back to my fellow Islanders and walk away from them. My legs carry me to the dining table and I sit down, my chin resting in my hands. Rosalind and Mo join me, mirroring my position. Without warning, my stomach growls and I place a hand to it. ‘Sorry,’ I say to them, ‘my stomach seems to have forgotten that I have a murder to investigate.’ Rosalind gives me a pained smile; she clearly doesn’t understand how I can be hungry at a time like this. We sit for a couple of minutes in silence and I will my stomach to stay quiet too.

  ‘Well, that settles it,’ says Mo, pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘I have decided to cook us all a late lunch.’ His voice is stronger than it has been in hours. He has devised a plan, he has something to focus on, and that clearly gives him comfort.

  ‘No wonder you’re hungry, Kim,’ he continues. ‘None of us have eaten all day, and I need to do something to keep myself occupied. As a chef and restaurant owner, I’d never forgive myself if we all died of hunger.’ He laughs. It’s a forced, awkward laugh. The gallows humour doesn’t sit well with him. He’s probably not seen as much as I have. He’s never needed it before. None of the others around the table join in with Mo’s joke, if it could really be called that.

  ‘I’ll help, it would be good to have something to do,’ says Carly, heading towards us from the garden, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.

  ‘Me too,’ says Rosalind, twisting her neck to look up at Mo.

  The three of them retreat to the kitchen. Daniel, who has relieved himself of his camera, also heads to the kitchen, but it isn’t to help the others. Instead, he heads straight for the fridge. His fingers curl around its smooth round handle; he jerks it open and darts his hand inside, grabbing a bottle of wine. He then plonks the bottle down – the glass clinks loudly as it collides with the table – and slides an empty glass in my direction. Unscrewing the top, he pours a measure in my glass and a measure in his own.

  ‘To Jack,’ he says before downing the entirety of the glass in one gulp. I hesitate for a moment; alcohol doesn’t seem like a good idea right now. Mo, Rosalind and Carly turn to watch Daniel’s first toast but all three of them refuse to participate. They’re too worried and I understand that. I look down at the wine-filled glass and pause. If I’m meant to die next, I’m meant to die next. Wordlessly, I mirror him. Daniel lifts the bottle again and pours another toast. ‘To Sophia.’ Again, we both down our drinks. ‘To Valentina.’ Another toast. ‘And finally,’ he says, placing a hand on my arm, ‘to us.’ We clink our glasses against one another’s and then drink.

  The four small wine toasts go some way to loosen the tension I’ve carried for the last five hours. The truth of it is that I’m lost. I don’t have any idea what I should do next; I thought that by obeying the Judge’s demands I might be able to save them but the attempt I made was a complete and utter disaster. I’m no closer to figuring out who killed Jack than I was when I first discovered the body. And now the path is littered with the deaths of Sophia and Valentina and there will be more.

  Forty-one minutes remain on the clock. Maybe toasting my failure is the only way to go. I reach out to grab the bottle and pour myself another glass.

  ‘No more,’ says Daniel. ‘We need you to be sober.’ I can’t help but scoff at this. What is he talking about?

  ‘Daniel, none of you need me. The only thing you need me for is if you all want to die more quickly than you biologically should.’

  I shrug Daniel’s hand off my arm. I wish he’d stop trying to help me; doesn’t he know I’m not safe to be around? I reach again for the bottle but Daniel removes it from the table and stands up.

  ‘Oh go away then, Daniel,’ I snap. ‘Go to the kitchen. Help the others. I want to be alone.’

  ‘Fine but I’m taking the bottle with me.’ He trudges away from me, his back turned.

  ‘Fine—’ My lame remark is interrupted by a shriek from the kitchen. I’m on my feet in a flash, stepping alongside Daniel, who has stopped in his tracks.

  ‘What is it, Carly?’ asks Rosalind, looking at her but not moving any closer to her. Mo, who is standing next to the fridge, reaches out a hand to grab the handle and support himself; he looks like he might faint.

  ‘Is someone hurt?’ calls Daniel, his arm out in front stopping me from moving any closer in case there is danger. I loop under it and approach the scene. Carly looks at us and swallows.

  ‘There were three this morning and now there are only two.’

  ‘Only two what?’ asks Daniel.

  ‘Knives,’ says Carly. ‘One of the incredibly sharp Japanese knives is missing.’

  ‘It is what it is,’ says Mo, opening the fridge and retrieving a handful of blood-red tomatoes from it.

  ‘It is what it is?’ replies Carly, staring at him incredulously. ‘That’s alright for you to say, you’re a man. If someone comes at you with a knife you can at least defend yourself but look at the size of me!’

  ‘How do we know you didn’t take it?’ asks Mo, looking at Carly. ‘And have announced it to cover your tracks.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ she shouts back. But Mo is unaffected by her shouts. Instead, he stalks past her, pulls one of the remaining knives from its holder and starts chopping the tomatoes.

  ‘I have decided to cook, so that is what I’m going to do and if someone wants to stab me in the back while I’m doing it, they can for all I care right now. You can either help me or you can go somewhere else.’

  Carly’s jaw tightens, and she crosses her slender arms across her chest. ‘I’ll stay here, thank you. Now, give me something to do.’

  Mo gives her and Rosalind instructions to gather all the necessary ingredients and lay them next to the pot; he also asks Daniel to make a salad, which he does without argument. I perch on one of the bar stools and am treated to another small glass of wine by Daniel. For ‘good behaviour’, he says.

  A further twenty minutes pass as Mo, Carly, Rosalind and Daniel move around the kitchen chopping, stirring, seasoning or cleaning until the smell of meatballs in a rich tomato sauce tickles my nostrils. My stomach rumbles again and as a group we head to the table, each carrying a steaming plate of warm food.

  With the toasting and cooking, there are now only twenty-one minutes until the next murder. I wonder how the Judge feels about my lack of engage
ment. Is he annoyed that I’m not trying to figure it out? Or maybe he’s happy that I’ve so obviously failed?

  Fear and nausea had staved away the feeling of hunger but now, relaxed by alcohol and the smell of the dish, my stomach makes it clear just how much it demands payment.

  Not stopping to think about my actions, I grab my fork and plunge it into one of the meatballs and, picking it up, I shove it, whole, into my mouth. The heat of it sears my tongue but I don’t care. I barely chew it before swallowing. At the same time, I reach for a hunk of bread to mop up some of the sauce. There’s a small part of my brain that reminds me that people are watching. But I ignore the fact that I probably look like a caveman, devouring the food without airs and graces and as if I haven’t eaten in weeks. People can think what they like; our audience has probably already made their opinion of me.

  It’s obvious that the food that’s been prepared is excellent but for my hungry body it’s sustenance and little more.

  Using another piece of bread, I scrape all the remaining sauce from my plate and put it into my mouth. Once I’m finished, I look up. I furrow my eyebrows; none of the other Islanders have made much of a dent in their own meals. The Islanders are all looking at me: Mo’s eyes are wide; Carly’s arms are crossed; Rosalind’s mouth hangs open; and even Daniel looks a little shocked as he raises his eyebrow at me. There’s an awkwardness around the table. My undeterred appetite came as a shock to them; even hunger won’t allow them to forget the horrors of the day.

  Rosalind leans forward and rests her chin atop her intertwined fingers. ‘There’s only twenty minutes left on the clock. Maybe now would be a good time for us to try to, to…’ Rosalind stumbles over her words. ‘To reset. To plan what we should do next and how to…’ She pauses.

  ‘How to stay alive, you mean?’ says Mo, finishing her sentence. Everyone avoids looking at me. It is clear how uncomfortable the others feel around me. It’s understandable – any interaction with me could mean an expedited death sentence. Annoyance pricks at me; is it really my fault we’re all at risk of being murdered? Nobody’s innocent here.