Pleasure Island (13 page)

‘Well?' he prompted them, keen for feedback.

‘That's more like it, McKenzie,' came the response from Super8#4. ‘So, what's next?'

C
ody Parker's
eyes darted across the computer screen, his nose practically touching it such was the intensity of his concentration. The network encryption of the private forum he'd been attempting to hack into for the past few days was new – like, never-seen-before new – and their OS was a few updates ahead of the big ones, which by rights should've made it easier when it came to password cracking in a strange kind of twisted logic that only he understood. He'd spent the past 48 hours solidly working on it but frustratingly had got nowhere. Now, however, it seemed as if he might have caught a break.

‘Cody, honey, you want some milk and cookies?' his mom sang up the stairs, ‘I got those white Oreos that you love from the store today … got them special … they all sold out in Walmart, or maybe they just don't stock them, so anyways I had to go down to the store on 5
^th
, next to Walgreens, you know the one?'

Cody didn't answer her; he was far too absorbed in the moment. A fanfare of cheerleaders could've marched naked through his bedroom and he wouldn't even have looked up.

‘Co-deeee,' she called up the stairs again with a weary sigh. She knew it wasn't healthy for her son to spend practically twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four holed away in his bedroom on that goddamn computer but she'd long been forced to accept it over the years because that's who Cody Parker was: someone was between ‘genius and introvert', or so the people at the autistic society had said. To his mother, Lana Parker, however, he was simply her son.

Call it a mother's instinct, sixth sense or whatever you liked, but Lana had known there was something special about her only boy from the moment she'd first held him in her arms, bloodied and covered in vernix. There were small signs, pointers that flagged up questions that caused themselves to linger inside her head for longer than they should've: the distinct lack of eye contact even when he was on her breast; a noticeable sensitivity to light and sound; and as he grew, a lack of social interaction with other children, all of which had begun to support her fears that something wasn't quite right.

It being her first child, and therefore possessing no real milestone gauges, Lana put these fears down to being a cautious first-time mom. Didn't every new mom fret that her baby was A-OK? Rather than unduly worry herself sick she remained thoughtful of her son's ‘quirky individuality'. It was only when the meltdowns at kindergarten started, the aggressive outbursts and self-harming began to happen, that such thoughtfulness escalated into genuine concern. She supposed it had come as no real surprise when finally Cody, aged seven, was officially diagnosed as being on the autistic spectrum; deep down she had always suspected it and yet having it confirmed was no less difficult to accept. A mother's denial was a powerful thing and sometimes she would watch her son through aching blurry eyes, a small person trapped inside a world in which she could never fully comprehend, a world in which he would forever remain alone, one where empathy and human comfort didn't exist. She had wanted to reach inside him and pull him out of himself, locate the real boy inside. Only he was the real boy.
Her
real boy.

Cut off from the ‘normal' world, Cody Parker had gradually retreated into one of his own, one which consisted solely of computer games and technology, a world in which it seemed he displayed alarming expertise and one where he could lose himself; a world he understood and a place where he felt safe – Cody's world.

By the time he'd reached the tender age of ten he was solving mathematical equations that would stump a fifty-year-old university lecturer. ‘High functioning', the Autism Society called it, though Lana preferred to think of it as both ‘gift and tragedy'. By the time Cody had reached his teens Lana had given up attempting to steer her son's condition in any direction and had reached a sort of sad resignation, a reluctant acceptance of who he was and who he would ever be - her ‘little
Rainman
'. Lana knew she would never see her son marry; there would be no white wedding, no one calling her Grandma, a sadness which never truly left her.

There would, however, be a first-class honours degree in Premier Engineering and Technology, and recognition as one of the country's youngest leading experts in his field. His condition had not affected him achieving, even if it had affected him in other ways. It was sad really because to look at him you would never know there was something not quite right. It was only on closer inspection, after spending some time in his company did you begin to see the strange quirks that made him ‘different'. She was proud of her son, and fiercely protective of him; whenever he'd been challenged, picked on or berated, the lioness within her would protect her special cub. ‘He's a freak, weirdo, psycho, creep, he's not
normal
' – she'd heard it all over the years and while the pain of ignorance and prejudice hurt, it had gradually slipped closer towards indifference. ‘“Is he autistic? Yeah, and his rising sign is Asperger's...”' But whatever he was, Cody Parker was, and always would be, her son.

Lana schlepped up the stairs in her carpet slippers, muttering to herself.

‘I'll leave them here for you then, honey,' she said with a soft sigh, placing the cookies and milk next to him on the desk. ‘What you up to anyway?' She glanced at the computer screen, at the rows of encryption in highlighted green text and shook her head. How he understood what it all meant she hadn't the first clue – it may as well been in hieroglyphics. Sometimes she wondered if his brain actually hurt with all the knowledge and numbers it contained, she worried that eventually he would combust and blow, like an overloaded plug.

‘Intrusions,' Cody said, taking a cookie from the plate and biting into it.

‘I'm sorry, Cody, I wasn't trying to intrude, but you know, baby – you gotta eat.'

‘Computer intrusions,' he said, ‘I'm past the scanner programme and the blog's network encryption is next ---'

‘Uh-huh.' Lana ruffled his hair like he was five-years-old again instead of twenty-five. ‘Don't stay up too late yeah?'

Cody nodded without taking his eyes from the screen. He'd discovered something, some kind of private network, a live stream that just a handful of people had access to by the looks of it and he wanted to know what it was. He'd hacked into and accessed some serious top security shit in his time, government files, FBI stuff, snuff and paedophile rings … real nasty shit. While Cody was aware of these things being wrong, his purpose was not to judge or even bring those responsible to task, it was simply a puzzle to solve, prove himself technologically superior by infiltrating their complex security measures;
that
was the buzz for Cody Parker. He wasn't out to expose or ruin anyone's fun, though if that was the outcome, which was more often than not the case, then it was of no consequence to him.

Dropping biscuit crumbs onto his keyboard, he blinked furiously at the screen, tapping in codes and encryptions like a man possessed, which he was really.

‘Eureka!' he sat back as the PC prompted him; ‘Please type in your unique pin code for access.' Pin codes presented no problem to a mind like Cody's; he was on a home run. After just fifteen or so attempts he was in.

The screen was split into six parts monitoring different areas like a security camera, and when he clicked on the first one a woman came into view. She was embracing a young man enthusiastically, covering his face in scattergun kisses... He switched screens quickly, kissing made him feel funny inside his belly. A woman and a man were taking a swim inside a beautiful azure blue pool; he watched for a few seconds and switched again. In the next screen there was a blonde girl with big tits. She was sunning herself in the smallest bikini he'd ever seen. Cody Parker was puzzled … What the fuck was this? He wasn't sure what he'd expected but whatever it was he felt disappointed by it. No hardcore porn, no FBI files, no snuff … the images on screen told him that whoever these people were there they were on some kind of holiday, somewhere hot by the looks of things. He watched them for the best part of an hour, switching manically between screens, listening into snippets of conversation, inane chat mainly, nothing too rad. He wasn't quite sure what he'd stumbled upon. The security measures had been pretty high for a bunch of people on vacation, so why the secrecy? It was probably just some kind of Big Brother-type shit, security cameras, although he was able to quickly surmise that whoever these people were – he didn't recognise any of them – they seemed unaware that they were being watched.

Cody began to tap away at his keyboard again. He needed to see who was transmitting this stuff, and more importantly who was it being transmitted to? As someone who had spent a great deal of his childhood being ‘observed' and had suffered great paranoia as a result, he didn't much like the idea of voyeurism, even though he was more than guilty of it himself. Anti-establishment to the core, he justified his own needs to snoop and spy in the name of cyber vigilantism; spying on the spies. If Big Brother was always watching, then he'd be the biggest brother of all.

‘Ah ha!' The sound of his fingers frantically tapping away on the keyboard was almost musical. He quickly established that this was a high security private forum broadcasting to a select few – wow, like just eight people by all accounts, a surprisingly small number.

In Cody's experience of private transmissions, all the sickos and freaks out there, of which there were many, who participated in high security driven snuff and porn and sex sites usually convened in treble figures at least, just eight was unheard of. The exclusivity of this intrigued and riled him in equal measures. Like, why had someone gone to all the trouble of broadcasting a few people on vacation? He'd need to track down the host for the answer to that one, and he would too, with a little more detective work.

‘Mom!'

Lana Parker heard her son's voice from the kitchen below and went to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Everything OK, honey?' she called up to him.

‘I need more milk and cookies,' he said, his eyes still firmly fixed on his computer screen. It was going to be a long night.

‘
E
ek
!'

Angelika yelped as she dived off the edge of the rock plunging into the inviting blue lagoon beneath her. It was deeper than she'd anticipated, a little disconcerting, but the water was as warm as a bath as it met with her hot, oily skin. That morning she and Rupert had reluctantly decided to explore the island together, get a feel for the place, work out ‘what was what' as he'd put it, and so far it had not disappointed. The lagoon she had discovered complete with rock pool and waterfall was like something out of
Endless Love
. Pleasure Island was certainly living up to its name.

Flowing in harmony with nature, the 300,000 square meter island was pervaded by idyllic country pathways and had been transformed, clearly no expense spared, into a kind of super-hacienda dream resort, the ultimate luxury hideaway, an A-lister's paradise. To the west coast of the island, not far from the exquisite stilted cabanas where they were staying, lay the exquisite beach, a horseshoe-shaped expanse of white, powder-soft sand, the shallow, blue Aegean sea gently colouring it golden as it licked the edge.

To the east coast it was mainly nature trails, shrubs and trees that sheltered pretty alcoves, one of which hid this stunning lagoon. As for the rest, well, she hadn't got that far yet. The north of the island was almost impossible to see unless you followed the trail behind McKenzie's imposing mansion house and were prepared for the long trek down to the harbour.

Boats! Angelika had what she could only describe as a flashback. She had seen boats, little fishing type vessels that she was sure had been moored at the harbour when they had arrived on the recuse plane. Only they were nowhere to be seen now and she wondered if she had just imagined it. Angelika squinted up at the rocks surrounding her, the sunlight cutting through her silted eyelids, salty water tickling her tongue. She could smell the pines and inhaled deeply as though the air were elixir, which it was, comparatively to London at least. She could hear birds chirruping in the brush above her, dense and thick like a fortress it surrounded the whole island, a fence protecting it. She was glad Rupert had abandoned the tour halfway through now, siting blisters as his reason to retreat back to camp leaving her to discover this place alone, though she suspected it was more likely because of a fat head from the previous evening. In keeping with most things in their marriage, Rupert had said nothing about last night's little showdown, brushing it firmly under the carpet. She wasn't sure if she felt annoyed or grateful for it. Perhaps a little of both.

The lagoon was so peaceful and untouched that she almost felt as though she were contaminating the water just by being in it. Angelika wondered just how many other places there were like this in the world; unspoilt, undiscovered islands just waiting for the likes of McKenzie to conquer it with their fat chequebooks.

Floating onto her back, the sun gently warming her exposed torso, she savoured the rare moment of solitude and attempted to clear her mind. So many things had been bugging her since she'd arrived on the island, not least of all her husband's shady behaviour around Mia. She felt sure something had transpired around the time of the trial that he didn't want her to know about. She tried not to think about it; perhaps whatever it was it was best left unsaid. But she didn't like secrets, not between husband and wife, it wasn't healthy, but then again neither she supposed was their marriage. Deep down somewhere on a murky subconscious level, Angelika felt as if she knew the real truth as to why this was; facing it, however, was another matter altogether. ‘Time tells you all you need to know; don't rush it, just let it go.' These were words her mother used to say to her when she was young and impatient and she gave a melancholy smile as she thought of them. She could only hope her mother was right. She usually was; after all, weren't all mothers? In a moment of reckless abandon she undid her bikini bra, softly giggling as she discarded it with a flick of the hand. It felt so good that she untied her bikini bottoms and watched as they floated away too. It suddenly struck her that in all her thirty-eight years she had never,
never
swum naked before. A topless moment in a Jacuzzi in Ibiza during the early 90s was as close as she'd ever got.

Kicking her legs out behind her she began to swim, enjoying the sensation of the soft, salty water against her nakedness. Soon she was doing forward rolls, throwing her legs up in her air, her bare bottom exposed as she flipped and turned, splashing with joy. Lost in a private moment Angelika felt free for the first time in what seemed like an age and yet even so the questions still came at her, relentless; was she really happy? Had she achieved all she'd wanted to so far, what was missing from her life? She was well aware of her professional achievements; she was, after all, a successful journalist and writer with her own column in the UK's biggest-selling national newspaper. Her opinion counted, her voice carried weight; she was financially independent, owned a beautiful house and drove a luxury car; she wanted for nothing, had a good family and a decent set of interesting friends. And yet … and yet she couldn't quite connect to any of it. Something was missing, a void inside of her that no amount of money, success or prestige could fill. She pushed these thoughts from her mind but they bobbed right back up again, forcing her to contemplate.

On the surface she had it all, the perfect middle-class existence that her newspaper voraciously peddled; solvency, success, ‘The White Company' lifestyle, bar the marriage and kids part anyway. Angelika thought of the abortion she'd had all those years ago. The child would've been eleven now, coming on for twelve, practically a teenager. She wondered whether it might've been a girl or a boy, she'd never thought about it much before and yet suddenly had a burning desire to know. Her life would've been different now of that much she was sure at least. But would it have been better; more fulfilling spiritually? Her friends with children had all told her how becoming a parent grounded you, gave you a sense of purpose, the feeling that there was something bigger, something greater than yourself – and secretly she'd scoffed at it. ‘She's like my heart outside of my chest,' was how her friend Alice had described her newborn daughter, although as a writer she had quite liked that. Meaning: wasn't that what everyone was searching for? Her very existence suddenly seemed so pointless and futile, just a façade for others to look at and aspire to, a cardboard cut-out life with no real depth or substance, trapped by the trappings of social expectation. Had she made choices based on achieving the perfect outward perception? Good God, had she? Angelika swallowed some of the salty water and began to choke a little. She'd read somewhere once that everything you do is a choice and that everything everyone else does is a choice you hope is right for you. And suddenly this statement had resonance. She was pushing forty now: successful, yet childless; married, yet unhappy; and guilt-ridden that she felt as much. She
should
be happy, shouldn't she?

Angelika dived underwater and began to swim, holding her breath for as long as she could. The water was clear and, delighted, she saw a small shoal of fish just beneath her, their silver skin glistening rainbows as the sunlight bounced off their tiny scales. Gasping for breath as she broke the surface, she smoothed her hair from her face and spat out the salty water.

As beautiful as this place undoubtedly was, something about it gave her an instinctive sense of unease, a feeling she'd experienced from the moment she'd stepped onto the island. Alongside a general malaise, she had felt herself slip into a strange melancholy, her mood spiking in peaks and troughs. It was the plane crash for sure, or perhaps it was just that ‘overactive imagination' of hers that her husband liked to remind her of, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being observed somehow – that she was being
watched
. She looked up at the cloudless sky, at the sun blazing from its centre, magnificent and majestic, almost arrogant as it cast a white blanket over everything. Suddenly sensing that someone was behind her, Angelika turned round. She
was
being watched!

‘Hello?' Her voice echoed across the lagoon like a steel drum. She did a 360-degree spin in the water, eyes scanning the rocks for signs of life. ‘Who's there?'

There was a slight pause.

‘Hey.' He appeared as if from nowhere, as though he had been there all the time.

‘Jesus, Nate!' she said, her breathing a little laboured, quickly followed by relief, ‘you scared the shit out of me!'

‘I'm sorry,' he apologised, smiling, ‘I didn't mean to freak you out. I … I just …'

‘How long have you been standing there?' Had he been watching her the whole …
Jesus Christ
! Angelika felt herself flush. She was
naked.

‘No … no … I – honestly, I just got here.' He pointed behind him, at something that wasn't there. ‘I just found the place now a-a-and –' he was stammering ‘– and … I … j-just … now, right this second …'

She squinted up at him from the lagoon, one hand sheltering her eyes from the sun, the other attempting to cover her breasts, legs treading water furiously beneath her until her muscles began to burn.

‘Honest,' he added again.

But they both knew he was lying.