Pleasure Island (25 page)

T
he sound
of the doorbell ringing sent a jolt of foreboding through Angelika's chest. She waited, her breathing shallow, adrenalin coursing. Her palms were sticky with sweat and she rubbed them onto her light, floral, Chloé playsuit before pushing the bell once more. Nothing. She pressed it again, harder this time and rapped on the door with her knuckles, the momentum of which caused it to open a crack.

‘Helloooo, is anyone here? Elaine?' Angelika hesitated as she tentatively stepped inside into the vast hallway, the acoustics of the shiny wooden floor amplifying her slow, careful footsteps. The house was eerily quiet, the silence almost sinister. ‘Elaine!' she called out again. ‘It's Angelika Deyton … I need to talk to you. The door was open …' There was no answer.

‘I need to talk to you about this camera, Elaine … and about the night of the party. It's important.' Her voice rang out like gunshots through the open space, bouncing off the walls and echoing back at her. ‘Elaine, are you there? Anybody?'

Spurred on by her need for answers, Angelika pushed open a door to her left and peered inside. It was a study of some sort; there was a large wood and leather desk with books stacked neatly on surrounding shelves. A giant vase filled with fresh flowers scented the entire room, brightening up what was otherwise an austere setting. The swivel chair was a little way back from the desk and turned to the side as though someone had abandoned it in haste. She spotted a telephone, one of those old-fashioned 50s types, like a film prop on the desk, and immediately went to it and picked it up. There was no dial tone and she sighed, replacing the receiver with a click. The desk was neat and in order. A notebook, pen and laptop computer, closed, sat perfectly symmetrical next to Post-it notes and other office paraphernalia. A vintage, leather, Chesterfield sofa was positioned in the corner of the room; not even the large, velvet, scatter cushions made it look inviting. An oscillating fan squeaked and churned above her, adding to the general feeling of unease.

Angelika ran her fingers over the laptop and, glancing at the door, she opened it and pressed the button to boot it up. Suddenly she heard voices. Springing back from the desk, she quickly took cover behind the door and listened; there were people outside in the hallway.

‘So where is she then?' a deep, male voice enquired.

‘No fucking idea, bro,' another male voice answered. ‘She was around yesterday and then … hell, I don't know where the old bitch's gone.' Their accents sounded British, perhaps one was American.

‘Yeah, well, she would want to turn up soon because it's payday tomorrow.'

‘She's probably gone to the island for something. Is her car still here?'

Car
? Angelika's breathing was so loud she felt sure they would hear it from behind the door.

‘Yeah, it is. I checked this morning.'

‘And she said nothing about taking a trip out anywhere?'

‘Dude, I told you. I saw her this morning and haven't seen her since.'

‘Did she look like she was going somewhere?'

‘She was wearing a swimsuit, that's all I can remember. And she told me to keep an eye on things until she was back.'

‘So she was going somewhere?'

‘Well, I guess so. But she said she'd see me later and to keep a check on the Deyton woman. That's it.'

‘I'd happily keep an eye on the Deyton woman.' One of the men chortled. ‘Looks like she hasn't been fucked properly in a decade.'

Angelika was shaking.

‘Yeah, and we know why! Anyway, Billie-Jo's more my cup of tea, bro, though right now I wouldn't say no to anyone. With all this tits and arse on display, I got a permanent hard-on.'

‘Same be said for Raj as well, eh?'

The men laughed.

‘Yeah, how come he got to break the rules and fraternise with the cast?'

‘Must've been in the script, though I have to say, keeping up this silence in front of them 24/7 has been the biggest challenge of my fucking career. Every time that Rupert snaps his fingers and demands a Scotch I wanna tell him in no uncertain terms where to stick it, only by the looks of things he'd probably enjoy it!'

‘Ha ha, you're not wrong. Still only a few more days and we're done. I'll be glad to get out of here. This place gives me the shits, man. Weirdest gig I ever done. Anyways, we getting the boat into town tonight or what? Grab a few drinks, check out the fresh pussy … there's bound to a new planeload by now. You on for it?'

‘Yeah, man, why not? I'll see you round the back of the harbour around midnight, yeah?'

The voices grew distant.

Script?
Fraternising with the cast
?
Boat
! So she had been right about what she'd thought she'd seen. There
was
a boat on the island! She was sure it had to be somewhere on the north side of the island, obscured from view. Angelika's mind was revving like a car stuck in first gear. And the mutes weren't mute at all. It was just an act they'd been putting on. And Elaine had a car – transport off the island. She had been lying to them, keeping them here under false pretences, little more than prisoners, albeit in five-star luxury. But in God's name, why? She took the camera from her pocket and looked at it.
Cast
… one of the men had used the word ‘cast'. Could it be that … ? But before she could continue her thoughts, the door to the study opened.

F
rom the confines
of his private residence, Martin McKenzie watched Angelika Deyton hiding behind the door of his study downstairs with a smirk.

A message flashed up on his screen. It was from Super8#4.

‘What the fuck's going on, McKenzie? There appears to be thousands of new users on line. Have we been hacked?'

What
? McKenzie looked down at the bottom of his screen and sure enough saw the user count was now in the hundreds of thousands.

‘It's a mistake.' He dismissed it instantly. ‘There is absolutely no way this could happen. It's an impossibility; you have my absolute assurance on this. It's a technical error. No need for alarm.'

‘It had better be,' Super8#7 chipped in.

McKenzie was not taken with the man's tone, and neither was he concerned. He'd had this private forum built by the world's most-competent software and technical specialists and security had been of paramount importance. He'd been personally assured that the firewall he'd had built especially was the most technologically advanced of its kind anywhere on the planet. ‘Weapons of mass destruction couldn't penetrate this protection – you have my absolute guarantee on this.' That's what he'd been told, and certainly what he'd paid for, and McKenzie had absolute faith in the statement he'd been given because the man who'd given it knew that he'd signed his own death warrant otherwise.

Still, he thought it prudent to message his tech people and let them know there had been an error and to get it fixed without delay. He didn't want the club unnerved, and he certainly didn't want them up his arsehole about it. First things first, however, he would have to deal with the hack. Snapping his laptop shut, McKenzie made his way downstairs.

‘
M
rs Deyton
, what an unexpected surprise.' Martin McKenzie greeted her with a smile so disingenuous that it sent an icy chill the length of her spine, and for the briefest moment she thought about making a run for it.

‘McKenzie,' she said struggling to compose herself, ‘I … I wasn't expecting to see you.'

‘Evidently,' he mused, making his way over towards the desk. His whole demeanour conveyed an air of unimpeachable authority, just as she had remembered.

‘How did you get here?' she said. ‘Elaine told us the island was on a weather alert and that there were no planes landing or taking off.'

‘And she was right,' he said. ‘Only I'm an incredibly rich man, as you know, Angelika. I may call you Angelika? After all, we're already acquainted.'

She nodded, squeezing her fists tightly to prevent him for seeing her hands shaking,

McKenzie continued: ‘And so I managed to eventually, how can I put this,
persuade
the right people to flout the restrictions and allow me to take a private jet here. Landed just now.' He moved over towards a small cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Scotch, aged single malt, of course, and held it up. ‘Drink? You look like you could use one. I know I could.'

‘No … thank you,' she said, though he was right in his assumption. ‘I don't drink Scotch.'

McKenzie scanned her with his dark eyes. She was prettier than he'd remembered, more feminine and petite, quite attractive, all said, standing there in her summer playsuit and wedge espadrilles, her long hair falling past her shoulders in silky waves. No tits, though. Still, you couldn't have everything.

‘No, no of course you don't. It's a man's drink, I suppose. A brandy then, perhaps?'

‘You've twisted my arm.' Her nerves were in shreds. His unexpected presence had completely blindsided her. Suddenly she couldn't think of a single thing to say, the plethora of questions she'd wanted to ask abandoning her like Scotch mist. He handed her a large cut-glass tumbler, half full.

‘Cheers.' He raised his glass, his eyes still lingering upon her. ‘I trust you've been enjoying your stay, that Elaine and the staff here have made you welcome, made sure your every need has been catered for? I take it that's why you're here, to see Elaine about something?'

‘You don't know about the plane crash?' Deeming it safe to do so, she moved away from the door towards him and took a sip of the dark liquid. She had watched him pour it straight from the bottle and figured it was kosher.

‘Plane crash?' The corners of his mouth turned outwards. ‘What plane crash? I'm afraid Elaine and I have been incommunicado since your arrival. Damn phone lines were down and I've been unable to reach her on her mobile.'

‘And that didn't concern you, that you couldn't get hold of her for the best part of a fortnight?'

‘Well, yes, it did. Hence … here I am. I was aware of the weather conditions, of the flight restrictions, but as for any crash … that's news to me, I'm afraid. Nothing was reported. Besides, I have every faith in my wife's capabilities, Angelika. I left her in charge. I feel sure she would've found a way to contact me should she have felt the need to.'

‘Felt the need to? We almost
died
getting here, McKenzie,' she said, ‘and the pilot, he
did
die – a horrible, dreadful death, too.' The sight of the man's face embedded into the control panel flashed up inside her head like the trailer of some gruesome horror flick. ‘And the attendant, Aki, her body … we never found it. We suspect she drowned.'

McKenzie shook his head but remained calm and composed – too calm and composed for her liking.

‘And as for Joshua Jones … well, he could've lost an arm.'

‘But he didn't?'

‘No, but that's not really the point.' She stared at him, incredulous.

McKenzie shook his head again and tutted. ‘Dreadful. That's really quite awful, especially for a musician. I do hope he's on the mend.'

Angelika was still as a statue. Was he mocking her? Was this all some elaborate joke at her expense? Suddenly she did not feel safe.

‘Take a seat, my dear. You look a little jaded.'

She ignored the request. ‘I want to know what's going on … why we're being kept here against our will.'

McKenzie took a seat in the leather swivel chair behind the desk and sipped his drink, savouring it by pulling his lips over his teeth and making an ‘ahhh' sound.

‘Against your will?' he eventually said. ‘Whatever do you mean?' He drew his chin into his neck.

‘I overheard the men talking, outside.' She pointed to the door awkwardly. ‘Some strange things have happened …' She realised she wasn't making much sense. ‘We had a party for JJ, for Joshua, the night he was flown back to the island, although he doesn't remember a thing. None of us do.'

‘Good night, was it?'

‘That's just it, McKenzie,' she said, ‘none of us know. We think we may have been drugged, though why we have no idea.'

‘Why on earth would anyone want to drug you?' he asked dismissively. ‘That's really quite absurd, my dear. Were you injured in the crash? Perhaps you have a concussion. I can arrange to have you seen by a doctor if you wish.'

Angelika gulped back a mouthful of brandy. It was smooth as it slid down her throat but the afterburn almost took her breath away.

‘I don't need a doctor. I need answers,' she said flatly, a trickle of confidence returning. ‘Why are we being filmed, McKenzie?' She waggled the small plastic recording device at him. ‘I found this buried deep in some bushes up by the infinity pool. And why did Elaine lie and say she had no access to transport when in reality her car was here all along. And –' she paused for breath ‘– how come the selective mutes are suddenly having full-blown conversations with each other? I just heard two members of staff talking quite clearly outside in the hallway. They mentioned the word “cast” like they were referring to us. What did they mean?' Angelika deliberately omitted mentioning the fact she had heard the men talking about a boat. It could be their ticket out of there and she didn't want him to know she knew about it.

‘Too much champagne can turn even the best-behaved girls bad, you know. I've had many a champagne blackout in my time. Or perhaps you're choosing not to remember on a subliminal level. The mind, after all, is the most powerful organ in the body.' He was calm, affable even. ‘I can only imagine how the crash affected you all. I really can't apologise enough. Please, won't you sit down?'

‘I'd prefer to stand if it's all the same to you.' She watched him carefully in an attempt to read his body language, searching for silent clues that might give something away. He was dressed in a deep-blue three-button wool suit, a replica of the one he'd worn the day she'd interviewed him, sharply tailored, the detail subtle, his pristine white shirt offsetting the inky hue. The cufflinks were diamond, of course, to match the impressive timepiece on his wrist: Cartier – platinum by the looks of it – and covered in rocks. He was immaculate, carefully groomed, yet somehow giving the impression of the casual effortlessness of someone who wasn't trying too hard. She couldn't read him.

‘As a narcissist – your words, if I recall, my dear, not mine – I would hardly be likely to film my guests. What would be the point in that, if, as you have previously suggested in your rather unflattering biographical interview of me, I'm my own biggest fan? Surely I would have a camera crew filming
me
if that was indeed the case.' He paused momentarily. ‘That piece of plastic you have in your hand is in fact an electric water timer with an inbuilt temperature sensor that works on the principle that should the ground get too dry it triggers the sensor which trips the water sprinkler system. I care very much about this island, Angelika. It's taken me almost a decade to make it worthy of prestigious inhabitants much like your good self. I spent hundreds of thousands of pounds planting the trees, shrubs and plants across the entire island. As you have no doubt seen for yourself, the climate here is harsh and unforgiving; rain is a rare gift. When I first arrived here there was little more than brush and a few hardy perennials that could survive in such temperatures. But with a team of horticultural and agricultural experts on board we came up with a technologically advanced system that would ensure moisture could get to the dry soil, allowing the plants to flourish, part of which you're holding in your hand.'

Angelika hesitated, processing the information. It was a feasible explanation, she supposed, and for a moment she doubted herself. Was it all really just in her head? Was she, as Rupert kept reminding her, simply suffering from an overactive imagination … paranoia brought about by the trauma of the crash?

‘And in response to your other concerns,' he continued apace, ‘the staff here are indeed selective mutes. With hindsight, perhaps, this was not my finest idea, but really Angelika, as a man who travels the world and for whom everyone he meets has a question to ask, I came up with the idea through personal preference, taking ‘the speak when spoken to' ethos one stage further if you will. I'm not one for small chat; I find it rather tedious, particularly if I'm relaxing on a luxury vacation. And admittedly I felt it might add a little, well, mystique I suppose. I am a showman, after all. I supposed it could be construed as a touch pretentious, like your husband suggested. And perhaps some of them were faking it just to get a gig out here; after all, who wouldn't want to spend a fortnight on Pleasure Island? But rest assured I will be looking into it. I don't like having the wool pulled over my eyes, Angelika. I was guaranteed their authenticity and went to great pains to have them sourced and flown here from all corners of the globe.'

‘And what about Elaine's car?'

‘It was already here on the island, the Range Rover, ghastly thing guzzles gas like an alcoholic in a distillery. I should imagine she had very little juice and wished to keep it in case of a serious emergency. As it is she appears not to have made it back to the island which concerns me somewhat that she may have run out of gas somewhere along her outward journey and without her mobile phone, well... I assume her reasons for keeping this information undisclosed was to avoid hysteria, especially since I am now aware of your most unfortunate introduction onto the island.'

Angelika felt the heat of his eyes upon her and took another sip of her brandy. He made her want to look away but she stood her ground and kept her eyes firmly upon his.

‘I can think of no greater emergency than a plane crash, can you?'

McKenzie smiled thinly. ‘One of which you all survived I'm happy to see.'

‘All but the pilot …and Aki, I presume. We never found her body.'

He sighed heavily. ‘I've no doubt that lawyer husband of yours will have something to say in the way of compensation and frankly I can't say that I blame him after this. I will have a full investigation conducted as to what went wrong and why – you have my word on that – and if it appeases your conscience, I will ensure the pilot's family are fully compensated for their most-tragic loss.'