Pleasure Island (29 page)

‘Well, well, well,' she said as she approached him head on, his euphoric expression dropping like a stone. ‘Don't you guys dance pretty well for a couple of dead people?'

‘
L
ady
, what the fuck is your problem?' At first he hadn't recognised her but then suddenly he remembered exactly who she was; it was the woman from the plane, and the guy, too: McKenzie's guests, the ones who had been in the staged plane crash, actors he'd presumed, although he had never asked because when McKenzie requested you to do something you just did it. You didn't ask questions, not if you wanted to keep your job anyway. And he did, as did his wife Aki. McKenzie had paid them a small fortune for what he called their ‘invaluable contribution', enough for them to buy their own place outright with change left over, and he'd been more than happy to sign a confidentially agreement once he'd seen the fiscal rewards for such loyalty. Hell, for that kind of money he would've crashed the plane for real and done a stint in the hospital if needs be.

‘What the …' Nate stared at them as he reached Angelika, his mouth forming an O-shape in disbelief. ‘The pilot … but … but you were dead,' he said. ‘I saw you myself.'

Angelika saw the panic on Aki's face as she began to back away from them.

‘How did you do it?' she asked. ‘How did you stage the crash?'

‘Hiro, let's go,' Aki spoke quickly, her eyes searching for the exit.

‘Hiro …' Angelika snorted with mirth, though it belied her nervousness within, ‘now there's a misnomer if ever I heard one.'

‘Listen, lady, you've got the wrong guy,' he said but it sounded lame and they both knew it.

‘Were we drugged? Was there something in the champagne? Is that why we can't remember properly?'

Hiro looked at her through his dark, narrow eyes. ‘Lady, you don't know who you're dealing with … If I were you, I would go quietly. Don't make a fuss now … it'll do you no good.'

Aki suddenly made a run for the exit, pushing a young partygoer to the floor in her haste.

‘Jesus!' the girl screamed after her. ‘Don't fucking mind me, bitch!'

Hiro was quick to follow her and Angelika lunged in a bid to prevent him but he slipped from her grasp.

‘Leave them,' Nate said. The crowd was just too dense. It was pointless trying to give chase.

Angelika looked at the phone. It was 11.38pm.

‘Let's get out of here, Ange,' he said, grabbing her hand he began pulling her through the bustling throng. ‘We've need to get back to the island, tell the others what we've seen, and decide what to do.'

‘It never happened, Nate.' Angelika felt tears of frustration prick her eyes. ‘He staged it all … the crash … faked the pilot's death and took all our possessions, kept us virtual prisoners … goldfish in a bowl.'

‘I know, Ange,' he said gently, as he dragged her towards the exit of the bar, ‘I know.'

The music was deafening now, hard core trance pulsating in her ears until they felt like they might bleed, yet still it could not drown out the question that was screaming inside her mind.

But why?
WHY
?

T
he water was slightly choppier
on the return journey and Nate's muscles were burning as he struggled to control the small, wooden boat.

‘C'mon …
come on
… Oh, God, Nate, there's hardly any signal.' Angelika held the phone above her in blind panic. ‘One bar at most.'

‘Just keep trying, Ange,' he said, breathless; it was pitch-black now and he prayed he was rowing in the right direction; if he took them further out to sea they would be screwed. The air was chilly now and he could see she was shivering. He took off his suit jacket.

‘Put this on.'

‘No really it's –'

‘Please.'

She wrapped it around her shoulders, and then punched in the digits. There was a long, protracted silence while she waited.

‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.'

‘Shit, Nate, I can't remember the bloody number.'

‘Yes, you can, just don't panic … stay calm … take your time.'

His voice momentarily soothed her and she took a deep breath and dialled again.

‘For God's sake, John –' she held her breath ‘– please still be there …
please
…'

O
n a busy news
day it was not unusual for John Kirkbride to do what he referred to as a ‘writer's all-nighter'. ‘News doesn't stop because you need some shut-eye': that's what he told his exhausted team between coffee breaks anyhow. Besides, in his years of experience, it was always while you slept that the best stuff seemed to take place, which was probably why he looked more like 65 than his 55 years, and why a bottle of Brandy never even touched the sides.

As expected, yesterday's headlines had sent every news desk on the planet into a virtual feeding frenzy. Anything to do with McKenzie always made headline news but this … this was the scandal of the century. McKenzie had links to a lot of people in high positions, including politicians, judges, celebrities and royalty, and the establishment was quite rightly shitting itself lest it be exposed. Many had already begun the process of disassociation. Now it was simply a battle between the rags over who could get the latest scoop. The links had gone viral by now, and with the competition having equal access, it was a race to come up with the next sensational splash.

McKenzie's people weren't talking, however, and had closed ranks but the very fact that the high courts had already put an injunction out there to shut down the live feed spoke volumes. That dirty bastard had been filming his guests for his own perverted pleasure and now, with his reputation in steep decline, he had a
lot
of questions to answer, if only anyone knew where the fuck he was.

John Kirkbride looked at his phone. It had been ringing off the goddamn hook ever since they'd broken the story and during the past 24 hours he had spoken to everyone from the PM's right-hand man to Billie-Jo Simmons' mum, who was clearly willing, if not keen, to sell a story on her daughter. The high-court writ from McKenzie's people banning him from publishing anything they deemed ‘defamatory' against their client had already hit his desk, and as such his hands were tied until he could garner more evidence, another side of the story, ideally from the guests themselves.

Kirkbride was pushing his luck and he knew it but he'd run with this because his gut told him it was the real deal, and there would little more pleasurable experiences in his career than to go down in history as one of the men who brought down the great Martin McKenzie, exposing him for the twisted, psychotic, ruthless fucker he'd always suspected him of being.

Cath Redmond poked her head round the door. She looked like he felt: shit.

‘Starbucks run,' she croaked. ‘Coffee and a muffin?'

Kirkbride shook his head.

‘Liquid supper,' he said, opening his top drawer and producing a half bottle of cheap cognac.

She pulled a face. ‘That stuff'll kill yer.'

‘Could think of worse ways to go … Any news on the hacker yet?'

‘Yep, some kid called Cody Parker in the US, but he ain't talking … yet. It's gonna be a difficult one, John, because the boy – well, he's a man really – is autistic. They're protecting him already. But we're on it; I've offered the mum some serious wedge and a huge charity donation, said we'll fly them over here and put them up in the fucking Ritz if we have to. It won't be long … '

‘Make sure it isn't, Cath; if those bastards at the
Sun
usurp us on this I'll piss nails.'

‘Drink too much of that shit and you'll be pissing blood.'

‘Like you give a shit.'

His phone rang and she shot him a wry smile before closing the door.

He rubbed his gritty eyes.

‘Kirkbride.'

‘John! John, oh my God, you're there! He's there, Nate!'

Kirkbride sat bolt upright in his knackered, old office chair, knocking his bottle of brandy clean over.

‘Jesus shitting Christ … Angelika, is that you? Angelika?'

The line crackled like the embers of a bonfire and he winced, placing a finger in his ear in a bid to hear her better.

‘Yes, John, it's me! Listen, John, I really need your help.'

‘Where are you? Angelika can you hear me?' The line was atrocious.

‘I can hear you, John … just about … I'm in a boat … listen, John –'

‘Who are you with? Is McKenzie with you? Ange … Ange, we know what's been going on.'

‘What?' Angelika strained to hear him. ‘You know? What did you say, John … John?'

‘Yeah, I'm here, Ange. Are you OK? Is everyone else OK? Listen, you need to get the hell out of there. McKenzie has been filming you all. You need to leave. Immediately.'

‘There was plane crash, only it wasn't real. He staged it and –' Angelika suddenly paused ‘– how did you know we were being filmed, John?' Icy fear shot through her body and Nate's jacket slipped from her shoulders.

‘We had to run with the story, Ange. We did our best to protect you … the Simmons girl … a sex tape … Where are you?'

‘You need to send a plane, John, as soon as you can.'

‘Yes … yes, of course, of course.' He was almost hyperventilating. ‘But where to?' He picked up his pen, poised.

The line fizzed and sizzled.

‘Are you still there?' he asked. ‘Where to, Ange? Where are you?'

There was a delay on the line, the signal dipping in and out making her sound like a dalek.

‘We're on an island just north of Mykonos … I don't know exactly. The boat's not big enough for all of us. Please John, send a plane!'

‘Yes, yes, it's OK. I hear you, Ange. It's going to be OK. Is McKenzie with you?'

‘No, he's meeting us at the mansion, tonight. Listen, John, what did you mean when you said you
know
?'

John Kirkbride picked up the brandy bottle that was lying on its side and attempted to drink the dregs.
Jesus Christ alive
, he thought as he took a deep breath, the poor bitch doesn't have a clue.

‘
A
re we too late
?' Angelika burst onto the roof terrace, her gown hoisted in one hand, her Alexander McQueen sandals in the other. The Havaianas had gone overboard. She was almost hyperventilating, her chest tight with adrenalin. Nate followed close behind her, his expression equally dire. They appeared shocked and dishevelled, her face a sea-salty mess of smudged mascara, his hands dirty, shirt rolled to the elbows.

‘Jesus Christ, Angelika –' Rupert cut her off ‘– where in fucking God's name have you been?' He stood abruptly, abandoning his dinner plate with a clatter, his appetite long since passed. His anger completely disappeared, however, when he caught the look of genuine anguish on his wife's pale face. ‘What is it?' he asked. ‘What's happened?'

Angelika wasn't sure how she was going to tell them what Kirkbride had told her. She wasn't sure that she could.

‘Did you know you were being filmed, Ange?' Kirkbride had asked her, ‘that McKenzie has been spying on you all, though for what purpose … well … God only knows.'

‘Yes, I've had my suspicions all along.' Her voice was breaking up and he struggled to hear what she was saying, ‘I found a camera, and confronted him. He denied it, of course. But John, how do you know? How do you know that he's been watching us, unless –' and it had hit her full force and she gasped, instinctively putting her hand to her mouth ‘– you've been watching us too …'

‘I'm so sorry, Ange.' John Kirkbride had sighed heavily, . ‘I'm afraid it's not just me who's been watching,' he'd said, wishing he didn't have to, ‘it's the whole Goddamn world.'

That's when Angelika had become hysterical.

‘Nate?' Mia stood up from the table now, her heartbeat knocking against the heavy necklace she was wearing. She sensed something was wrong … terribly wrong.

‘You cheating pair of bastards.' Billie-Jo launched herself at her husband drunkenly before Angelika could answer them. Secretly seething she'd been steadily knocking back the champagne and slipping off to the restroom for her usual coke fix all evening and was ready to explode. ‘No fucking shame, the pair of yous.'

JJ held her back. ‘Take a chill pill, babe,' he said in a bid to calm her down.

Billie-Jo was having none of it. ‘Headache, you said.' She pointed a long, accusing fingernail at Nate's chest. ‘Yeah, well you'd better get used to having one of them because the first thing I'm doing when we get home is contacting a solicitor. In fact, Rupert here has already agreed to represent me when I take you to the fucking cleaners, ain't cha, Rupert?'

Rupert was still staring at Angelika; he'd never seen her look so frightened in all the years he'd known her and it sent a chill down his spine. He thought about reaching out to her and putting his arms around her but he still couldn't bring himself to.

‘Angelika?'

‘We'll rinse him for everything he's got' Billie-Jo ranted, fired-up on booze and coke. As hypocritical outbursts went it was pretty spectacular but she felt genuinely wronged. She may well be doing the dirty with JJ on the sly, not forgetting the afternoon with the well-built masseur, but at least she'd had the integrity to try and cover her tracks and keep it on the low-down. These two brazen fuckers … they didn't seem to care who knew, sloping off like that and rubbing everyone's noses right in it without a red face between them.

Furious, she struggled from JJ's grip.

Holy shit, JJ thought, this chick is
insane
.

Rupert could see that Angelika was shaking.

‘No … no, you don't understand,' she said, ‘we have to get out of here … we have to leave
now
. Right now!' Her voice was low and husky, and Nate spontaneously put his arm around her. ‘Something terrible has ha–'

‘You fucking bitch!' Billie-Jo screamed, pushed over the edge by Nate's action. As the slap made contact with Angelika's face it resonated through the night air with a sickening crack. ‘He's my fucking husband! Stay away from him, you slag!'

‘Leave her alone!' Nate roared at Billie-Jo, pushing her away as Angelika brought her hand up to her face in shock. ‘You don't understand, you stupid bitch!'

Mia looked on, horrified. ‘Children, please!' she exclaimed. ‘This really isn't the time or –'

But before she could finish, the video screen suddenly lit up and McKenzie's image came into view.