Pleasure Island (7 page)

M
ia Manhattan had regained
full consciousness but as yet did not feel strong enough to stand. Instead she had dragged herself through the sand and debris over to where her very young lover was lying. His face was pale as a ghost's. She had not noticed the injury at first.

‘Joshua darling, wake up. Come on now …wak–' She spied his arm and horror attacked itself to her aorta, nausea rising up through her intestines and threatening to spill out over her expensive designer kaftan, what was left of it. ‘Oh dear God, no … oh, no, no,
noooooo
.' She collapsed onto his body, her chest heaving with gut-wrenching sobs, a primal scream rising from deep within her.

‘Help!' she screamed, alerting the others who had gathered by the plane wreckage, ‘Somebody
hellllllp
!'

‘Mia's awake,' Rupert remarked deadpan as her urgent screams rang out across the sand like a ship's horn.

Nate made his way over towards her, practically dragging a tearful Billie-Jo with him.

‘He's hurt.' Mia was sobbing as they approached. ‘His arm. … dear God. This is all my fault … all my fault. Is he going to die?'

Nate knelt next to her on the sand and placed a hand around her shoulder as Billie-Jo stood back, too fearful to go any closer, her stomach lurching, eyes unable to deviate from the bloody stump that was protruding through his skin. Nate didn't like to see a woman cry, least of all an older woman. He felt Mia's vulnerability as he put his arm around her, and something else as he held her: the need to protect her.

‘It's OK,' Nate reassured Mia, as she had clung onto him, ‘Shhh, it's OK.' He couldn't, however, answer her question. He looked down at JJ's injury; the tourniquet that Rupert had fashioned from strips of his shirt earlier was soaked burgundy with blood. The ugly truth was that unless they found help soon he
would
be in big trouble. And they all knew it.

Rupert joined them, Angelika close behind.

‘The wound needs dressing,' Nate said, ‘it will become infected unless it's cleaned.'

Rupert rolled his eyes.

‘And here I was thinking you footballer's were a bunch of brainless buffoons.'

Angelika looked at Nate in horrified apology.

‘We need to move him out of the sun,' Nate said, ignoring the remark, ‘get him in the shade.'

‘Precisely what I was thinking,' Rupert agreed, a trifle irked that the footballer appeared to be asserting control. ‘Then we need to find some water.'

‘Inside the wreckage?' Mia suggested. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper, her lips beginning to stiffen as she licked them in a bid to keep them moist.

Angelika shook her head.

‘We've already searched … nothing …'

‘But there
must
be –'

‘Didn't you hear her, Mia, or are you deaf as well as stupid,' Rupert snapped, turning away from her. ‘We looked and couldn't find anything, no sustenance whatsoever.'

‘Fuck you, Deyton,' Mia croaked, ‘there's a man in distress here.'

‘Child, you mean. Shame on you, Manhattan.' He shot her a derisive glance. ‘If he dies, I will hold you personally responsible.' It was an unfair comment and Rupert knew it but Mia Manhattan was an easy target for his growing frustration.

‘Jesus Christ, Rupert,' Angelika screamed, ‘Just fucking stop, OK?!
Stop
!'

‘I hold
you
responsible, Deyton,' Mia shot back menacingly, eyes like slits disappearing into her skull, ‘I wouldn't have been on that goddamn plane if you hadn't destroyed my fucking career in the first place by being such an incompetent prick.'

She turned to Angelika, her enraged face streaked with black tears, her aging-yet-beautiful features defiant in their anguish.

‘I feel sorry for you being married to such a bastard. You seem like a decent woman, as well; I'd get out while you can, while you still have both your youth and looks to rely on. Don't suppose he ever told you what really went on all those years ago, during the trial, did he?'

‘Shut up, Mia!' Rupert boomed, lunging forwards as if to strike her.

Mia smirked, though she was more rattled than she let on.

‘Ahh, so you didn't tell her, did you? Did you? Unscrupulous fucker –'

‘Tell me, how is Richard these days, Mia? Oh yes, that's right, gold ol' Dickie is putting his
dickie
to better use with another woman, isn't he? A
younger
one. Saw the light eventually then. Always knew he had more sense …'

‘You...!' Mia launched herself at him with what little strength she possessed but Nate wrestled her back, surprised by her considerable strength given her stature.

‘Don't rise to it,' he said.

Billie-Jo watched the drama unfold from a safe distance. Usually she would have thoroughly enjoyed such a scene but this was all way too real to be pleasurable. All she wanted was to go home. She didn't even care about the Vuitton cases and watch anymore.

‘Guys, please.' Nate was hyperventilating, holding a struggling Mia by the crooks of her arms. ‘This is not the time to start evening old scores. We have to stick together; we
need
to stick together if we're going to survive this.'

‘He's right, Rupert,' Angelia conceded, pleading with her husband. ‘We have to find water … we need to take a look around … we need shelter, food. Please, let's think about Joshua … put him first.'

‘It's not looking good,' Rupert looked down at Joshua with a sense of pitiful resignation, as he composed himself, he'd stopped groaning and thrashing around now and was pale and silent.

‘How long has it been?' Nate wondered aloud, ‘Since we came round from the crash, I mean?'

The light was beginning to change, the first suggestion of dusk hovering like a threat.

‘It's difficult to say,' Angelika replied.

‘Seems odd,' Nate said, ‘It was dark when we were flying, right? The middle of the night? And we all came round about the same time … within a few minutes of each other. And now it's getting light …'

‘Meaning what?' Rupert asked, his anger diminishing along with his hope.

‘Meaning …I don't know,' Nate said, ‘meaning something's not right …'

‘None of this is fucking right,' Mia interjected, ‘Pleasure Island, my goddamn arse … more like hell on earth.'

‘Much the same as one of your concerts I should imagine, Mia.' Rupert couldn't help himself.

‘Don't start, Rupert,' Angelika begged him, ‘Please, for God's sakes, don't …'

‘Look, we're going to get out of this, I know we are,' Nate said, ‘I don't know where the hell we are but I'm pretty sure it's not where we're supposed to be. McKenzie would have expected us by now. He'll send out a search party; he'll have alerted the necessary services already – I feel sure.'

‘Well, let's bloody well hope so,' Mia snorted derisively, ‘because so far I see nothing
pleasurable
about this place.'

Her attention was suddenly caught by something above her.

Billie-Jo, a safe distance from the others, looked up and put a hand over her mouth, instinctively sinking to her knees.

She could only point as she struggled with the words that were forming in her mouth, a river of relief flooding her body and momentarily paralysing her facial muscles.

‘Hey,' she said, though her voice, weak, lacked any projection above the arguing.

‘Hey!' she was louder this time, enough to catch Angelika's attention.

‘Billie-Jo...? Are you OK? What is it?'

Salty tears were rolling down Billie-Jo's face, stinging her eyes and blinding her as she pointed to the sky. ‘P … P … plane!' she managed to say, before passing out on the sand.

T
he pilot
, a small, dark-skinned man in a white T-shirt and matching trousers said nothing throughout the mercifully short plane journey until it came to an end.

‘The boy, he come with us … we fly to the hospital,' he whispered in broken English as they disembarked.

‘Are you a doctor?' Rupert asked, protective of their wounded comrade, ‘Who are you? Did McKenzie send you?'

‘I'll go with him,' Mia said even though she was exhausted, lethargy claiming every inch of her.

The pilot shook his head. ‘The boy, he fly alone.'

Nate felt lightheaded with adrenalin, high almost. He's wanted to speak, to object, say something, anything, but it felt as if the right messages were being sent to the wrong place inside his head.

‘Did McKenzie send you?' Rupert repeated once more, he was struggling to focus, the situation too surreal, his mind confused, his mouth dry as the sand he stood upon. He felt a little woozy but above all he felt relief. They were on their way to Pleasure Island. They were saved.

‘You sleep,' the pilot said, pointing in the direction of the warm, inviting glow of the luxurious cabanas that had just come into view.

‘Oh, thank God,' Angelika breathed, ‘we've made it.' Nate had been right; McKenzie had called out a search party for them. She hoped that by tomorrow this would all seem like a bad dream.

Through sheer exhaustion they'd surrendered to sleep in the end with little choice and minimal fuss. Angelika had struggled to keep her eyes open; she'd felt groggy, a little confused but even in the dark it struck her that the island was quite beautiful. An expanse of untouched, white sand illuminated in the inky blackness, a row of vast cabanas stood on wooden stilts in the shallow water's edge as if suspended in mid-air, welcoming warm, orange candlelight emanating from the vast terraces, enticing them in. Behind the villas, set further back from the shoreline was a huge mansion, colonial and majestic, a little sinister even, or so it appeared in the darkness.

A small welcome committee had gathered on shore to greet them; unfamiliar faces with comforting sounds and soft blankets as they'd finally made it onto sand. Angelika could not tell if they were men or women. It didn't matter. They were alive; they had made it.

A female member of the greeters began to gesticulate wildly, banging and crashing her hands together like cymbals, running her fingers up towards the sky and down again.

‘What happened here?' Angelika asked her, watching as she continued with her silent mime. ‘A storm?'

The woman shook her head animatedly.

‘There's been a storm on the island?'

So a storm had caused the plane to crash. It all made sense now.

‘I need to make a phone call immediately,' Rupert's authoritative voice severed Angelika's thoughts like an axe.

The woman simply shook her head, her expression apologetic.

‘The lines?' Angelika attempted to communicate with her once more, ‘The telephone lines are down?'

Nate sighed; he had never felt so heavy, so exhausted, as if his limbs were made of lead. Billie-Jo had already begun to follow one of the guides up towards the low-lit cabanas, her need to rest ameliorating anything else. She was safe, and for now that's all that mattered.

‘You will let me know if you find my Rolex,' she said, her voice a husky rasp, ‘It was a wedding gift from my husband you know. I loved that watch …' Her voice trailed off ‘… so pretty ...'

‘Where's McKenzie?' Rupert wanted to shake the man's hand and thank him personally for sending a rescue plane. It suddenly hit him just how close to losing their lives they had come but the woman simply continued to stare at him blankly.

‘Let's go, Rupert,' Nate nodded at him, his arm draped protectively around Mia's slim, delicate shoulder, ‘We can ask questions in the morning.'

Angelika came to with the sound of his voice.

‘He's right, Ru,' she said, ‘Let's sleep. We'll get our answers in the morning.'

Though in truth something told her not to be so sure.

‘
F
eeling better now
, my American friend?' Super8#3 enquired as he watched the group alight onto the island, bedraggled, exhausted, their faces pale and drawn in the moonlight. ‘They've landed safe and the boy has been flown off to get fixed up so I guess you can relax now.'

There was a few moment's pause as Super8#3 adjusted his laptop screen to prevent glare which was threatening to ruin his voyeuristic experience; it was 90 degrees sunshine in LA. He kicked his espadrilles off and placed his sticky feet on his desk. Although he didn't have the first idea who he really was, he'd taken an instant dislike to Super8#6. The guy came across as an arrogant dick.

‘As a matter of fact Super8#3, yes, I am feeling much better thank you...though with the greatest respect, I am
not
your friend,' he replied.

‘Suit yourself, asshole.'

Super8#6 hastily made to respond but wasn't quick enough,

‘If you're unhappy, then why not come up with something better instead of complaining.' He disliked moaners; they were all the same; always quick to criticise while never offering an alternative.

‘Gentlemen, please.' Super8#4 was also online and quickly waded in on the argument. ‘Let's not bicker among ourselves; after all, we share a common goal here, don't we? Besides, now that they're on the island we have full control. McKenzie wants our input so let's give it to him.'

Super8#6 raised an eyebrow.

‘You seriously believe that? McKenzie is the only one in control here, make no mistake about that!' He suspected that Super8#4, with whom he was conversing, was the woman and in all honesty he found her just as intriguing as he did the island guests. There had been something in her eyes when they had met that one time, something cold, something sinister and admittedly thoroughly delectable. He wouldn't have minded studying her too.

‘OK, we know that gore isn't your bag, though personally I could watch it all day long. So, tell us Super8#3, what exactly
is
your bag?'

The American paused. Of all the members of the elusive Super Eight Club, he was the most sceptical. For him, this was a straightforward psychological experiment through which he intended to study the human condition. He was not a sadist, or particularly deviant, though he was rather pleased to see that the female guests appeared easy on the eye, but he had no particular desire to witness great pain and suffering, like he suspected some of his team members did, the woman especially so it seemed. This was not due to him possessing much empathy and more because it was not what he was in this for; it was confusion and conflict, moral dilemma and division he was after; he wanted to study how the guests would both react and interact when put in extreme emotional situations, like rats in a laboratory.

He smirked to himself. Whoever Super8#6 was he had underestimated his supreme intellect. As it was he
did
have something ‘better' in mind for their guests, something that didn't involve broken limbs and blood – well, at least not pre-meditatively.

‘They need an ice-breaker,' he said flatly, ‘something that's ostensibly fun but that's going to stir things up a bit. From what I can see already, Mia and Rupert –'

‘Careful,' the woman interjected, ‘we were instructed not to use their names remember? Play by the rules Super8#3, you naughty boy.'

Super8#3 stood corrected. McKenzie had been very straight about this from the off.

‘Fair enough, though something tells me you're not one for rules yourself. The singer and the lawyer – we already know they have bad blood.'

‘And … you have something in mind?' Super8#3 was reluctantly intrigued himself now.

‘How about a little game of truth or dare?'

Super8#3 snorted derisively, though of course his fellow club member could not have heard it. ‘Bit 11th grade, isn't it?'

‘Not my version,' the American shot back.

The woman was smiling at her screen.

‘And what's so special about
your
version?'

Super8#6's smiled malevolently. He'd compiled and used this particular ‘experiment' in his practice sessions primarily to coax unhappily married couples he counselled to open up and confess their inner most feelings to each other. The results, while often hit and miss, were never dull. In the past he had seen couples kiss and make up and others come to physical blows; while the former was arguably the objective, the latter was undeniably more fun to watch. With some bespoke tailoring he felt it had the potential to make a truly insightful, not to mention explosive, introduction to the island.

‘Well,' he relied smugly, ‘let's just say the last time I witnessed this game being played, it broke more than just ice.'