The Last Resort

by Susi Holliday

  ‘Roger that.’ James turns away and starts to hike back up the hill, stopping now and again to pull at various plants, looking for something suitable to take back.

  Scott is breathing heavily now, but he’s stopped whimpering. Lucy hands him a bottle of water and he gulps it down. Then he lies back into the bank and closes his eyes.

  Amelia is still trying to work out what to do with his foot. In the jungle, she’d once used banana leaves and twine to strap up one of her fellow workers’ ankles. But this place has nothing so obvious at hand. She tries to think back to the bushcraft course she took in Australia. There has to be a way to fix this, if she could only remember how. It’s funny what the mind can lock away from you when you need it most.

  ‘So,’ Lucy says to her, ‘what’s your story? We didn’t get to hear it back at base. Is Tiggy right to wonder why you’re really here?’

  Amelia’s head snaps up. ‘I’m trying to fix Scott’s foot, and you’re questioning why I’m here?’

  ‘Jeez, OK. Chill out. I was just making conversation.’

  ‘In a bit of a confrontational way, don’t you think?’

  Lucy blinks. ‘Not really. Don’t you think you’re overreacting? I only asked . . .’

  Amelia wipes a hand across her brow. Is it her imagination or is it hotter now? They’re quite exposed to the elements, and the sun has definitely changed position. She sighs. ‘Look . . . I’m sorry, OK? I just get a bit flustered when people talk to me when I’m trying to concentrate. Let’s sort out Scott, then you can interrogate me all you like. Deal?’ She gives Lucy a smile.

  ‘Deal.’ Lucy raises a hand and gives Amelia the peace sign.

  They both turn back to Scott, who seems to be fast asleep.

  They look at each other. That water. There’s definitely something in that water.

  Lucy lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘Scott—’

  James comes bounding down the hill, panting. He has something in each hand, but Amelia can’t see what it is yet. Something whitish and straight. She stands up, ready to greet him.

  ‘Brilliant, you found something . . .’ Her voice trails off when she sees what he’s carrying. Sees the expression on his face. He holds his hands out towards her, and she can see they’re shaking.

  ‘Woah,’ Lucy says. ‘Are those . . . ?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Amelia. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, those look very much like bones.’

  Tiggy

  ‘Come on, Tigs. No one’s going to see us.’

  He pokes her in the ribs and slides a hand up her T-shirt. She bats his hand away and pouts.

  ‘They could come back any minute. We don’t even know them yet. I’d rather not be caught in flagrante by a bunch of randoms, thank you very much.’ She flips over onto her side and pulls the blanket up to her neck.

  She’s grinning, but he can’t see her face.

  ‘Tiggy . . . Mrs Tiggywinkle . . . you know I’m not going to fall for that crap. You’re not telling me you knew all those people on the train that time. Or those people walking back from the club via the park bench you were joyfully grinding me into.’

  She rolls over onto her back and lets the blanket slide off. Her T-shirt is halfway up her stomach and the warmth of the sun feels good against her bare skin.

  ‘That was different. They were total strangers.’ She reaches down and pulls off a sock, throws it at him. ‘Just go back onto the path and make sure they’ve gone, OK? I don’t want that Scott seeing me half dressed. He gives me the creeps.’

  Giles gives her a look of despair but says nothing. Just disappears up the path. If there’s one thing she knows how to do, it’s getting him to do what she wants. She runs a hand along her bare stomach, pushing her shorts down. He does what she asks, and he does it well. She groans, remembering the last time they were at a beach resort together. Their own cabana on a private beach, sheer white curtains billowing in the breeze. She’d lain back into the sumptuous pillows, looking down at Giles’s head, and the perfect azure water lapping into the shore behind him. He’d looked up at her and grinned and she’d disappeared to another place, somewhere far, far away. Somewhere floating on a cloud, blissful and beautiful and rapturous. She was almost there now. He’d better hurry up.

  ‘Giles, baby . . . where are you?’ Her voice is hoarse, almost breathless.

  He comes bounding back down the sandy path towards her, his face flushed. He sees her, and he knows. Oh yes, he knows.

  He pulls his T-shirt over his head and she sees the sleek sheen of sweat defining his perfect biceps as he leans down, putting his hands on either side of her head and moving in for a long, slow kiss.

  He pulls back, trails his hand gently over her bare skin. She shudders. So close.

  ‘I see you started without me . . .’ He pulls down his shorts and lies on top of her.

  The weight of him alone is almost enough.

  ‘Oh, Giles . . .’

  His lifts one hand off the lounger, ready to guide himself in. His breath is fast and hard, and she’s ready for him. So ready.

  A high-pitched beep sounds somewhere close by and she flinches as her tracker vibrates against her ear. Giles collapses on top of her.

  ‘Babe.’ He nudges her. ‘Turn over.’

  But she can’t. She’s seen it now. In front of her own eyes.

  It flickers. Pixelated. Then it clears.

  Porn? They don’t need porn. She almost laughs, but then she sees what it is.

  ‘Babe?’ He tries again, but she wriggles out from under him. Pushes him off. All feelings of desire have gone. ‘Oh, shit . . .’

  Of course it was too good to be true.

  The volume is low, but not too low that she can’t hear the sounds coming from the sordid little scene that’s being projected, somehow, from her tracker.

  ‘Babe,’ he says, ‘I can see it too. I don’t want you to watch this. Please . . . close your eyes. Maybe if we close our eyes it’ll stop.’

  But she can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to. She’s inside his head. Seeing the projection in front of her as if she’s him. She stares at the white fabric above her, the image sharpening, slightly curved with the shape of the umbrella.

  In the projection, her eyes – Giles’s eyes – flit from one girl to the other.

  Same dark hair. Deep blue eyes, huge dilated pupils. Girl one. Girl two. Plumped-up lips, high cheekbones. Massive fake tits. Jeez, are they twins? On top of one, and a side glance to the other, and she’s grinning, rubbing herself. Bending down to kiss the other girl. Tiggy can almost feel the force as he thrusts himself so hard that the padded gold fabric headboard thumps against the wall. Feels like she’s fucking that girl herself. It would be comical if it wasn’t so utterly tragic.

  She closes her eyes, and this time the image disappears.

  As she opens them, a treacherous tear slides down her face and she wipes it angrily away while trying to find the sock that she’d thrown off the lounger only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘You utter shit.’

  Giles yanks his shorts up and tries to vault over the lounger towards her but gets tangled in the blanket. He swears. ‘Tigs . . . wait. I can explain. It’s not what it looks like, I promise.’

  Tiggy snorts. She can’t quite believe that he’s trying to weasel his way out of this, with the evidence playing right in front of them. She has literally seen it with her own eyes. Exactly what he’s done. And yet . . . somehow, she understands.

  Because she’s good at denial. It’s something she’s had to deal with her whole life. It’s easy to paint a picture of happiness on your social media channels, when in reality you’re dying inside. Of course she’d known Giles was cheating. But she loves him. In her own way.

  Perhaps it’s just the idea of him she loves. The idea of them. The Golden Couple. Love’s Young Dream. Is there any such thing? All the high-profile couples that people worship are a sham. Everyone buying into it, because the reality – the cold, hard reality – is that everyone is alone.r />
  ‘I’m done with this.’ She grabs hold of her tracker, tries to twist it off, but it won’t budge. She means the performance, but she means Giles too. She should never have listened to him when he said they should tell each other everything about their invitations. Is this her punishment for violating the NDA? He said it’d be better if they shared information. Worked as a team. None of the others had to know. But now this.

  This was not meant to happen. And now her ear hurts. She rubs the skin behind the tracker, trying to soothe it.

  ‘Tigs . . .’

  She ignores him. She picks up the martini glass and tips the pink drink down her throat. It’s sharp, strong. But it’s just what she needs. She picks up the other glass and does the same. Then she lets out a long, slow breath of satisfaction. Smacking her lips together exaggeratedly at the end.

  Giles is looking at her with an expression of fear and panic. His shock emboldens her. Just enough.

  ‘I’m going back to the others,’ she says, trying hard to keep her voice level. ‘Don’t bother following me.’ As she walks away, she turns back to him one last time. Her voice shaking, she says, ‘I despise you, Giles. Right now, I wish you were dead.’

  She makes it up the path, past the small clearing and over the other side of the hill before she bursts into tears. Huge, hot tears of pain and humiliation.

  What an idiot she’s been.

  There’s a small beep in her ear from the tracker. Presumably that signifies the end of her request. What a waste of time that was. She should have wished for something just for her. Giles has probably done that. He didn’t even say what his wish was. So much for collaborating. The utterly selfish shit.

  ‘Babe!’ She hears the pleading in his voice from behind her. He’s not close, he hasn’t run to grab her. He can’t be bothered, can he? She ignores him.

  She sighs. Wipes away her tears. Smooths her hair back. She’s finally got herself together, when she hears the scream.

  Brenda

  She hadn’t even noticed the others leaving. Just sitting there, leaning against a rock, the sun on her face. The soothing voice of the narrator coming in through the earpiece from her tracker. Bliss. Goodness knows how they do it, but the sound seems to be coming in through both ears. Some sort of audio trickery, but not something she’s complaining about. She moves now only to stretch her legs.

  The audio goes off.

  ‘Ah, come on,’ she says, assuming that they are listening. Whoever they are. ‘I was enjoying that.’ She frowns. Does a few bends and stretches, hearing something in her neck make a little cracking sound as she tips her head from side to side.

  She doesn’t stretch enough. Doesn’t relax enough. She’s a victim of her own success with the business she’s built up. The London Stock Exchange might rest for a few hours, but then it’s overlapped by New York and the Dow Jones . . . and Tokyo. There’s a two-hour window where nothing happens, and this is when she rests, or tries to. Margaret Thatcher famously ran the country on four hours’ sleep a night, so surely Brenda can run her own empire with only two?

  It’s always an intense two hours. As though her body goes into complete shutdown, desperately trying to regenerate the things that would take seven or eight hours for anyone else. But she is not anyone else. That’s the point.

  She takes a few steps towards the edge of the cliff, looks down. The sea is smacking gently against the rocks below. She looks up and around at the vast blue sky. Clear and cloudless. The shriek of a gull before it lands on a rock partway down the cliff face. Someone once said to her that there is no such thing as a ‘seagull’ – there are several different types and the generic term shouldn’t be used to describe any particular bird. What a load of nonsense. She has no idea what kind of gull is sitting on the rock. It’s white and grey with an angry-looking black beak. It swivels its head and looks up at her. It’s probably wondering what she’s staring at.

  It squawks loudly, its beak opening wide. Then it flies off. Shrieking, squawking, flying high until she can’t see it anymore.

  There’s a rustling sound in the bushes somewhere behind her. She turns back to the clearing where she’s been sitting, squinting, trying to focus on the shrubbery. Some sort of small animal. She decides not to investigate.

  She might be in the great outdoors for a day, but it doesn’t mean she has to find a sudden interest in the flora and fauna.

  ‘Ready for your lunch?’ The voice comes through the earpiece. ‘Take a look behind that bush.’

  She hadn’t even thought about lunch yet, but her stomach rumbles at the mention of it. ‘I assumed I’d be joining the others for lunch,’ she says. She’d felt self-conscious at first, talking to someone who wasn’t there. But it’s not really any different to an audio Skype call, and she has plenty of those. She’s used to having an earpiece stuck to the side of her head. Not quite like this one, but still. The other difference is that she usually knows who it is she’s talking to.

  ‘This is your moment, Brenda,’ the voice says. ‘You wanted relaxation. You don’t need the others bothering you. Am I right? That irritating Instagrammer and her full-of-it boyfriend? The stupid American with his pseudoscientific nonsense? You’re better than them, Brenda. You’re a captain of industry. You’re Queen of the jungle. You eat these people for breakfast.’

  There is a pause and Brenda smiles to herself, enjoying the praise even as she steels herself against it. It would be hard to overstate her wariness of this situation she’s unaccountably volunteered for. Whoever is behind all this is moving them around like chess pieces, and Brenda is accustomed to being the player, not the played. But she’ll go with it. For now. There’s bound to be an angle here she can exploit, if she gives it a little time.

  ‘Have you ever watched one of those videos on YouTube, Brenda? A snake eating a mouse. Whole. Doesn’t even need to bite it. Just opens its mouth wide and grabs hold of that little critter. Swallows it whole and lets it dissolve slowly in its stomach juices. What a painful, protracted death that must be. Don’t you think, Brenda? The ultimate in control.’

  ‘No,’ she snaps. ‘That’s not who I am.’

  The voice chuckles. ‘I’ll let you ponder that for a while. Enjoy your lunch.’

  Brenda balls her hands into fists. They’ve got her wrong. She’s strong, yes. She’s determined. She can be ruthless. Yes, she’s a control freak – what successful person isn’t these days?

  But she’s not a monster.

  Her appetite has gone, but her traitorous stomach disagrees with a rumble. It has been a while since she last ate. Maybe she could have a nibble of something? Then she’s going to ask to rejoin the group. There’s a reason why she doesn’t have time for solitary relaxation. It’s because she can’t relax. And being on her own here is leaving her vulnerable to attack. They can play their little games – she knows what those reality shows are like. Because that is what it is, whether it’s being filmed or not. Throw a bunch of disparate characters together, put them under some sort of pressure, and see how quickly they turn on each other.

  It’s not unlike banking.

  She’s bored now anyway. Wants to know what the others are doing. Maybe she can put the lunch in her backpack and take it with her. She’d been into listening to that audio drama for a while; she’d needed to recharge. But she’s lost interest now. She’s had quite enough ‘me time’.

  Behind the bush is a wicker picnic hamper, laid on top of a red-and-white chequered tablecloth. A collection of thick, puffy floor cushions is arranged around the space, leaning against the side of the hill to form a makeshift sofa. There’s a tray with napkins and a glass, and next to that an ice bucket with a variety of bottled drinks. She flips open the lid of the hamper, and her stomach rumbles again.

  Inside, a selection of mouth-watering treats. Sandwiches cut into triangles, with the crusts cut off – laid out like a pyramid, and with various fillings. A cheese and ham quiche with cherry tomatoes pressed into the top. Slices of smoked salmon a
rranged like flowers and entwined with dill. She picks up a sandwich and takes a small bite. Cream cheese and cucumber. Her favourite. She finishes the sandwich, then picks up a piece of quiche and pops it into her mouth.

  Now this is the life, she thinks, eyeing the ice bucket filled with drinks and trying to decide what to have. Elderflower pressé? Champagne? She leans down to pick up a small plate from a pocket on the inside lid of the hamper and notices a container of strawberries in the corner. She takes one out and is about to place it on her plate – then realises it’s chocolate-dipped and shoves it into her mouth instead. It’s plump and juicy, and a dribble of liquid seeps out of her mouth and down her chin. She grabs another one, then a sandwich, and plops them on her plate while also grabbing a napkin – red-and-white, to match the tablecloth. Then she looks down at her chest to where she is sure she’s dribbled strawberry juice.

  And that’s when she sees it.

  For a split second, she thinks she’s mistaken. It’s just a broken branch. It has been there all the time, but she hasn’t noticed it. She blinks. It’s still there, and it has moved. It is dark brown with barely visible markings. She wants to believe that it’s merely an adder, and that there are probably thousands of them on this island, slinking around in the undergrowth. She’s frozen to the spot. Plate in one hand, napkin in the other. The snake slithers closer, too close now to her foot, her bare ankle. Too close for her to step away. Her hands start to shake, and the strawberry rolls off the plate and hits the ground, causing a small cloud of dust to puff into the air. The snake flinches, pulls away from her and raises its head. It begins to coil itself upward. Its mouth opens wide – a strangely white mouth contrasting against the dark of its body.

  She thinks about the voice earlier on, telling her about the snake and the mouse, and she thinks about the serpents in the Bible – always representing something bad. Evil. Is this a message? Was the earlier voice giving her some sort of warning?