The Last Resort

by Susi Holliday

  Just as she’s feeling she must be getting close to the headland, she rounds a sharp bend and the remains of a lighthouse come into view. Previously hidden from her due to the angle of the path and the undulating terrain, she stops to take it in. The walls are still painted white in places, but most of it has flaked off. They’re broken and crumbled, but there is still a light on top – presumably it doesn’t work. She walks closer and then the path disappears completely and she’s walking over dense brush that has not seen other footsteps in a long while.

  The sea breeze makes her shiver, and she hugs her arms around herself. Am I supposed to be here?

  It’s not safe, that’s for sure. But nothing has been cordoned off. There’s nothing to stop her exploring.

  She’s glad to have found her own place of quiet.

  She skirts around the lighthouse and takes a few steps closer to the edge, keeping her weight on her heels, leaning back towards the safety and shelter of the building as she peers down at the sharp drop below. She’d thought it strange at first that the lighthouse would be hidden from view from the rest of the island, not perched on the highest point but in the dip behind. But seeing these rocks, it makes sense. Huge Jurassic boulders are piled precariously together, the erosion of the sea creating sharp, rugged lines further below. A boat hitting these rocks would stand no chance at all.

  As she steps even closer to the edge, a strange feeling flits over her. Déjà vu – although she knows she hasn’t been here before. She would remember it, she’s sure. And yet there is something familiar about it.

  She hunkers down to peer at the rocks, and through the gaps she can see the waves crashing, their white foam spraying high. And further out, past this cacophony and the quieter sea beyond, she can see something else.

  Another headland, off in the distance. A mirror of this – the hill, and the drop down onto the rocks, huge breakers smashing against them.

  Another island.

  A chill runs through her, despite the ever-present heat of the sun. Something about the island in the distance. The hill, the rocks, but in between the two, a rocky ledge jutting out.

  The kittiwake shrieks and swoops towards her, and she stumbles back.

  She knows this place. Not where she is now, but the tip of the island across the water.

  She was there. A long time ago.

  She turns towards the lighthouse. Touches the cold, wet stone. Remembers a voice, cross and childlike: ‘Of course we can’t go over there. That island is private. No one lives there now. No one has even been there for years and years.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s a bad place. An evil place . . . Father says no one should go back there. Not ever.’

  Amelia

  She runs until her lungs start to ache and she has to stop to catch her breath, to cough, to suck in great mouthfuls of air. She slumps forward, hands on her knees, waiting for her heart rate to slow and her breathing to ease, then she unhooks the straps of her backpack and throws it onto the ground. She grapples with the zip, eventually pulls out her water bottle and takes a long, slow gulp. She drops to the ground, cross-legged, and frowns.

  This so-called game. It had to be about her, didn’t it?

  Why couldn’t it have been about one of the others – Lucy or Tiggy, or even Brenda. They’ve all done shitty, horrible things in their time – and what has she done? Other than devote her whole life to helping others.

  It’s all she’s ever wanted to do. Ever since she read that news story about the refugee who had died trying to climb onto an island in the South of England. He’d managed to get all the way across the Channel on a small boat that was meant for picnicking on ponds, not escaping across the sea, risking life and limb. Losing life, in the end. How awful must your existence be if you think that’s a good idea? Obviously it’s worth the risk, because so many try it – and many succeed.

  But many don’t.

  She read about that man one summer, after she’d spent a week on an island with her grandparents, bored to tears with none of her friends around her – not that she’d ever had many. That was another reason she got into humanitarian aid – because she’d never be short of people who wanted to spend time with her.

  She’s tried to block out what happened that summer on the island, but she knows it’s close to the surface now. Ending up at that lighthouse was no coincidence.

  She drinks a bit more of the water and feels a little calmer. Scott is convinced that the water is drugged, and she’s not entirely sure he’s wrong – and right now, she’s not entirely sure that she minds if it is. She’s never taken drugs, other than paracetamol for a headache, and maybe some antacids now and again. She’s not even much of a drinker, although she enjoyed the cocktails at the tiki hut. Brought back some happy memories of someone she met while working on a project in Ghana. Someone she’ll probably never see again, and that’s fine too. She’s used to being on her own. The more her parents had pushed her to ‘be like the other girls’, the more she had pulled away from them. But it’s not been in vain. She’s been responsible for a lot of good things, and earned recognition for them – magazine profiles, interviews on the major news channels – sufficient to raise awareness that has in turn led to more funding for bigger projects. Tiggy might be a celebrity within her own circle, but Amelia is well known by much higher profile people, for much bigger things. All those celebrities who make tearful vlogs of their time spent helping starving children and digging wells need to have someone in the background to talk them through it all, don’t they? She might not be famous in the traditional sense, but she has made a name for herself in a way that truly matters. That hasn’t been the point, certainly, but it’s something she reminds herself of when she’s on her own – as she nearly always seems to be – in some dire, bleak situation or another, and finds herself questioning just what kind of life she’s chosen to lead.

  Not that this qualifies as one of those times. True, it’s been a little dire – certainly has been for Giles – but it’s far too scenic to be bleak. Though now that the sun has dipped, it’s starting to get a bit chilly, and they haven’t made it to the house yet. The thought of a party makes her stomach flip, but then again, she would like some food. When did she – or any of the others – last eat? Although, she’s not actually hungry. Maybe the drugged water is an appetite suppressant too?

  She heads down the hill, through an overgrown trail that may or may not be the right way to go. No one else seems to have arrived at the lighthouse, so it’s clearly not meant to be found – and yet, she found it. Knowing that she’s come around the headland, with the sea to her right again, and the other island just across the stretch of water in the near distance, she figures that the house can’t be far, based on the map. Of course, she could ask her tracker again, but she’s sick of being told what to do.

  Surprisingly, she hasn’t come across Lucy. Not that she’s been looking for her. She’d expected her to come back to the ruins, but when she didn’t appear after a few minutes, Amelia had set off on her own. Did Lucy go back the way they came? That would make no sense, but then Lucy was in shock and who knows what she might have done. Hopefully the others have made it further. Maybe they’re already at the house.

  The path dips steeply into a marshy area that seems too overgrown to pass through, but she knows if she just keeps going she’ll get out. Unless there’s some hidden danger to deal with in the undergrowth. Landmines or snakes, or quicksand, even. One of those phenomena that used to scare kids but rarely exist in any real place.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s safe to cross.’

  James’s voice comes from her right and she whirls round, but she can’t see him.

  ‘In here,’ he says, his smile evident in his voice.

  She walks in the direction of his voice and sees his hand waving from under a green tarpaulin. He’s in some sort of makeshift shelter propped up with poles, leaving a space just high enough to stand.

  ‘Am
I glad to find you!’ She pushes through the marsh grass, ignoring the scratches on her bare legs. As she gets closer, a distinct, comforting aroma hits her nostrils and her mouth waters. ‘Oh my God – are you brewing coffee?’

  ‘Ethiopian Arabica,’ he says. ‘I’m assuming you’d like a cup?’

  He lifts the edge of the tarpaulin and she bends her head slightly as she walks into the shelter. In the middle, James is on one knee, tending to a small stove with a metal coffee pot on top, and the whole floor area is covered in blankets and cushions. ‘Wow. What is this place?’

  He pours coffee into a tin mug and hands it to her. ‘It’s my comfort den. I asked for it. Said if I had to be on my own, I wanted to be somewhere I felt safe.’ He takes a sip from his mug and looks away from her.

  ‘You didn’t feel safe earlier?’ She lifts her mug to her lips and inhales the scent. ‘With us?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I wear a good game face. How else do you think I can do my job?’ He sits down on the floor, wraps a blanket around his shoulders. ‘But no. I don’t feel safe. I never feel safe. I knew what they were trying to do when they told me to go and spend time on my own. They were trying to freak me out. To see how I would react. You all thought I was fine, didn’t you? Being part of the team, getting on with the task in hand.’ He pauses, takes another sip. ‘But I’m very much not OK. I thought . . . well, if I just stayed in here, I’d be fine. I knew I’d have to come out eventually and start looking for the others, or finding my way to this house, but I couldn’t do it. I thought if I stayed here then someone would find me. I wanted someone to find me.’

  His eyes are wild when he looks back at her, and she realises he’s quite agitated. Something about this situation has triggered something in him, but she doesn’t want to pry.

  ‘I was a bit of a loner when I was young,’ she says. ‘I probably still am – although with my job, I have to push myself into the crowd. I’m always out of my comfort zone, and it never gets any easier. I’ve tried to have friends, but it’s never really worked out. I’ve always found it hard to go along with what other people wanted. I had one of those holiday friends once. You know the ones. They’ve been there before so they think they know it all. Try to convince you to do things you know you shouldn’t do.’

  James smiles sadly, then looks away. ‘I never went on holiday as a kid. My dad . . . well, let’s just say he was tricky. My mum couldn’t cope. She . . . she drank. Tried to blot it all out.’ He stares at his coffee cup. ‘One day she went out for a pint of milk and never came back. I was six . . .’ He turns back to face her, tears in the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Oh, James . . .’ She leans over and puts a hand on his knee.

  ‘A neighbour found me. One of my mum’s friends. They took me in. But she had her own kid and it was hard. For a long time, I barely spoke. Barely interacted. I just kept saying, “I thought she was coming back.”’

  Amelia wipes a tear away. ‘Well, you’re not alone now. You’ve got me, OK? Now, let’s leave this den – as snug as it is – and go and find the others.’

  He smiles and gets to his feet. He takes her cup and lays it down next to his on the floor. ‘Thanks for listening to me. I try not to let my past get to me, but . . . well. It does. Often. People think that the paparazzi must be ruthless, amoral gold-diggers – but to be honest, the only reason I started doing it was because I thought it was a job where I was always going to be in a crowd, so I’d always be safe. Watching celebrities and taking their photos – it’s such a break from reality that sometimes it makes me forget that I exist.’

  Amelia walks out of the shelter and back into the long grass. James follows. What is it about this place, she thinks, that’s making everyone bring their long-suppressed memories to the surface?

  Lucy

  T - 3

  Lucy knows there’s no point in running. It’s an island. They’re not just going to let her leave. Not now.

  She can’t work out how they got hold of this video. Where was the camera? Even if there was CCTV at that big fancy house, it couldn’t have tracked her like that, from the door to upstairs, back down and out. She’s replayed the whole scene inside her head, many, many times. And now Amelia has seen it too – conveniently projected out of her tracker so that they could watch the horror unfold together.

  But who is she kidding? There was no camera. It came from her own head.

  She’s willing to accept now – as bonkers as it seems – that Timeo has mined her memories. But how did they know where to look? How did they know she had such a secret to hide?

  The worst part is, it’s not even finished. At some point, the rest of it is going to unfold – what she did, who she did it to – and how it ended.

  It was never meant to end the way it did.

  She rubs at her face, angrily wiping away tears as she meanders back down the path, heading past the ruins, taking a quick look to see if Amelia is still there but not wanting to go anywhere near them. Amelia isn’t there, of course. Why would she be? She’s probably back on the other side of the island now, trying to escape the psychopath.

  Lucy isn’t a psychopath though. She’s sure of it. She’s just damaged and torn and broken into bits. She’s a cracked mirror, bringing her own seven years of bad luck. It’s been six and a half, actually. She’d thought she was close to getting through it.

  ‘How far is the big house?’ she says out loud.

  A holographic map pops up in front of her. A big arrow showing where she is now, and another pointing to the big house.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mutters. She’s apparently accepted the technology, but she doesn’t want to.

  She blinks as the map pixelates then disintegrates, and she picks up the pace. It’s not far now, and she’d like to get there before sundown.

  ‘It’s T minus 3 hours,’ the disembodied voice tells her, even though she didn’t ask.

  She doesn’t care about this party that’s meant to be happening. Doesn’t want to do anything now, except go home. The last message to the group told them they were to ask for anything they wanted, but there’s nothing. Not now. That memory being unleashed has crushed what spirit she had. It had been fine to mock Tiggy, but only because she knew she had something much worse festering away inside her.

  The house was supposed to be empty. Her house.

  Her ex and his new wife were meant to be in New York.

  The child – she can barely bring herself to recall her name, Milly, was supposed to be at her grandparents’.

  How was Lucy to know they’d cancelled the trip because the baby was ill? That woman had taken her husband and given him the child she could never produce. She wasn’t going to have her beloved home as well.

  That had been the plan.

  But when she’d seen the rumpled blanket hanging off the end of the bed, heard the heavy breathing in the bedroom, even though she knew rationally that it was a second chance – an opportunity to stop and think about what she was doing – she’d gone ahead with it anyway. In too deep, the adrenaline surging through her – the buzz of it blocked her from stopping and led her to make the biggest mistake of her life.

  She is a monster.

  A sharp pain shoots through her stomach, spasms doubling her over as she falls to her knees and vomits. There’s nothing in there but clear liquid, but it burns as it empties out and the spasms finally subside. Brushing her hand across her mouth, she gets to her feet again. Clenches her hands into fists, bites hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from screaming.

  She takes a few slow, calming breaths. Then carries on. She’d been questioned, of course, but there had been nothing to link her to the event, and somehow she’d got away with it. Except she hadn’t, of course. Because she still has to live with it. Every minute. Every day.

  She forces herself out of her head, scans her surroundings. Off to her right she can see the blinking lights of another island. She can’t work out how far away it is, but it definitely looks too far to make a swim
for it. She’s already getting cold as the sun has dipped, and she’s not that strong a swimmer.

  She climbs a small hill, barely noticing the surroundings now. The exotic plants and varied landscape were interesting before, but now it’s all just something that’s there, a reminder that she’s somewhere she doesn’t want to be.

  As she descends the hill, she sees a copse of tall trees ahead. And nearby, two figures, walking away from her. She sighs. Might as well join them.

  ‘Hey, Amelia? James!’ She shouts it across the marshy plain, and her voice seems to be dulled somehow. Grabbed by the breeze and shaken away. ‘Hey, you two,’ she cries again.

  This time, James turns round, sees her. Waves. Amelia stands beside him. Perhaps she hasn’t told him yet. Perhaps Lucy has a few more moments before James finds out what a monster she is. She waves back, starts jogging towards them. The ground is a bit spongy underfoot and it slows her down. But they wait. James is smiling. Amelia’s expression is wary.

  She definitely hasn’t told him.

  ‘Hi.’ James walks towards her. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. Amelia and I were chatting about . . . things. I forgot myself for a while.’

  Lucy frowns. James seems different to when she last saw him. He’d seemed confident, ready for action. Now he seems smaller, deflated. Like he’s ready to give up. She’d started to get suspicious of him before, thinking he knew more about the ‘game’ than he was letting on, but now he looks just as fed up as she feels. Not that surprising, really. They’re all tired. They’re all in the same boat. She smiles inwardly. If only they had an actual boat. They could row to that island and get help. Get away. Go back home and pretend none of this ever happened. They all signed a non-disclosure agreement and she’s more than happy to stick to it.

  She doesn’t want anyone to know anything about this place. She definitely doesn’t want anyone to know anything about the technology they’ve been testing.