‘I’m with Valentina. Where are the exits?’ growls Mo. ‘Rosalind, how do we get out of here?’
‘Show us,’ snaps Valentina. Rosalind nods and looks at me with tear-filled eyes as if seeking my approval for her next move.
‘OK, everyone,’ I say, deciding it is best to follow the will of the many on this. ‘If we are going, I think we should go there together.’ Something tells me that it would be a mistake to leave anyone alone right now.
I lead the way accompanied by the direction of Rosalind. The others – Carly, Valentina, Mo and Daniel – follow behind. My insides fizz as adrenaline courses through me and my skin tingles as if the nervous energy from the rest of the group bounces off their skin and converges to enclose me in a bubble of anxiety.
Keep calm. They need you to keep calm.
Right now, I’m the glue keeping everyone together. If I expose my concerns that exiting may not be as easy as we hope then everything will descend into chaos. Though I know if we reach the gates and my concerns are real, it’s going to descend into chaos regardless.
With Rosalind’s direction, I lead the group through the villa, past the door to the producer’s corridor, and along the white corridor through which we came on our first day.
Yesterday. Our first day on this island, in this villa, was yesterday. Only yesterday and yet a lifetime seems to have passed me by. Even back then, despite the luxurious and modern feel, the white walls with their clean lines and minimalist style have felt hospital-like but now the feeling twists and intensifies and it’s like I’m walking down the hall of an asylum, one from which it is impossible to escape. Our group proceeds down the corridor in silence, the only sound coming from the hum of the air conditioner and our bare feet connecting softly with the smooth marble tiles.
At the end of the corridor, there is a sliding door made entirely of glass; I remember it from when we arrived. I wrap my fingers around the handle and heave. Some of the tension in my shoulders releases as the door slides open without a problem; it rolls smoothly on its tracks, unleashing the heat of the Mediterranean air as it does so.
I step out of the villa and onto the flagstones that make up the perimeter of the complex.
The air is thick with the honeyed scent given off by the trees which surround us. This sweet smell reminds me of holidays I’ve taken in the past, of relaxing summers long gone. A smell that signalled warmer climes and a week in the sun, but that was before our nostrils were stuffed with the whiff of death.
Directly ahead of me are the solid gates. The gates, like the walls, give no view of the world outside. My heart picks up its pace and the nausea I felt this morning following our long evening of merriment and heavy drink washes over me. What I wouldn’t give to just go back to bed and hope that when I wake this will all be over.
On the left side of the main gates there is a square hut and I think that if this hut mimics a security hut, then not only will it be possible to exit through it but also the switches needed to swing open the electric gates will be accessible here. I proceed towards it; this is our best hope of escape. The immediate door of the hut poses no problem and a quiet giggle escapes my lips. Perhaps this isn’t going to be as bad as my gut first thought. I jerk open the door and step inside.
The sight that greets me makes my legs wobble and I press my back against the wall to stop myself from crumbling. This cannot be real.
The switchboard which controls the movement of the electric gates from inside the villa complex is a mess of wire and plastic. Buttons litter both the wooden table and the floor, ripped from their position and tossed carelessly aside.
This is sabotage.
My life experience has made me hypersensitive to danger and right now, my senses are screaming their alarms.
‘What? What is it?’ calls Rosalind, her head floating from outside the hut, the bevelled glass distorting her face.
‘Stay outside,’ I say, raising a hand to stop them entering. I can’t let them see this. I try to control my breathing; they’re all watching me, watching my reaction. I stride towards the other door of the hut, the door that would allow me to exit the complex. Please let me be wrong, please let the door open.
But I shouldn’t have doubted my instincts. I don’t even need to try the door handle because the door handle isn’t there; the door has been locked and the handle ripped off. With no handle and no switchboard, there’s no way we’re getting out from this part of the villa. I lick my dry lips and swallow. How the hell am I going to break this news to the Islanders? I can’t predict how they’re going to react to this but whatever their reaction, it won’t be pretty.
‘What’s going on in there?’ Mo shouts, his voice conveying anger I haven’t seen in him before. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Minimally more centred, I exit. Four sets of eyes and the lens of a camera stare at me as I walk towards them. How should I tell them? What words can I use to explain this?
‘We’re…’ I start but my voice trails off. I can’t bring myself to say that we’re trapped, that someone has trapped us. We are, in fact, being held hostage. Probably by the same someone who killed Jack. Up until this moment, I’ve remained calm for the most part. My previous experience means I’ve been in danger before. A dead body and smashed phones weren’t enough to scare me. But this? This incarceration in a villa that has borne witness to a murder is entirely new and the fear that has engulfed most of the others since discovering Jack catches me. All the signs of panic are there: my breathing is quick and jagged; sweat gathers in my palms; and my heart drums against my chest. I want to speak but I’m frozen.
‘We’re what?’ snaps Valentina, her eyes wide. I shake my head; my lips tremble. I can’t answer. I don’t want to tell them, I don’t want to have to say it out loud. Mo pushes past me, bumping my shoulder as he marches into the hut.
‘Oh my fucking God,’ he roars.
‘What? What, Mo? What’s in there?’ cries Valentina but Mo doesn’t answer her. All that can be heard is the banging and I peer in to see Mo throwing his body against the door.
‘Mo, don’t do that, you might hurt yourself,’ I say, knowing he isn’t strong enough to fix this. There is nothing he can do but he doesn’t listen to me.
‘I have to do something, I have to get us out,’ says Mo as he storms out of the security hut, past the group, and back towards the villa. We watch him go, open-mouthed but unable or unwilling to stop him.
He returns moments later, a bar stool raised high over his head.
I stand motionless watching him as he hurls the stool at the outside door. Again. And again. And again. It’s like he is in a trance as he tries and fails to make any impact on the outer door.
‘What about the walls?’ asks Valentina as if deciding to ignore Mo and let him wear himself out with thrashing. I know why she’s asking. It is our last hope but it’s nothing short of hopeless. The walls are too high and covered in hedges that would only hinder our ability to clamber over.
‘No, I think it’s impossible. I think we’re—’ I pause, composing myself for the announcement. ‘We’re trapped.’
Chapter Sixteen
LoveWrecked @LoveWrecked
1.35m followers
Share your thoughts on this year’s season of LoveWrecked.
@Scandalina: Hey @LoveWrecked, where have all the Islanders gone? The live feeds are just showing an empty garden and that isn’t exactly entertainment.
@trashqueen2000: @Scandalina Err… shouldn’t we be more concerned that one of them is dead?
@Scandalina: Oh, come on @trashqueen2000. Jack Peaks isn’t dead.
@Judgeinthevilla: I’d stay tuned if I were you, things are about to get MUCH more entertaining.
Chapter Seventeen
Kimberley
Sunday 27th July, 11:21
‘We’re trapped?’ asks Rosalind. ‘No, we can’t be trapped.’
Mo emerges from the security hut, his brow slick with sweat, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath. The
bar stool hangs limply at his side.
‘I can’t do it. The bloody door won’t budge an inch. You saw how long I was trying for, no amount of force will make it move.’ Mo wipes his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Look, Daniel, I know you have a job to do but, seriously, Jack is dead, and we’re trapped here meaning we can’t get any help so would it be much trouble for me to ask you not to point that camera in my face? In fact, I think it would be best for everyone if you just turned it off.’ Daniel swivels the camera away from Mo but doesn’t immediately turn it off. ‘What is wrong with you?’ asks Mo, charging past Daniel and back towards the villa.
There’s silence for a moment and then Valentina launches herself at Rosalind, grabbing handfuls of her pyjamas.
‘Sort this out,’ she screams, ‘this is your villa, your show. I want to go home.’ Rosalind tries and fails to bat Valentina off with cries that she didn’t have anything to do with this. I reach to catch Valentina’s arm in my hand, but it swings round and collides with the side of my jaw.
‘Help me,’ I say, turning to Daniel. He swivels his camera away from his face, leaving it suspended to the side, and steps forward. His strong arm wraps fully around Valentina’s tiny waist and he pulls her from Rosalind.
‘Easy now,’ he whispers to her as if trying to calm a startled horse. She looks up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and turns away, readjusting her bikini and smoothing down her hair. Carly stares at her with a look of complete horror, seemingly unable to contemplate how one could lose their cool quite so dramatically.
‘Sorry,’ mutters Valentina, her back still to Rosalind. The producer goes to reply but I decide to step in; I don’t want Rosalind to say anything that might set Valentina off again.
‘Look, everyone. Let’s go back inside and calm down. Can we do that?’ I ask. They nod. ‘Despite what it looks like, I’m sure that everything will be OK.’ I give them all a tight smile. ‘People know where the villa is. So even though we can’t reach the outside world, the outside world knows we’re here.’
If, as I suspect, Jack’s death has been broadcast to the entire nation, surely someone will be on their way to rescue us? Plus, there are many more Islanders and a handful of crew arriving on the island today. Although the dark voice inside of me isn’t convinced that the other Islanders are real.
Luckily, the reminder that people know where we are and that there are others on their way, combined with the tiredness that often accompanies intense emotion, seems to placate the group and, eventually, Valentina, Carly, Rosalind and Daniel retreat, defeated but resigned, to the Fire Pit area where we find Mo already sitting, his head wedged between his knees.
So exhausted is the mood by this point that neither Daniel nor Mo protest when I ask them to move Jack’s body. I’m grateful they don’t argue and I’m equally grateful that the villa has a commercial-sized walk-in freezer. The intense heat wouldn’t be good for it and whilst the cold temperature of the freezer won’t stop his decomposition, it will certainly delay it.
Once this is done, we sit. Together. In silence. A sombre group whose feelings are completely incongruous with the gloriousness of the day.
How can the sun continue to shine even over this?
But I can’t settle, so instead I pace around the garden trying lift some of the thick fog clouding my brain.
Pop.
I whirl around as the sound cracks through the air, disturbing the silence that has hung over us for hours.
‘Help us,’ someone shouts. ‘Send help. Please.’
The five of them, Mo, Carly, Rosalind, Daniel and Valentina, are now on their feet, chattering as a single body towards the giant outdoor television screen. My jaw drops when I see what has roused them.
The screen has, somehow, switched itself on and is displaying a single image.
Facing directly into the camera is a person. A person that seems to be dressed in dark, flowing robes with thick shoulders and a white wig that rises high on their head, its curls draping over their shoulder. It looks to me as if they’re dressed as a court judge, though it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a courtroom. My eyes widen as I take it all in; there’s something both cartoonish and extremely disturbing about the image. But worst of all is the judge’s face, or more appropriately their lack of face. It’s impossible to tell who this person is because they’re lit entirely from behind, meaning their face is in complete darkness.
‘Who are you?’ asks Mo, approaching the screen.
My shoulders tighten and my hands ball into fists; whoever this judge is, something tells me they are not a friend.
‘Who are you?’ asks Rosalind, as if Mo hasn’t spoken. ‘Where are you?’ She too takes a step towards the television.
‘Hey,’ chimes in Valentina, clearly feeling the need to say her piece. ‘Whoever you are please, help us. We’re trapped here. Send the police. Send anyone! Jack’s dead.’ Her voice breaks when she mentions Jack and she stretches out her arms as she pleads.
I can’t figure out if the person on the screen can hear us for they show no sign that they can. Their body doesn’t move in reaction to the words directed towards them and, as it’s impossible to see their face, there’s no way other way of knowing. From their words and body language, all of the other Islanders seem convinced that this person is here to save us but I get the overwhelming sense that they’ll be disappointed. My gut tells me that whoever this person is they are most definitely not our saviour. My skin prickles as the hair on my arms stands on end.
‘Please sit down,’ says the judge person, without acknowledging the entreaties coming from within the villa. I narrow my eyes at the menace in the voice. It’s a male voice and now not only am I certain he isn’t our knight in shining armour, something tells me he is quite the opposite. The others take their seats in a semi-circle around the Fire Pit, immediately obedient, but I ignore his request, I don’t like where this is headed.
‘Please sit down, I’m going to tell you what will happen next,’ says the judge, a bit more forcefully this time. But I again don’t listen, I refuse to be compliant like the others. I’m not taking orders from him. So instead of sitting down, I take a step forward closer to the screen.
‘Oi, can you hear us?’ I ask him, waving at the screen. The judge’s head tilts downwards at his lap.
‘Please sit down, I’m going to tell you what will happen next,’ he repeats. He has either chosen to ignore me or he can’t hear me.
‘Can you hear us? Can you see us?’ I ask. I’m right next to the screen now.
‘I said, sit down,’ growls the judge; his tone is sharp. So, he can hear me. My lip curls; why is he ignoring us? Fingers tug at my wrist.
‘Sit down,’ hisses Mo. Mo’s face is drawn, the desperation for me to obey writ large in the fear in his eyes. I don’t want to be ordered around by this faceless man, but I also don’t want to upset the others. So, I oblige.
‘Thank you,’ says the judge figure. He clears his throat and continues, ‘Islanders, as you may have already gathered, the villa has been locked down.’ My fellow Islanders nod at his words. Next to me, Mo’s fists unclench as the words boom around the garden; Valentina exhales loudly and leans back against the seating; and Carly’s lips push outward into a pout. They’re all letting their guard down; they don’t think this is real; they think this is nothing more than a LoveWrecked challenge.
I don’t unclench. I’m still on high alert and Rosalind, the person who would know if this was a challenge, mirrors my tension. I hold my breath as the judge holds his pause. An imaginary drumroll sounds in my head.
‘The cameras are rolling, and this is being watched live by over half a million people.’ The judge’s voice quavers just a fraction at this as if he too is nervous. ‘But before I continue, Daniel Oni – switch your camera on, I want to make sure we catch this all in the best possible way.’
Daniel turns to look at Rosalind; he raises a questioning eyebrow to her. Rosalind’s expression is blank, and she s
hrugs. Maybe the others were right, and I was wrong. Maybe this is a challenge. But if it is, Rosalind and Daniel don’t seem to know anything about it.
Daniel flicks a switch and the red light of his camera comes on.
‘Thank you, Daniel, and thank you, Islanders, for joining me in the Fire Pit. I am the Judge and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. You, on the other hand, may be less pleased to make mine.’ The Judge clears his throat. ‘Jack Peaks is dead. Jack Peaks was murdered.’
The gasps of the Islanders come in unison. Valentina’s fingers squeeze around my arm, and I exhale slowly as the shock ripples around the group. Even though I knew this to be the truth, to hear it spoken aloud is like a slap in the face; heat flares in my cheeks.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I whisper, but my question remains unanswered as the Judge ploughs on with his statement, speaking over the cries of fear and sadness that surround me.
‘Kimberley King,’ says the Judge, his pixelated face pointing vaguely in my direction. I snap upright as my name reverberates around the garden.
Oh my God, is he going to pin this on me? Is he going to announce that I killed Jack?
All the other Islanders seem to think the same. Valentina slides a couple of centimetres away from me. My heart pounds against my chest. The Judge said my name.
Why did he say my name? I don’t have anything to do with this. Do I?
Before I can question him, the Judge continues.
‘Kimberley King, did you know that, in the UK, only 8 per cent of crimes are solved?’ I look up at him. Of everything he could have said, I didn’t expect that. ‘92 per cent of reported crimes go unsolved and, therefore, unpunished. We cannot let Jack Peaks be among that statistic; I refuse to let that happen. So, Kimberley, as the former police officer among us, I need your help. Everyone in this villa has secrets but one of them is keeping it secret that they killed Jack. It is your task to find out who murdered Jack Peaks. And you must do it live. On television.’
The Islanders Page 8