The Islanders

by S. V. Leonard

Chapter Forty-Four

  To: matt@deluca.com

  From: contactme@jd.co.uk

  Subject: Reply to Contact Me form

  Message:

  Hello Matteo,

  What an awful story but sadly not one I haven’t heard before. I’m working on a plan that may help you satisfy your rage. I’ll be in touch soon!

  Best,

  JD

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Spyland.co.uk – News, Scandals and all the latest Gossip from your favourite celebrities

  BREAKING NEWS: Location of the real LoveWrecked villa sent to police from unknown email account

  Posted on Sunday 27th July, 10:01 p.m.

  In the last twelve hours, the British and Greek governments have been on a frantic, race-against-time search for the island which has played host to this year’s season of LoveWrecked. They’ve been looking in vain, until now.

  Less than thirty minutes ago, SpyLand received information that the location was sent to a British police officer in an email.

  Around ten minutes ago, the LoveWrecked villa screened its final image. That of former police officer Kimberley King, the only known survivor of the tragedy, sitting in front of the outdoor television screen and the Judge as he, in his words, ‘delivered his final verdict’. He chastised Kim for failing to catch the perpetrator of these crimes and said it was a stinging indictment on the whole of the British police force. He also said that the challenge was now over and that he had sent the island’s location to the police. In one of the most harrowing turns yet, he instructed Kim to one of the rooms where there were two things. The first was a book, none other than Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, a story about massacre and vengeance. And the second is almost too horrible to report, but SpyLand is committed to bringing our readers the truth. Above the book was a noose. The ending prepared for Kim is reminiscent of the last one standing in Christie’s book. Her name was Vera Claythorne and she let an innocent child die on her watch.

  The final image we have from the villa is from the CCTV cameras. Though the image is grainy, it is unmistakably Kimberley King walking towards the noose. It is at this point that the filming was cut.

  The whereabouts of Rosalind, Carly and Daniel are also currently unknown.

  Little is known about whether the island has yet been found but for those of us who’ve been watching the drama unfold, we only hope that the police get there before it’s too late for Kimberley. Fans across the world have reacted in terror and sadness to this horror movie come true and our thoughts go out to those who’ve lost their lives.

  As always, SpyLand promises to keep you updated with the latest as and when we have it.

  Comments section

  @trashqueen2000: Oh good God, it’s a mass murder-suicide

  @gormlessguy: if anyone ever needed a reason to get rid of their tv. This is it! Death to modern media.

  @curlywurlyhurly: OMG what happened to Rosalind, Daniel and Carly? Why aren’t they showing what happened to them. I hope they’re all OK

  @trashqueen2000: Errrr… have you been watching any of this? It is highly likely they are NOT OK.

  @queenjulia: So, do we know who did it?

  @Scandalina: I’d put money on it being Kimberley all along

  @queenjulia: that’d be a twist eh?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Kimberley

  Sunday 3rd August, 21:40

  The smooth white frame of my front doors stands resolute in front of me. I press my hand against it, trying to steady myself. I hold my key outstretched like a dagger but, no matter how much I try, it seems to be repelled by the lock like a magnet facing a magnet. Every time the tip of the key nears the lock, my hand trembles so violently that it slips sideways. There’s nothing wrong with the key, nor the lock, just me and my trembling hands.

  It’s only been a week since I last walked through this door. One short week since I left England for Greece. One week since the deaths of my fellow Islanders. And it was for just under a week that I was held in a Greek prison while my fate was decided. Then one day, a police officer came to my cell and told me a flight had been booked and I was to head home, that the UK government had made it clear they wanted to deal with me themselves, whatever the heck that means. I’ve turned over and over in my mind the events that took place and am certain now that Daniel’s survival and subsequent escape is the signal of his guilt. In that final moment, I had thought he had discovered Carly was behind it but time away from the panic has cleared my mind; Carly was there to be punished and Daniel was the hand that delivered it.

  Less than three hours ago I landed in Liverpool John Lennon airport and was greeted by a torrent of reporters and photographers practically climbing the barriers at arrivals, all clamouring to get their shouts above their neighbours’. Some shouted an offer of cash, others offered me the opportunity to tell my side of the story. I didn’t like the latter, as though there is more to tell than what the world has witnessed. I hopped around all of them and managed to squeeze myself into a taxi. I knew I don’t really have the cash to spare for such a journey but the attention I received made it clear I couldn’t exactly jump on the bus. Plus, it’s not like there’s anyone I could have called. And even if there was someone, my phone was smashed and left in the villa, so I couldn’t call anyone even if I wanted to.

  Finally, the key slips into the lock and with a click the door to my apartment unlocks.

  After a week of complete hell, I finally cross the threshold of my home. The place I dreamed about every single night in prison. My own bed called to me like a siren on the rocks.

  But it’s as if even my homecoming has been soured. As I enter, my nose wrinkles; one week is a long time to not have a window open in this heatwave. The air is thick and sweat creeps down my back.

  I march along the cream-coloured carpet of the hallway, straight into the living room, and crack open the window. Thankfully, the evening is cool and has brought with it a light breeze which cuts through the stagnant air. That done, I walk zombie-like to my bedroom.

  I stand for a moment, staring at my room. The room is as tidy as I left it, my modern floral bedspread slightly wrinkled because I never bother to iron the sheets, matching pillows piled high against the studded headboard. My dressing table is practically bare, housing only the perfume I chose to leave behind because I deemed it too wintery a scent for the summer. The magazine I’d been reading the night before I left for Greece lies at a jaunty angle on my bedside table. The main topic was, unsurprisingly, the upcoming series of LoveWrecked. When the magazine went to print it was part of the wave of excitement for the new series that had swept the country; nobody knew that that wave was about to turn into a tsunami of terror. The sight of it turns my stomach and I flip it over to hide the cover.

  Everything in my bedroom is the same as it was when I left. Only once before have I experienced the feeling I have right now, but I’d forgotten the power of it. Nothing prepares you for the feeling of disbelief that comes when the entirety of your world has changed. When something so monumental has happened, you know in that instant that you’re a different person than you were before. And yet, bizarrely, unbelievably, the world around you remains exactly the same.

  It’s as if my bedroom is chiding me for leaving. It’s mocking me; it’s as if my bedroom refuses to change despite what’s happened. My safe haven has turned on me.

  My body shakes, expelling the huge tears that have been welling inside me for the days that have felt more like decades. I’m completely exhausted and my body aches from head to toe.

  Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I let it drop onto the floor and rummage around my drawers for some pyjamas.

  My bed calls to me and I collapse onto it, pressing my head against the pillow and squeezing my eyes shut. Yet despite all the sleep my body is screaming for, my mind won’t let go. It hasn’t been able to let go for a single second since Jack’s body was found floating in the pool.

  Suddenly, my bedroom
door slams shut, forcing my eyes to ping open.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I call but my question is met with silence. Then I remember the window. The door slammed because the window is open; it happens all the time. I sigh in relief and, pushing my feet into my slippers, I shuffle to the living room. My bare skin tightens as the cool air makes its way into my home. I wrap my fingers around the handle of the window and am ready to pull it shut when something stops me. In the dark street below me, I see something that makes my heart feel like a hand has closed around it. Standing on the opposite pavement is a person, their body pointed directly towards my window, towards me. Someone is watching me.

  The unknown figure is encased in a huge, black Puffa jacket with a baseball cap pulled low over their head. The evening is definitely not cold enough for such a large jacket but if their goal is disguising themselves it does the trick. Under the darkness of their baseball cap, it’s impossible for me to make out their face and from this distance I can’t even tell their height, their gender or the tone of their skin. My feet remain rooted to the spot with my hand still curled around the handle of the window. I have no idea who this person is but I’m certain that this person is watching me; why else would they be standing there at this time of the night staring at my window?

  Thunk. I slam the window shut, cutting off the sound of the wind passing through the trees, and dash to my bedroom. I rummage through the bottom drawer of my bedside table, grab my old and slightly battered digital camera from it, and run back to the window, readying the camera to get a photo of my stalker. But as I lift the camera to the window, I see that the camera’s screen can only capture a dark and deserted street. There’s no figure standing there, not any more. The stark white eyes sparkling in the black night have gone.

  Sweat gathers in my armpits and despite my skimpy attire, my pyjamas suddenly feel too warm and too tight like they’re suffocating me. My hands fall to my sides and my camera slips to the floor, thudding gently on the carpet. Not being able to see this person is more alarming to me than seeing them.

  It’s probably a photographer, I say to myself, forcing myself to be calm. Photographers and reporters have followed me everywhere since I was rescued from the villa: they were there as I entered the prison and were there as I left, and the memory of them clamouring around me at the airport is still fresh in my mind. So far, I’m the biggest story of the year and they’re buzzing around me like wasps at a picnic.

  I pull down the blinds to make sure no unwanted snaps of me in my pyjamas end up on the Internet overnight. Up until now, I’ve not seen the news or checked social media; something tells me the content about me won’t be kind.

  Turning away from the window, I’m determined to put the photographer out of my mind. I head to the kitchen to make myself a hot drink, opting for a chamomile tea. Considering I can’t sleep, coffee would be a terrible idea.

  As the kettle boils I try not to dwell on how weird it feels to be doing something so normal as making myself a tea in my own kitchen, like discovering that there is a world outside of the villa or prison. I turn on the radio, hoping for some music to soothe me and make me feel more normal. The song that blasts into my kitchen is a high-octane pop song whose lyrics are focused on summer sun and romance. The juxtaposition of its tone with my mood is almost too ironic to bear.

  ‘If you weren’t dancing before,’ says the radio host, his voice almost as energetic as the song, ‘I hope you’re up on the tables now. That is without a doubt the hottest tune of the summer and wherever you are listening to us tonight I hope it’s helping you kick yourself into weekend mode.’

  The kettle clicks and steams billows from the spout and the radio host’s voice is replaced by the beeps indicating that it’s 10 o’clock.

  ‘Now, for a quick lowdown of the latest news.’

  I grab a tea bag and, dropping it in a mug, lift the kettle and pour the boiling water over it.

  ‘The search for Daniel Oni is over.’ My body convulses in shock at the sound of Daniel’s name and my hand jerks away from the mug, splattering boiling hot water all over the counter. I leap backwards to avoid the drips spilling over my exposed legs. Before LoveWrecked, I was able to control my fear, able to push it aside so I could focus on the job in hand. But my time imprisoned in the villa seems to have changed everything and, for a moment, I’m paralysed, rooted to the spot and quivering, like a child after a nightmare. I lean around the puddle of water and jab the button to increase the radio’s volume; Daniel Oni is on the news.

  ‘Police have confirmed that Daniel Oni, one of the men trapped inside the LoveWrecked villa has been found. Greek fishermen happened upon what they thought to be an abandoned motorboat and found Daniel’s body slumped in the bottom, dead.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Contact Me form

  Type your message in the box below. I read every piece of correspondence that comes to me and I will aim to get back to you as soon as I can.

  Your Name: Daniel Oni

  Your Email Address: cameramandan@hotmail.co.uk

  Your Message:

  I will never forget the two times I set eyes on the woman who ruined my life and the lives of my family. I was twenty-one years old and had just started working as a cameraman on a new reality television show following the life of a former reality television show star (sometimes I try not to think too deeply about how ridiculous all of this is). Anyway, I wasn’t earning much, so I was still living at home. I remember that Dad had been acting strangely for weeks. He was coming home earlier than usual; he worked at an investment bank, so early nights weren’t normal. And then he was sneaking out late at night. He was jumpy and distracted. My mother tried to pretend nothing was happening – she always was one to put her head in the sand, much preferring to ignore than deal with things. I, however, am not like my mother at all. So, one night, I followed him and discovered he was meeting with a young woman. She was probably in her early twenties, about the same age as me. My father handed her an envelope which she accepted with a smile. I assumed the envelope contained money but at the time I didn’t know what for. A month later, I found out when pictures of my father, laid out on a bed surrounded by cash and an array of illegal substances, were posted through the front door. It turns out they were posted to his work too. He lost his job and his reputation and eventually fled the country to return to his hometown in Nigeria. I never saw him again.

  But I did see her. Years later, still a camera operator, but financially in a much worse position, I was filming audition tapes for a new series of a soap opera. She walked in, sat down, and smiled at me from behind the camera. I couldn’t believe it. But even more unbelievable, I couldn’t believe the anger that rose inside me. From that moment on I was determined that Carly Chu wouldn’t get away with what she did.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Kimberley

  Sunday 3rd August, 22:15

  Daniel Oni is dead. Dead? Everything that I’ve been turning over and over in my mind for the last week is shattered into a thousand pieces. I totter to the living room and crash down on the couch.

  Daniel was found dead, slumped in the bottom of the motorboat I’d seen him escaping in. But how did he die? What killed him? I remember the tussle he and Carly had with the knife; maybe she wounded him more dangerously than it appeared. If he was killed by Carly, did she do it by accident, nothing more than a fatal result of her struggle for survival? Or did Daniel die another way? Maybe Daniel was always meant to die and he, like the rest of us, was there to be punished. But if this is true then that means one of the others is the killer and that person might still be alive.

  I jump from the couch and march to the other side of my living room. I tug open the top drawer of one of my cabinets and pull out my laptop and its charger. Plugging the laptop into the wall, I switch it on. It whirs noisily as if resurrected from the dead. The laptop seems to take an age to boot up. I chew my fingernails to stop myself manically tapping the keys. Come on, why is it taking so
long?

  I want to find out who of the seven in the villa with me is confirmed dead and, if my hunch is correct, who isn’t.

  After what feels like a lifetime, the laptop screen shines, greeting me with a photograph of me with my two sisters. My heart squeezes at the image.

  The photo was taken at my little sister’s university graduation. My younger sister stands in the middle, her head thrown back in a laugh. Me and my older sister stand either side, pulling puzzled expressions, like we’ve missed the joke. I love this photograph, I love my family and I hate how much I’ve separated myself from them. I promise that once this is all over I’ll get back in touch. I know they’ll be anxious to hear from me. Guilt pangs in my stomach when I think of the terror my family have probably gone through over all of this.

  I’m relieved my grandmother is no longer alive to witness the decline my life has gone through. Disgraced police officer, party-hard waitress, an Islander at the centre of a media frenzy, and now suspected of executing a plan to commit multiple murders.

  I brush aside a solitary tear and tap in my log-in details. As soon as I’m in, I drag my cursor to the Internet browser and pull it up.

  ‘Shit,’ I say to my computer. It isn’t connected. I click the Wi-Fi button and search for my home wi-fi. But it isn’t there. I place my laptop down and walk to the router. It looks fine, but I turn it off at the wall and back on again.

  It doesn’t do the trick. My connection still isn’t showing. What is going on? Then I remember, my bill was due the day I left for Greece and I didn’t have the money to pay for it so they’ve probably cut me off. I’ve got no Wi-Fi and no chance of 4G since I left my smashed phone in the villa. But I need to get onto the Internet, I need to find out what the rest of the world probably already knows. Who did this?

  I glance at the clock hanging on my living room wall. It’s almost 11 o’clock; most of the cafes will be shut. Where would be open at this time for me to get Wi-Fi? Oh, the irony of needing the Internet to google and find out where would be open at this time and has Internet.