The Last Resort(2)
No one knows that they are up here. ‘It’s my secret place,’ George had told her.
No one knows that this man is here. This man from the sea, who has travelled from afar. Who has bloodied his hands and torn out his nails climbing up to a place of safety.
He doesn’t belong here. Who is going to miss him?
She closes her eyes as the wind picks up, howling around her. Waves, gulls, blood rushing. Broken nails scraping on jagged rocks. The incessant hum inside her head: Help him . . . help him . . .
. . . and George’s voice, flat. Determined. ‘Leave him.’
She swallows a lump of fear. Takes another step away from the edge.
‘Come on, you silly sausage,’ George says, putting an arm around her shoulder. Gripping on to her just a little bit too tight. ‘Let’s go back to mine for tea . . .’
Amelia
T - 24
Amelia avoids eye contact with the other passengers as she boards the small plane and slides into the window seat of the last remaining row. There are six of them. Three men, three women. And now her, unbalancing the group. Potentially unbalancing the plane.
She knows about these planes. She’s flown in them many times before, for work. Taking off and landing on runways that are nothing more than dirt tracks. Over parched soil, dense jungle, and everything in between. She’s landed on water. She’s had to parachute, more than once, when the plane hasn’t been able to land at all.
She’s worked in humanitarian aid programmes all across the world. She’s dealt with fragile egos, misplaced do-gooders, corrupt officials, and many, many genuinely good people who have made it their life’s work to help others. But none of the people on this plane look like aid workers, and as much as she’s tried to avoid staring at them, she’s felt their collective gaze on her, taking in her cotton khakis and bottle green T-shirt, her beige backpack that she’s stuffed under her seat.
The others are dressed very differently to her.
The young woman in the seat directly behind her hasn’t even glanced up from her phone. She’s blonde, pretty and plugged into headphones, her plump, shiny lips set in a permanent pout. Amelia had only shot a quick glance at the others, but she swivels slightly in her seat now, trying to see them out of the corner of her eye. Sure, she could just turn and address them, but something about these people intimidates her more than any of the dangerous situations she’s been placed in over the years. Besides, it’s early. The taxi picked her up at 5am, and she dozed most of the way to the airfield. No one needs to be having conversations with strangers at this hour.
‘Does anyone know where we’re actually going?’ a gruff American voice blurts out from the back.
Amelia turns round fully, relieved that someone else has taken the initiative. The voice belongs to a serious-looking guy in a smart, well-fitting suit. His hair is dark, parted neatly and greying at the temples. He might be attractive if he wasn’t frowning, accentuating the long, vertical wrinkle that splits the middle of his forehead. He’s wearing a headset with a microphone sticking out by his cheek.
‘I don’t think we’re meant to know yet,’ says the woman across the aisle from him, in the single seat. She’s red-haired and bouncy, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘But who’s going to pass up one of these things? Isn’t it exciting?’
‘Pass up what things?’ comes the bored voice of the man in front of her. He’s the grungy one; mussed hair and two-day-old stubble. He’s wearing a faded Ramones T-shirt and clutching a camera on his lap. ‘I’m not sure what’s so exciting—’
‘We’ve been specially selected for this,’ the redhead says. ‘Or didn’t you read your invite?’
‘Ah, but did we all get the same invite?’ This from the man-bunned hipster type sitting next to the plugged-in blonde, who is seemingly oblivious to the others talking. ‘I doubt it.’ He nudges his companion, but she ignores him, bopping her head to the beat of whatever it is she’s listening to.
This is a good point, Amelia thinks. It was clearly stated that they weren’t allowed to tell anyone what was in the invitation. Not even each other.
Especially not each other.
She’d been worried about that initially, but they’d explained why it all had to be kept hush-hush, and it had made sense in the end. You can’t be too careful. She clears her throat. ‘We’re all here to provide feedback on a new luxury service. A unique island adventure, it said. I—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I have it right here.’ An immaculate older woman in an expensive-looking blue linen dress loudly cuts her off. She pulls a piece of paper out of her oversized handbag and pushes her delicate-framed glasses up her nose. Her hair is styled into a helmet so smooth and neat it looks like it would prevent a head injury if she were to fall from a height. ‘This is what my invitation says.
‘Congratulations on passing the selection process. The Directors of Timeo Technologies formally invite you to participate in an exclusive demonstration of their brand-new luxury concept island adventure. You have been chosen due to your potential fit with the brand and we would request that you do not share this information with anyone else at this time—’
‘Right. Yeah . . . that’s the same as mine,’ says Camera-guy, cutting the woman off. He widens his eyes, flashing Amelia a look.