The Last Resort(60)

But she’s awake now. Maybe everything that happened before was just the way it had to be so they could appreciate real luxury. A proper rest, and now hopefully a good meal and some perfectly matched wines. That’s one thing Albert would’ve been good for.

She opens the door and tiptoes down the hallway. There’s no sound, due to the thick pile of the carpet and the fact that she isn’t wearing shoes. She should go back for her shoes, she supposes, but she doesn’t think she’s going outside again tonight. The storm had been coming in by the time they’d arrived here on the boat. Hopefully the others are all downstairs, and Giles has recovered enough to join them for dinner.

One foot is raised mid-air, ready to take the first step down the lavish staircase, when a gloved hand forces something rough and foul-smelling over her mouth and nose, and she feels her legs disappear and her head start to fizz; and then she feels nothing.





Brenda

The pain has gone now. All that’s left is a dull ache. She feels as if she’s floating. Drifting towards the ceiling with nothing to hold her back. Their voices come in and out of range, sharp, soft, echoing as if she’s sinking underwater then being forced back to the surface again. She can’t seem to open her eyes. It’s as if something has taken away that ability, and when she tries to force it, they snap shut, keeping her locked away from whatever it is out there.

She heard the beep announcing a new message earlier. Were there just words or pictures? It doesn’t matter. The group had fallen silent, and then Scott had spoken, and James . . . and now James sounds sad.

What did you do, James? It’s probably best she doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to know. It’s not going to help her now.

The pain comes back – short, sharp bursts – then it goes away again and she’s drifting once more. Hot in here, then cold. Dark behind her eyelids, then light.

She opens her mouth, says, ‘I’m scared.’ But it comes out as a groan, not words. Someone lays a hand on her arm. Squeezes her hand. ‘You’re OK,’ the voice says. Amelia? From so far away now.

Fragments of memories swirl around her head, and she tries to screw her eyes tight, push them away. I don’t want to remember.

They are trying to force her.

Voices inside her head – goading her, cajoling her. Tell them what you did, Brenda . . . show them what you did . . . show them who you are . . .

‘No!’

The voice again, close to her ear. ‘Brenda? What did you say? Can you hear me? Help is coming.’ Far away: ‘I think she’s trying to speak.’ Close again: ‘Help is on its way, Brenda.’

No it isn’t.

‘Brenda?’ The voice swims away again. Another beep . . . loud and piercing, this time inside her head. They’re trying to show her memory. They’re trying to show them all who she is.

No!

‘What’s happening to her? Is she having a fit?’ The voice is close.

She feels her body writhe and buck, but she can’t control it. Pain comes, different now. In her arm, fast and sharp. Across her chest. She bucks again. She opens her mouth but it’s another groan.

The beep sounds again.

‘It’s another projection.’ Far away. ‘I don’t even know if I want to watch it.’

Her body bucks again, as if it’s being electrocuted.

The voice is closer now. ‘What’s happening to her? Do something!’

‘The memory feed . . .’ The voice is far away. ‘It’s Brenda.’

Her body stops twitching, and for a moment everything feels OK. She opens her eyes, squints across the room. Amelia is holding her wrist-device, aiming it at the far wall of the cave.

‘This one is projecting from mine,’ she says. ‘This happened earlier, with Lucy. We’re all linked together, somehow . . . Can you guys see it here with me, or is it coming through all the trackers?’

Brenda can see herself via her own private screening, but she doesn’t bother to respond. She’s sitting at her dressing table, gazing into a vanity mirror. A younger version of herself, with bouncy, glossy blonde hair. Bright red lips, cold hard eyes.

Behind her, reflected in the mirror, there’s another woman on-screen, dark-haired, worry etched on her face.

As Brenda stares at the screen she puts her fingers to her left ear, finding the tracker. Her hand shakes. In her periphery she sees Amelia glance at her, her mouth falling open at Brenda’s sudden moment of lucidity. But Brenda ignores her, pulls gently on her tracker, testing to see how firmly fixed it really is.

The dark-haired woman on-screen is holding hands with a young girl. Her blonde hair is tied in bunches, and she’s holding a small stuffed monkey under one arm. The dark-haired woman is trying to coax her away from the younger Brenda, but the girl cottons on and her mouth opens wide in a scream. ‘No.’ She throws the monkey on the ground. ‘No! I want to stay here! I want to stay here with Mummy!’

‘Take her,’ the younger Brenda says. ‘We all know she’ll be better off with you.’

Brenda yanks the tracker out. The pain is excruciating. A jet of blood arcs up and over, travelling far enough to spatter across Amelia’s arm. Brenda howls, and the projection stops.

The tracker has landed in Amelia’s lap, she picks it up and turns to Brenda, who only manages to blink then open her mouth to speak before pains shoot through her body once more and she collapses back onto the ground.