The Last Resort(67)

She gasps.

James comes up behind her and peers through the glass. ‘It’s the others,’ he says, with a long sigh. ‘Thank God . . .’

Amelia turns back towards Lucy and Scott. ‘I think you two were right. They are fine.’ Relief washes over her. She’d had a horrible feeling earlier, but seeing them here, alive and well, has pushed that feeling away. Maybe things are going to be OK after all? Well, they will be, once they talk to them. Make sure they’re all right.

‘Let’s go in and join them then,’ Scott says. ‘What are we hanging around out here for?’ He makes to stand up, but then falls back onto the bottom stair, gripping his ankle and swearing under his breath.

Lucy gently nudges Amelia out of the way and grabs the door handle. Turns it. Rattles it. But nothing happens. She tries again, but it’s locked. She raises a fist and bangs on the glass. ‘Guys, we’re here – we made it!’

‘Please step away from the door.’

They whirl round at the sound of the voice. Harvey is standing behind them, and his expression is stony. ‘The others are waiting for you, but they won’t hear you through that glass. The reason the music is so quiet out here is that the room is virtually soundproofed. Best way to have a music room, don’t you think? Please, come with me. We need to get you warmed up and give you a change of clothes. And a little time to decompress. Then you can join the others and the party will begin. OK?’ He’s smiling again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Lucy and James shrug and step away from the door, following Harvey towards the staircase, where Scott is still sitting on the bottom stair.

‘You all right there?’ Lucy says. She holds out a hand towards him.

‘I think my ankle’s gone for good now.’ He looks pained, but he takes Lucy’s hand and gets to his feet.

Amelia turns back to peer through the glass once more. No one is moving. In fact, they are all sitting quite still. Too still. Only the shadows caused by the naked flames are creating any movement inside the room. The feeling of relief is replaced by something else. A nagging dread, slithering slowly down her spine.

Their silhouettes are in shadow, and she can’t make out who is who. But as she continues to stare, she thinks she sees a movement on the back of one of their heads. A flickering that seems to bring the shape in and out of focus, a smattering of small coloured squares, just for a moment, before disappearing.

No . . . it can’t be.

‘Amelia, are you ready?’ Harvey is next to her now. He places a hand on her elbow, urging her away from the door.

But it’s too late. She’s already seen it. She’s seen it several times today. A glitch that they need to work on. Such a basic issue for a company so proud of its technology.

Pixelation.

Harvey looks at her as he leads her away, and she catches a hint of what might be fear in his eyes. He knows what she’s seen. He knows what she knows. ‘Please,’ he whispers, close to her ear. ‘Come with me now. Don’t make things more difficult than they already are.’

The dread slides around her body, rooting itself in the pit of her stomach. She feels a sudden urge to throw up. Sucks in a deep breath, trying to keep it together. She should say something – call over to the others. But the fear roots her in place. Because it’s clear now: those people on the couch are not their missing, injured friends.

Those figures on the couch are not real.





Summer 2000

She’d been a bit put off by the kid being so full-on friendly so soon, but she decided to throw caution to the wind. Islanders probably have to be pushy if they want to make friends with the holidaymakers, and it’s not like she has anything else to do. The nickname thing seemed a bit silly, but she couldn’t really find a good enough reason to go against it.

You be Anne . . . I’ll be George.

Whatever.

She follows George away from the beach, around the back of the shop that sells everything from buckets and spades to small kitchen appliances, to an overgrown track with a broken wire fence. She stops, swinging her canvas satchel around her back and out of the way. It looks like a treacherous path – she imagines it will be lined with gorse, and she doesn’t want the thorns catching on her bag. She looks down at her legs, pale and skinny in too-short shorts, and wishes she’d brought a pair of tracksuit bottoms with her.

‘Is it very far?’ she says.

‘Not really,’ George says. ‘Why? Are you feeling particularly wimpish today?’

‘No, of course not,’ she snaps. She doesn’t want this islander kid to think she’s some spoiled city brat who doesn’t know how to look after herself in the wild. She glances up the path as it snakes its way up the hill. It’s only a stupid hill. It’s only a few thorns. It’s not going to kill her. ‘Let’s go then.’

George reaches back to push some overhanging twigs and leaves out of the way, holds them up to let her through, then sets off at a pace. She takes a deep breath and follows.

The first bit of the ascent is tricky, the gradient and the pace causing her lungs to burn, and she soon gets a stitch and has to stop. ‘Wait. Just a minute,’ she says, panting. She swings her bag out of the way again. Takes a few deep breaths. ‘OK, coming.’

George laughs. ‘You mainlanders just don’t have the stamina.’