The Last Resort
ALSO BY SUSI HOLLIDAY
Writing as SJI Holliday:
Black Wood
Willow Walk
The Damselfly
The Lingering
Violet
Writing as Susi Holliday:
The Deaths of December
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Susi Holliday
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542020015
ISBN-10: 1542020018
Cover design by The Brewster Project
To Granny Peggy and Papa Allan, who never ran out of stories to tell
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Summer 2000
Amelia
Amelia
Amelia
Amelia
Lucy
Amelia
Brenda
Tiggy
Lucy
Summer 2000
Amelia
Tiggy
Brenda
Lucy
Amelia
Tiggy
Amelia
Summer 2000
Brenda
Lucy
Amelia
Tiggy
Summer 2000
Amelia
Lucy
Brenda
Amelia
Amelia
Lucy
Brenda
Amelia
Lucy
Amelia
Tiggy
Brenda
Amelia
Lucy
Amelia
Amelia
Summer 2000
Tiggy
Lucy
Tiggy
Amelia
Amelia
Amelia
Amelia
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREVIEW: FREE DARK HEARTS BOX SET
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.’
Oscar Wilde
Summer 2000
Monstrous waves crash against the rocks, their white foam leaving a slow trail before retreating back into the murk of the sea.
Anne is standing just the right distance from the edge – close enough that she can see what’s happening below, but far enough away that the sea spray and the whipping wind can’t catch her and drag her over the cliff.
Her heart thumps hard and fast. She takes a deep breath. ‘George!’ she calls back over her shoulder. ‘Help me. Please! We can’t just leave him!’
Her voice is swallowed up by the cacophony. The wind, the waves, the gulls. And the other sounds too – the blood rushing to her head; the little voice inside, whimpering, telling her to help him . . . help him.
She blinks, trying to magic it all away.
He’s not real.
She takes another step back, closer to safety. She can no longer see the little ledge that juts out below. She can no longer see the old man’s hands gripping its edge, gnarly knuckles glowing white. Slipping. She can no longer hear his cries, desperate for help.
She feels herself drift away. Her mind floating off elsewhere, ignoring the horrors in front of her. Not happening. This is not happening.
She closes her eyes. Anne isn’t even her name . . . and George is not her friend’s name – her summer friend, just someone to while the time away with for the two boring weeks that she’s stuck here. Her grandparents are too old to do anything exciting these days, so it was lucky she’d met George on her second day, before it became unbearable.
It was George’s idea to give them both nicknames.
‘You be Anne,’ George had said that afternoon on the beach, when she was getting ready to head back to the cottage for another dreary dinner and another battle with the TV, trying to get reception while the wind howled outside and the windows rattled and shrieked their annoyance. The sun had been bright that day. A huge yellow beach ball, bouncing off the white sand, making the whole bay twinkle like diamonds. ‘And I’ll be George. Get it? Anne and George – from The Famous Five! We’ll be friends now and friends forever.’
She hadn’t read The Famous Five for years. Couldn’t even remember if the George character was a girl or a boy. She didn’t care anyway – she’d preferred Nancy Drew. But she’d agreed to this, deciding it was OK to do silly things with someone she’d never have to see again. Next year she would be telling her parents that she was not spending two weeks here on this godforsaken island, even if it did have water so blue it looked like something from a painting, and soft sandy beaches, and endless rocks to scramble over.
It’s so boring! At least it was. Until now.
She licks her lips, tasting salt. Opens her eyes and blinks, remembering where she is. Wishing she was anywhere but here right now. With George . . . and this man.
The old man should not be here.
He has no business on this island. His small boat wasn’t built for these deep, choppy seas. It’s no wonder it crashed and splintered against the rocks.
She’d been gathering twigs, snapping the ends and inspecting them for sap. She’d wanted to build a fire. George had seen him first, called out to her, warning her. ‘Anne! There’s someone . . . a man . . . behind you. He’s—’
She’d whirled round and found him there, looming over her. Hair blowing wild, a halo of gorse around his head. His beard thick and matted, coiled and dark like bladderwrack. His eyes red-rimmed, and his smell of the sea – rotted fish and wetness, and something old and terrifying bubbling under the surface. His face was scorched from the sun and the salt, his mouth had opened and he’d said something to her in a strange, guttural language . . . and she’d laughed.
She’d laughed, because she realised then that he wasn’t real. He wasn’t a man. He was a creature that she and George had cooked up in their imaginations, desperate for some excitement. Adventure.
Fun.
She’d laughed as she stood tall and walked towards him, thrust a hand against his chest and shouted into his ruined face – a face that she fully expected to crumble to dust in front of her eyes, maggots squirming from empty eye sockets, tiny, slithering snakes from what was left of his ears.
She’d pushed him, and for a moment she was shocked – because he didn’t turn to dust or air, or disappear in front of her eyes. His chest was solid. Unyielding. But his legs were weak, and he’d tried to gurgle something else, some other words of nonsense, before they buckled beneath him and he stumbled back . . . and back.
And then he disappeared.
George’s voice hits her as the wind changes direction – surging towards her, loud and clear. ‘Come back from the edge, Anne. We can’t help him.’
What?
Anne starts to shake, adrenaline coursing through her veins. He’d fallen right in front of her, down onto the ledge with a thump. Then over its edge with a throaty scream. And now he’s hanging there, dangling above the rocks and the sea and the remains of his broken boat.
But they can’t help him, can they? They are both too small. Too thin. Their arms are not strong enough to pull him back. Their skinny legs not fast enough to run
down the hill to get help in time. He has no time. His fingers can’t hold his weight for much longer.
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.
Amelia clears her throat. ‘Mine too,’ she says, ‘but that’s the only part of it we’re allowed to talk about, right?’ They all stare at her, and she takes in their expressions.
It’s not hard to recognise fear.
She gives them a small smile, surprised again at how out of place she feels here. Despite all she’s achieved, she feels like that lost girl she was at school. Not fitting into one group or another. Everyone slightly bemused by her, although she could never really work out why. A creeping sense of dread washes over her, just for a moment. Then it’s gone.
The older woman scowls, then drops the paper into her bag, saying nothing more.
The girl in the seat behind Amelia finally takes off her headphones. ‘Anyone know where we’re going then? This is such fun!’ Her accent is pure Made in Chelsea, her smile full of perfect, too-white veneers.
‘Nice of you to join us.’ Her man-bunned companion pokes her in the ribs and she giggles.
Camera-guy sighs. ‘Can’t be going too far, in this thing. Right?’ He addresses Amelia, and for a second she can’t speak. Why would he assume she would know? Although as it happens, she does.
‘This is a modified PAC Cresco. It’s usually an agricultural plane, used for short distances. We can probably travel five hundred miles without refuelling, unless the wind is against us, in which case it’s more like three hundred. I suppose that could take us to Guernsey or maybe France, at a push—’
‘Wait,’ the American says. ‘Where’d all that come from? What are you, a pilot?’
Amelia shakes her head. ‘No. I just have some experience getting flown around—’
‘Well, damn. Impressive. But Guernsey – that’s hardly a luxury retreat, is it?’
‘Actually—’ the helmet-haired woman starts, but she’s cut off by a voice coming over the tannoy.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome to the start of your adventure . . .’
As he speaks, there’s a mechanical whirr as the blinds come down. Amelia raises an eyebrow. All mod cons in this plane, then. Most other times she’s flown in one of these, seats were removed to make room for supplies, and the windows were filthy with ingrained grime. Certainly no automatic blinds.
‘Please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened,’ the captain’s voice continues.
‘Oh, I hope we’ll be getting some refreshments soon,’ Headphone-girl’s shrill voice comes from behind her. ‘I’d love one of those miniature G&Ts!’
She’s soon drowned out by the sound of the engine starting.
‘Aren’t we having a safe
ty demonstration?’ someone shouts from the back. It’s harder to pick out the voices as the noise intensifies.
The plane starts to shudder, and then it moves. Slowly at first, taxiing along the runway. Amelia has flown during the small hours before, so it shouldn’t be so disorienting, but she usually knows where it is she’s flying to. All part of the adventure, though, she supposes. The plane picks up speed and she leans back in her seat, closing her eyes. Her hands grip the armrests on each side. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s flown, she still feels nervous. Still feels ridiculously relieved when the plane lands safely.
Her stomach flips as the plane lifts into the air. The whining of the engine is loud now, an angry screech, vibrating her whole body with its strength. She knows it’ll calm down soon. Once they’ve reached their cruising altitude, the plane will level out, the noise will abate, and she’ll be able to stop gripping the armrests quite so hard.
There’s a click as the tannoy switches on once again. ‘Please relax and enjoy your short flight.’
Odd, Amelia thinks. Odd that they’ve chosen such a small plane with no cabin crew, but the passengers are taking up all the available seats as it is. It’s not the best way to put everyone at ease. The plane is steady now, the engine noise a drone rather than a screech. She takes her hands off the armrests.
‘Is there even a toilet on this thing?’
She turns her head and sees that Helmet-hair near the back of the plane has removed her seatbelt and is in the process of standing up.
‘Sit down, lady,’ the American barks at her. ‘No one said we could get out of our seats yet.’
The woman opens her mouth to respond, but she doesn’t get a chance to speak.
The fasten seatbelt lights above each seat start flashing red. Then a pinging starts, and the plane lurches to the side. The woman falls back into her seat and swears under her breath.
‘Told you,’ the American mutters.
The plane lurches again, and the pinging gets faster, louder. The plane dips and tips, and Amelia grabs the armrests again, tighter than before.
‘Wowee!’ Man-bun shouts, his voice full of wonder rather than fear. ‘Is this part of the adventure? Because you can consider me truly adventured. What d’you think, babe? Maybe they’ll do a loop the loop!’