Free Pleasure Island by Anna-Lou Weatherley Page B

statement that seemed somehow almost contrived. And there was blood – a deep burgundy stain – on his once-pristine white shirt, though the source of its origin was not yet obvious.
    â€˜Oh, thank God.’ He sunk to his knees before he reached them, tears making visible white tracks down his ashen face. ‘Thank God,’ he repeated, sobbing and struggling to contain raw emotion and relief.
    â€˜Are you OK? Are you hurt? … Your wife?’ Angelika stood, a bruising pain sweeping through her hip like fire. She forced herself to make her way to him, her feet disappearing into the sand beneath her with every painful step. It was only then she realised her dress had been torn off from the waist down, exposing her underwear, a thought that registered with her mind but bore little significance. Now was not the time for modesty. ‘Billie-Jo …? Is she OK?’ She fell into Nate’s arms on the sand. His body felt strong as she held him, a moment of comfort with a virtual stranger, survival instinct usurping any form of social convention, embarrassment or etiquette.
    Nate nodded.
    â€˜Yes,’ was all he could manage; it was enough.
    Nate looked down at Joshua; he was unconscious. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ …’
    Angelika was crying now though she wasn’t aware of it.
    â€˜We need help,’ she said desperately, turning to look up at Rupert. ‘We have to find help …’
    Rupert ignored her. He was trying to think, to focus. Did they have water? They needed water, the boy especially. He would check the wreckage...
    â€˜Get your act together,’ he addressed Nate calmly but with an efficiency that made him look up. ‘This man here will die unless we get water and find help fast. Looking at the wound it seems like a pretty clean cut...he hasn’t severed a femoral artery, thank God. I’ve applied a tourniquet but he needs emergency medical attention. He’ll bleed out in an hour tops, if the hypovolemic shock doesn’t kill him first, that is. And frankly I don’t fancy burying his body. Do you?’
    Nate composed himself. He nodded. He was strong and fit; they could make it.
    â€˜The phones,’ he said, suddenly remembering, ‘the woman took the phones …’
    Rupert’s spirits instantly lifted. Of course.
    â€˜We need to find them. Search the plane.’
    â€˜The pilot?’ Angelika suddenly thought, ‘and the girl … the Japanese girl. Ari … Annie …Aki? What happened to them?’
    â€˜Don’t touch him, Angelika!’ Rupert screamed at her as she gasped, covering her mouth to stifle the horror that swept through her like a backdraught. The pilot was slumped onto the control panel of the cockpit, his small body mounting the desk, eyes wide open in horror, a line of blood trickled from his mouth.
    â€˜But he might still be …’ She didn’t finish the sentence; it was pointless and she knew it.
    â€˜And the girl?’ Nate asked. He tried to avert his eyes away from the horror that confronted him but they remained fixed upon it. He would remember this sight until his last breath. In that moment it was the only thing he was sure of.
    â€˜No sign of her,’ Rupert said, his attentions had already shifted. There was nothing to be done here. The man was clearly dead. Right now it was survival plain and simple. Fight or flight. As cold as it seemed, there was no choice. There was nowhere to run.

9
    T he American’s disposition generally hovered somewhere between mildly sociopathic and borderline narcissistic. Sometimes, even during his professional life as a highly respected psychotherapist, he liked to consciously make a morally dubious decision just to see what the outcome would be, for nothing more than his own personal amusement. Now, however, he was having an unusual attack of conscience.
    The line on the conference call crackled loudly causing him to grimace and