‘Without our consent?’ Headphone-girl says, her voice incredulous. ‘I’m not sure that’s legal, is it?’
Man-bun laughs and grabs her around the shoulder. ‘Relax, babe. It’s all part of the game, innit?’ Then he leans in close to her ear and whispers, ‘You did sign the consent, babe. Don’t you remember?’
Amelia looks away. Pretends she hasn’t heard. Just because she was told not to share anything about the selection process doesn’t mean everyone was told the same. Maybe these two have some sort of joint agreement.
It doesn’t matter right now.
She walks out to the edge of the hangar, breathes in the sea air. It’s been a while since she was near the sea. Most of her work lately has been inland. In landlocked countries with dried-up rivers. She’d been surprised to receive the invitation, especially as it had come to an old email address that she didn’t always check. But something had made her check it that day. She’d thought it was spam, at first. Then, that someone had hacked her old emails and dredged information – they knew so much about her and seemed to think she was the perfect candidate for this adventure. The money they’d offered had been hard to ignore too, especially in comparison to most other jobs – jobs that generally took a lot longer than a weekend. But presumably this is just the first weekend – to assess things on a high level. It was something she wanted to talk to them about at the end of the day, hopefully over a nice dinner with some decent wine.
She’d been wary, initially, about the non-disclosure agreement – secretive clauses have always made her nervous. But when they’d explained why – that what they were doing here was something that might one day help the many causes Amelia chose to fight for – it had all slotted into place . . . and she’d decided that yes, a little break from the norm might do her good. Besides, she was intrigued. Most of her jobs were pretty straightforward – organisations contacting her after seeing her on a news item, or reading an article about her work. Word of mouth too, of course. The world might be huge, but the network of aid workers was surprisingly small, and she was never one to shy away from a challenge.
All things considered – despite the turbulence, and that brief moment when she was sure they were going to crash – she’s glad she decided to come.
Now they just have to figure out what happens next.
She steps outside the hangar and walks down the hard-packed mud road that leads to the beach. The others, with no reason to stay in the hangar, follow her out. Up ahead, there’s a small stone building with a pitched glass roof. A path lined with smooth white pebbles leads to a white-painted door. As she gets closer she can read the sign bolted to the wall next to the door.
VISITOR ORIENTATION.
Camera-guy catches up with her and she gestures at the building ahead. ‘So did you explore any further?’
‘Nah. Just walked to the edge of the hangar and then went back. I was still feeling a bit woozy. Then I got a bit spooked, actually. It’s so quiet here.’ He raises his hands, palms up. ‘Wherever here is. Besides . . . I didn’t know if anyone else was going to wake up.’
‘I am so thirsty,’ Headphone-girl pipes up behind them. ‘So much for our refreshments. I do hope we’ll be getting something soon, because I need to stay hydrated, you know. I—’
She’s cut off by the sound of the metal door rolling down on the open end of the hangar behind them. ‘Wait, my bag!’ she shouts. She starts to run back, but it’s too late. The door slides down fast, shutting the plane and all their belongings inside with it.
‘Neat,’ says Man-bun. ‘Now they’re isolating us from our possessions.’ He rubs his chin. ‘Standard survival game protocol. Luckily I’ve got my phone in my pocket, but you know . . .’ He takes out his phone and peers at it, then grins. ‘Yep, as I thought. No reception. Standard.’ He rocks back on his heels, pleased with himself.
‘How come you know so much, buddy?’ the American asks him.
Man-bun rolls his eyes. ‘It’s my business, man. I’m a games designer. Virtual reality, actual reality, survival, online treasure hunts. I’m Giles Horner. You might’ve seen my Insta?’
‘Instagram?’ Helmet-hair sniffs. ‘Please. Such nonsense.’
‘It’s the way forward. I can give you some pointers if you like. Or Tiggy can help you, if you prefer the female perspective. She does travel, mostly. Don’t you, Tigs?’
Headphone-girl grins and thrusts out a hand. ‘Tiggy Ramona. At your service. What is it that you do?’
The older woman looks slightly horrified. ‘Tiggy? What kind of name is that?’
Tiggy laughs. ‘Oh, everyone asks me that. It’s so funny! So my full name is—’
‘Never mind that now, Tigs.’ Giles raises an arm and everyone turns to see what he’s pointing at. A golf cart, like the one in the hangar, is making its way silently down the hill towards them.
‘Well . . .’ Redhead says. ‘Looks like we’ve got company.’
Amelia
The buggy stops in front of them and a man climbs out. He’s dressed from head to toe in white. Trousers smooth, with a crease down the middle, polo shirt neatly tucked in and buttoned to the top. There’s a gold logo on the right, with Timeo in a swirly embossed typeface.
‘Hello!’ He grins at them and his eyes crinkle at the sides. It’s hard to put an age on him. His skin is smooth and tanned. He’s in good shape. Late forties, maybe. He fits the demographic for this type of company, Amelia thinks.
He picks up a white plastic box from the back of the cart and walks towards them.
‘Well, don’t all talk at once,’ he says, still grinning. He heads along the pebble-lined path to the visitor orientation centre. Amelia tries to catch Camera-guy’s eye with a ‘who’s this?’ look, but he doesn’t notice; everyone is watching the newcomer with interest.
He holds his watch up to a sensor at the side of the door, and there’s a small click as the door unlocks and swings open.
He turns round and gestures to the group with one hand, the other still clutching the white box.
‘Come on in, then,’ he says.
They follow him into the building. It was hard to judge from outside, but it’s smaller than she expected. The glass pitched roof gives a feeling of space, but there are no windows. The walls are painted a pale lemon and lined with built-in sofas in the same colour. In the centre of the room there’s a glossy white table, empty except for a pile of white plates and a row of glasses at one end. Underneath the table is what looks like a long, low fridge. As the last person enters, the door swings closed and the room is silent, but for the hum of the fridge and the mild static charge of anticipation in the air.
The American breaks the silence. ‘So, are you going to tell us what’s going on? Are you in charge of this thing? What the heck happened in that plane? Can we get a drink or something?’ His words continue tumbling out on top of each other, his blurted frustration fuelled by the shock of what’s happened so far, the confusion about what they’re all doing here.
It’s clear that none of them is used to being kept in the dark – relinquishing all control. The American’s outburst has triggered that little niggle in her again. The NDA. The secrecy . . . and whatever it was that happened on the plane, it’s not exactly normal to have them all panic like that. If the aim was to unsettle them, then they’ve succeeded. Amelia wonders if it’s too late to back out. Ask to return to the plane. To her real life, where none of this stuff matters. Does she really care about this so-called luxury retreat? Not that there’s been anything luxurious about it yet. A fleeting thought crosses her mind. She remembers a festival that was supposed to happen in America – something with proper, no-expense-spared luxury – except it was all a sham. Or a scam – the organiser had gone to prison for fraud, hadn’t he? Hopefully this isn’t what’s happening here.