Pleasure Island by Anna-Lou Weatherley Page A

simpering PA to veto any questions put to him, and certainly the answers he chose to give in response. He didn’t play the game; he’d invented the game. And yet this little tart with a degree had somehow managed to get the better of him. The subsequent first-person feature she had written for that filthy rag she worked for had been detrimental both professionally and personally, both of which McKenzie could handle without question; one didn’t rise to such stratospheric heights without expecting some criticism along the way, even he understood this. But he’d felt tricked into such candour by Angelika Deyton, like she’d outsmarted him, something he simply could not allow to pass.
    â€œMcKenzie crushes hopes and dreams like the rest of us crush an empty crisp packet – and then discards it with as much contempt and consideration for its onward journey … .he displays a frighteningly diminished interest in the psychological well-being of his contestants … his narcissistic leanings suggest he conducts himself without reproach, or conscience … I imagine he shouts out his own name at the point of orgasm …”
    Publically, McKenzie had dismissed the writer’s rhetoric as ‘amusing’; privately, however, it had been a different story, culminating in a rage that had seen him destroy his office and sack his press officer, a loyal member of his team for over a decade.
    â€˜All will be revealed in good time, I assure you,’ McKenzie stated, Angelika’s written words resonating like poison inside his mind. She had been rather laize faire with the word ‘sociopath’ in her description of him. Now she would discover first-hand what this truly meant.
    â€˜It’s the hack’s husband; the barrister’s the biggest problem,’ the Japanese man said. ‘He’s a little bullish, hot-headed, certainly very intelligent and more than a touch arrogant, which will be his ultimate downfall, of course.’
    â€˜Of course,’ McKenzie agreed.
    â€˜Have you noticed that there’s a spark of something in the footballer’s eyes whenever he looks at her … the journalist, I mean,’ the woman interjected, ‘I’d like to explore this.’
    â€˜All in good time, my dear. All in good time.’
    The American stared at his computer screen, at the chaos ensuing in real time, panic and fear etched upon shocked and horrified faces. He had muted the sound of the live stream so that he could make the telephone call; frankly he found all the histrionics more distasteful than he’d thought he would, though admittedly the stunt had had been impressively executed, right down to the last detail, even the way the footballer’s jeans had been deliberately ripped and the skirts torn from the women. Very authentic indeed.
    â€˜We agreed this would be a purely social experiment, McKenzie,’ the American reiterated his fellow voyeur’s earlier sentiment, ‘a calculated insight allowing us to study the human condition.’ His nasal voice was whiney. ‘We’re paying a premium and this kinda shit ain’t really my bag, you know.’ A super-intelligent forty-five-year-old somewhat-sexually-deviant professor of psychology he may be, but he wasn’t a complete sadist, at least not generally speaking. ‘I didn’t sign up for a Goddamn horror show. Now we got a situation on our hands. There’s a man, hell, he’s practically a boy, down there in agony, probably bleeding to death. Lucky that the barrister had the good sense to apply a half decent tourniquet and stem the flow.’
    â€˜Yes,’ a new voice interjected, a British one, ‘we can’t let him die. Look, I don’t give a rat’s arse about the odd deviation from the script, unforeseen or otherwise. I mean, that’s the whole premise, right? And unlike my American friend here, I don’t have a stick up my arse,