Password must be changed every five calendar days.
After two consecutive unsuccessful password attempts, the account will be revoked.
Passwords deemed not robust enough by the site’s algorithm will be rejected.
Never, ever give away your password information to anyone, spouse included.
“Fuck me. There is no way I’m registering on some useless fucking website. Any password I give them they’re just going to put into some Nigerian scam engine.”
“No way, Dad—it only takes a second. Here, I’ll get you started.”
Username = %Wor7dsbe5tdAd$
Password = 7My.Da6isS<per!
Cheesy little emotional blackmailing fucker …
“Why, thank you, Kyle. I’m genuinely touched.”
“Let’s look at you and your fecal trauma clip. Don’t worry. Growing up on a farm, we learned that feces are a natural part of all ecosystems.”
“Whuzzat?”
*Blink*
Suddenly there I was, slathered in poo, being scrubbed into consciousness by Billy, as viewed by a grainy ceiling nanny cam.
So.
Fucking.
Humiliating.
“Dad, you’ve got the most popular clip on the site. Look at all the hits. Seventeen unique visitors!”
Christ. “What else is on here?”
“We can check out the contestants on the show. Here …” he clicked on a link. “Here’s a gallery of the headshots. It sort of makes you want to choose which one of them you’d like to have as a friend, and who you think might not be a good friend. Or who would be a real enemy.”
“I actually helped your mother choose the contestants for the show.”
“Really?”
Fiona coughed from the doorway and gave me an icy stare.
“Absolutely. There are so many characteristics you need to look out for when choosing. Are they sociable? Do they feel awkward in front of cameras? Are they, ummm … highly photogenic? It’s a very long list.”
“Wow. I’d never have thought choosing contestants was such hard work. I think working in television would be a dream job.”
Another cough. “No, Kyle,” said Fiona. “With a brain like yours? You should go into philosophy. Or sciences. Yes, definitely sciences. Any science. Actually, anything at all except for television. Never the telly. Never ever, ever, ever, ever.”
“Tell me, Kyle, how did you get from the north of England to this lovely island here?” (More dagger eyes from Fi.)
“I got a phone call from Fiona—Mum. We receive a Christmas card from her each year.”
Fiona shot me a triumphant glance to the effect that she was Mother of the Fucking Year.
“Anyway, on the phone she said she would like to take us shopping at Harrods in London. We were thrilled. She even paid for our train tickets. But after we said hello to her at the station and had some quick fizzy drinks, I guess the train trip was so soothing that both Emma and I fell asleep, and when we woke up we were in a private jet somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Talk about a treat!”
“I’m sure your parents must be thrilled for you.”
A final set of dagger eyes from Fi.
“We tried calling them after we got here, but it’s difficult at the moment. I’m sure Fiona—Mum—made sure everything was all right with our parents.”
“No doubt she did.” At least I now understood all Fi’s impromptu flights and the mysterious cash drop-off I witnessed at Bonriki International Airport.
Suddenly we heard shouts from the front door. Then Eli and Tony burst in, to tell us that the luxurious TV network yacht had sunk.
“What the fuck? Did it hit a reef?”
“No. Someone bashed a hole in it. No idea who.”
“The debris washing ashore is amazing: small bales of U.S. twenties, Tupperware containers filled with cocaine … It’s ungodly what TV networks keep on their yachts. It’s absolutely the best Easter egg hunt of all time on the beach. And by international salvage laws, it’s finders keepers.”
It had been ages since I’d done some serious power looting: Beirut in the 1990s, shooting for BBC2. A bomb went off and an entire upscale shopping precinct was evacuated. Nicked myself fifteen thousand quid worth of Rolexes. And then my blood froze—wait: “Is Sarah okay?”
“I saw her on the beach, so I guess she is.”
Neal jumped in. “I used to be a paramedic. Maybe I can help.”
Kyle and Emma were practically squeaking with excitement. Emma said, “I’ve been waiting to administer the breath of life to drowning sailors for ever so long. Just think of the number of men I can revive!”
Neal pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, “Zodiac.”
“Neal, what the fuck are you talking about?”