by Amy Cross
He slides the knife back into its sheath and puts it in his pocket, before disposing of his bloody handkerchief. "The game requires mental as well as physical discipline," he says finally. "Sometimes I wonder if you..." Suddenly he pauses, as if some other thought has crossed his mind. "Just be more careful in future," he adds, rubbing his tired eyes. "More clinical. Remember what's at stake here."
"Shall we move the body?" I ask, feeling as if I want to get the gruesome sight out of the room.
"In a moment," he replies. Sometimes is definitely on his mind tonight, and he seems distracted. "Do you know how long I've been playing the game?" he asks suddenly. "Fifty years. Only one man has ever played for longer. The second Mr. White lasted fifty-two years, according to the book. I had hoped to surpass that record, but now I think I shall fall a little short."
"Nonsense," I reply. "You're still strong. How old are you? Seventy-five?"
"Eighty-one," he says. "I'm three times your age, boy. Don't think for one moment that you can understand what it's like to have these creaky old bones. Soon it will be time for another Mr. White to take my place. I remember when the last Mr. Blue died, and we brought you into the game. I knew then that I would probably not see another Mr. Blue in my lifetime. It has all gone by so unbelievably fast."
"If you don't mind my saying so," I reply, "you seem unusually thoughtful tonight. Is something the matter?"
He shakes his head. "I have merely been noticing the accumulated signs of my own mortality," he says. "Little things here and there that let me know my body is falling apart. Hints that the end is coming. You're young. To you, such things seem ridiculous, but trust me. At my age, you start to notice the warning signs."
I sigh, glancing down at Sophia's body. "Do you ever wish that there could be some other way?" I ask. "I mean, do they always have to die?"
"Don't raise such foolish notions," he replies with a sigh. "I'm tired. Give me a moment, and then we'll get rid of the girl."
Realizing that it's futile to ask any more questions, I head through to the next room and grab the sheets from my bed. This little ritual has become sadly familiar to me over the years. Returning to the main room, I kneel by Sophia and gently place the sheets on the ground, before rolling her stiffening corpse onto the fabric and finally covering her up. She is ready to be taken away now. For some reason, however, I feel more sorrow for her suffering than I have felt for previous girls. There was something about her that truly got under my skin. I allowed myself to believe that she might actually win, and that the rest of us might finally be set free. Such a foolish notion.
"Sometimes I feel the game is a little unfair," I say, before looking over at Mr. White. "All these girls..." I pause as I see the icy expression in his eyes. It takes a moment before I realize that something is wrong, but finally I get up and walk over to him. He doesn't react to my presence at all, and when I place a finger against the side of his neck, I quickly determine that he has no pulse. His age has finally caught up to him and death has taken his soul.
Walking to the desk, I pick up the telephone and ask the exchange to put me through to Lady Red's number. She was one of the first people in London to get a telephone connection installed at her private residence, and it is at times like this that one is grateful for her foresight. After a moment, the call is connected.
"It's done," I say.
"Did she suffer?" the voice on the other end of the line asks.
"No more than the others," I reply, "but there is another problem. Mr. White is out of the game."
She pauses. "How so?"
"Simple old age," I say, glancing back across the room at the figure slumped in the armchair. "I could tell something was wrong. He seemed very talkative this evening. Very reflective and philosophical. I fear his heart has given out."
"I expected as much," the voice says after a moment. "I assume you still have the young lady's body to remove from the premises?"
"I do," I tell her.
"I shall come over shortly," she replies. "We'll take her to the river once it gets dark." With that, she cuts the call off dead.
Sighing, I walk to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a whiskey, before sitting in one of the other armchairs. As I sip from my glass, I cannot help but consider the fate of my two companions. Mr. White sits in his chair, and Sophia is on the floor, wrapped in a sheet and awaiting the disposal of her corpse. I, on the other hand, remain very much alive, and I feel that my position within the game has perhaps improved. There will be another Mr. White, and there will be another girl to take Sophia's place. One day, there will even be another Mr. Blue. For now, however, I remain in place. I am still playing, and I have not lost yet.
As I finish my whiskey, I look down at Sophia's corpse and see that something is stuck to the bedsheet in which I have wrapped her body. I get up and walk over to take a look, and finally I see the single rose petal. Picking it up, I examine it for a moment before walking over to my desk. In some ways, I should very much like to keep the petal as a reminder of my time with Sophia, but I know that the rules dictate otherwise. I drop the petal onto the flame of a nearby candle, and it shrivels instantly until finally it is entirely gone.
Elly
Today
The house is dark and still. I'd expected to find my mother cooking dinner, but there's no sign of her. Setting the box on the kitchen counter, I listen for any hint of movement. Nothing. It's as if my mother has simply disappeared. I walk from room to room, and eventually I find her in the conservatory, fast asleep. Making sure to stay quiet, I approach the sofa and see that she's nodded off while reading a magazine. It's weird, but right now she doesn't look so fearsome; she looks like a fifty-something-year-old woman whose husband just died, and who's too exhausted to get everything done. Feeling a surprising pang of sympathy for her, I fetch a blanket from the front room and gently place it over her, to make sure she doesn't get too cold. Sometimes I hate her, but sometimes I feel as if there's another side to her. I wish people could be more consistent.
"See?" my father's voice says. "She's not such a monster."
After eating some boil-in-the-bag noodles, I go up to my room and try to call Jess, but she doesn't answer. I guess she's busy with that Robert guy, which is understandable. I grab my laptop and start looking for information about Mark, but there's surprisingly little about him online. It's almost as if he's made a conscious effort to fly under the radar and keep a low profile; there are a few brief mentions of him as an investor with various companies, but he has zero social media presence and he doesn't even have his own website. I guess he's not the kind of guy who likes a lot of publicity. He seems very driven, as if his whole life is focused on work. I wish I was like that; I wish I had some kind of real passion.
As I sit there, lost in thought, my phone - which I've finally managed to charge again - lights up with a message. I assume it'll be from Jess, but instead it's an unrecognized number:
Hi Elly. I just wanted to say thank you again for your help today. It was appreciated. Mark.
I read the message over and over again, finding it hard to believe that it could be real. For one thing, I keep my number unlisted and I didn't give it to Mark, so how did he get it? For another, why would he even bother thanking me? All I did was pick up some crap from the office and bring it home. Feeling my chest tighten a little, I try to work out how to respond to the message, and finally I type out a reply:
No problem. Let me know if I can help with anything else.
As soon as I've hit the Send button, I start to wonder if maybe I was too forward, or not forward enough. Did I seem desperate? Or maybe I seemed uninterested? Or am I over-thinking things? He was just being polite.
I wait for him to reply, but there's nothing. Sighing, I realize he was just being polite. I mean, I'm the daughter of his recently deceased business partner; of course he's going to send me a message thanking me for going to the office with him. It'd be rude if he didn't thank me. Putting my phone on the bedside t
able, I decide it's time to go to sleep, but it's hard to stop thinking about Mark. I know he was just being polite and I know I'll probably never talk to him again, but what if things were different? In the back of my mind, I can't help feeling that something about the whole situation doesn't quite make sense.
Slowly, and feeling a little embarrassed, I slip a hand down the front of my pajamas and start touching myself. This is what happens every time I meet a new guy; I just end up using him as a masturbatory fantasy for a few weeks, before I move on to someone else and the whole cycle begins again. Gently rubbing my clitoris, it doesn't take long for me to reach orgasm, and I have to force myself to stay quiet as I let out a little gasp. Okay, it wasn't the best orgasm in the world, but it'll do. Finally I'm left breathless in the dark, imagining what it would be like if only I'd managed to make Mark pay more attention to me. Then again, that's the story of my life. Maybe somewhere, in some parallel universe, there's a version of me that's sleeping with him right now, or sleeping with anyone. I'm sure that version of me is very happy.
In this universe, however, I simply roll onto my side and close my eyes, and soon I'm fast asleep.
Edward Lockhart
1895
Standing on the banks of the Thames just after midnight, I watch as Sophia's carefully-wrapped and weighted body sinks beneath the surface and disappears into the icy depths. There's a momentary ripple on the surface of the water, and finally everything is calm again. Sophia is gone, just like all the other girls before her, and now the game can begin again. It's hard not to imagine her body sinking slowly through the darkness and finally coming to rest among all the others we have sent down there.
"Shouldn't we find a new place to put them?" I ask, turning to Lady Red. She has her hood up, to shield her face from the chill wind that blows through the night air. "Don't you worry that one day someone will find all these dead girls?"
She smiles. "Who, exactly, do you think is going to go looking for them?"
"Mr. White said -"
"Mr. White said a lot of things," she replies, interrupting me. "The game decrees that the bodies of the dead be placed in the river. I hardly think we are in a position to argue with the game, are we?" She pauses for a moment. "Perhaps one day the game will require them to be placed elsewhere, but until that happens, we must merely continue to do things the way we have always done them."
"But perhaps we should modernize the way we play," I continue. "Imagine if the game continues for another century or more. Do you think future players will still use the same methods?"
She smiles again. "Why should we concern ourselves with the needs of the next generation? Let them take care of themselves. If the game thinks changes need to be made, it will let us know."
I pause for a moment. "Sometimes," I continue eventually, "you speak as if the game itself is alive."
"That is precisely the impression I intend to give," she says, turning and starting the slow walk back up from the edge of the water. "I hope, Mr. Blue, that you know better than to keep asking questions. The game does not exist to be understood. It exists to be played."
"Of course," I reply, "but -" I pause as I realize that someone is walking toward us through the fog. After a moment, I see that he is a middle-aged man with a confident smile, and I know immediately that he is to be the new Mr. White. "You work fast," I say, turning to Lady Red.
"The game doesn't stop for anyone," she replies. "Mr. Blue, meet Mr. White, and of course vice versa."
"I look forward to starting the game," the new Mr. White says as we shake hands. "Do you have a new girl in mind yet?"
"I do," I reply. "I'm still reeling her in slowly. As usual, I'm arranging little meetings that she'll believe are accidental. She has no idea that I'm engineering the whole thing in order to get closer to her. I was wondering whether perhaps I should take a short pause, though, so as to avoid attracting suspicion."
"No pauses," Lady Red says. "Keep working on this girl. After all, she could hardly do any worse than Sophia Marchant."
"Sometimes," I say, feeling an unshakeable tiredness wash over me, "I feel as if -"
"Don't finish that sentence," Lady Red continues. "You never know when you might come across a girl who is suitable to be tested. Just because Sophia Marchant didn't work out, you mustn't lose heart. Let me know when you think you're ready to test the new girl, but don't wait too long. The game is starting to wonder if you've got what it takes." With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing with the new Mr. White.
"She's a remarkable lady," he says after a moment.
"She has to be," I reply. "Sometimes, though, I wonder if she sees the bigger picture. The game must adapt to the challenges of the modern world."
"It sounds like you're ready to stage a coup," the new Mr. White says.
"Nothing so violent," I assure him. "Forgive me for saying this, but you're new to the game. You haven't experienced the human cost. Wait until the next time we come to the banks of the river, and tell me whether or not you think we need to make a change."
Together, the new Mr. White and I start walking back toward the bridge. Ahead of us, the lights of the city shine through the night. Somewhere in that conurbation there is another girl who will soon be drawn into the game. Like Sophia, she will think she has a chance of winning, and like Sophia she will almost certainly lose. It seems impossible that the cycle will ever be broken, yet one day - perhaps - there will be a girl who is able to beat the game. I fear we will soon be back here, though, adding another body to the pile that rests at the bottom of the river as the game goes on and on, spitting out more dead bodies and spinning according to its own furious logic, while tumbling through the years in the hope of eventually finding the one girl who can win. Whoever, and wherever, she might be.
Part Two
Dancing
Edward Lockhart
1895
"Why not tonight?" Elizabeth asks, leaning toward me as the carriage rumbles along Bank Street.
"Because it's too soon," I tell her, determined to resist her advances. Beautiful, blonde and barely past her twenty-first birthday, Elizabeth Cavendish is a true delight, and I am very much looking forward to getting her into my bed. At the same time, I have learned over the years that it is better to wait too long than to leap into something too fast; after all, I have to make sure she is desperate for my attention, otherwise she might pull away too soon when I finally reveal my intentions. I have to mold and tease her if I am to get what I want.
"Are you sure, Edward?" she says, smiling as she gently unties the front of her dress to reveal her cleavage. "Can you really sleep alone tonight, knowing that you could have your hands on these?"
Reaching across, I slip my hand inside the dress, cupping her firm left breast and feeling her hard nipple against my palm. For a moment, I say nothing; I merely let the breast wobble slightly in my hand as the carriage rolls over a particularly bumpy part of the street. I must admit, there is a side of me that would dearly love to pull her toward me and ravish her body, but I know that such a move would be a terrible mistake. "Next time," I say eventually, withdrawing my hand. "I promise."
"I don't know if I can wait," she replies, squirming a little in her seat. "I want you now."
"You must be patient," I say, just as the carriage comes to a halt outside my apartment. I like Elizabeth's confidence, and her willingness to let me know what she wants; on the other hand, I feel very strongly that it would be useful to keep her simmering for a few more days. "The driver will take you home," I tell her. "I'm afraid I shall be busy for a few nights, but perhaps we can see one another again on the twenty-fifth?"
"That's almost a week away," she says.
"So it is," I reply, leaning closer and kissing her on the lips. She slips her tongue into my mouth, and it's clear that she aims to change my mind. After a moment, however, I pull away, open the door and step out into the cold London night air. "I very much look forward to seeing you next week," I continue, t
urning to look up at Elizabeth as she stares at me from the carriage window. "I promise you, I will give you everything you desire, and more."
"Perhaps I won't wait for you," she says, as the carriage starts up and moves away. "Perhaps I'll find myself another man!" she calls out, although there's a smile on her lips that suggests she will come running to me as soon as I give her the signal. She can definitely wait a little longer, and our carnal union will be all the sweeter for the anticipation.
Smiling, I turn and walk toward the steps that lead up to my door. However, as I climb the steps, I see that there is a figure waiting outside my door.
"Mr. White," I say, pulling the latch-key from my pocket as I try to work out why he might have come to see me. He is a new member of the game, so I hardly think he would take it upon himself to simply wander to my house; rather, I can't help thinking that someone else is directing him, which means I must be particularly careful. "What an unexpected honor. I wasn't expecting to see you tonight."
"Just a brief visit, Mr. Blue," he replies. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything. Was the young lady originally intending to come inside with you?"
"No," I say. "I'm still reeling her in slowly. Still managing her impression of me."
He smiles. "It didn't look as if she needs much reeling in."
"That's where you're wrong," I reply. "I have been cultivating Elizabeth Cavendish for many weeks. One does not simply seduce a young lady and then drag her into bed. As ever, I started out by identifying a target who seemed particularly bored and ill at ease, and I began to pay her a little attention. Naturally, she responded and began to try seducing me in return. These things must be completed at a slow pace, but I shall get there in the end." As I open my door, I turn to him. "Might I ask why you have come all the way out here at such a late hour?"