by Amy Cross
When I reach the street corner, I hail a carriage and instruct the man to take me to Worthington Square. I still do not quite have a full plan, but I know that Sir Robert Marchant is a powerful man and my first step must be to speak to him and perhaps gain his support. It might not yet be too late to turn the situation in my favor, especially if I can get him on my side; if I can just make him see that it is Lady Red who is responsible for his daughter's death, I can perhaps arrange a deal with him. After all, it was the former Mr. White who put the blade into Sophia's neck and killed her. My heart is racing as the carriage bumps along the dark streets, but finally I am starting to think that there might be a way out of this situation. Of course, I shall have to leave London and start a new life elsewhere, perhaps under a new name, but at least I will be free of the game and, most importantly, I shall not be hanged.
After a moment, I realize that the carriage has stopped, and I lean out the window to see a police officer speaking to the driver. For a brief moment, I wonder if the game is over, but then I realize that up ahead, there is a terrible commotion, and the sky is tinged with the orange light of a bright fire.
"What is the matter?" I call out, desperate to get moving again.
"Traffic's closed, Sir," the police officer says. "There's a fire."
"I need to get to Worthington Square," I say. "It's a matter of great urgency."
"The fire's in Worthington Square," he replies. "The home of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Marchant."
I stare at him for a moment. "The industrialist?"
The police officer nods. "The road won't be open until the morning. It's an inferno down there."
"What happened?" I ask.
"Hard to say, Sir," he replies, turning to walk away.
"But what about the family?" I call after him. "Are they accounted for?"
He glances back at me. "All dead," he says, before continuing on his way. I stare out the window and watch as smoke rises in the distance. Is it possible? Have the Marchants, who seemed poised to bring my entire existence crashing down, suddenly been wiped from the face of the planet? Utterly speechless, I sit for several minutes, my mind racing as I try to understand why Lady Red would orchestrate such a macabre situation.
"Sir?" asks the carriage driver. "Where to now, Sir?"
I give him my home address and sit back as the carriage turns around. My heart is still racing, but I am overcome by a feeling of absolute relief. It is quite clear that Lady Red intended this incident to serve as a warning to me, and that she wants me to know that there is no limit to the measures she will take if she believes the game is under threat. She quite clearly gave Robert Marchant enough information so that he could put pressure on me, and now it seems that she has disposed of the Marchants once they are no longer useful to her. My secret is safe, even if I have been shown in no uncertain terms that Lady Red sees me as little more than a pawn. The woman has a cold heart, and there is clearly no limit to her reach.
Arriving back at my home, I pay the carriage driver and walk to my door. I am surprised, however, to find Mr. White once again loitering in the shadows.
"You seem to make a habit of this," I tell him, reaching for my key.
"I was merely sent to ensure your safe return," he says, "and to deliver a message."
I open the door and turn to him. "What is the message?"
"A mutual friend wants you to know that she approves of Elizabeth Cavendish, and that she believes you should be careful to develop your relationship with the young lady. She says she has a good feeling about Ms. Cavendish, and that she thinks she has far more potential than Sophia Marchant. She looks forward to hearing your next update. She also wants you to be more careful in future."
I stare at him for a moment. While I had a very good relationship with the previous Mr. White, and believed him to be a fair man, this new incumbent is a different matter altogether. There is a venomous, brutish edge to him, and I cannot help but feel he is merely one of Lady Red's pawns. The balance of power has shifted, and I am left more isolated than ever before. If I am not careful, I fear I shall soon find myself permanently pushed out. The game is changing.
"Would you like to come in?" I ask. "Perhaps I can offer you a drink?"
"Another time," he replies with a smile. "I must go home and wash the smell of gasoline from my hands." With that, he turns and walks away. I stand and watch as he reaches the end of the street and disappears into the darkness. I fear that Lady Red has ensured that this latest version of Mr. White is something of a psychopath. While Robert Marchant was a thorn in my side, the man did not deserve to be burned to death simply because he happened to care about his missing daughter. The game has claimed yet more victims, and I am supposed to merely shrug and continue with my usual activities. As the fire from the Marchant household continues to cast an orange glow against the dark horizon, however, I find myself wondering whether I can stay in the game for much longer, or whether I must find a permanent way out.
Finally, I realize that things can't continue like this. Too many people have died, and it's time to end the game forever. If I must risk my own life and freedom in the process, then so be it.
Part Three
Fusion
Elly
Today
I wake up naked and a little cold in Rob's bed, with his hand slowly reaching around to cup my right breast. Staring straight ahead for a moment, I realize I'm totally not in the mood, but I can feel him pressing his hard penis against my ass and I guess it wouldn't hurt to give him what he wants. Rolling over, I look straight into his face and realize that anything is better than going home. At least this way, I don't have to talk much; all I have to do is let Rob fuck me as much as he wants. The best part is, it's pretty easy to forget about everything when he's inside me. The rest of the time, my head is filled with a million unwanted thoughts, but when Rob is fucking me, I can just forget about everything else. It's a good trade-off.
"You want to?" he asks, letting the tip of his penis brush against my thigh. It's like some kind of stiff little animal, prodding my body expectantly.
"Sure," I say. "Just don't try anything before you've got a condom on, okay?"
He sighs as he reaches over and grabs a condom. As I wait for him to get it on, I stare at the wall and try to work out why, exactly, I'm here. I mean, I don't really like Rob that much, and the sex isn't great at all. After our little encounter outside the pub the other night, I couldn't get away from him fast enough, but the next day I realized I needed a distraction. I guess there are worse things to be doing on a rainy morning.
"Is it me," I say, "or is it cold in here?"
"I'm not cold," he replies as he slips the ugly condom over his ugly penis. "There. Happy?"
"Very," I reply flatly.
He leans close and kisses me, while pushing me onto my back and climbing on top of me. I open my legs and wait while he arranges himself, and finally I feel him slip his penis between the lips of my vagina. I know what my job is now: I just have to keep my legs open and let him thrust into me. I kind of wish he was more willing to experiment, but I guess we've only been doing this for a couple of days, so he's not bored of the missionary position yet. As I put my hands on his ass, he starts pounding away at me and I try to focus on getting wet. It's not easy, and I don't really feel very turned on. Sex with Rob is barely a step up from masturbating. I haven't had an orgasm with him once; instead, I occasionally touch myself while he's in the shower. It's not ideal, but it'll do for now.
The sex is rough and coarse, and I feel like it's not particularly intimate. After a couple of minutes, Rob reaches orgasm and I wrap my legs tightly around him. It's kind of a compliment that he can always finish so quickly, although sometimes I wish we could make love in a way that lasts a bit longer. I've tried getting him to go down on me, but he's not interested; blow-jobs, on the other hand, are very much on his agenda, and I've given him head half a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours. It's weird, but I'd never had sex before I met
Rob, and now I feel like I do nothing but have sex. The sad truth is that I know there's nothing more to our relationship. It's not like we're ever going to have any kind of emotional connection, so I'm left with the same question as earlier: why am I here?
"Was that good for you?" Rob asks.
"Yeah," I reply.
"Sure?" he says. "You seemed a bit quiet."
"I wasn't quiet," I tell him. "I just... wasn't loud. I guess I don't make much noise."
He smiles. "I used to be with this girl who screamed so much during sex, she could make the windows shake."
"Sounds fun," I say. Suddenly my phone starts ringing, and I reach over to grab it from the bedside table. "Sorry," I add. "I thought I turned it off."
"Who is it?" he asks, sliding his penis out of me and rolling onto the other side of the bed.
"My mother," I say, looking at the flashing screen. "Again." I wait a moment, and the ringing stops. I know I should answer, but I also know that she wants to talk about my father's funeral, which is scheduled for tomorrow. At some point I'm going to have to get out of this bed and go home, but I want to put that dreaded moment off for as long as possible.
"Fuck," Rob says as he takes the sticky, messy condom off and throws it on the floor. "Next time, we're using something else," he continues. "Condoms are gross. Can't you get a pill?"
"No," I say firmly. One of the reasons I'm so keen to keep using condoms right now is that it adds a layer between us. Although he goes inside me, there's always that thin layer that prevents us from touching. I already regret the fact that I've slept with Rob, but at least I can tell myself that there's a chance - just a small chance - that one day I'll meet someone I actually care about. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and remember the moment when I kissed Mark Douglas. It felt so right, and yet he immediately pushed me away and acted like he wasn't interested. Is it possible that I completely misinterpreted the feeling between us? Is it possible that I was wrong when I felt that we had a connection?
"There you go again," Rob says, staring at me.
"What?"
"That look." He smiles. "I swear to God, sometimes you look like you're thinking about stuff that's a million miles away. It's like you've totally got your head in the clouds."
"I guess I'm just a bit distracted," I say. "Things have been moving pretty fast."
Getting out of bed, Rob wanders over to the wardrobe and starts sorting out a bunch of clothes. I sit in the bed, letting the duvet drop down so that my breasts are exposed, and I watch him. He's not exactly what you'd call good-looking, but he's not ugly either; he's just kind of average, with a skinny body and a blank, uninteresting face. I can't imagine anyone ever really having any passionate feelings for him, but some day I guess some girl will settle for him and she'll probably be reasonably happy. As he turns and starts grabbing some stuff from the desk over by the window, I can't help but stare at his limp little cock and shudder as I realize that I let him put that thing inside me. What the hell was I thinking?
"Did I tell you I'm going to Exeter tonight?" he says casually, as if it's totally unimportant.
"No," I reply, shocked at the idea that I might have to go back to my mother's house. "Why?"
"My band's got a gig," he replies, sorting through a bunch of t-shirts. "It was totally last-minute, 'cause some other band pulled out or something. We're playing at this little underground club. It's a pretty big thing. We leave tonight and we'll probably be back in a couple of days, 'cause Johnny's uncle owns a farm so we're gonna stay there for a few days after. It's pretty cool up there, like totally remote and cut off from the world. We'll just sit around in the grass and meet a bunch of cows and stuff, maybe smoke if we can pick up anything decent. I'd invite you, but I guess you've got your own shit."
I smile. He's right; I have my own 'shit', specifically my father's funeral on Monday morning. Not only that, but I have to help my mother prepare for the damn thing, which means cleaning the house and sorting out some food and probably getting on with billions of other tiny jobs. I'm not looking forward to it, and I'm pretty sure she'll already be pissed off at me for spending the night at Rob's house. It feels like I'm about to get sucked into this massive eddy of confusion and panic and banality, and I have no choice other than to dive in head-first and just see if I can survive the onslaught. I'd give anything to be able to just pack up and leave it all behind. Anything.
"Will you still be here when I get back?" Rob asks.
"What, in your bed?" I say with a smile.
"In London," he says. "You know what I meant. Why do you always give smart-ass answers to questions, Elly?"
"Well I guess it all depends when you get back," I say.
"Wednesday or Thursday."
"Maybe," I say. "Maybe not. I'm going back to Bristol on Thursday morning, so I guess I probably won't be around much on Wednesday." I pause, realizing that I could find some time to see him when he gets back, even if it'd be kind of pathetic to have nothing better to do. I can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I might see Mark again, even if I know it's unlikely.
"Huh," he replies. "So maybe I won't see you again after today." He grabs his pants from the floor and starts getting dressed, and I realize with horror that I'm going to have to go back to the 'real' world pretty damn soon. Rob has his own life, his own stuff to be getting on with, and I need to get back to my mother's house and help her get ready for the funeral. I wish I could just postpone reality forever and stay here, even if it means mindlessly fucking Rob a few times a day. Sighing, I try to remind myself how important the funeral is: I have to go and support my mother, and to show the other mourners how much I loved my father. Still, it feels like little more than an empty ritual. I did love my father, and I guess I still do, but why should I go to some stupid funeral just to prove that love for the benefit of other people? The more I think about it, the more I feel like making a stand.
"I want to come to Exeter with you," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
He turns to me. "You want to what?"
"I want to come to Exeter," I say firmly. "With you and the band. I want to come. Is that okay?" I take a deep breath; I have no idea why I'm saying these things, but the thought of escaping London for the next few days makes me feel almost giddy with relief. It's as if I've suddenly taken all my problems, wrapped them up in a bag, and thrown them away, or at least postponed them.
"What about your Dad's funeral?" he asks.
I pause for a moment. "Fuck it," I reply eventually. "I don't need to go. I mean, what's the point of just sitting around at some crematorium and watching as a box gets burned with my father's body in it? It's just a load of bullshit. My father was the kind of guy who likes it when people live their lives to the full. He wouldn't want me to pass up a chance to go and see your band in Exeter. He'd be proud of me for ditching the funeral."
"Are you serious?" he says. "I mean, it's pretty fucking crazy to not go to your own Dad's funeral. It's not like you can change your mind and go some other time."
"Don't you want me to come?" I ask.
He smiles. "Sure. If you're absolutely certain."
I take a deep breath, feeling an immense sense of relief at the thought that suddenly I've got an excuse that means I don't have to go to the funeral at all. "I'm sure," I say, realizing that my hands are trembling. "Fuck it. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
I can't help smiling as I think of my mother's horrified reaction when she realizes I'm skipping town.
Edward Lockhart
1895
"Let me get this straight," Inspector Matthews says, staring at me as we sit in the cold, dank interview room at New Scotland Yard. A well-built middle-aged man with a no-nonsense look in his eyes and a thick mustache bristling on his upper lip, he clearly thinks this interview is a waste of his time, and the contempt is evident in his voice. "Just so as I've got it fixed in my mind, Mr. Lockhart. You're claiming that for over a hundred years, some kind of game has been
played in the streets of London. Am I correct so far?"
"You are," I reply, "but the important -"
"Let me finish!" he says firmly. "Just let me finish. So there's this game, and the players are members of the aristocracy and the nobility. Correct?"
"Yes," I say, determined to get into the details. "They're -"
"Wait!" he says, raising his voice a little. "Let me continue, Sir. Please. The nature of the game is sexual. In some manner. And because of this game, rather a lot of young ladies have died, and their bodies have been hidden. This is what you're trying to tell me, Sir, is it not? You're trying to claim that all of this has been going on right under the noses of Her Majesty's constabulary, and we have been, for want of a better word, wrong-footed."
I nod. "Every word is true. I know it must sound incredible, Inspector, but I have seen it with my own eyes. I have been told details of the history, and I have allowed myself to be seduced by everything that is offered. I have even been dragged into it. I have witnessed the players themselves."
"And you have been a player?" he replies, a cautious grin on his face. He clearly does not believe me, and I imagine he thinks me to be someone who derives enjoyment from spinning such incredible tales. "At least, Mr. Lockhart, that is what you're claiming, is it not?"
"There are three players in the game," I say, choosing my words carefully so as to avoid sounding insane. "The most senior is Lady Red, who organizes the game and makes the most important decisions. She keeps the book that contains all the rules. Then there is Mr. White, who is usually a close associate of Lady Red. He tends to be an older gentleman. And finally, very much the junior member of the trio, there is Mr. Blue, who tests the girls and chooses which ones get to progress further into the game."