by Amy Cross
"What are you doing here?" I ask, feeling a cold shiver rush up my spine.
"Elly," Mark says, taking my hand and leading me across the room. "I want you to meet someone."
"It's so good to see you again," Alice says, coming over and shaking my hand. "Please. Call me Lady Red. And congratulations on getting this far. Stage two of the game begins immediately."
Epilogue
Today
"What have we got here?" asked Detective Michael Stone as he stepped out of the car, his foot immediately splashing into a muddy puddle. It was a cold Thursday morning, and he hadn't managed to get his first cup of coffee yet; consequently, he was in a foul mood and he felt like crap. His morning routine normally involved a leisurely session at his desk, reading through the latest files, but today he'd been called out following an 'urgent' discovery down in the docklands area of London. It would be the under-statement of the year to say that, as cold muddy water seeped into his shoe, he wasn't happy.
"Bones, Sir," said the investigating officer, Angela Harper, as she led him down from the road toward the banks of the river. "Lots and lots of bones."
"Be precise," Stone said, taking a packet of sunflower seeds from his pocket and eating a handful. "How many?"
"Hundreds," she replied.
"Human?"
"All human. Mostly female."
"How old?"
"Too soon to say. Some of them have clearly been down there for a hell of a long time, but others seem more recent. A few could be as recent as a couple of weeks."
Up ahead, Stone could see a gaggle of police officers and forensic examiners. They were stepping carefully between various sets of plastic sheeting, with bones piled high. Even in his cynical and groggy early morning state, Stone had to admit that this was a pretty impressive and unusual scene. Some of the bones were yellowing, while others were various shades of white and gray. At thirty-four years of age, he'd started to think he'd seen everything, but this... this was new.
"How many bodies?" he asked as he stopped next to one of the sheets. Looking down, he saw three human skulls staring back at him.
"We've counted one hundred and seven skulls so far," Harper said, "along with a load of arms, legs, pelvises and so on. We're checking now, but there could be more. A dredging company found them when they started removing silt from the river-bed. They weren't particularly shocked at first. After all, this is London, so you always find a body or two when you start digging. But as more and more turned up, they realized they were onto something pretty fucked up."
"That's one way of describing it," Stone said. "What do you think? Ritual sacrifice?"
Harper shrugged. "It's going to take us forever and a day to sort through them all, but given the early indications of time-span, I doubt this is the work of one person. It's more likely a cult or organization of some kind, stretching back hundreds of years."
"Any kind of markings?" Stone asked.
Harper shook her head.
"Just bones, dumped in the river?"
Harper nodded.
Stone stared at the bones for a moment. "How do over one hundred people go missing, and no-one thinks to look for them? I mean, fuck, I haven't got any friends, but I'm pretty sure someone'd notice if I vanished."
"Depends who they were," Harper replied. "If they were homeless, maybe no-one cared. Besides, it also depends on how long this had been going on for. If we're talking a century or more, then it's only one body a year, maybe less. With a little skill and a lot of luck, I can see how this might remain hidden. Frankly, it was pure luck that the dredgers found them at all. They could easily have gone undisturbed forever."
"You see that?" Stone asked, pointing at one of the piles of bones as a reflective glint caught his eye. Screwed to the backbone, there was a metal pole. "Scoliosis," he continued. "That person had surgery to correct curvature of the spine. A titanium rod screwed in place to keep them straight. Do you know what that means?"
"It means we can maybe track the victim's identity by looking up the serial numbers?"
Stone nodded, lost in thought for a moment.
"The guys from the lab say some of the bodies are centuries old," Harper continued. "Is it possible that this is all some kind of coincidence? Maybe the currents brought bodies from various parts of the river and deposited them here?"
"Possible," Stone said, "but unlikely. Let's take this on face value for now. Someone's been dumping dead bodies in this part of the river for a hell of a long time. They probably chose this spot because they knew there was very little chance of anyone ever finding the evidence." He took a deep breath as he stared at the bones. "Jonathan Pope," he said finally.
"Who?" Harper asked.
"Jonathan Pope," he said again. "You ever heard of him?"
Harper shook her head.
"Just someone I remember reading about, but..." He paused. "It seemed crazy at the time, but now I can't help wondering if there was some truth to all that stuff."
"What stuff?"
"There were these claims, over a century ago, about some kind of group... The whole thing was dismissed as nonsense at the time, but these bodies..." He paused for a moment, as various ideas and theories flooded his mind. "I'll show you the files when we get back to the office. It's a long-shot, but maybe that's what someone out there is counting on."
"And who was Jonathan Pope?" Harper asked.
"A man who might have been involved," he replied. He took another deep breath, realizing that there was a danger he'd sound like a madman. After all, the Jonathan Pope case had been buried in the files for years, assumed by everyone to be some kind of joke. Anyone who took the claims seriously was laughed at, and Stone himself had long accepted the most popular explanation: that Pope was a raving lunatic, and that the claims were delirious stupidity. Stone knew that he'd have to be careful with this case, and that he'd have to move slowly. Still, something about these bones seemed to hint that the Jonathan Pope case might have some truth to it.
"I don't need to be here," Stone said eventually. "It's cold, my sock's wet, I'm out of sunflower seeds, and I need coffee. Let me know when you're done and I can fill you in on Jonathan Pope back at the office."
"Are you taking the case?" Harper asked.
"Why not?" Stone said. "Seems like a big one."
"But it's a cold case," Harper replied. "You don't do cold cases."
"Who says it's cold?" Stone asked, before turning and walking back toward his car. It was crazy, but something deep in his gut made him think there was something more to this discovery. He knew he'd have to go over the Jonathan Pope files again, to see if the details matched completely. It was probably just a coincidence, and he certainly wasn't going to start firing his mouth off just yet, but he wanted to be damn sure of his facts. Getting into the car, he glanced back down at the shores of the river and watched as a group of divers brought yet another set of bones up from the depths. While he watched the morbid processor, Stone removed his shoe and slipped his foot out of the soaking wet sock. It seemed almost impossible that the bodies could be connected to the Jonathan Pope case, but something told him he'd have to consider the possibility, and that there was a chance the bones found in the river today might be connected to Jonathan Pope and a woman named Henrietta deHavilland, whose mummified bodies had recently been found in the basement of one of London's most prestigious hotels.
BROKEN WHITE
Book One
Affection
Prologue
He opens his eyes and stares at the darkness. Everything seems normal, but he knows there has been a change. It's small, almost imperceptible, but he can sense a shift, as if something long expected has finally come to pass. He's tempted to believe that in some way, he can pick up on intangible changes to the fabric of the game, but he knows that this isn't true; instead, he assumes that he has simply come to a new level of understanding.
She is ready.
He opens his mouth and lets out a sigh. His body is old now, wr
etched and torn. Most men would have allowed themselves to die long ago, but he has forced himself to hang on, never allowing the possibility of death to cross his mind. It won't be long now, though; once he has seen her, he will be able to let go, and death is sure to come swiftly. He's not scared, nor does he have any regrets. He's merely thankful that he has been given this opportunity to witness the day when so many promises are on the verge of coming true, and when so much hope looks set to be brought back to the world. Although the game has always been a secret, its shadow has spread far, and the old man knows that a faint pressure would be eased if the game were to come to an end.
For a moment, he thinks of his mother. Long dead now, she was the one who raised him and taught him the ways of the game. She was not his birth mother, of course, since his biological parents both died within a few hours of his birth. His birth mother was a rabble-rouser, an aristocrat who descended to the floor of public debate, while his father was a conman and a charlatan. He was raised by a much better person, by someone with a strong sense of right and wrong. He often likes to remember his mother's final words, when she whispered that he had changed her, and when she thanked him for helping her become less of a monster. He often wonders precisely what she meant, but he knows he can never find out for certain. He was only fourteen years old when his mother died, and he figures it's only natural that she didn't open up to him fully. If she had lived longer, perhaps she would have told him why she cried whenever she thought no-one was watching.
"Am I a monster?" she asked him at the end of her life.
"You could never be a monster," he told her.
He still remembers the look in her eyes, however, and the way that she rambled about being a monster while she was gripped by death's fever. Something from her past had tormented her, and Thomas - so young back then, and with little experience of the world - was hopelessly unable to help.
Other mothers followed. After Elizabeth, there was Alison, and then Claire. By the time Claire died, he was more than forty years old, but a new mother came along anyway. Louise was his mother for eleven years, followed by Jacqueline, and then Carol, and then Susan, and then finally his current mother, Alice, arrived just after the turn of the millennium. By that point, of course, he himself was a very old man, and he believed that Alice would be his eighth and final mother, not counting the woman who had given birth to him, but now he realizes that he might receive a ninth mother before he draws his final breath. Nine mothers, each of them different, all of them hugely important to his life. He knows that he has been lucky, and he knows that some men never even have one mother.
When the door opens, he realizes that it's time to get up. He spends most of his days in bed at the moment, but for special occasions he's raised from the sheets like the wreck of a boat, and placed in a wheelchair. Usually he resents the imposition, but today he understands that his presence is required. If all goes according to plan, this is the day when the game will begin to unravel, spinning furiously until there's nothing left but a strand in the darkness, and then this strand will flare and burn. The moment has been a long time coming, and the game has claimed many victims, but the old man knows that the final moment could never have been rushed. This is how it always had to end.
"Is mother ready for me?" he asks, shocked as always by the sound of his own voice. So old, and so frail. He still feels young in his heart, and every time he sees his own reflection, he hopes that this ghastly old body will have returned to its youthful form. He never asked to live so long. In some ways, he feels as if his own body is torturing him, refusing to die and forcing him to experience more days.
"Lady Red requests the pleasure of your company," Mr. White replies, sounding irritated at having been given such a mundane assignment. "She was very insistent that I should get you ready. She even proposed that I should bathe you, until I reminded her that you'd been visited by your nurse last night. Sometimes, Lady Red gives out orders without thinking about the fact that other people have lives. I swear to God, this whole mess could have been avoided if we'd just stuck to the original rules of the game."
"What is the girl like?" the old man asks.
"She's a girl," Mr. White says as he positions him in the wheelchair. "Aren't they all the same?"
"No two are the same," the old man tells him.
Mr. White mutters something under his breath before turning the wheelchair and pushing him toward the door.
The old man narrows his eyes a little as they leave the dark room and emerge into the bright, over-lit corridor. This is the journey he has always wanted to make, and he hopes that there will be no need of a similar journey in the future. He prays that this will be the girl who has been promised for so long, and although he has been in this position before, he can't help but feel that maybe, this time, things are different. The game was originally supposed to be fun, but over time it has mutated to become a curse. If the game itself is now able to end, there need be no more suffering and no more death, at least not of the game's particularly cruel variety. Still, he knows that he shouldn't get his hopes up. Not yet, anyway. The girl could turn out to be a failure, despite everything that has been said of her. She still needs to be tested before she's given the ultimate role. If all goes according to plan, however, she will soon be on the cusp of greatness.
Elly
Today
Standing at the huge glass window, staring out at the vastness of Zurich as it dazzles beneath the night sky, I'm momentarily lost in space and time. It's as if all my thoughts, all my fears and excitement and memories, lift a little from my mind, allowing me to stare blankly out at the millions of lights that blaze on either side of the Limmat River. Looking up, I see that the sky is a kind of dark blue color, and most of the stars are obscured by the bright haze that rises from the city itself. Finally, as my mind clears and my thoughts come back to me, I'm filled with a feeling that somehow this isn't real.
I'm so far from home.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and bring up my mother's number. It's strange, but having not heard from her for a couple of weeks, I feel a strange desire to make sure she's okay. She must have been struggling to deal with the empty house following my father's funeral, and I know I should have stuck around longer in order to help her out. Then again, she'd never have accepted my help, and we'd have ended up at each other's throats. My mother and I work best at a distance.
"You've reached the voice mail service for -" says an automated voice, before I cut the call. It's quite out of character for my mother to be so elusive, and I can't help wondering if I should be more worried. I guess I'll pop by and see her next week when Mark and I get back to London. Right now, though, I need to focus on the fact that I'm living the most amazing life out here in Zurich. We're only here for a few days, while Mark concludes a business deal, but everything seems to be whizzing past in a blur of parties and shopping. I have to keep checking my reflection throughout the day, just to make sure that I'm still myself.
"There you are," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see Isabella Raynard coming through from the bar. We're at a drinks reception in one of Zurich's most prestigious banks, perched high up on a skyscraper that towers over the Bahnhofstrasse. "Having a thoughtful moment?" she asks in her clipped French tones as she reaches me. "Don't worry. It happens to us all. Just don't let the men see".
Turning to look over at the bar, I see Mark talking to Isabella's husband Frank. It's weird, but despite all the high-tech surroundings in this place, I feel as if I've stepped back in time, to a world where women have to dress up and look their best while men conduct business deals worth millions, or even billions of dollars. Glancing back at the window, I see my own reflection, and it's hard to believe that I'm standing here in a little black dress that cost almost a thousand pounds. I feel like I don't belong here, and I can't shake the suspicion that everyone else at the reception thinks I'm no better than mutton dressed as lamb.
"How long have you and Mark been together?"
Isabella asks.
"Not long," I say.
"Days?"
"A few weeks".
She smiles. "You have a lot to learn. For example, this dress". She steps back and takes a good look at me. "Who chose it? Him?"
I nod.
"Big mistake. Do not let the man choose your dress. He will make a bad choice. Look at me. Do you think Frank chose this?"
Staring at her dark green dress, I have to admit that it doesn't really look like something a husband would buy his wife. For one thing, it's so tight, I can't help wondering if she's having trouble breathing; for another, the front is open to an alarming degree, revealing almost the entirety of Isabella's large breasts, with just a small piece of fabric covering the nipples and underside. She might be in her forties, or perhaps even her fifties, but she looks stunning.
"You need to show off more," she says. "Wear a dress that's a little more daring".
I look down at my black dress. The front is almost up to my neck, hiding my cleavage well away, while the hem comes down to my knees. It's quite tight, but I'm not sufficiently confident to wear anything that's too revealing; after all, I have the kind of figure that wouldn't really be flattered by a dress squashes everything into an unnatural arrangement.
"You need to get better at playing the game," Isabella says suddenly.
I stare at her.
"What's wrong?" she asks. "You've gone as white as a sheet".
"The game?" I say, my heart racing. Mark didn't tell me that anyone here would know about the game. I thought the game was a secret, to be kept by a very small group of people. "You know about the game?" I ask cautiously.