by Amy Cross
“Sure,” I reply, figuring that this is the least I can do for her. “Don't worry, I won't -”
“And I'll call soon,” she adds, clearly keen to get rid of me. “Promise.”
Stepping out of the apartment, I pull the door shut and then pause for a moment. When did I become such an awful person? Sure, I completed the second challenge, but I pretty much destroyed my relationship with my best friend and probably traumatized her in the process. Turning to look back at the door, I consider knocking and trying to talk to her, but before I can contemplate that plan any further I realize that there's an envelope taped to the door, and I recognize the style.
Pulling the envelope down, I tear it open and find that it's the instructions for the third challenge. Frowning, I realize that it appears to be the address of a unit down at the industrial estate.
***
Somewhere above, hidden by the low gray morning clouds, a plane is passing, while in the distance a train rattles past. Light rain has begun to fall, raising up the smell of grass and concrete, as I wander past one building after another, searching for warehouse 15b. Every few seconds, I can't help glancing over my shoulder, just in case I find that someone's following me.
Spotting a sign for 15a, I make my way along a narrow passageway before I finally spot 15b. After double-checking the details on the card I found inside the envelope, I head over to the door and find that the padlock has been left open, as if someone was expecting me to go inside.
Hearing my phone ring, I pull it out of my pocket and see that my mother is trying to get hold of me. Although I don't really feel like talking to her right now, there's a part of me that wants a distraction, so I tap the screen to answer.
“And where exactly were you last night?” she asks before I can say anything. “Didn't feel like coming home?”
“Sorry, I -”
“You should always let me know if your plans change,” she continues. “You know I don't like to patronize you by worrying, but I do worry. I'm sorry, Elly, but that's just something a mother can't help.”
“I was out with Jess,” I tell her, as I slide the padlock away and pull the metal door open. “We just lost track of time.”
“Drinking, I suppose?”
“Just a little,” I mutter, peering into the building and finding that there's a large, seemingly empty space inside, with a wall at the far end and another door. So far, this place seems to be completely abandoned, but I have no doubt that I've been lured here for a reason. Until this moment, I figured I wasn't in any danger, but I suddenly feel as if maybe it would've been smart to have brought some kind of weapon.
“Will you be home for dinner?” my mother asks.
“I don't know.”
“I'm heading into town now,” she continues. “I'll pick up enough for you anyway, shall I?”
Stepping forward, I look up at the high ceiling and see chains hanging down. Whatever this place used to be, there was clearly a lot of machinery.
“Did you hear me, Elly?” my mother asks.
“Yeah, sure. Listen, I think I have to go, I'm kind of busy right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing.” I reach up and take hold of one of the dangling chains, but when I give it a pull the entire thing starts to run down. I take a step back, shocked as the chain crashes to the floor.
“What on earth was that?” my mother asks.
“I'm at an exhibition.”
“But -”
“It's nothing. Gotta go, bye!” Cutting the call, I slip my phone back into my pocket before stepping around the chain and heading to the door on the far side of the room.
If the new Mr. Blue was my first challenge and Jess was my second, I guess the third has to be a person too. Glancing back the way I came, however, I feel as if this place has been abandoned for a while now, although the paranoid part of my mind is convinced that somewhere there must be cameras tracking my every move. Still, I keep telling myself that there's no way I'd get this far in the game only to be killed, so I can't be in too much danger so long as I keep playing.
That's the theory, anyway.
“Hello?” I call out as I reach the door. “Is anyone -”
Stopping suddenly, I see that there's a patch of blood smeared on the handle, with more bloody drips on the dusty floor.
“Hello?” I whisper, suddenly feeling as if I might be in too deep.
Still, it's too late to turn back now.
Using my sleeve to cover my hand, I grab the handle and pull the door open. Stepping through, I find myself in another large space, but this time there's something hanging over at the far end. I take a few more steps forward before stopping as I realize that there's a human figure, naked and tangled up in the chains, and there are regular patches of blood leading from him, all the way over to where I'm standing.
“Jesus,” I mutter, hurrying forward, watching as the figure swings gently from the chains. There's no sign of whether he's alive or dead, but as I get closer I make my way around him until -
I stop as soon as I see his face.
My blood starts to run cold.
“Mark,” I whisper.
His body is a wreck. There are cuts and bruises all over him, as if he's been soundly beaten and then whipped. Even in the low light of the room, I can see patches of torn skin glistening with blood, and his feet are dangling several inches above the blood-spattered concrete floor. Worst of all, his head is lolling down, as if he's unconscious or worse. For a few seconds, all I can do is stare in horror, before finally I realize that I have to do something.
Mark
2008
“She didn't do very well,” a voice says nearby, as I stand on the balcony and look out at the dark city. “One might say that she failed miserably.”
Turning, I see that Lady Red and Mr. White are standing in the doorway, watching me intently.
“What was her name again?” Lady Red continues. “Rachel? Roxy?”
“Rebecca,” I remind her, bristling a little at the question. I know she remembers the name, and that she's asking merely because she wants to prove a point. “Rebecca Lawrence.” I look down at the drink in my hand, and for a moment I try to summon the strength to ask the question I know I must ask. I've been up here for hours, waiting for their return, and there's a dull, sickening sensation in my belly now that the truth is apparent. Still, there's a process to go through: I have to ask, and they have to tell. It's a kind of contract.
“Well?” Lady Red says finally, as if she's aware of her side of this little dance.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I take a sip of whiskey. “What happened to her?” I ask finally.
“I tested her,” Mr. White says immediately, his voice sounding deep but also devoid of any emotion whatsoever. He obviously knew the question was coming. “On your recommendation, I tried a few things. I took her to my home and I put her in some of my machines. She had a good body, quite athletic, and as always I ran a quick check on her to see if there were any obvious health problems. She sailed through with flying colors, and she actually seemed quite eager once the basics had been explained to her.”
“Where is she now?”
“Let's not dwell on such things,” Lady Red says, smiling as she steps over to me. “The soul can be a dark labyrinth at times, Mr. Blue, so it's best to -”
“Where is she?” I ask again.
“I think you know,” she whispers.
Glancing past her, I see that Mr. White is still in the shadows.
“She's dead, sweetheart,” Lady Red continues. “In the modern game, girls who are rejected by Mr. Blue are allowed to go on their way. After all, the only thing they know is that they had a damn good fuck one night in a penthouse. But girls who reach Mr. White...” She pauses, as if she doesn't want to explain the rest. “They can't be allowed to just walk away, now can they? Think about it, we have to keep the game to ourselves.”
“So she was murdered?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on Mr. W
hite. “He murdered her?”
“I pushed her to her limits,” he says firmly. “Her limits broke. End of story.”
“What did you do with the body?”
“You don't need to know,” Lady Red tells me, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I immediately pull away from her. “I want to know.”
“Why? So you can torment yourself? So you can make yourself feel better by having nightmares?” She pauses. “This is part of the deal, Mr. Blue. You knew that from the start, so for God's sake don't act like a fucking martyr now.”
Another pause, before she steps closer and puts her hand on my shoulder again. This time, I don't pull away, although I feel dirty just being near her.
“You did your job very well,” she adds. “Considering it was your first assignment, I mean. I'm sure you'll get better at filtering the girls from now on. The key is to think about how they might endure a rougher session. You have to look at their seams and try to locate the weak spots, the parts where they might tear. After all, Mr. White does tend to get carried away, but we simply have to ensure that any girl who goes further isn't going to get all ripped and torn. They need to be tougher than that.”
“So you're saying it's my fault that Rebecca's dead?”
“I'm not saying that at all.”
“But you're thinking it. We all are, all three of us.”
“You are the one who recommended her,” she points out, “but as I keep telling you, you'll learn. Think of Rebecca as just a spot of practice. You'll get the hang of things soon enough.”
“It is my fault,” I mutter. “If I'd just sent her away, if I'd decided she wasn't fit to go to Mr. White, she'd still be alive.”
“Someone had to do it,” she replies. “Mr. Blue is the one to blame, not you. You're just performing that particular role for the time being. Besides, you need to keep practicing. Eventually someone very important is going to come to your bed, and you need to be ready. When that day comes, everything else is going to seem so trivial.”
“Someone important?” I ask. “Who?”
“The girl who really might end the game. The girl we're been waiting for.”
“Your savior?”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes, but it will take some time for her to be ready. Good things do take time, you know. One simply cannot rush these things. We're working on it, though, and even as we speak, our agents are moving into place and preparing to bring the girl to fruition. The one luxury we've had is time. We've been able to move slowly and carefully, and I'm absolutely certain that everything's going swimmingly. I'm sure you'll understand how important this girl is when you first set eyes on her, I'm told that she's quite impressive already and she's only going to get stronger over the next few years.”
“I'm not this kind of person,” I reply, as I feel a sense of extreme nausea bursting through my gut. “You said this was a game, you didn't say people were going to die!”
“I intimated as such,” she points out with a faint smile. “I'm sure you picked up on the signs, you just didn't want to admit the truth. Come, Mr. Blue, you're not going to pretend to have a guilty conscience, are you? That very first day, when I saw you on the beach in France, I knew that you'd be perfect for the game. You're among friends now, you don't need to act as if you care about people like Rebecca Lawrence. The game is the most important thing.”
Staring at her, I realize that even though I find her loathsome, there's a part of me that knows she's right. Somehow I've become this twisted, cruel person, and I don't know how to go back. I should have left markers, some way to show the route back to my soul.
“Let's go inside,” she continues, linking her arm with mine and leading me back toward the door, where Mr. White is waiting for us. “Mr. Blue, I think it's time I told you about the little plan that we've hatched. Why don't we all have a drink and I'll explain the Longdale solution. The key to it all is a girl you're going to meet in a few years' time. Her name is Elly Bradshaw.”
Elly
Today
“Mark!” I shout, reaching up and grabbing the thick chains that have been wrapped around his wrists, and which are holding him up in the middle of the room. Tugging on the metal, I find that the chains are so tight, they're starting to dig into his skin, sending a steady flow of blood trickling down his bare arms.
Making my way behind him, I try to find another angle that might allow me to cut him down, but whoever chained him here, they were clearly determined to keep hold of him. The chains are wrapped two or three times around him, and they've been fixed firmly in place.
“I'm going to get you out of here,” I whisper, hoping against hope that he can hear me. “Mark, are you awake?” I pull on the chains some more, before making my way back around to the front and looking at his face. “Mark?”
Receiving no answer, I gently take hold of his bloodied, battered head and tilt his face toward me. His eyes are closed and there are raw, open wounds all over his flesh, but when I press two fingers against the side of his scarred neck I immediately realize I can feel a pulse. It's not strong, and he's definitely weak, but at least he's alive.
“Mark?” I hiss, shaking his head a little in the hope that I might wake him. “Mark, it's me! It's Elly! I'm here! Do you know who did this to you?”
Precious seconds tick past, but he seems impossible to wake. Looking down at his bare, muscular body, I realize that there are more cuts and tears all over his flesh. Whoever put him here, they've clearly enjoyed torturing him, and when I glance back across the large, open room I realize that they could come back at any moment. Mark is hanging from a hook high up on the ceiling, and I can't help but notice a second hook nearby, almost as if a space has been reserved for me. Glancing back toward the door, I realize I have to get us both out of here fast.
“I've got an idea,” I mutter, hurrying across the room until I reach an old metal chair that has been left against one of the walls. Carrying the chair back over to Mark, I set it down and then climb up, hoping that I'll have a better shot at untangling the chains. Once I'm high enough, I start to pick through the thick rings of metal that are binding his wrists, but they're far too tight to get loose and when I find a thick old padlock, I realize that without the key there's no way to get everything loose. Figuring that I have no other options, I examine the hook for a moment before starting to lift the sections of chain up, one by one. It's barely possible, with the chains and Mark's weight combining to frustrate my efforts, but I find the strength from somewhere and finally I'm able to pull one of the looped chains over the hook, allowing Mark to fall down a few inches toward the ground.
Summoning more strength that I never knew I had, I pull up the second of the three main loops of chain, and then I start working on the third. For a moment, I feel as if I've reached my limits, as if I'll never manage to get him free, but finally I manage to lift the chain a little higher, until it's almost over the tip of the hook. My muscles are burning, urging me to stop, but I have to push ahead. Finally, holding my breath, I lift the third chain up and over, and Mark immediately falls down, pulling me with him until I fall off the chair and land hard on top of him. I let out a cry of pain as my hip hits one of the chains, and I roll off Mark and onto the hard concrete floor.
Turning, I find that Mark has crumbled under the weight of the chains, so I immediately grab his shoulder and roll him onto his back.
“Mark!” I shout, desperately trying to wake him. “Mark, it's me! Please, say something!”
For the first time, he seems to respond. His eyes flicker for a moment, as if he might be about to wake up, and his lips seem poised to open. After a couple of seconds, however, he sinks back into unconsciousness, and it's clear that I have to get him out of here.
Putting my hands under his naked body, I try to lift him, but the added weight of the chains is too much. I start fumbling with the metal links, desperately trying to find a way
to get his body loose, and now that he's down on the ground I find that I'm able to pull the chains away from his legs. For a few minutes, I have to play a complex game of threading and un-threading his limbs from the mess of metal, but finally only his wrists remain. I examine the padlock again, but at this new angle I'm able to get his hands much further through, until there's just the ridge at the top of his wrists to navigate. I try pulling, but the chains seem just a little too tight.
“I'm going to pull, okay?” I tell him, even though I doubt he can hear. “On three. It might hurt, but I have to get you out of here. Ready? One, two...” I pause, wondering whether I can do this.
Silence.
“Three.”
With one strong, firm movement, I pull as hard as I can on the chains, trying to force them over his hands. For a few seconds, I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes tight shut, and I feel as if this whole task is hopeless. Then, with no warning at all, I suddenly fall back as the chains surrender, and I land hard on my back with the chains in my hands. Turning back to Mark, my relief at getting him free is short-lived, as I realize that in the process of pulling the chain away I ended up ripping away a large section of skin from his wrists and hands, leaving bloody wounds. Looking down at the chains, I spot sections of flesh stuck to the metal.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, before realizing that there'll be time for that later.
Putting my hands under Mark's naked body, I try to get a good grip before counting silently to three and then carefully lifting him. Without the chains, I can just about support his weight, so I start carrying him back toward the door. I don't know where the hell I'm going to take him, but we have to get out of here before his tormentor comes back.