by Amy Cross
There is only one solution.
I must sacrifice myself.
Taking a deep breath, I realize that this is my only option. Perhaps if I throw myself at the forces, they will stop long enough to let Henrietta escape. If she has money and friends, she should be able to slip out of the country, and then she can make her way to a new home in another country. It's a desperate gambit, and one that will not bring us happiness, but our priority must be the child. We simply cannot allow this baby to be born into the clutches of the game.
"My husband will be home soon," Henrietta says suddenly, not turning to look at me.
"I didn't know you were awake," I reply.
"I haven't slept all night". She rolls onto her back. Her belly is not yet swollen from pregnancy, but it is only a matter of time before she begins to show.
"We must get out of here," I say. "I've been trying to formulate a plan, and I've come up with nothing. We must simply run. I don't know where we'll go, but when they eventually catch up to us, I'll turn and fight them while you keep going. Perhaps you can find somewhere that's out of their reach. Surely the game can be defeated in some way, even if the cost is great?"
"I fear not," she replies. "The game is everywhere. My dear Jonathan, we could not even make it ten yards from the front door without someone seeing us and reporting back to those who are in charge. The game moves in mysterious ways, but it can't be deceived. I'm quite certain that it already knows about the terrible thing that grows inside my body, and all our exits are surely blocked by now".
"That's no reason to give up," I say. "They want us to surrender, but we're going to run. There are three of us now, Henrietta. Whatever happens to the pair of us, we must protect the child".
"Mr. White will -"
"I don't give a damn about Mr. White!" I say firmly, sitting up and looking over at the window. "Let him come and try to stop us. I'd be glad of the opportunity to snap that bastard's neck. It'd be a good move for the country, too. Parliament is already full of enough rogues, they don't need the likes of Harrison Blake adding more fuel to the fire".
Henrietta smiles, but she clearly isn't taking me seriously. It's so strange to see the way her mood has changed since she revealed the news of her pregnancy; it's almost as if she's become an entirely different person. Perhaps I'm allowing my imagination to run away with me, but I can't help thinking that her skin looks more luminous, and that her eyes are dazzling with an intensity that I've never seen before. It's hard to believe that there was once a time when I believed this woman to be the embodiment of pure evil.
"I think we should focus on the child," she says calmly. "After all, you and I have made such messes of our lives, Jonathan. The child is pure and new, with no evil in its heart whatsoever. If we can get the child to safety, far from the clutches of the game, we can at least die knowing that a new life has a chance. If the child is consumed by the game, I can't begin to imagine its fate. The poor thing will be raised with the game's twisted logic seared into its soul".
"You'll have to leave your husband," I say.
She nods.
"You'll have to leave your entire life behind".
She nods again.
"We'll have to take on new names. I have contacts who can help us get as far as continental Europe, and then perhaps we can make our way east. I find it hard to believe that the game could follow us so far. It'll be just the two of us, and eventually the child. It won't be an easy life, but at least we'll be together. If we're successful, the child can grow up without ever knowing about the game".
"They'll never stop searching for us," she replies. "No matter how long we survive, we'll have to be careful every day for the rest of our lives. The game will demand revenge. Its agents will seek us out. We should ensure that the child is separated from us. At least that way, the game won't know who to hurt once it's finished with us". She pauses for a moment. "Be in no doubt, Jonathan. The game will hurt us. It'll reach out and snap our neck at the first opportunity it gets, and it'll show no sympathy for a child".
"The game is an idea," I say, trying to calm her spirit. "It's a set of rules. It's not a living, breathing thing".
Reaching out and brushing her fingers against the side of my face, she smiles sadly. "One day, you'll understand," she says, with tears in her eyes. "One day, you'll see the true horror of the game before your eyes, and you'll understand why it can never be defeated".
Elly
Today
"So you didn't speak to Ms. Briggs after that night at the restaurant?" Detective Stone asks, staring down at his notebook for a moment. "You broke up following the argument, and she stormed off. After that, you exchanged a few text messages over the following twenty-four hours, but you didn't see her again". He looks over at Mark. "Is that correct?"
"That's correct," Mark says calmly. "I know it might seem that I acted in a heartless manner, but the truth is, I already knew before the argument that Chrissie and I weren't going to work. I was looking for a way out and, when it came, I grabbed it with both hands". He glances over at me. "To be honest, by that point I was already falling for someone else".
Looking down at my feet, I can't help feeling that I'm starting to blush. My earlier cockiness has been replaced by a sense of dread. It turns out that Mark's old girlfriend, Christine Briggs, has been missing for quite a while, and the police are assuming she's dead. They don't seem to have anything to link her death to Mark, but at the same time they seem very suspicious of him. I get the impression that he's suspected of involvement in whatever happened to her. Of course, that's completely ridiculous. I keep telling myself over and over again that there's no way Mark would ever be mixed up in someone's death. It's just impossible.
"And what was the argument about?" Detective Stone asks.
"Money," Mark replies. "Chrissie wanted me to invest in her business plans, but I declined. She got very upset and accused me of not supporting her dreams". He pauses for a moment. "I wasn't supporting her dreams, of course. The truth is, I'd just have been throwing good money after bad. The whole thing was a waste of time, and my biggest regret is that I didn't end it sooner. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but Chrissie was very... troublesome. She caused problems. She was loud and grasping. I don't really know why I was with her. I prefer more refined, more intelligent women". He glances at me again.
"Do you have a lot of girlfriends?" asks the other police officer, a woman in her mid-twenties.
"No," Mark says quickly.
"How many do you have each year?"
Mark visibly bristles at the question. "Is that really relevant?"
"How long were you dating Ms. Briggs?"
"A couple of months".
"Is that about standard for you?" There's an awkward pause. "Do you tend not to have long relationships, Mr. Douglas?" she continues. "Do you tend to have brief flings?" She looks over at me. "Do you mind if I ask how long the two of you have been together?"
"Not long," I say, although I immediately wonder whether I've spoken out of turn.
"I met Elly while I was still, technically, dating Ms. Briggs," Mark explains, "but to be honest, I was immediately won over by Elly's personality. I know there's a cliche about successful men liking to dangle young women from their arms, but I can assure you that I'm not a cliche. I don't move from one woman to the next. I even persevered with Ms. Briggs, far beyond the point at which most men would have given up. She was a very abrasive kind of person, and personally I found her to be antagonistic. The good times were most certainly counter-balanced by the bad times, and my biggest regret is that I didn't end things sooner".
"So you have no idea where she might be," Detective Stone says after a moment.
"I'm afraid not".
"And you, Ms. Bradshaw. Do you have any information that might help us to locate the missing woman?"
"No," I say.
"You never met her?"
"Not really. I saw her once, outside a restaurant".
Looking
down at his notebook once again, Detective Stone seems to be checking some details. "I understand you were involved in a car accident earlier this year, Mr. Douglas," he says after a moment. "You crashed at high speed. From the accident report, it seems you were lucky to walk away with only a few minor scratches".
"It was a good car," Mark replies. "Very safe".
"Still," Detective Stone continues, "it's not every day that most of us trash an expensive sports car. Did you manage to get it repaired?"
"I'm afraid it was written off," Mark says, clearly not enjoying this line of questioning.
"Huh," Detective Stone replies. "And the cause of the accident was..." He checks his notes again. "Undetermined?"
"Driver error," Mark says. "I simply made a mistake".
"You were speeding".
"I believe I was above the limit, yes. I'm afraid that once one has driven on the Autobahn in Germany, one finds it hard to go back to the provincial speed limits of a city such as London".
"And you were alone?" Detective Stone asks, glancing at me.
"Yes," Mark says.
Looking over at Mark, I see that there's not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He's very good at lying. The truth is, I was with him when that car crashed. Frankly, I still suffer occasional nightmares about the moment when the vehicle flipped and scraped upside down along the road. Mark's explanation for the accident clearly isn't very convincing, but hopefully the police will just assume that it was nothing to worry about. The last thing I want is for them to start digging around and maybe discover that I was there.
"Are you an angry man, Mr. Douglas?" the female officer asks after a moment. "Do you have a temper?"
"Not particularly," Mark replies.
"But you get angry," she continues. "You must get angry, Mr. Douglas. Isn't that so?"
"Like any man," he says.
"And that's when you crash cars?"
"No".
"So how do you let your anger out?"
"Boxing," he says, not missing a beat. "Exercise. I find that it removes the need for other outlets. A good session in the gym is usually all it takes to ensure that I'm able to re-focus on my work".
The female officer smiles, but I get the feeling that she doesn't quite believe him. In fact, I get the feeling that they both think Mark has more to do with Chrissie Briggs' death than he's admitting. They seem to be circling him endlessly, feeding him a series of innocuous questions and hoping that eventually he'll slip up. So far, Mark is doing incredibly well, but I can't shake the feeling that perhaps he's hiding something. I want to say that I have total faith in Mark and that I know he has nothing to hide, but there's a part of me that wonders if maybe there's something going on that I haven't been told about. It's not that I think Mark would have actually killed Chrissie or anything like that; it's more that I keep thinking that maybe he lured her into the game, and maybe her disappearance is something to do with the way the game works.
"I think we have what we need for now," Detective Stone says eventually. "You're not planning to leave the country any time soon, are you?"
"I have a business meeting in Hong Kong on the thirtieth," Mark replies. "I'll be away for a couple of days, no more".
"That's fine," the female officer says. "We're still at an early stage in our investigations, but we'll probably want to speak to you again at some point. You're free to go to Hong Kong, of course, but we'll be in touch when you get back".
Once the two police officers have left, Mark seems distracted; it's as if he's lost in thought, and I don't know how to break down the barrier that seems to have been erected between us. When I left my mother's house and came to live with Mark, I've barely had time to think about how things used to be; suddenly, I find that I'm forced to consider my choices, and I'm starting to wonder whether I should have been more cautious. After all, I know very little about Mark, and I guess there's a chance that I've waded into something I don't fully understand. Looking at him now, I find myself wondering if I might be in more danger than I'd realized.
"Follow me," Mark says, walking quickly through to the bedroom.
"What's wrong?" I ask, hurrying after him. There's a part of me that feels repulsed by the way I've become so easily led. I always thought of myself as strong and independent, yet right now I'm hanging on Mark's every word. It's as if I've given over control of my entire life to this man.
Standing by the bed, he seems to be fully of angry, nervous energy. It's as if he wants to explode and show his frustration, but he's keeping it all bottled up. I want to help him release his thoughts, but at the same time I'm nervous about what I might discover.
"Tell me about it," I say as I reach him. I place my hands on his chest, and I swear I can feel his heart pounding. "You can talk to me," I continue. "I'll listen. Just tell me what's bothering you and maybe I can help".
"You?" He smiles, as if the idea is ridiculous.
"I'm not an idiot," I reply.
He opens his mouth to say something, but evidently he thinks better of it at the last moment.
"You have to let me in sometime," I continue, immediately grimacing at my cliched choice of words. "It's like you're only showing me little pieces of you at a time, and I'm supposed to put them together and somehow work out who you are".
"You're not supposed to do anything," he replies tersely. "You're just here to..." He pauses, and once again he seems to be holding back from saying what he really thinks. "People aren't puzzles, Elly. We're not here to be understood by each other". He pauses again, and I can see that he's trying to pull himself back together. "Get undressed," he says finally.
"Why?"
"Why do you think?"
"Is this part of the game?" I ask.
"No," he says firmly. "Maybe. Yes. It's all part of the game. You have to understand, the game isn't something you can dip in and out of; it's all-encompassing and it'll devour you. Once you started playing, there was never any chance for you to go back. Stop trying to divide your life into different sections. Take your clothes off and get into bed".
Slowly, and slightly reluctantly, I start getting undressed. There's something different about Mark right now, as if he's truly panicked. For the first time since I came to stay in his apartment, I feel as if I'm not his equal. If anything, I seem to be an annoyance. As I remove my shirt, Mark grabs it and pulls it away before pulling my jeans and panties down and pushing me onto the bed. I try to unhook my bra, but he's already on top of me and he doesn't seem to care too much about anything other than pure, simple sex.
"I was thinking -" I start to say.
"Hold on," he replies, slipping himself inside me. "Sometimes I fucking hate people".
We make love, and it's good. Actually, it's better than good: Mark seems to be filled with a kind of animal intensity that heightens my senses and makes me feel as if I'm being used as a sexual object. It shouldn't turn me on, but it does. Our sessions usually last for hours, but this time it's over in just a couple of minutes. As he rolls off me and catches his breath, I sit up and stare at the blank white wall across from the bed. I want to hold Mark and to tell him that everything's going to be okay; instead, I find myself sitting here, avoiding looking over at him, with one question going around and around in my mind. I don't want to be suspicious, and I don't want to doubt Mark, but I can't help it. There's a voice deep down in my soul, forcing me to wonder whether Mark might actually have killed Chrissie Briggs.
Jonathan Pope
1901
Moving quickly through the streets, I make my way to my house. Once I assumed the role of Mr. Blue five years ago, I was given complete freedom to live in the penthouse apartment of the Castleton Hotel, but I retained my old home in the East End in order to ensure that I had a little privacy. At the time, it seemed like an extravagance, but right now I'm desperately glad of the sanctuary; I need to gather my thoughts and come up with a plan. It's at times like this that I miss Cather May; the man was a scoundrel, but he was better connected than any oth
er man in London. Still, I'm quite certain I can come up with the perfect escape route for Henrietta and myself; I must simply ensure that no mistakes are made.
"Hello?" I call out, as soon as I step through the front door. It's an old habit, from the days when I was a private investigator. I always like to make a loud entrance, just in case there is someone lurking nearby. I still have enemies in this city, and it's impossible to know when one of them might decide to seek revenge for some old, imagined slight. Most men in my position would move quietly and cautiously if they were worried about an intruder, but I prefer to do the opposite: I like to unsettle any potential attacker, and make him question whether we are truly alone. I learned this approach the hard way, after my near-fatal encounter with Vincent D'Oyly all those years ago.
Once I'm certain that there's no-one here, I make my way to the small office where I keep my papers. With a plan still forming from the chaotic thoughts in my head, I feel as if my best option for now is to simply gather together the essential documents that might be used to ensure my safe passage out of the country. All I can think at this moment is that Henrietta and I must gather as much money as possible, and head for Dover; once we're safely on a boat to France, we can come up with a more definite plan, but getting out of the country is essential. While Henrietta is most certainly wrong about the game being alive, I have no doubt that there are other individuals who might be guided to attack us. At the root of the problem is Mr. White, and I feel I must kill him if Henrietta and I are to have any chance of escape.
As I shove some documents into a small pouch, I suddenly hear a noise nearby. Stopping dead in my tracks, I listen to the silence of the house. Perhaps I'm a little jumpy, but I'm quite certain that I heard a sound coming from the front room. Is it possible that someone has snuck into the house after all? I carefully reach for the loaded pistol I keep in my desk, before making my way to the door and looking out into the hallway. If this is Mr. White, and he has come to finish me off, he has made his move much sooner than I could ever have expected; it's more likely that he's sent some paid lackey to take a shot at me, since I doubt that a man of his standing would ever deign to get his hands dirty. After all, while he is known as Mr. White by night, by day he is Harrison Blake, one of this country's most revered political figures.