by Amy Cross
Shrugging, I turn and head back over to the door. "I've never been one to shy away from a challenge," I say, glancing back at him. "Even if the odds are against us, I know we have to go and take Blake on. Running's no good. If I run, he'll find me, and if I'm to die, I'd rather take that bastard down with me". I pause for a moment. "I don't really care about all those women whose diaries you've stacked up so neatly," I say eventually. "I'm sorry, but I don't. They mean nothing to me. There's one woman I care about, though, and she was beaten to death while she was carrying my child. I want Harrison Blake to know true pain, and that's why I'm going to help you, Mr. Laverty. But I know full well that I'll die in the process, and I have no expectation of ever being seen as a hero".
With that, I turn and walk away. Laverty's constant optimism is becoming tiring. So long as I get to see Blake's face as he dies on agony, and as he sees that I'm the one responsible, I care about nothing else in this entire world.
Elly
Today
When I wake up, there's a pounding sensation in my head, and for a moment I struggle to remember who I am or why I'm here. I sit up and find that I'm naked on the floor of a large, bright white and completely bare room. I feel as if there's something hammering away at the back of my mind, demanding to be remembered, but I can't quite...
Elly.
That's my name.
Elly Bradshaw.
Getting to my feet, I stumble naked to the door. My legs are like jelly and my whole body is trembling, and as I emerge into the next room, I start to remember where I am. This is Mr. White's apartment, and I've been...
I turn and look back at the door.
For a second, just a second, I feel as if I'm starting to remember something. I was in that room and there was something on me, something reaching around me, touching me with what felt like a thousand different fingers. I was flat on my back, and I was tensing my body as the fingers caressed every inch of my flesh. A shiver passes through me for a moment as I try to remember more, but the memory fades.
"Do you know the most dangerous thing in the world?" Mr. White's voice asks, from the other side of the lounge.
I turn to see him sitting fully-clothed in a large, leather armchair. As usual, he seems to be serenely confident, as if he knows that he has everything under control.
"Pure pleasure," he continues, taking a brief drag from a large cigar. "Everyone always seeks out pleasure, but the truth is, pure pleasure is one of the most dangerous and most intoxicating experiences known to man. It doesn't matter how you achieve it, but the result is always the same. Pure, absolute, unadulterated pleasure is powerfully transformative, and I'd go so far as to say that anyone who experiences such a sensation ends up being changed forever". He pauses. "How do you feel, Elly?"
"I'm fine," I say, limping toward him. I don't even care that I'm naked anymore. He's seen me, and examined me, enough already, and I've got nothing left to hide.
"You don't remember what happened in that room, do you?" he asks. "The whole of the past two hours is completely wiped from your mind".
"Two hours?"
"The first hour was the experience itself, and then you were unconscious and recovering for the second hour". He smiles. "Pure pleasure often knocks people out, and the mind struggles to organize its experiences into coherent memories". Reaching to the coffee table, he grabs a tablet computer and starts it up. "Fortunately, I took the liberty of recording the events that took place, because I thought you'd probably want to be reminded. It's all here, video and audio, should you decide that you want to pierce the fog in your mind".
"I feel kind of weird," I say, clutching my left arm.
"That's natural," he replies. "Your body is reacting in perfectly normal ways to an unusual experience. If you didn't feel weird, I'd be worried".
"It's hot in here," I say, glancing across the room.
"I'd say it's about normal," he replies. "Don't worry. Your body is probably firing off in all directions, trying to recover its equilibrium. It's not a quick process, but you'll get there in the end, and that's what matters. Now, do you want to see a snippet of what happened to you in that room?"
"I guess," I say, even though there's a part of me that's kind of nervous. I feel strange, stranger than ever before, and I'm not sure I buy Mr. White's insistence that it's just a natural part of my body's way of dealing with things. As well as the pain in my arm and the slight dizziness, I'm feeling kind of sweaty and a little panicky. I want to believe that everything's going to be okay, but deep in my gut there's this ball of fear that keeps warning me that there's a problem.
"Are you scared, Elly?" Mr. White asks.
I nod.
"Of what?"
"I don't know". I look over at the door. "When's Mark coming?" Suddenly I feel as if I need Mark; I need him to come and take me back to the normal world. Even if he doesn't show me the affection I want, I need him to make everything okay again.
"Who?" Mr. White asks.
"Mark".
"Never heard of him".
I pause for a moment. "Mr. Blue," I say eventually. "When's Mr. Blue coming?"
"Ah," he replies, "I see. I believe he'll come when I call him and let him know that everything's finished".
"And is it?" I ask. I wait for a reply, and as each second passes, I become more and more fearful that there might be another room. "Is it over?" I ask eventually, unable to completely hide the desperation in my voice.
"For now," he replies. "There are other rooms and other things to try, but not all on one day. I'm afraid the strain might kill you". Smiling, he brings up a video on the tablet screen, and he takes a moment to fast forward through to a certain spot. "Are you ready for this, Elly? Do you want to see yourself experiencing such pleasure, such absolute sexual perfection, that your mind couldn't handle the memories?"
I nod, suddenly feeling very cold.
He taps the screen, and a video starts to play. The first thing I notice is that the camera is focused on me. I'm on my back, with my spine arched and my breasts raised into the air. I have a look of absolute abandon on my face, as if I'm intently focused on my own body. The image doesn't show the lower part of my body at all, but some kind of long, winding metal thread seems to be curling up past my belly and running across my breasts. Slowly, as I moan with pleasure, the camera pulls back a little and I see that there's a mass of twisting wires between my legs, some of which are slipping in and out of my vagina, while a few of the wires seem to be curling like tentacles around my bare legs.
"What the hell is that thing?" I ask, watching as I writhe on the screen.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century," Mr. White says. "Mankind has made incredible advances, and sexual pleasure is no exception. You're looking at a device that was specifically designed to deliver maximum pleasure to a woman's body. It raised you to a state of intense arousal and then it kept you there for more than fifty minutes, learning from your reactions and adjusting itself accordingly. I could only run it for an hour today, because no-one could stand much longer at their first attempt. The record, set by a previous Lady Red, is more than half a day of pure pleasure, delivered by a device that is designed to be perfectly in tune with your every need. It took her a long time to get to that point, though, and I'm sure that after her first sessions she was a trembling wreck. So don't worry. You've got a long way to go, Elly, but I really think you have a good chance".
"And that's the game?" I ask, staring at the screen and watching as the wires continue to manipulate my body. I certainly seem to be enjoying it, even if right now I can't remember any of this. Still, after all the build-up from Mark, it's strange to think that the game boils down to some kind of squirming sex toy.
"It's part of the game," Mr. White continues. "An important part, but only a part. Successive generations of men in the Mr. White role have sought to perfect such devices, with varying degrees of success. I'm rather proud of myself for coming up with this, although the project was begun by my predecessor. E
ventually, Elly, you'll be able to spend much longer in that room, and you'll be able to remember your experiences. The plan is for you to become an expert at using the tools in these rooms". He turns to me. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"
"I was a moment ago," I reply, "but now I'm hot again".
"Don't worry," he says, reaching across and cupping one my breasts, before flicking the hard nipple with his thumb. "Your body is still adjusting. Don't under-estimate the incredible pressures and strains that you experienced, even though the ultimate sensation was pleasure. The human body has to be trained to endure such things, just as it has to be trained to endure any kind of exercise. True pleasure is an art that has to be learned over a period of time, and it requires a body that is highly-tuned to the level of a professional athlete".
I nod, but I'm starting to feel a much sharper kind of pain in my shoulder. I don't want to appear weak, though, so I decide to just ignore everything and hope that it goes away. I keep focusing on the fact that I want Mark to be pleased with me; I want to show him that I can handle everything that's thrown at me. Damn it, I don't even know why I care so much about Mark's opinion, but I'm determined to make him see that I'm better than the average girl. I want him to know that I'm different.
"Your orgasm," Mr. White continues, "when it eventually came, was something to behold". He speeds through the video until he reaches a point near the end. It's shocking to see the force with which my body is convulsing, while I scream in a series of loud gasps. "It's almost like it's not you, isn't it?" he continues. "You must be struggling to recognize yourself".
I nod, unable to take my eyes off the screen. I watch as the wires begin to retract from my body, and finally the camera pulls back to show me naked and alone on the floor of the room, having apparently passed out. I look like a rag doll that's been tossed to the ground.
"I decided to let you sleep," Mr. White explains, shutting off the video. "Well, I'm not sure that 'sleep' is the right word, but I didn't want to disturb you. I knew you'd come around eventually. I came in and checked on you a couple of times, of course, just to be sure that you were okay".
Turning and walking over to the table, I grab my glass of water from earlier and drink what's left in one go. The pain in my shoulder is getting much worse, and I'm not sure how much longer I can pretend that I'm okay. I set the glass down and pause, and after a moment I realize that I'm sweating profusely. In fact, it's getting so bad that the sweat is pouring down my chest, running over my breasts and onto my belly.
"Elly?" Mr. White says, and there's a different tone to his voice this time, as if suddenly he's worried about me.
"I'm fine," I say, but in truth I can barely even speak. As the pain in my shoulder starts to spread down through my left arm, I feel a tightening sensation in my chest. I try to turn and walk over to the sofa, but my legs give way and I drop to my knees. Something's wrong. Something's definitely, definitely wrong, and I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe. I've never had a panic attack before, not a proper one, but this feels like something more serious. Overcome by a sense of panic, I feel a wave of pain slam through my body.
"Fuck!" Mr. White says, rushing over to me and checking my pulse. The fear in his voice is alarming. He's always seemed so calm and in control, but it's clear that this wasn't part of his plan.
"What's..." I start to say between big, deep gulps of air. "What's wrong with me?"
"Get over here," he says firmly, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me across the floor until I'm leaning against the wall. He checks my pulse again. "Elly, do you have any family history of health problems?"
With sweat pouring down my face, I shake my head.
"Fuck," he mutters again.
"What's wrong with me?" I ask again, barely able to get the words out.
He stares at me, as if he can barely believe what he's seeing. "I don't have any medical training," he says eventually, clearly trying to stay calm, "but I think you're very sick. Elly, I think you're having a heart attack".
Jonathan Pope
1901
Being a dead man, I have few options but to spend the afternoon in a pub down by the river. I don't drink, of course, since I need a clear head for my confrontation with Harrison Blake, and I choose an out-of-the-way establishment rather than my usual haunts. There's no telling how deeply Blake's tentacles have reached into the underworld, and the only man in the entire city who I can trust at the moment is Laverty; even then, I'm careful to watch my back, in case I'm in the grips of some kind of double-cross that I don't fully understand. Having come so close to Blake's throat, I have no intention of letting my guard down until the man's blood is spilled across the pavement.
By 5pm, the pub is starting to fill up with the evening's drunks, so I make my way outside and wander along the banks of the river. It's hard to imagine how many bodies there must be beneath the river's choppy service, but I'd hazard a guess that for every fellow who has been righteously laid to rest in one of the city's cemeteries, there are probably two more who have been unceremoniously dumped into the cold depths. Perhaps if the Thames didn't run through the heart of London, the city would have developed along less brutal and corrupt lines. As it stands, however, the river functions as a kind of black hole that neatly absorbs the bodies of the dead. It has probably always been this way, and I see no reason to think that anything will ever change.
Eventually, around 7pm, I reach Threadneedle Street and immediately spot a hive of activity up ahead. There is to be a great dinner tonight at the Bank of England, and Harrison Blake is known to be attending. Given the nature of the evening's entertainment, Laverty and I feel that this will be an especially fortuitous spot for ambushing and killing Blake, and we have a plan that we hope will be fool-proof; each of us will approach the steps of the bank from a different side, and we will make two separate attempts to take the bastard down with our pistols. If one should miss, the other must surely be successful, but in truth I doubt that either of us will miss. Harrison Blake is as good as dead, and as I make my way along Threadneedle Street, I'm filled with anticipation. I have killed men before, of course, but never one who so thoroughly deserves to die. I don't share Laverty's belief that we'll be hailed as heroes for our efforts, but at least Blake will suffer for having ordered the death of Henrietta.
When I reach the edge of the steps, there's already a small crowd, and a series of carriages are regularly showing up and dropping off guests. I remain in the shadows, of course, as I wait for Blake to arrive. Glancing across at the other side of the steps, I spot Laverty, and we briefly make eye contact with one another. Part of our plan involves acting as if we've never met before, so I quickly turn and look up at the building's high facade. Many men are fooled into thinking that London is run from Westminster, when it is surely the Bank of England that holds true power. The men in this building have an iron grip on the world's finances, and it's hard to believe that they would act in the interests of anyone but themselves. It seems strangely fitting, therefore, that Harrison Blake's blood is set to pour down the bank's steps in just a few minutes.
At around quarter to eight, a familiar carriage pulls up and I see Blake and his wife sitting inside. It's clear that Blake suspects nothing, and this is probably one of the few nights in recent years when he has felt himself to be truly safe. As he climbs out of the carriage and helps his wife down, I feel my stomach starting to churn thanks to such a disgusting display of fake civility. This is a man who has ordered and covered up scores of deaths, butchering innocent women at every turn, and yet tonight there's already a smattering of applause as he starts walking up the steps. This malodorous, preening peacock of a man is in his element, enjoying every moment of the pomp and ceremony with which he is surrounded. Unable to wipe a slight smile from my face, I step out from the shadows and reach into my pocket, ready to -
Before I can get to my gun, a shot rings out. There are screams, and I look up just in time to see Harrison Blake tumbling down the steps. As he lan
ds at my feet, I see that one side of his face has been blown away, and the pavement is already running red with his blood.
"Police!" someone shouts, and I hear whistles in the distance.
Looking over at Laverty, I see that he shares my startled expression. Moments later, he turns and hurries away, leaving me to run and catch up to him.
"The man is dead," I say as we walk quickly away from the scene of the crime. "I would have preferred to have pulled the trigger myself, but at least he is dead".
"What are you talking about?" Laverty replies. "I didn't shoot him. I thought it was you!"
As we reach the street corner, I stop and turn to him. "My weapon was still in my pocket," I explain. "It must have been you".
"I swear it was not," he says. "My gun, also, was not yet in my hand. Besides..." He pauses for a moment, and we both look back along the street; at the far end, there's a mass of police officers and dignitaries, all attending to the gruesome scene while the screams of Mrs. Blake ring out across the city. "He fell back," Laverty says eventually. "I think he was shot from inside the building".
"Impossible," I reply. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Perhaps we're not the only men who find Harrison Blake to be repugnant," he points out. "Still, the timing is more than a little suspicious. Are you sure it was Blake who was shot? It would only be the work of a moment to bring down an imposter in his place".
"It was him," I say. "He fell right at my feet. I know that the man is twisted and clever, but even he could not have faked such an injury".
"This is too dangerous," Laverty replies, glancing over his shoulder as if he suspects that we might be the shooter's next targets. "We need to get well away from the scene and determine our next course of action, unless we -"