by Amy Cross
Heading down to the bar, I find that there's no sign of Darius Wolff, which must mean that he's fetching a new barrel. Setting Thomas carefully on a nearby table, I prepare him for the night air. Given the parlous nature of our finances, we must walk to the train station, which is several miles away. The journey is not going to be particularly pleasant, but the late night shadows will hopefully provide us some cover. From the station, we will journey south to Dover, and from there we will take a ferry across to France or Belgium, after which I plan to catch another train and head south. Where we will stop, I cannot say, but I aim to get us far away from England. Within a couple of days, we will hopefully be out of reach of this country, and far from the last vestiges of the game.
"Wolff!" I call out, hoping to hurry him along. "I shan't have time for a drink with you! I must get moving!"
Silence.
"Wolff!"
I wait for a reply. Nothing.
"Where -" I start to say, before a sensation of concern starts to crawl through my body. Even though the game is over, I can't help but wonder if its influence could still reach out to us, like the hand of a ghost rising up from a grave. Lady Red, my dear Henrietta, is dead; the foul Mr. White is also gone; and as for Mr. Blue, I am right here, but I have abandoned that name. There is no-one left to keep these wretched traditions going, and yet I can't shake the feeling that the game might have some other form of life, some way of continuing even though its players have all passed away. Perhaps I'm paranoid and a little edgy, but if so, these feelings will likely remain with me forever. Until the day I die, I shall always fear that somehow the game has been miraculously reconstituted, and that its players are out for revenge.
"I must go now!" I call out to Wolff. "If anyone comes asking for me, tell them I have gone to Scotland. Send them on a wild goose chase for a few days!"
Silence.
And then footsteps.
Someone is walking up from the cellar beneath the bar. I feel a sense of relief as I realize that my first estimation was correct: Wolff has merely been down to fetch a new barrel. Slowly, however, he comes into view beyond the doorway behind the bar, and I can immediately see that not only is he empty-handed, but he's walking with a strange, staggering gait. Finally, as he comes out of the shadows, I see to my horror that the left side of his face is almost entirely missing, having seemingly been hacked away. His jawbone has been shattered, with a long piece hanging by threads of skin, and one of his eyeballs has been dislodged from its broken socket; still, that damaged eye is twitching, focused on me as if somewhere in the depths of the man's destroyed head, Wolff's mind is still functioning.
Grabbing Thomas, I turn and run toward the door, only to stop in my tracks as I see that a figure is standing in the shadows. He steps forward, and although I'm struck initially by the man's confident smile, I quickly realize that he's wearing a familiar white suit. I can't bring myself to believe that such a thing is even possible, but it looks for all the world as if the game has acquired new players.
"This one was hard to kill," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see Darius Wolff being finished off by a blue-suited man holding an ax. He has the same kind of violent smile that I remember seeing in men such as Vincent D'Oyly.
"Never mind," says the white-suited man. "I'm sure Mr. Pope will be equally difficult, albeit in a very different way. After all, many men have tried to bring him down, and he has left their corpses in his wake." He pauses. "Isn't that right, Mr. Pope?"
Still clutching Thomas, I turn and run through to the rear of the building. Before I can get far, I find John the Pig slouching out of one of the rooms, looking for all the world as if he's just woken from a deep slumber.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.
"Delay them!" I hiss, before heading through the door that leads into the yard at the back of the pub. Before I can get to the gate, however, I see that there's a figure walking toward me, and when she steps into the moonlight I see that she's wearing a red cloak. It's as if I'm staring at a monstrous apparition, a grotesque parody of the woman I once loved, albeit a parody of great beauty. A new Lady Red has risen from the ashes of the game.
"You won't get past," she says with a smile that seems to be filled with knowledge of all the pain and misery that has gone before. "All the exits have been sealed. Besides, what weapon do you have? A baby?"
I turn to go back inside, but at the last moment I stop as John the Pig's lifeless body is thrown through the doorway, landing at my feet. Seconds later, the two men stroll casually out to join us in the yard.
"Mr. Blue has proven very adept at killing," says the first man.
"Mr. White was a great influence," the second man replies.
"I'm glad you were able to get some practice," says the red-cloaked woman. "I'm sure you'll have plenty more in the days to come. But first, we need to deal with Mr. Pope. Seize the child, and make sure that the man cannot run. It's time to end his participation in the game."
Elly
Today
The house looks quiet. Dark, inconspicuous, and undisturbed. As I stand on the other side of the road, I look for any sign that something has changed, or that someone might have been here. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I'm worried that somehow the game might have reached my mother's house. Finally, figuring that I've got nowhere else to go, I hurry across the road and up to the front door.
Once I'm inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. I can't stay here forever, but at least I can take a few hours to get my head straight. I make my way through to the kitchen, where I immediately find a note from my mother, informing me that she's gone away on holiday with her new boyfriend. My heart sinks as I realize that I'm alone, but then it occurs to me that maybe this is a good thing. After all, the last thing I need is for my mother to be dragged into this whole mess. I can't imagine how she'd react if she knew about the game, and about everything that's been happening lately, so I need to resolve things on my own.
I take a deep breath and stand in silence for a moment.
The most tempting idea is just to run. I could pack a bag and get the hell out of here. Sure, the game seems to have eyes and ears everywhere, but it's not as if they can track me across the entire country. I could go somewhere new, change my name, and start a new life. The problem with that approach, though, is that I'd lose Mark. I'm already terrified to think about what might be happening to him, and I don't trust the game to look after him at all. I've long suspected that the game is more dangerous than Mark admits, and now I feel as if a huge trap is slowly starting to close around me.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and decide that there's only one option. I have to call the police. Even if Mark gets into trouble, he'll be able to explain that he was forced to do everything, so I know he'll be okay in the end. If I don't -
"You're not planning to do anything stupid, are you?" asks a female voice nearby.
Turning, I see that there's a figure sitting in the shadows, over by the kitchen table. I open my mouth to shout for help, but after a moment I realize that there's no point. No-one would hear me, and it's clear that the trap is much further advanced than I'd realized. I can't see the woman's face, but I can see the red cloak that covers her head and body, and I know who she is. I've been expecting to see her for a while.
"Who are you thinking of calling?" the woman continues. "Not the police, I hope. You can't imagine how disappointed I'd be if you made such a foolish choice. You've already made so many mistakes, Elly, but you seem to muddle through eventually. Please, don't throw away all that accidental good work by doing something irredeemably foolish at the very last moment. After all, your track record is hardly unblemished."
"What do you want?" I ask, my heart racing as I try to decide what to do next. Wouldn't a normal person turn and run? Once again, I can't help but notice that I over-think every decision.
"I think it's time we had another little chat," she says. "So much has happened since that first day when we bump
ed into one another. I enjoyed our little discussion, although I must admit, certain aspects of the situation were a little duplicitous. I do wish I'd been able to be more honest with you, but at least we've come to an understanding now, have we not? Even if you're not fully aware of your development, you've gained a greater understanding of how the game works. You might not want to admit it, but deep down, you know what must come next."
"Where's Mark?" I ask.
"Mark has been taken home," she replies. "Didn't Luke tell you that already?" She pauses. "I'm so disappointed by Mark's decisions. He was a very good player, but the game just seemed to get away from him. If you'd known him for longer, you'd understand why I'm so sad. There was a rather bad run of people in the role of Mr. Blue, and finally Mark seemed to be a real knight in shining armor. He turned out to be one of the most disappointing players of all time, although there have been worse. I don't suppose you've ever heard of Jonathan Pope, have you?"
"Can't say that I have," I reply, glancing over at the kitchen counter and seeing my mother's set of knives.
"Jonathan Pope was Mr. Blue many years ago," she continues. "About a century ago, to be precise. He and his Lady Red became... Well, let's just say that they made some very bad decisions, and they brought the game to a very unusual place. By the time they were dealt with, they'd done something very, very stupid, and it took quite some time for the game to adapt to these changes. It did adapt, though, and in a way I suppose the whole thing was ultimately strengthened. There are certainly some aspects of the modern game that were directly influenced by the mess that took place all those years ago. If the game had never been able to evolve, it would have withered and died."
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"I thought you might be interested. I thought it might help if you understood how the game adapts and grows, how it evolves to meet any challenge that presents itself."
I pause for a moment. "When you talk about it like that," I say slowly, "you make it sound as if it's alive."
"Do I?" She gets up from the chair and walks across the room, finally stepping into the light. It's strange, but when I first met her, Alice seemed to be one of those women who have so much life and energy, but each time I've seen her since, she's seemed a little more gaunt. Now, standing just a few feet from me, she looks ill, as if she's being drained of all her vitality. "I hope you're not thinking of using those knives," she says, with a sad tone to her voice. "Such violence is very unbecoming. Necessary sometimes, but unbecoming, especially of a lady."
"Is Mark..." I pause as I realize that I'm scared to ask the question.
"Is he dead?" she replies. "I don't know. Maybe. He was shot, you know. I'm afraid you'll have to blame Mr. White for that decision. He can be rather impetuous sometimes, much like his predecessors. The game brings out the best and the worst in us all, and ultimately we learn a great deal about ourselves." She pauses. "What have you learned about yourself, Elly?"
"I've learned that I don't like playing," I reply. "I want to see Mark."
"And then what?" She waits for me to reply. "You don't have a clue what to do, do you? You're lost, Elly. You're in a state of chaos, and you don't have a plan. You want to save Mark, but you don't even know what you're going to save him from. Do you think inspiration is just going to pop into your mind and help you? Do you believe that things are black and white, and that in some way you're going to save a good man from the clutches of an evil game? If only things were so simple." She pauses again. "Besides, don't you want to know how you're doing in the game? Aren't you curious?"
"I'm not in the game," I say firmly. "Not anymore."
"That would be a pity," she replies. "After all, you've passed the second stage. You've come so far. Only one woman has ever got to this point before, even though so many have tried."
"I don't understand any of this," I tell her.
"You will."
I shake my head.
"Oh, but you will. Granted, the heart attack was unexpected, but it just showed that you truly were pushed to your limits. Perhaps you share some congenital heart defect with your late father. We shall certainly have to ensure that this is taken into account from now on, but that should be a trifling matter. Mr. White might have been a little too enthusiastic, but again, that's a common theme where he's concerned. Rest assured, he has been disciplined, and he will not make the same mistake again. I wish he had been put in his place sooner, but we must simply accept what has happened so far and try to learn from our past mistakes. But you survived, Elly, and you returned to Mr. Blue -"
"Mark," I say bitterly. "His name is Mark."
"You returned to Mr. Blue," she continues, "or at least the former Mr. Blue, and you showed that you're strong enough. And now you've come to a point in the game that has only ever been reached by one woman before you. This is the moment of choice, but first you must understand your options, and you must see that the game exists outside of regular civilization. It's a small, very personal civilization that exists between the strands of the ragged, depraved modern world. In the game, there's a code, and there's a set of rules that we must all follow. Do you think that the rest of the world is so very different? It's just one set of rules compared to another."
"I want to see Mark," I say again.
"You'll see him," she replies. "First, however, there's someone I want you to meet. Someone who is very, very keen to meet you. He has been kept away from all other participants, but now he wishes to meet the girl who has come closer to victory than any in the history of the game. I think he'd probably given up hope that this moment would ever come, but you've delivered something very special, Elly. Something very powerful and important."
"I don't -" I start to say, before hearing a noise nearby. Turning, I see that someone is walking through the dark hallway, pushing what appears to be a man in a wheelchair. My first thought is that this must be Mark, but after a moment I see that it's an old man, and that the man behind the chair is none other than Mr. White. The merest sight of him makes me feel ill and reminds me of that terrible night that led to my heart attack. Despite everything that has happened, the only part of this whole mess that makes me feel truly horrified is the memory of that man's hands on my body, and the thought of all the things we did together: his hands on my breasts; his tongue against my clitoris; and, worst of all, his arms holding me tight while his machines brought me to orgasm. I feel as if I allowed myself to be drawn into a game within a game, and I exposed my innermost fears in the process. There are things we did that even Mark hasn't tried with me yet.
"Thank you," Alice says politely as Mr. White parks the wheelchair. "That will be all."
"I'd prefer to stay," he says, clearly struggling to contain his irritation. "If -"
"You know the rule," Alice continues, putting him in his place. "You have no role to play in this exchange, Mr. White, so you must withdraw."
"I should -"
"You have no role to play," she says again, more firmly this time. "Do you really want to make a fuss in front of our esteemed guest? If so, I have seriously misunderstood the nature of your character. You must withdraw at once, Mr. White, and assume the position that was set for you. Any other action, even an attempt to argue with the decision, will result in disciplinary moves being made against you."
Muttering something under his breath, Mr. White turns and leaves the room.
"Such a sad fool, don't you think?" Alice says, watching him walk away. "His machines are an unwelcome addition to the game. I allowed him to experiment with them, but I feel they have no place here. I suppose I made a mistake. It's so hard to know who to trust. Each participant in the game brings his or her own skill-set. Some are more useful than others. Some help to improve the game, and some bring it into danger. Some are downright dangerous and need to be replaced."
"I don't want to talk about Mr. White," I say firmly, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea in my stomach. "I don't want to even remember that he exists."
&nb
sp; "But you gave yourself to him willingly," she replies.
I nod.
"Then you can't have too many complaints," she continues. "Apart from the small matter of the heart attack, of course. I envy you, in a way. To go so far over your own limits must be an exhilarating feeling."
"It's still not something I want to be reminded about," I tell her.
"The game is old," Alice says, turning to me. "So old, in fact, that no-one has ever experienced its entire span. There is one person, however, who has seen more than the rest of us, and to whom we must demur at times of crisis. A man born of the game, with its rules and requirements coursing through his veins, lifting his mind and pushing him ever onward. Such a development was never intended to be part of the game, yet once it was absorbed, it became integral to the whole experience. It's strange how the universe can sometimes bring up such wonderful surprises."
I look over at the knives again.
"You can wait," Alice says, with a hint of sorrow in her voice. "There's no need to make your escape yet, Elly. Do you somehow imagine that you might be able to fight your way out of here, cutting and slashing at us as you leave? It's a fine image, but I doubt it would work. For one thing, you're not the type. For another, Mr. White still has his uses, and one of those is that he's very good at standing guard. Believe me, he's more than ready for any escape attempt you might try. If you insist on giving it a go, I'll understand, but please have a little patience first. At least have the good grace to speak to Mr. Pope after he's waited for such a long time."
"Mr. Pope?" I ask, turning back to her.
The old man looks up at me with tired, ancient eyes that seem filled with a kind of milky white substance. His face is lined with wrinkles and he has no more than a few patches of wispy hair on his otherwise bald head. When he opens his mouth, I see that he seems to have no teeth, and his jaw is shaking uncontrollably as he frowns, apparently attempting to get a better view of me.