by Amy Cross
"I think you're trying to impress me," he says after a moment. "I don't think you liked it at all."
"What's wrong?" I say, smiling. "Am I going against your expectations now? Did you think I'd run away screaming? Do I really look that innocent?" I look over at the palace and see a single light on in one of the windows. Is the Queen up late?
"Don't do this, Elly," Mark says, sounding a little annoyed.
"Don't do what?"
"Don't try to act like you're into things you're not." The car flashes onto the Mall, with Buckingham Palace rapidly disappearing into the distance in the rear-view mirror. "You're an ordinary girl. You're normal. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone can be -"
I wait for him to finish the sentence, but he falls silent again.
"I'm not ordinary," I say eventually. "I'm like you."
He laughs.
"Fuck you!" I reply, pushing his arm. Realizing I need to show him that I mean what I say, I reach over and start to unzip his trousers.
"Stop," he says, pushing my hand away.
"Why?" I ask. "Don't you want it?"
"This isn't a game, Elly," he says as I try again and - again - he pushes my hand away.
"That's not what you said earlier," I remind him. "You told me it's nothing but a game. Those were the exact words you used." I take a deep breath, trying to work out what he wants. It's as if he keeps moving the goalposts; as if he'll do or say anything to make me go away. "Why can't I be like you?" I ask.
"You couldn't handle it," he says, glancing over at me. "No offense, Elly, but you're much better off out of this whole thing."
"Eyes on the road," I remind him. He looks ahead, just as we emerge into Trafalgar Square. Barely slowing down, he turns right and we speed toward the river. I notice the speedometer creep up to 70mph. "Tell me about it," I continue eventually. "Tell me about the game."
He shakes his head.
"Why not?" I ask. "If you told me, would you have to kill me?"
"The game is old," he says, avoiding the question. "It's beyond your understanding."
"If you didn't want me to be involved," I say, "why did you invite me to your place tonight?"
"I made a mistake," he says firmly.
I smile, amused by how annoyed he seems. "I guess we surprised each other," I say, putting a hand on his knee.
"For fuck's sake!" he shouts, pushing my hand away. The car swerves a little, but he keeps it under control. Clearly getting angrier, he turns the wheel and the car screeches around a corner. We're down in the Embankment area now, speeding along with the Thames to our right. I look at the speedometer and see the number rising steadily up to 80mph. I want to tell him to slow down, but there's no way I'm going to let him see that I'm scared.
"So there are levels," I say, trying to sound calm, "and tonight was the first level. So tell me about the second level of the game. Is it full of whips and bondage?"
"Let's just drop it," he says as the speedometer nudges past 85mph. We flash past Waterloo Bridge and follow the curve of the road as it bends with the river, and I start to wonder exactly how fast Mark is planning to go. "I don't want to mess you up any more, Elly," he says. "This has already gone too far."
"Try me," I reply. "Give me a clue." I wait for him to answer, but he doesn't say anything. "If we slept together again, would there be other people involved, or would it just be you and me?" I pause for a moment, imagining some kind of Roman-style orgy. To my utter surprise and shock, I realize that the thought turns me on. I swear to God, it's almost as if I don't know myself anymore; it's as if Mark has awoken some other side of my personality.
"It would be just you and me," he says eventually.
I take a deep breath. I guess the idea of getting back to intimacy is also appealing. It's hard to believe, but I feel like I really want to go further with Mark. All the way. "After level three, there's a level four?" I ask. "And then what? Five? Six? Where does it end?"
"Let's drop it," he says firmly.
"Does anyone ever die in the game?" I ask.
He doesn't reply.
"Does anyone ever die?"
Still no reply.
"Mark -"
"Drop it," he says again.
"Give me a chance," I say. I feel a slight thrill course through my body. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I actually getting turned on by the thought of getting rough in bed? Have I gone from vanilla to vicious in one night? I look ahead as the city streets race toward us. The speedometer is holding steady at 89mph, but I've no doubt this car can go a lot faster. "I'm not some sweet and innocent girl, Mark. You don't need to worry that you're going to hurt me. I took what happened tonight, and I can take anything else you want to do."
He doesn't say anything. It's as if he's decided to ignore me.
"I'm serious," I say, getting annoyed at him.
"You're upset," he replies. "You've had an emotional few days."
I stare at him, feeling a whole new level of anger build up in my chest. "You think I'm an emotional wreck 'cause my Dad died?" I say, stunned that he'd bring something like that up. "Is that what you think this is for me? Some kind of mini nervous breakdown?"
"Isn't it?" he replies.
I pause for a moment, and then I reach out again and shove my hand down the front of his trousers, taking his cock in my hand and holding it tight. "Fuck you," I say.
He laughs.
"Fuck you," I say again, starting to massage his shaft.
He smiles. "You think you can keep up with me?" he asks, and suddenly the car speeds up. Just as the speedometer passes 95mph, he turns the steering wheel hard right. The tires let out a horrifying screech as the car skids straight across the road, bumps over a corner of pavement, and then speeds across Tower Bridge. I can feel the acceleration as we hit 100mph. Just seconds later, the same thing happens again as Mark turns left and we race along the road, with the Thames now on our left. The speedometer rises to 105mph, and then 110mph. I take my hand out of his trousers and grip my seat.
"You okay over there?" he asks. It's like a challenge. It's like he's waiting for me to beg him to slow down.
"I'm fine," I say, trying desperately not to betray any fear in my voice.
The truth is: I want to tell him to slow down. I know, though, that to do so would be to admit defeat. It's like this has become a battle of wills. Mark might seem to be the one who's in control, because he's the one who's driving, but really I'm in charge because I'm the one who's supposed to beg him to stop. I'm not going to beg him, though. I'm not going to make him stop. He'll hit his own limit eventually. He can't keep accelerating forever.
Jonathan Pope
1896
When I open my eyes, it takes a moment before I remember what happened. The room is dark, with the only illumination coming from a small gas burner on a nearby table, but overall the contrast to my previous state could not be stronger: whereas previously I was cold and wet on the ground, now I'm warm and dry in a bed. I sit up, and although I'm still a little stiff and sore from the beating I took, my injuries don't seem to be too bad. The biggest change, however, is that my leg is no longer hurting. I pull the bed-sheets away and look down to see that I'm wearing a proper splint, and a bandage is covering the wound itself; I peel the edges away and see immediately that the crude stitches left in place by John the Pig have been replaced by a much more professional effort.
"You'll be fine," says a female voice nearby.
Turning, I see a familiar face standing in the doorway. Lady Henrietta deHavilland, also known as Lady Red, steps into the room. She's wearing a dark red gown with a shawl over her shoulders, and she smiles as she takes a seat nearby.
"I had someone take a proper look at your leg," she continues, fixing me with a curious half-smile. "A surgeon friend of mine, actually. There wasn't time to obtain your consent, but I trust you have no complaints about being treated by the finest hands in the country." She pauses for a moment. "You were kept sedated for a short while,
so the wound could heal."
"How long?" I ask.
"Twelve days," she replies.
I take a deep breath. When I try to get out of bed, I find to my surprise that I have no particular difficulties. My leg seems almost as good as new, while my other injuries are little more than a few bumps and bruises. "Your hospitality is surprising," I say, glancing over at the door. This whole situation seems too easy; I'm quite sure that despite the appearance of conviviality, I'd be killed instantly if I made a break for freedom.
"You were in a bad way," she continues. "Whoever treated you before, they did an admirable job given their apparently limited resources, but they didn't close the break properly. Your blood was being slowly poisoned. I'm led to believe you would have lasted no more than a day or two longer. You would have begun to develop a strong fever, and eventually you would have collapsed and died. I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted that to happen, would you?"
"It depends," I say. "What's the alternative?"
"You're a cautious man," she replies. "I like that. You're also capable of taking care of yourself, which I like even more. Killing Mr. D'Oyly was the mark of someone who knows what he's doing, and you came surprisingly close to killing Mr. Blake as well."
"It wasn't for lack of effort," I mutter.
"My associates and I have killed a great many people," she continues. "None of them presented us with any great level of difficulty. You, though, are different. When I sent Mr. D'Oyly to finish you off, I never even considered the possibility that he would fail. He was quite the most delightfully vicious Mr. Blue I've ever encountered. He certainly made for a welcome change after Mr. Lockhart's inadequacies."
"You killed Edward Lockhart," I say.
"Of course," she replies. "Well, I had him killed. I watched it happen."
"And Inspector Matthews?"
"I think you already know the answer to that," she says. "After all, you watched most of it unfold." She smiles. "Don't be surprised, Mr. Pope. The fact that you were able to observe our activities at all, even for a moment, was not an act of mere good luck on your part. We were aware of your presence, and we allowed it to persist. I found you to be rather interesting as you scurried about on the fringes of our activities. In all the time that the game has been played, no-one has ever managed to get so close to the heart of the whole thing. I believe such brilliance should be rewarded." Getting up from the chair, she walks over to the bed and sits next to me. "Look at me," she says. "What do you see?"
"A woman," I reply.
She laughs. "Is that all?"
"A killer."
"What about my face," she says. "What do you see in my face?"
"You look tired."
"I am tired," she replies. "I'm forty-nine years old, Mr. Pope. I've been playing the game since I was in my twenties. That's a long time to be involved in something so draining."
"If you don't want to play, why don't you stop?"
"One cannot stop," she says. "When one plays the game, one knows there are only two possible ways out. Death, or victory."
"It seems there's a lot of death," I point out, "and not much victory."
"When someone wins," she replies, "the game will be over." She removes the shawl, revealing her bare shoulders. "Now what do you see?"
"Old skin," I say. "You're a middle-aged woman trapped in a young woman's game."
She shakes her head. "On that point, Mr. Pope, you're wrong. The role of Lady Red is traditionally filled by a woman of my age. In fact, it was something of a surprise that I was picked to take the role when I was so young. My predecessor felt it was worth shaking things up a little, so I had to grow up fast. It wasn't easy at first, but eventually I learned what I should do. Now here I am, entering the twenty-sixth year of my participation, and I am by far the longest-serving player who has ever been part of the game."
"And yet you haven't won."
She smiles. "You really don't understand how the game works, do you?" After a moment, she slips her dress down, exposing her large, rounded breasts and her pink, pert nipples. "Now what do you see, Mr. Pope?"
"Desperation," I reply.
"And what else?"
"Someone who thinks she can use sex to gain power over other people."
"Do you think I can't?"
"I think it's a last resort."
She smiles. "I might not have quite the body of some of the younger ladies who take part in the game, but I make up for this deficiency in other ways. I've quite lost track of the number of lovers I've had in my life, but I can assure you that I have learned something from each of them." She lowers the dress until her entire upper body is exposed. "Have you had many sexual conquests, Mr. Pope?"
"I've had a few."
"I'm sure you've had more than a few. A charming, handsome man such as yourself, with a hint of danger about his person, must surely attract the ladies with no great difficulty."
"I tend not to spend my time in places where there are many ladies," I point out.
"Do you want to touch me?" she asks.
I smile. "Actually, I want to kill you."
"You can do that later," she replies. "Do you want to touch me first?" She reaches over and takes hold of one of my hands, before pulling it closer to her and placing my palm against her left breast. "Do you like masks?" she asks after a moment.
"I can't say I've ever given them much thought," I reply, removing my hand from her breast.
"Why did you do that?" she asks, looking a little offended.
"I'm not entirely sure it was a very polite thing to be doing," I reply.
"I liked it."
"I'm sure you did."
She smiles as she places a mask, a white and blue full-face piece, on my lap. "You can tell a lot about a person by seeing the mask they choose to wear," she says, putting her own mask on her face. It's a mostly white creation, with gilded gold edges and small holes for the eyes. Standing up, she walks to the door and then turns back to me; after a moment, she drops her dress to the floor and stands completely naked. "Follow me," she says. "Remove all your clothes, put on the mask, and come this way. I want you to experience something. I know this might seem strange, but I hope you'll enter into the evening and enjoy it with good spirit. You'll learn a lot, and when it's done, I'll tell you everything you want to know about the game. I'll show you the book, and I'll answer any questions you have. I'll even tell you things that were kept from Mr. Blue and Mr. White. All you have to do is come with me."
As she walks away along the corridor, I sit alone for a moment. My first instinct is to turn and run, or to kill her, but I get the feeling she's probably got all those options covered. Sighing, I stand up, strip off my clothes and put the mask over my face. I feel pretty ridiculous, but I figure I might as well play along, at least for now. This way, I might be able to learn a little more about the game, and I might also find a more permanent way to get out of this situation. Walking out of the room, I make my way along the corridor and, as I approach the door at the end, I start to hear voices nearby. Finally, I step through the door and stand in stunned silence as I find I'm in a large, high-ceilinged ballroom in what appears to be a very prestigious and highly moneyed stately home. And I'm not alone.
All around me, there are naked people wearing masks: men and woman, sipping from drinks and talking, they seem to be engaged in some kind of depraved party. I've heard of such things happening, but never on this scale, and I never thought to find myself in attendance at such an event. Looking over to one side, I see a blonde woman on her knees, gently sucking on the penis of an older gentleman as he reclines on a sofa and sips from a glass; nearby, a woman has her face pressed against the crotch of a red-haired lady, clearly giving her not a little pleasure; over by the window, a man and a woman are engaged in sex, with another couple talking nearby as if they are in no way concerned by all the things that are happening around them. There must be more than a hundred people in this room, along with a small group of musicians at the far end, playin
g a gentle waltz. And standing in the middle of the room, looking straight toward me, I spot Lady Red; I can't see her face, but I have no doubt that under the mask, she has a smile on her lips.
Elly
Today
The speedometer has now reached 115mph, and it's still climbing. I turn and look out the window as we emerge from a tunnel, but everything is flashing past too fast for me to even see where we are. In the distance, even the skyline is moving fast. We must be getting close to the East End, though. I turn back to Mark, just as the car hits a small bump in the road. There's a jolt, but I manage to hold myself together. A few minutes ago, everything seemed smooth and in control; now, however, I can feel the car starting to strain. Is Mark going to keep pushing until the whole thing falls apart beneath us?
"Seat-belt," he says.
I look down and see that I've still not buckled myself in. I reach for the buckle, but then I decide that this is another of his attempts to control me.
"Seat-belt," he says again, as the car accelerates past 120mph. The engine is making a roaring sound now, as if it's straining to obey its master.
I relax into the seat. I'm terrified, of course, but I'm damn well not going to show it. "I -" I start to say, and then I see that the road dips ahead. For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe I should put my seat-belt on, but then it's too late and - without slowing down at all - Mark speeds over the rise. The car actually leaves the road for a moment, all four wheels a few feet off the tarmac until we land safely with a heavy bump. I briefly bang my head on the roof before landing back in my seat. Mark keeps his foot down and I stare straight ahead, refusing to panic.
"Seat-belt," he says again.
"It's okay," I say, forcing myself to sound confident. "I trust you."
"Don't," he says firmly.
"Don't tell me what to do," I reply.
He just stares straight ahead. I look at his face, seeing a complete lack of emotion. Is that the challenge for him? Does he want to wipe out all traces of fear? Is he just going to keep accelerating until the car breaks, or the road ends, or I beg him to stop? I open my mouth, poised to surrender, but something's holding me back. He's expecting me to give in; he knows I'll surrender. I won't, though. No way. I'm not going to let him beat me. I don't know what bugs me about him so much, but I swear to God I'm never going to let him think he's pushed me into submission. Even though I know I'm being an idiot, I decide to wait it out and see how far he'll go. He wants to break me, but I'm going to break him instead.
