by Amy Cross
"I just don't like being kept in the dark," I reply. "I feel like there are things you're not telling me. I get that the game means there need to be secrets, but I'm getting the impression that there's something else going on here. It's like there's something going on in the background that you're deliberately keeping from me".
"There's nothing," he says, turning to me. Framed against the window, he suddenly looks like the most handsome man in the world, even if he's wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.
"You should come to bed," I say, figuring that our night without sex can wait. Right now, I want to feel him on top of me; I want to hold him tight and feel him make love to me, and I want to know that things are okay between us, even if it's only for tonight. Sitting up on the bed, I let the dressing gown fall to reveal my breasts, and I wait for him to come and join me.
"I thought you were tired," he says, with a hint of a smile on his lips.
"I am," I say, "but -"
Suddenly I see something fall part the window outside. I freeze, replaying the image over and over in my mind, and as each second passes I become more and more certain that what I just saw was a person. I open my mouth to tell Mark, but my heart is racing and I feel as if my entire body is trembling. I swear to God, I just saw someone fall past the window. Seconds later, in the distance, far below our bedroom window, a woman screams.
Jonathan Pope
1901
Standing at the end of the street, I stare at Henrietta's front door. Thanks to her husband, Benjamin deHavilland, Henrietta lives in one of the most prestigious parts of the city. I already feel out of place, as if a police officer might turn up at any moment and ask what I'm doing here. To be honest, men like me tend to only come to this part of town in order to case out a joint or conduct some other piece of underhand business. I'd never normally loiter like this, but I need to see Henrietta as soon as possible, so I have to know when her husband leaves.
"Are you lost, Mr. Pope?" asks a voice nearby.
Turning, I find that Mr. White has come up behind me. There's a curious smile on his face, and it's clear that this is more than a mere coincidence. In my experience, Mr. White never does anything without a motive. I have clearly let my guard down a little too much and allowed him to sneak up on me, which means he could have been watching me for quite some time.
"I must say," he continues, "I didn't expect to find you hanging around like this. The three of us aren't due to meet up until Saturday. I do hope you're not intending to have a private chat with Lady Red. I'd hate to start getting the wrong impression about the pair of you".
"Actually," I reply, my mind racing as I try to come up with a convincing explanation for my presence, "I'm merely here to keep an eye on her husband. Of late, I've heard some rather alarming stories about the type of company he's been keeping, and I intend to follow him and see whether or not there's any foundation to such claims".
"And what type of company do you mean?" he asks.
"Ladies of the night, mainly," I say. "I aim to catch him in the act this evening".
"You won't have much luck," Mr. White replies. "Benjamin deHavilland is out of town for a few days, although I'm sure he'll come rushing back if the rumors about Her Royal Highness turn out to be true".
"Rumors?" I ask, hoping to buy some time.
"They say she's on her death-bed," he replies. "We're living in strange times. The British Empire seems to be constantly on the verge of collapse, and those upstart Americans are undoubtedly ready and waiting to take up the slack. God knows how the world is going to change in the next few years, but we must be prepared. The game itself is going to change, and we must watch that we're ready".
"We need to rid ourselves of undesirable elements," I suggest.
"Like Mr. deHavilland?" He smiles. "Perhaps, but I'm afraid you've come here on a wild goose chase. You'll have to wait a day or two if you hope to catch sight of him. As far as I'm aware, he's off cavorting with the good ladies of the West Country".
"Fine," I reply, "then I suppose I shall have to come back another day". I pause for a moment, as it becomes abundantly clear that it must be Mr. White who has been keeping an eye on me. He's one of the few men who could ever hope to emerge from the King's Arms without having his throat cut, and I've long felt that he has suspicions about my relationship with Henrietta. I wouldn't be surprised if he had designs on the game for his own purposes; after all, if he could push us out, he'd be left in complete control.
"Allow me to walk with you," he says, turning and leading me along the street.
"Of course," I reply, figuring I can lose him pretty quickly and double-back to see Henrietta. The most important thing is to ensure that I don't do anything to arouse his suspicion. "I must say," I continue as we walk, "I feel as if the game has reached something of a lull. I know this is partly my fault, of course, but it's as if there's a distinct lack of new girls, and the ones who do turn up tend to be rather lacking in the requisite skills".
"You're not the only one to have noticed," Mr. White says wryly. "Over the past year, you've delivered barely a handful of girls, and none of them have been even remotely suitable. I've been reading the record books, and you're by far the least successful Mr. Blue of all time. I'd like to think that you're simply being a little more picky, but I can't shake the feeling that you seem distracted. Lady Red also seems rather different of late. If I didn't know better, I'd start wondering whether the two of you are up to something".
"The game lends itself to paranoia," I point out. "It's a trap you'd do well to avoid".
"Perhaps you're right," he replies, stopping as we reach the end of the street. "I'm afraid I have business back at the parliamentary estate, but I can assure you that I'll get to the bottom of this. The game can't be allowed to suffer. If one or more players are unable to compete to the best of their ability, the remainder can choose to nominate them for removal. I'd hate to do something like that, but I've become very loyal to the game over the past few years. I won't allow the mistakes of others to overshadow the game's true purpose". With that, he turns and starts walking away.
As soon as he's far enough along the street, I turn and start making my way back toward Henrietta's house. This conversation with Mr. White has put me on edge, and it's clear that he's working in the background. It's been five years since I was first drawn into the game, and perhaps I've allowed myself to get too comfortable. I need to persuade Henrietta to join with me in breaking the bonds that keep us on this course. Unfortunately, it's becoming increasingly clear that we might, in the process, be forced to send Mr. White to an early grave.
Elly
Today
"She was drunk," explains Frank Raynard, slouched on a chair in the corner of his hotel room while a group of police officers examine the scene. The window's wide open, and a cold wind is blowing in, past the fluttering curtains. "She always gets drunk when we go out, and when she gets drunk she gets..." He pauses for a moment, staring at the blank beige wall. "She gets sad. Sometimes angry, but usually sad. She starts dwelling on all the little insignificant problems in her life. The regrets, and then she..." His voice trails off, as if he's run out of words.
"It must have been an accident," says one of the other men in the room.
"No," Frank replies, shaking his head. "She was on the ledge for a couple of minutes. I'd been downstairs, dealing with a few things at reception, and I came up to the room and found her sitting on the edge, as if she was ready to jump. She knew what she was doing. I saw the look in her eyes when she let go and fell back. Something was different tonight. She was going on and on about being tired, and not being allowed to play the game. She kept mentioning the name Thomas Grant, but I don't have a clue who that is". He turns to the rest of us. "Have you ever heard of Thomas Grant?"
I shake my head. Looking over at Mark, who's loitering by the door, I see a curious look in his eyes, as if he does know the name Thomas Grant.
"Do you know the last thing she said before she
fell?" Frank continues.
"Maybe we shouldn't get into this right now," Mark says, clearly uncomfortable.
"Let him," I whisper, figuring that Frank needs people around him right now.
"She said that she wanted someone named Mr. Blue to burn in hell". Frank pauses for a moment. "What the hell does that mean? Thomas Grant? Mr. Blue? Was she just plucking these names out of thin air?" He looks at me, and then at Mark, and then over at the police officers; it's as if he thinks that, between us, we can somehow give him the answers he craves. "Was she insane?" he continues after a moment. "I should have done something sooner about her drinking. She always took far too much, whenever we went out. I knew it was damaging her, and I knew alcohol was a depressant, but I never thought..." He looks over at the empty window.
"Elly," Mark says quietly. "We should go".
"Let's just wait a bit longer," I reply.
"It's okay," Frank says. "You don't need to stay. I'll probably have to go to the police station and tell them what happened". He pauses for a moment. "Elly, did she say anything to you? I noticed you were talking to her earlier tonight. Did she mention anything that might explain what happened?"
"No," I say, glancing over at Mark.
"What was she talking about?" Frank asks.
"Nothing much," I reply, trying to give as few details as possible. "Just... girl stuff". I immediately regret my choice of words; that phrase 'girl stuff' makes it seem as if we were just gabbling away about nothing in particular. I feel guilty, as if I've reduced Isabella's final hours to the level of some inane, pointless gossip session. "She seemed troubled," I continue after a moment. "She was talking about getting older and -"
"We really should be going," Mark says firmly.
"It's okay," Frank says, waving us away. "Please, I need to focus. There's so much to do. I need to have the body taken back home. I need to call her family". He pauses, and I can see that his hands are trembling. "We'll talk in the morning," he says eventually. "Really, there's nothing anyone can do. It was just a tragic accident. Please, you must go and get some sleep. It's been such a long night".
"Come on," Mark says, reaching out a hand for me to take. "We'll come back in the morning".
As Mark and I walk along the corridor, heading to the elevators, I find myself troubled by something. A short while ago, Mark said that he went to speak to Frank and Isabella in their room, but now Frank claims he was downstairs and came up to find his wife already halfway out the window. Something about those two stories doesn't quite match up; the only logical explanation is that Mark must have spoken to Isabella before Frank returned to the room, which means Mark was the last person to see her before she climbed out through the window, which means he must be lying about what happened.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he says as we step into the elevator.
"It's fine," I say, even though I keep replaying the image over and over again. Mark was standing in our room, with his back to the window, and Isabella's body just dropped like a stone in the background. At that precise moment, she must have been alive, only to smash into the ground a couple of seconds later.
"Death is a part of life," he continues as the elevator goes down. "It's a -"
"I get it," I say, cutting him off before he can spout any more of his pretentious bullshit. Right now, I really just want to get some time alone, so that I can think about everything that's happened. It feels like someone has suddenly thrown a whole load of ideas at me, and somehow I've got to rearrange them so they make sense. As the elevator doors open and we walk toward our room, I'm still replaying Isabella's fall over and over in my mind, punctuated by the imagined image of her body shattering as it hit the ground.
"Elly -" Mark starts to say.
"Who's Thomas Grant?" I ask suddenly as we get to the door. "I know you know, so don't even pretend that you don't".
He stares at me for a moment. "Thomas Grant was the previous Mr. Blue," he says eventually. "From what I can tell, he was involved with Isabella. It was probably just some kind of sordid little affair. Nothing major. I don't think it was even part of the game. Whatever happened, it affected her, and it meant that she became aware, at least tangentially, of certain aspects of the game and its rules. Maybe Thomas was weak and told her, or maybe she dug around and stumbled onto some scrap of information. Hell, maybe she overheard a phone call".
"And then she jumped out of a window," I say, meeting his stare. Something about this whole situation still doesn't feel right to me.
"I imagine it's a little more complicated," he replies.
"But you went to their room," I say, determined to get to the truth. I'm starting to realize how little I know about Mark. "You said you saw Frank Raynard but -"
"I lied," he says. "There, I admitted it. I went to see Frank, but he wasn't there. Isabella was drunk. She was going on and on about the game. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about, and..." He pauses for a moment. "When I left that room, she was drunk and she was sitting on her bed, sobbing. With hindsight, perhaps I should have waited for Frank, but I doubt it would have made much difference. Sometimes, peoples' lives are set on a course that no-one can change. There was sadness in her eyes. None of us could have changed that".
"What happened to the previous Mr. Blue?" I ask, still feeling as if Mark is leaving out some crucial details.
"I don't know".
"You must know," I reply. "Where is he now?"
"Dead".
I feel my chest tighten as I realize how casually Mark seems to take the darker aspects of the game.
"I don't know the details," he continues. "The game can be exhausting. It takes a lot out of us all, and it leaves us drained. Lady Red keeps a record of everything that happens, but I've never asked to look at that record. It doesn't matter to me what happened to the previous players. I'm just focused on what I'm doing right now". He pauses. "I'm focused entirely and exclusively on you, Elly. No-one else. And I know you must feel that you're on the edge of the game, with no way of understanding what's really happening, but I can assure you that you're safe".
I nod, figuring there's no point arguing with him. He's got an answer for everything.
"You didn't really think that I had anything to do with Isabella's death, did you?" he continues.
"No," I say, although I'm pretty sure he knows I'm lying.
"Look at me," he replies, putting his hands on my shoulders. "I know you don't know me so well yet, but you must know me enough to realize that I'd never... I mean, it's ludicrous to even think that I'd do anything to hurt someone. If I'd known that Isabella Raynard was suicidal, I'd have stayed with her".
"Just answer one more thing for me," I reply. "How dangerous is the game?"
He pauses, and I can see that he's not sure what to say.
"Do people die?" I continue.
"No," he replies firmly. "The game is safe. It's just a game, Elly. It's fun". Opening the door to our hotel room, he steps inside. "It's late. We should get some sleep. We'll have to check on Frank in the morning, and then we'll go to the airport. I was thinking we could go to Singapore for a few days, just to relax and -"
"I want to go back to London," I say firmly.
"But Singapore -"
"Why are you so scared of going back?" I ask.
"I'm not scared -"
"You are," I say. "I can see it in your eyes. I'd love to go to Singapore some time, but not right now. I want us to go back to London tomorrow, even if it's just for a week or two. I want to see my mother and make sure she's okay".
"I can have someone check on her," he replies.
"I want to see her," I say. "Mark, if you're hiding something -"
"Fine," he says, interrupting me. "We'll go back to London tomorrow. I'm not hiding anything. I just thought you'd like to see Singapore, but we can do that another time". He pauses for a moment. "I'm going to get ready for bed. Are you coming?"
"In a minute," I say. As he heads through to the bathroom, I'm l
eft standing in the doorway. There's a part of me that wants to turn and run, to get as far away from this game as possible. Then again, there's another part of me that thinks I just made a huge mistake by asking Mark all those questions. I wish I could trust him a little more; I wish there was some kind of innate, deep down feeling of trust in my soul, and that all these thoughts could just vanish. Instead, I can't shake the feeling that Mark and the game are much darker than I'd previously realized. Still, I guess it'd be too easy to let myself get caught up in this kind of paranoid fear. I should just put my concerns aside and focus on the fact that Mark and I are having fun together.
Glancing across the room, I see the window and I immediately think back to the image of Isabella's falling body. I hope to God that I never end up like her. She had money, and sex, and apparently she even felt she was loved by her husband. The one thing she lacked, however, was affection. Stepping into the room and pushing the door shut, I feel a shiver pass through my body.
Jonathan Pope
1901
Standing alone in the darkened conservatory of Lady Henrietta deHavilland's London home, with moonlight streaming through the windows and casting strange shadows across the marble floor, I find myself listening to the silence. It's so rare for London to afford one the opportunity of complete peace and calm these days, with the city becoming increasingly overbuilt and industrialized. One usually has to escape to the country in order to get some solitude and calm, but right here, despite being in the heart of the city, I feel genuine peace for the first time in many, many years.
"They say the Queen is dead," says a familiar voice nearby, as I hear the conservatory doors open.
Turning, I see Lady Red stepping into the room. I call her Lady Red these days, because that is how I know her best, although polite society still thinks of her as Lady Henrietta deHavilland, esteemed and noble wife of Benjamin deHavilland, the prominent parliamentarian and businessman. I wonder what the society gossips of London would say right now if they could see her, standing stark naked in the moonlight and smiling at me.
