by Amy Cross
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 other 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.
"Molly?" I call out. "Is that you?" There is no-one in my life named Molly; this is merely an attempt to confuse any potential attacker, and to persuade him that my defenses are down. "I'm going to be away for a few days," I continue, trying to make my voice sound relaxed. "I'd appreciate it if you could just pop by once a week and make sure the place doesn't get too dusty. I'll find some money for you and leave it on the kitchen table, is that okay?"
Silence.
And then the faintest of creaking sounds.
Someone's definitely here.
"Okay," I say. "There's no need to come twice a week while I'm away, but -"
Suddenly, an arm is wrapped around my neck and I'm pulled back into my office. As I try to struggle, the pistol falls from my hand and I feel my throat being crushed. I have no idea how this person managed to sneak up behind me, but I fear that I only have a few seconds before I suffer permanent damage. I manage to slam my elbow back into my assailant's ribs, causing him to loosen his grip just a little, and then I'm able to twist around and slam him into the wall. He's a young man, clearly some street-kid who was slipped a few coins in order to come and take a shot at me. With a couple of blows to the side of his neck, I'm able to drop him to the floor, at which point I grab my pistol and aim it straight at his head.
"Who sent you?" I ask breathlessly.
"Don't kill me!" the boy shouts.
"Who sent you?" I shout.
"A woman!"
"What woman?"
"I don't know her name," he stammers, "but she wore a red cloak with a hood".
Shaking my head, I cock the pistol.
"I swear!" he shouts. "She paid me to come and -"
"Don't lie to me!" I say firmly. It's clear that no-one could have expected such an ill-trained boy to take me down, so he must have been sent for some reason. This story of a red-cloaked woman is clearly an attempt to sow doubt in my mind, and to foster suspicion; someone wants me to question Henrietta's loyalty and to wonder whether she would try to have me killed. It's such a desperately obvious ploy, I find it hard to believe that Mr.
White would have thought me to be so gullible. Still, perhaps he is becoming desperate, in which case it would seem that I might have the upper hand after all. Either way, I feel that I must tie up these loose ends before Henrietta and I leave England. If I kill Mr. White, the game will be dead forever.
"I've got a wife," the boy says, "and a child!"
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty, Sir".
"And you have no job?"
He shakes his head.
"Then you have no business taking a wife and siring a child. The world would be better off without you and your kind, reproducing like rabbits and filling the world with worthless swine. Tell me who really sent you, or I'll put a bullet through your face".
"I swear," he continues, "it was a woman in a red cloak!"
"Liar!" I shout.
"I swear!" He stares at me with wild, fearful eyes. "She came to me yesterday and offered me ten shillings if I'd come and hurt you! She didn't want you killed, just warned off! I was supposed to tell you to run from London and never return!"
"You didn't do a very good job," I reply.
"Please don't kill me," he whimpers. "I just needed the money".
"I'll spare your life," I say firmly, "if you admit that there was no woman in red!"
"I spoke to her!"
"You're lying!"
"I spoke to her!" he shouts.
"She would never do that!" I shout back at him.
Unable to control myself, I pull the trigger and the side of the boy's head bursts open, showering the wall with blood and fragments of bones. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regret my decision to end his life, and as I lower the gun I realize that my hands are shaking. The boy was just a pawn, used by Mr. White to get to me; in my anger and fear, I allowed myself to be tricked. Still, if I'm to leave the country with Henrietta, there's no need to tidy the boy's dead body away. Let the world think that Jonathan Pope is a common murderer; by the time anyone is looking for me, I shall be in Paris with the woman I love.
Elly
Today
"So was Chrissie part of the game?" I ask, as Mark and I stand in the elevator as it slowly heads down to the ground floor.
"What game?" Mark asks, glaring at me.
I open my mouth to ask again, before realizing that the bellboy is standing just a few feet away. I guess I've still got a lot to learn about spending time with Mark; talking about the game in public is probably off-limits.
"No," Mark continues after a moment, clearly annoyed. "She wasn't".
I smile politely, realizing that I've probably stepped over a major line. "Sorry," I say quietly.
"For what?"
I glance over at the bellboy and see that he's watching us from the corner of his eye.
"Nothing," I mutter as we reach the basement and the elevator doors open out to reveal the underground parking space beneath the Castleton Hotel.
"Thank you, as always," Mark says, pressing some cash into the bellboy's hand before stepping out of the chamber.
As I follow Mark to his car, I can't help but glance back at the bellboy; he's staring intently at me, his gaze unwavering as the elevator doors slide shut.
"Are you sure you trust that guy?" I ask as I run to catch up with Mark.
"Eduardo has been working at the Castleton for five years," he replies. "He's seen a lot of things, but he knows to keep his mouth shut". He glances over at me for a second. "Which is more than can be said for some people".
"I'm sorry!" I reply as we reach his car. "I didn't mean to get you into any trouble. It's not like the game's illegal or anything". I wait for him to say something, but he simply opens the car door and climbs inside. "Is it?" I ask, getting into the passenger side. "Mark, is the game illegal?"
"It's not about legality," Mark replies. "It's about morality. The game has to be a secret. Can you imagine if it got out? Can you imagine, even for a moment, if this whole thing became public knowledge? It'd be a circus. The moral police would be all over it, and eventually it'd be reduced to the status of a..." He pauses for a moment, as he tries to come up with the most degrading example possible. "It'd be a reality TV show," he says finally, the distaste positively dripping from his voice.
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I was just casually wondering -"
"Whether I murdered Chrissie," he replies, fixing me with a determined stare.
Taken aback by his forwardness, I stare at him for a moment. I feel as if I've been put in the spotlight. I mean, I have to admit that the question crossed my mind, but I wasn't actually going to ask. "I didn't say that -"
"But you're thinking it," he continues, with a resigned tone to his voice. There's an awkward pause. "I understand, Elly. You barely know me. Despite everything we've been through so far, you don't..." He pauses again. "I didn't kill Chrissie Briggs. She and I dated for a while, before I met you, and as far as I'm concerned she's been out of my life since that night at the restaurant. I'm sorry if something has happened to her, but it's nothing to do with me and I certainly didn't hate her enough to get her killed. Even if I had, I'm not that kind of person".
I nod, feeling as if the past couple of minutes couldn't have gone any worse.
"You'll see," he says, smiling hesitantly. "Eventually you'll get to know me better, and you'll understand that there's no way I could ever do anything to hurt anyone. Especially you, Elly". He reaches over and puts a hand on my knee. "You're caught up in something extreme. I understand that. You're in a world that must seem totally alien. Maybe I've been pushing you too fast, making you handle situations for which you're not prepared. I shouldn't have taken you to Zurich".
"Of course you should!" I reply, starting to feel as if he's pulling away. "Zurich was amazing! Well, I mean, until Isabella's accident. But I think I did okay, right? I'm not some wide-eyed kid, Mark! I just wanted to know if Chrissie was part of the game. That's not a totally unreasonable thing to ask, is it?" I wait for him to reply, but I can't help feeling as if I'm being far more pushy than usual. "There's still so much I don't know," I continue. "About you, about the game. Even about myself. I feel like everything's on hold. Whenever you talk about the game, it's as if you're delaying things. Don't you want me to be part of this?"
"I do," he says, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.
"Then why are we waiting?" I ask, looking out the window and seeing the dark, empty parking lot spread out around us. "You keep saying you're going to take me to Mr. White some time, but it never actually happens. It's like you're scared of something".
"I just..." He stares at me. "You'll meet them soon," he says after a moment. "Very soon. I just wanted to make sure you were ready, that's all. Besides, I've got a surprise lined up for you".
"You do?" I reply, feeling as if things are maybe getting back on track.
He nods. "Weren't you going to ask where we're going today?"
"I just assumed -"
"You just agreed to come with me, without even asking," he replies. "Relax. I've got something very special to show you. I thought it might be a good idea to reconnect you with something from your past. When you're playing the game, it's important to make sure that you retain some sense of your own identity". Starting the engine, he eases the car out of the parking bay and across the garage.
"Is that what you've done?" I ask, watching the determined look on his face. He knows I'm staring at him, but he refuses to even acknowledge me. "Did you retain any of your own identity when you started playing? What's the real Mark Douglas like? Before all this, were you -"
"Let's focus on you," he says firmly.
"But I want to know about you".
"There's nothing to know".
"But you must have a family." I wait for a reply, but he seems determined to shut down my line of questioning. "You must have had a life before you started playing the game," I continue, hoping to push him to open up a little. After all, I feel as if we've got to know each other a little better recently so I figure it's about time for him to
open up and at least tell me something about his life. "You must have been someone before you became Mr. Blue," I add. "The real you".
"This is the real me," he says, as he swings the car onto the Mall. Buckingham Palace flashes past the window.
"Where were you born?" I ask. "Where did you go to school? Who was your first girlfriend? What were your parents like?" I can't help but notice a slight flicker of emotion in his eyes when I mention his parents, as if perhaps I've struck a topic that has particular meaning to him. "Tell me about your mother. Or your father. Do you have any siblings? Have you ever been -"
Suddenly he slams his foot on the brakes and the car screeches to a halt. The car behind us honks its horn and moves around us, but Mark makes no attempt to move us off the road.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I'm trying to do something nice for you today," he says, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. "I'd prefer it if you could try not to be so aggressive".
"Asking about your parents is aggressive?" I reply, shocked.
"It is when I've specifically told you that I don't want to talk about them". Finally, he turns to me. "I know it's fashionable in the modern world to pick apart one's past, and to talk about one's feelings, but that's not how I do things. You won't ever meet my parents, Elly, and that means there's no need for you to ever know anything about them. What they were like, what they did, what happened... It's all in the past. It doesn't affect what's happening now, so why keep trying to bring it up?"
"So they're not around?"
He ignores the question.
"Are they dead?" I ask.
"I'm not answering questions," he says, as a couple more cars honk their horns while maneuvering around us.
"You know about my parents".
