The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  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 lands 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 -"

  Suddenly a shot rings out and the front of Laverty's face explodes, showering me with blood and bone as he lurches forward and grabs hold of my shoulder. I push him away and watch in horror as his dead body drops to the ground.

  It takes only a fraction of a second before my instincts kick in and I run, hurrying through the shocked crowd in a desperate attempt to evade the killer's line of sight. I race all the way to St. Paul's, at which point I find myself in the middle of a huge crowd. Although the blood on my shirt and face clearly alarms several of those around me, I push through the crowd as I desperately try to work out where I might be safe. It's hard to believe that someone could track me through a crowd so dense and chaotic, but I learned long ago to never under-estimate an enemy. Besides, I still can't work out who would want to kill both Harrison Blake and Mr. Laverty, but whoever they are, they clearly have my name on their hit-list.

  Every time I hear a noise nearby, I turn and expect to feel a bullet hit my face. The killer could be anywhere and, if he strikes, I'll likely have just a fraction of a second between the metal entering my brain and the moment when my life ends. This is it. This is what it feels like to be hunted. I've never been in this position before. I've always been the hunter, never the prey.

  After running for what seems like forever, I suddenly emerge next to Blackfriars Bridge. Racing across the Thames, I head down into Southwark. This is a part of London with which I'm not as familiar as I'd prefer, so I quickly get onto a bus and make my way to Southfields, finally ending up on Augustus Road. My mind is racing as I try to work out what I should do next; it's clear that my enemy, whoever he might be, is a man of great ability, and I certainly wouldn't put it past him to track me down at any of my usual haunts. With virtually no money in my pockets, and no friends upon whom I can rely, I feel - for the first time in my life - utterly lost
and alone. It's as if I must start again, and I have no energy for such an endeavor.

  Finally, I decide that I must take a risk. I head to the King's Arms, figuring that I can perhaps engage some assistance from some old contacts. If the unseen assassin has tracked me down to this of all places, he is welcome to my soul and I will have no choice but to accept his bullet gracefully.

  "There was someone in here looking for you," says Darius Wolff as soon as I've entered the building and fought my way to the bar. "A woman".

  "A woman?" I reply. "Here?" There are plenty of woman whose paths I've crossed over the years, of course, and I suppose it's not impossible that one of them would have chosen to track me down. Still, I don't have time for such trivialities right now. "I need money," I tell Wolff. "I need it fast, and I need it without any strings attached".

  "Don't look at me," he replies with a sneer. "Do I strike you as the kind of man who hands out charitable donations to every streak of piss that walks through my door?"

  "You know what I have to offer," I insist. "I have connections -"

  "You're always trying to trade on your connections," he says with a laugh. "The way I hear it, Pope, your connections are getting old and out of date. Maybe ten years ago I'd have been tempted, but you're not the smooth operator you were back in the day. Face it, your time is over. London's moved on and you're just a relic of a bygone age". He pauses for a moment, before handing me a pint of beer. "If you don't mind the question, whose blood and brain matter is smeared all over your face?"

  "No-one you know," I reply, wiping away as much of Laverty's remains as possible.

  "I've never seen you in such a bad way," Wolff continues. "It's quite fun." He pauses for a moment, as if he's trying to decide what to do. "Take the corner booth. I know someone who might be able to help you".

  With no option but to trust him, I turn and force my way through the crowd until I reach the booth in the far corner. Despite the fact that the pub is packed to the rafters, this booth, as always, is unoccupied. The regulars know that this particular booth is reserved for those who are engaged in 'official' business, so no-one dares sit here uninvited. Taking a seat, I sip from the pint of beer and realize that I've got nowhere left to run. Finally, at what might very well be the end of my life, I've had to take refuge in the King's Arms. Of all the ways I ever thought might life might end, this was not one of them: sitting in the most miserable pub in London, with no friends and no money, while an unknown assassin hunts me through the streets.

  "You need money," says a female voice, suddenly sliding onto the opposite seat. She has a shawl covering her face, and she glances back across the bar as if she's nervous of being followed.

  "Depends who's offering," I reply, poised to run in case this woman turns out to be dangerous.

  "Oh, my darling," she says, dropping the shawl to reveal her identity. "Who do you think?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but not a word comes out. Instead, I sit in stunned silence, staring in wonder as Henrietta - my Henrietta, alive and unharmed - smiles back at me.

  Elly

  Today

  Gasping for air, I feel a crushing weight pushing deeper and deeper onto my chest. Pain courses through my body, sending shockwaves into my left shoulder and arm. I try to roll onto my side, but there's a sudden jolt and finally the car-boot is opened. I'm hauled out and dumped roughly, naked on the cold street. Seconds later, I hear the wheels of a car driving away at speed, and I'm left sprawled and alone until, finally, I can't breathe any longer and everything goes black.

  Part Five

  All That You Are

  Elly

  Today

  "Do you understand what I just told you, Elly?" the doctor asks, standing by my hospital bed. "You had a coronary artery spasm, which is a type of heart attack. Do you remember anything from last night?"

  Shaking my head, I try to work out what's really going on. There's no way I can possibly have had a heart attack. I mean, I'm young, I'm fairly fit, and although my father died of a heart attack, my family medical history is generally pretty good. Still, I can't argue with the fact that I'm currently sitting in a hospital room, with various wires attached to my body, and the last thing I remember is being at Mr. White's apartment and feeling an agonizing pain in my chest. I want to dismiss this whole thing as some kind of sick joke, as just a part of the game, but as I stare at the doctor, I can see that the concern on his face is genuine.

  "There are a lot of potential precipitating factors," the doctor continues. "It's important that we isolate anything that could have caused this episode, because obviously we need to make sure that we minimize the chances that you'll ever have something like this happen again. I'm sure I don't need to point out that heart attacks are very rare for someone of your age. To be blunt, this shouldn't have happened to you".

  "I'm fine," I mutter, sitting up in the hospital bed. "I feel totally fine".

  He stares at me for a moment. "Do you know the most difficult thing for someone of your age, when faced with this kind of health problem?" He waits for me to reply. "The hardest thing is to accept what happened to you. You're probably thinking that there's been a mistake, that heart attacks don't happen to girls like you, not at your age".

  "I feel pretty good," I continue. "I feel healthy".

  "You're on medication," the doctor replies. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're doped up to your eyeballs, more or less. All things considered, you're doing remarkably well. I'll probably let you home in a day or two. But I'm very concerned about the fact that I can't explain what caused the heart attack. Is there anything -"

  "Stress," I say suddenly, interrupting him. "I mean, is stress a possible cause? If it was really extreme stress, putting the body through things that shouldn't ever happen". I pause, thinking back to some of the things Mr. White did to me last night. I remember hearing my heartbeat at times, and I felt that I was being pushed way beyond my tolerances. Still, is it possible that he pushed me so far, I ended up having a heart attack? "Physical stress," I continue. "Could that cause it?"

  "It could," he replies. "What kind of stress are we talking about?"

  "Exertion".

  "What kind of exertion?"

  I try to think of a convincing excuse. After all, I can't exactly tell him about the game. "I was exercising," I say eventually. "I'd taken up some new exercise, and I think I was going at it way too fast. I was really pushing myself, emotionally and physically. I was trying to break a personal record. Could that have caused the heart attack?"

  "In the absence of other factors, I'd say almost certainly," the doctor replies. "Prior to this... exercise... would you say you were a physically active person?"

  "Not at all".

  "So you suddenly took up a very aggressive exercise routine, without any guidance or support?"

  I nod.

  He stares at me, and I can tell he's skeptical.

  "It's true!" I stammer. "I wanted to get fit, so I started reading about all this stuff online, and then I guess I tried too much too soon and..." My voice trails off as I realize that my story isn't sounding too convincing. "I was definitely sweating," I add, "and I didn't do a proper warm-up. I guess I did it all wrong. I just jumped right into the whole thing".

  "That's not very wise, Elly..."

  "Yeah, it was a mistake," I reply, "but did it cause the heart attack?"

  "Almost certainly".

  I pause, trying to come to terms with the idea that my sessions with Mr. White ended up pushing me so far that I almost died. Somewhere along the way, I lost track of how many orgasms I had last night, and I didn't even start counting all the moments of pain. I was out of breath most of the time, and although we had a couple of short breaks, I feel as if I should have been more attuned to the needs of my body. Then again, I just never believed this could happen to me.

  "How did I get here?" I ask, suddenly realizing that my memory is completely blank after the initial pain I felt last night. I remember collaps
ing in Mr. White's apartment, and then there's nothing until I woke up here in the hospital bed a few hours ago.

  "You were dropped off by a friend," the doctor replies. "I believe his name is Mark Douglas?"

  "Mark," I mutter, realizing that Mr. White must have called him when he realized I was sick. Given the nature of the game, I guess I should be glad that they bothered to help me at all. I don't know how a heart attack fits in with things, but I suppose it probably marks me out as being a little weak. In fact, I can't help wondering whether I might have failed. If I can't physically endure Mr. White's punishment, maybe they'll decide that I can't stay in the game? "I need to speak to him," I continue. "Is he here?"

  "Mr. Douglas? No, he just dropped you off and left".

  I take a deep breath. For some reason, I feel like someone just kicked me in the gut. I mean, my relationship with Mark has long been a source of confusion, but I thought that he at least cared about me; given that I had a heart attack, I'd have thought he might stick around and wait to see how I'm doing. Then again, if I've failed the game, maybe he's already cut me loose? With a heavy sensation in my gut, I realize that I might never see Mark again.

  "He did ask to be kept informed of your progress," the doctor continues. "I think he's planning to come and visit you soon".

  "Huh," I reply.

  "He also promised to cover any medical bills you might run up. This is a private hospital, so obviously there are certain fees attached to your treatment".

  "A private hospital?" I ask, surprised that Mark brought me here.

  "We have specialists here," he continues. "I don't mean to scare you unnecessarily, but it's my honest opinion that you might well have died if you'd been taken somewhere else".