by Amy Cross
"You have to get out of here," he says quietly, as if he's starting to lose consciousness. There's blood leaking into his throat, and a small amount sprays out every time he speaks. "You have to run. There'll be others. They won't stop until they've got you too..."
Without saying anything, I run back to the bedroom and grab my phone. I can't even begin to process the fact that there's a dead man on the bed, and as I head back to Mark, I realize that my heart is beating faster than I've ever known. At the same time, I haven't really reacted yet. It's as if my entire body has become cold and numb, and my mind is focusing on the practicalities of trying to save Mark's life. There'll be time to scream and panic later. Right now, all that matters is getting help. Fumbling with the numbers, I eventually manage to call the emergency services.
"Listen to me..." Mark whispers.
"I need an ambulance!" I shout as soon as someone answers the call. "I need an ambulance at the Castleton Hotel! He's been shot! You have to get here now! We're in the penthouse! He's been shot in the neck and he's bleeding!"
Dropping the phone, I kneel next to Mark and try to work out how to help him. There's so much blood on the floor, and his eyes are starting to glaze over. It's as if he's dying right now, right in front of me, and there's nothing I can do to help him.
"Mark!" I shout, with tears pouring down my face. "You have to stay with me! Are you listening? Mark!" I try to lift his head from the floor, but more blood pours from the hole in his neck. "Mark!" I scream. "You have to stay alive!" I wait for some kind of response, but it's as if he's passed out. "Mark!"
Jonathan Pope
1901
The child sleeps peacefully. It he knows anything of the pain and misery into which he was born, he shows no sign of fear. I cannot even begin to imagine the traumatic circumstances of his birth, or the way in which John the Pig virtually hacked the poor child from Henrietta's body, but for now at least Thomas Pope seems to be at peace with the world. How long this can last, I do not know. All men must eventually face reality, and yet I'm determined to keep Thomas safe for as long as possible. Looking now at his innocent face, I cannot bear the thought that one day his skin will be etched with the pain of experience. He must never know the truth.
When he eventually asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was a good and intelligent woman, and that she died in childbirth. When he asks how I met her, I will tell him that we had shared interests in changing the world. When he asks where he was born, I will tell him that he was born in London and that he will always be a child of the city. These things are true, and they help to avoid the more devastating aspects of his life. Ultimately, the truth is a many-sided thing, and when one is young, one can look at one of these sides while ignoring the others. Perhaps, later, one will inevitably learn to turn the truth around and see it from different angles. Children, however, should not be exposed to such harshness. Thomas Pope will live a good life. A long life. Happy and fulfilled. If all goes to plan, he will never even know of the game or its sinister implications, and he will certainly not know anything of the madness that gripped his mother in his final moments. I simply cannot allow these shadows to claim him.
"Your mother was the most remarkable woman I ever met," I tell him. I know he can't hear me, of course, since he sleeps so soundly, but I feel as if I need to practice these half-truths. "She commanded men and women alike. She had wonderful, world-changing ideas, and she expressed them wherever she went. She was known throughout the city as a forward-thinking agent of modernity and change. I have no doubt that in many years to come, she will still be remembered as a pioneer. When you yourself are an old man, Thomas, your mother will be famous throughout the world. God willing, people will know only the good things, and the worst of it all will have been swept away".
"Talking to yourself?" John the Pig asks, standing in the doorway. "Some people reckon that's the first sign of madness. As for me, I reckon not talking to yourself is a sign that something's wrong. After all, you should always make use of an intelligent and available audience, don't you think?"
"How long have you been watching?" I reply, turning to him. In my old life, I would have instantly detected his presence. Lately, however, I have begun to let my senses drift, and this is something that must change. With a child to care for, I must be alert to the possibility of any threat. Unfortunately, changes in my private life - first with the arrival of Henrietta, and now with the birth of Thomas - means that I find myself easily distracted. If I cannot reclaim some part of my former preparedness, I fear that I will swiftly be picked off by my remaining enemies.
"Long enough," he mutters, limping into the room. "I've finished cleaning up. I don't know what you want doing with the woman's body, but I've placed it in three different bags -"
"Do what you want with it," I tell him.
"Really?" he asks, his eyes lighting up.
"Just make sure to..." I pause. A woman such as Henrietta deserves the most magnificent burial, but I cannot afford to draw attention to what has happened. The world believes her to have died some time ago, and even now a maid's body rots in Henrietta's grave. Perhaps the mortal, physical remains of Henrietta's corpse are of no great importance. "Do what you normally do when someone dies on your table," I say finally. "Just don't tell me about it".
"The child is healthy?" he asks, stepping over to the bed upon which Thomas continues to sleep. "I must say, I've never delivered a baby before. I'm starting to think I'm rather good at it".
"He sleeps soundly enough," I reply. "Tomorrow morning, he and I shall set forth from this place, and we shall never look back".
"Where are you taking him?"
"Even if I knew, I would not tell you. We must make a clean break from everything that has gone before. There are still too many people in this city who would like to get their hands on the child". I pause for a moment. "At least the game is over," I add eventually. "That vile tradition of pain and torture has come to a conclusion. I can't fathom how much blood has been lost and how many lives have sunk into the depths of the Thames, but it's over now".
"Do you think you're the first man to think such a thing?" he asks.
"I have seen its end with my own eyes," I reply. "I cannot tell you the whole business, but suffice it to say that I have seen the heart of the game being burned and destroyed. Nothing could possibly survive such a process". Pausing for a moment, I try to take stock of such a momentous victory. "Henrietta was the one who finished it off," I continue. "She did what no man or woman has managed before. She ventured to the center of the game and made sure that it could never again hurt people. As God is my witness, the game is over".
"If you say so," he replies, turning and walking out of the room. "Be careful, Mr. Pope," he calls back to me. "The mark of a great warrior is that he can make one believe that the war is over, right before he makes his fatal attack".
Sitting alone with the child, I find myself unable to dismiss those final words from John the Pig. In a way, everything feels too calm and too peaceful. If the game was truly such a huge and powerful arrangement, how is it possible that Henrietta was able to destroy it simply by burning a small box? Standing and walking over to the window, I look out at the dark street and find myself wondering if perhaps the game persists. Even if it's not at full strength, it might still be out there somewhere, gaining ground and filling up with blood again. For my son's sake, I hope that this is not true, but I feel certain that I must get us as far away from London as possible. If the game, with its long, dark tentacles should ever reach out and try to grab us, we must be out of reach.
Part Seven
Knives
Elly
Today
"He's stable," says the police officer as he comes through to the bedroom. "We managed to get his heart restarted, so now we just need to get him to the hospital so he can have the bullets removed."
Sitting on the end of Mark's bed, with his blood still on my hands, I try to process this latest piece of inform
ation, but I feel as if my mind is completely blank. For the past few minutes, I've been listening as the paramedics worked on Mark in the other room; I heard them shouting to one another and using the defibrillator, but somehow it felt as if it wasn't really Mark who was in danger at all. I kept trying to focus on the fact that he was on the verge of death, but somehow my mind seemed to have put up a wall, preventing me from really accepting the truth. Even now, following the news that Mark is more stable and can be moved, I feel completely blank. It's as if every atom in my body has stopped moving.
"Ms. Bradshaw," the police officer continues, crouching in front of me. "Did you hear what I said?"
I look straight at him, but I can't work out what to say. Everything just seems blank. How am I supposed to react? I keep wondering if I should scream, or cry, or run, or... There are so many options, and finally I find myself wondering why I have to choose. Shouldn't it come naturally? What's wrong with me? Why do I always have to over-think everything? Why can't I have one natural, instinctive reaction?
"Ms. Bradshaw, did you hear me?"
I look at him, and for a moment I find myself struggling to remember why he's here. Soon, though, it hits me. Mark. Mark's hurt.
"We've stabilized Mr. Douglas," the police officer says, "and now we have to take him to the hospital. I need you to come with us and -"
"No," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
"It's very important that you -"
"No," I say again. The thought of going with them, of even getting up from this bed, is shocking, and I can't even begin to contemplate the idea of leaving the apartment. "I have to stay here," I say eventually, my voice sounding so calm and still, it's almost like it's not my voice at all. "I have to stay here and clean up. I have to call people. I have to -"
"Everything can be taken care of at the hospital," he replies. "Please, there isn't much time."
I shake my head. In the absence of a proper emotional response, I figure I should just get on with more practical matters. That's what Mark would want, right? He's going to need the place to be tidied up in time for him to come home.
"You're in shock," the police officer continues. "We're going to get you the help that you need, but only -"
"I'm not going to the hospital," I say firmly. "I'm staying here."
"That isn't an option," he says. "This is a crime scene, so we're going to have to go to the station and talk about what happened." He pauses. "We need to establish the identity of the man who you say shot Mr. Douglas, and we need to understand the chain of events that led to that man being found dead on the floor of this apartment. From what you said when we arrived, I'm struggling to put the pieces together."
"The game," I whisper.
"I'm sorry?"
"The game," I say again, meeting his gaze. "This is all..."
He stares at me.
"Nothing," I say after a moment, realizing how close I came to saying something I'd regret.
"They were playing a game?" he asks. "Is that what this was? Some kind of game?"
I shake my head.
"Okay," he replies with a sigh, "we'll talk about it at the station."
"Am I under arrest?" I ask.
He pauses. "No," he says eventually. "Not at this moment."
"But I might be?"
"That depends on what we find out," he continues, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I'm sure you'll appreciate that this is a complex situation, and we need to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible." He waits for me to say something. "I'm going to come right out and be honest with you, Ms. Bradshaw. Something about this situation strikes me as being unusually complicated. Without going into detail at this point, would you say that my estimation is correct?"
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.
"Tell me about the game," he says.
I stare at him.
"Were you playing too?" he asks. "Was this all part of the game? It's okay. I know."
"You know what?" I ask.
He stares at me.
"You know what?" I ask again.
"About everything."
I stare at him, and after a moment I realize that he's bluffing. There's no way he knows anything about the game. He's just bluffing. He's guessed that maybe there's a secret wrapped up in this mess, and he's hoping to trip me up.
"Ms. Bradshaw?" he asks.
"What game?" I reply, feeling as if there's no way I can tell him about everything that's been happening. Not yet, anyway. I need to speak to Mark first. I need to make sure that we're going to be okay.
"You mentioned a game," the police officer says, "and then you backtracked. But you still said the word 'game' twice, and it seemed to mean something to you."
"I don't know what I meant," I tell him.
"Okay," he replies, with clear suspicion in his eyes. He doesn't believe me, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to push. "We'll discuss that later."
"I want to stay here."
"That's not possible," he says firmly. "I need you to come with me so that we can establish the chain of events that led to there being one dead man on the floor of this apartment, and one man with bullet wounds." He pauses. "I don't want to place you under arrest, Ms. Bradshaw, but if you refuse to come with me voluntarily, I will be forced to compel you to cooperate, and I'm afraid I will arrest you if necessary. I certainly have grounds, given the situation here. I'm sure you don't need me to remind you that this is a very serious incident."
"I didn't shoot him," I reply.
"I know that," he says. "I still need to know what happened."
"But he -" I start to say, before I hear movement from out in the main part of the apartment. Getting up from the bed, I hurry through the door and see that Mark has been moved onto a trolley, which is being wheeled to the door by two paramedics. Still, the whole thing feels unreal. For one thing, the paramedics don't seem to be in much of a hurry, and for another, the police officer seems far too casual. Besides, shouldn't there be more police here? As I stare at Mark being wheeled away, I can't help but feel as if something strange is happening.
"They're taking him to hospital," says the police officer, standing behind me.
"Wait!" I call out, hurrying over to the trolley and looking down at Mark. There's an oxygen mask over his mouth, and his shirt has been cut away to reveal the bullet wounds, which have been dressed with gauze. It's a shocking sight, and as I look at his face, I can't shake the feeling that somehow this is all my fault. If I'd done things differently, if I hadn't encouraged him to leave the game, maybe he wouldn't have ended up like this. It's just a few days since I was rushed to hospital, and now our positions are reversed.
"He can't hear you," one of the paramedics says calmly. "We need to get him to the hospital."
"Is he going to die?" I ask, my voice trembling as tears start to fill my eyes.
"He's stable -"
"Is he going to die?" I ask again. "It's a simple question. Just tell me."
"He has a good chance of making a full recovery," the paramedic replies, "but we need to get him to the hospital. He'll have to undergo surgery to have the bullets removed, and he's going to face a long road to recovery."
I nod, trying to take in all this new information.
"Ms. Bradshaw," the paramedic says after a moment. "We really need to get moving."
"I'll come with you," I say.
"You can come in my car," the police officer says, walking over to join us.
I turn to answer him, but suddenly I'm struck by the realization that something feels wrong about this whole situation. I look down at the dead body of the man who tried to kill Mark.
"What about him?" I ask.
"Someone will be along to deal with him shortly," the officer says, as Mark is wheeled out into the corridor.
"Why aren't they here now?"
"Excuse me?"
I turn to him, and finally I start to understand. Since the moment that this police officer arrived with the p
aramedics, the whole situation has felt like a dream. I assumed that I was just in shock, but now I'm starting to realize that something else is wrong. Two men have been shot, one of them fatally, and yet there's just one police officer here; the paramedics, meanwhile, were willing to stop and talk to me, as if there was no real urgency.
"This is still part of it," I say slowly. "Isn't it?"
"I don't know what you mean," the police officer replies, but his voice sounds strangely blank. There's been a subtle shift in his demeanor, as if he knows that I'm onto him.
"You're part of it," I continue, taking a step back. "They sent you, didn't they?"
He stares at me for a moment. "What would you prefer?" he asks eventually. "Actual policemen sniffing around? The game unraveling? You're a smart young woman, Ms. Bradshaw, or at least that's what I've been led to believe. How about you make some good decisions for once?" He pauses. "Calling the emergency services was a very bad idea. If you'd got through to the real thing, instead of to us, who knows what kind of people would have ended up coming to the hotel tonight? There would have been so many awkward questions."
"He was dying!" I shout.
He shrugs.
"You can't take him," I say, running toward the door just in time to see the doors of the elevator slide shut. I should have realized that this would happen; I should have known that we wouldn't be able to get out of the game so easily, but instead I allowed panic to override my mind. I have to be smarter; I have to come up with a better plan for getting away from this place.
"He's in safe hands," the man continues calmly. "He's being taken home."
"Home?" I ask, turning to him. "What do you mean?"
"Home," he says again. "The game's home. The heart of the game. That's where we like to take people when their participation is coming to an end. It's not always possible, of course, but we feel that it's nice to bookend their involvement and show them what might have been. He'll be quite alright, at least for now." Pausing for a moment, he starts to smile. "Do you want to know my name, Elly?"
