by Amy Cross
"Lady Red?" the old man asks eventually.
No reply.
"We can't sit here all night," he continues. "I'm tired."
Still nothing.
"I must arrange transportation back to my home," he adds. "The previous Lady Red was always very keen to ensure that I travel in comfort. She went to great lengths in order to ensure that I was afforded the respect that she felt I deserve. I hope that the change in circumstances won't cause me any difficulties." He pauses. "I don't have much longer," he says finally, "and what little time I do have, I should like to live in a manner that affords me the greatest level of comfort. I don't need to see you, or to be part of the game, and I would certainly not want to impose upon you at this very difficult time, but..." His voice trails off as he realizes that she isn't listening to him.
Sighing, the old man decides that his best option is to call for Mr. White. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mobile phone, ready to bring up the necessary number.
"Lady Red," Elly says suddenly.
"Excuse me?" Thomas asks, laying the phone on his lap.
"Lady Red," she says again, before turning to him. "That's who I am now. That's what she called me."
"I hope you understand the seriousness of this honor," Thomas replies. "As Lady Red, you have a huge responsibility, especially since the game seems to be coming to an end."
"How does it end?" she asks.
"I don't know," he replies. "Many have asked the same question, but the truth remains elusive. One thing that is certain, however, is the fact that failure will come with a high price. If you are not able to bring about the game's conclusion, your life will be forfeit and the game will continue. There'll be a new Lady Red, and she'll have to start again."
"I don't understand," Elly says. "How does the game work? What am I supposed to do?"
"Mr. White will show you."
"What if I refuse?"
"How can you refuse?"
"I..." She pauses, and it's clear from the look in her eyes that she knows she has no choice. "I don't know if I can do this," she says eventually.
"Then you will die a quick death," Thomas tells her, "and someone else will take your place."
"I don't want to die," she says firmly.
"Then you must end the game," Thomas replies, "because that is the only way for you to survive."
"And Mark?" she asks.
"I know nothing of him," the old man continues. "I know only the things that the previous Lady Red chose to tell me, and if I'm honest, she preferred to keep me in the dark whenever possible."
"I can do this," Elly says after a moment. Taking a deep breath, she seems to be overcome by a sudden sense of confidence, and the old man can't help but notice that she seems to have changed. "Lady Red," she says again. "I can do this. I can be her. I can work out what to do. It won't be easy, but I can make it happen, and then..." She pauses. "The game is going to end," she says finally. "I don't know how, but I'm going to make it all stop. And then, when it's over, I'm going to take this red cloak and burn it."
BROKEN RED
Part One
Amsterdam
Elly
Eighteen months ago
"Don't be shy," Mr. White says. "Hold your hands up to the curved metal bars." He waits for me to comply. "Elly, you can say no and leave, but your involvement in the game will be over. Do you understand?"
Nodding, I hold my hands up as instructed, and he quickly uses the handcuffs to secure me to the contraption. Looking up at the twisting mass of metal poles and tubes, I still have no idea how this whole thing is going to work, and my chest is starting to feel tight with anticipation. All I want is to get this over with, so that I can go back to Mark and prove to him that I'm not some little scaredy-cat.
"This might seem strange at first," Mr. White says, stepping over to a laptop that's already running in one of the corners of the room. "Just go with it, and please be assured that nothing in this room is going to put you in any physical danger. You're completely safe." He makes a few adjustments on the laptop. "Okay, Elly. Are you ready?"
I nod.
Seconds later, as he presses a button on the keyboard, there's a loud whirring sound from above. As I look up, I realize that the metal bars are moving up, and suddenly I'm lifted several inches off the ground. Instinctively, I struggle against the handcuffs, but after a moment I realize that my best bet is just to wait and see what happens next.
"Are you comfortable?" Mr. White asks.
"Sure," I say, although it's a lie. Hanging by my arms, my bare body completely exposed, I'm starting to wonder whether I've got myself into something I can't handle. Still, I force myself to focus on Mark, and to imagine how good it'll feel when I've got through whatever Mr. White's got planned for me.
"I'll begin," Mr. White says, and suddenly the room is plunged into darkness.
"Is that supposed to happen?" I ask.
"Of course," he says, as I hear his footsteps getting closer.
"Okay," I mutter, my body tingling as I wait for him to touch me. This is already way beyond my comfort zone, and I've got no idea what's about to happen. Hanging from the machine, I keep expecting to feel his hands on my bare flesh, but so far there's nothing. Twisting a little as I hang in mid-air, I take a deep breath and wait. Just when I think that maybe he's going to ignore me, I feel his hand gently brush against my hip. He lets his fingers trail across my bare flesh until they reach my crotch, and he slips one tip slightly inside, as if to check that I'm wet.
“Relax, Elly,” he says finally. “You're already closer to winning the game than anyone else I've ever met.”
Elly
Today
The guy in the cloth cap, sitting by himself with coffee and a croissant he's barely touched. I've seen him before.
He was at Damrak this afternoon. I noticed him because, even then, he seemed vaguely familiar. I took a different route through the crowd, criss-crossing the square a couple of times so I could test whether or not he was following me, and I thought I'd lost him. I remember stopping at the entrance to the shopping center and looking back across the street, scanning the crowd for any hint of him, but he was gone. I'm always wary, I never completely relax, but I figured that he was just a random guy. Now here he is again five hours later, back from out of nowhere, and I can't help wondering if he's been keeping tabs on me the whole time. I figure there are two -
“Stop biting your nails!” my mother hisses, pulling my hand away from my face. “I don't know where on earth you picked up that revolting habit, but it most certainly was not from me!”
I turn to her, momentarily dazed by the sudden interruption.
“Is it stress?” she asked. “Are you stressed? You can tell me if you're stressed.”
“I'm -”
“Is it a boy?”
“I'm just -”
“Is it something medical? You're not sick, are you?”
“No, I -”
Before I can finish, I spot movement out the corner of my eye. Turning, I see that the guy in the cloth cap has got to his feet. Folding his newspaper, he grabs a satchel from another chair and sets some coins down on the table, before pausing for a moment. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a pair of leather gloves and slips them onto his hands, while glancing around. What's he waiting for? Why's he taking so long to leave? Eventually he fixes his scarf a little before heading off along the walkway that runs parallel to the canal. I keep my eyes on him until he's disappeared into the crowd, and then I wait even longer, just to be sure. I keep my eyes on the other side of the canal, too, just in case he doubles back.
Glancing over at the cafe, I spot another man coming out, balancing three cups in his hand. I instantly tense as I realize I recognize him; a fraction of a second later, I let out a slight, frustrated sigh. Of course I recognize him. It's Bob, my mother's boyfriend.
“Three coffees,” he says with a smile as he carefully sets the cups down in front of us. He slides one toward
me. “No milk or sugar, just as you ordered, Madame Bradshaw.”
“Thanks,” I reply, remembering to smile as I glance over my shoulder to make sure that no-one else is watching us.
“I was telling Elly that she mustn't bite her fingernails,” my mother continues with a sigh. “It's frightfully ugly. Her father used to do it, but it's not so bad for a man, women need to keep their nails looking nice. After all, we never know when we might need to dig them into someone's back.”
“Cheers to that,” Bob says, as they clink their coffee cups together.
A man walks past. I keep my eyes on him, wondering whether I've seen him before, but he doesn't so much as glance in my direction as he continues on his way.
“Are we keeping you from something important?” my mother asks.
I turn to her.
“You seem awfully distracted,” she continues, taking a sip of coffee. “This is our last day in Amsterdam, remember? I still -” She leans closer, conspiratorially. “I still haven't tried a you-know-what, you know.”
“No, I don't know,” I reply. “What's a you-know-what?”
Bob leans toward me. “She means space cake.”
“Do you think I should try one?” she whispers earnestly, as if the matter is vitally important and she's been giving it a lot of thought. “Have you tried one?”
“No,” I tell her, “I haven't tried one.”
“But should I?”
“If you want.”
“What do you think?”
“Do you want to try one?”
“When will I get another opportunity?”
“Then try one,” I tell her, trying not to sound frustrated.
She turns to Bob. “I don't know,” she says after a moment. “What if it makes me go all crazy? I mean, it's so weird, isn't it?”
“We could share one,” he suggests.
“That's an idea,” she replies. “We could, couldn't we? Half each, or maybe a third each. I don't want to over-do it, but I've always wondered what it's like.”
As they continue to discuss the various mind-numbingly detailed strategies they could employ, I look over my shoulder again. It's a warm, sunny summer's day and the city is filled with tourists. There must be three or four hundred people in my field of vision right now, and that's not counting people in windows, people in boats, people who for one reason or another I can't see properly. It's impossible to check them all, but although I don't want to start getting paranoid, I feel as if I'm being watched. It's as if eyes are trained on me, studying my every move, making notes.
“Hey, Jenny!” a voice calls out nearby.
Looking up at the windows of the buildings on the other side of the canal, I look for any sign that someone might be up there, keeping an eye on me. My eyes dart from window to window, but all I see are the reflections of the clear blue sky and -
“Jenny!”
Turning, I see Kate and Scott, two friends from university, waving at me as they wander past.
“You coming out tonight?” Kate calls out.
“Maybe,” I stammer.
“The Blue Lagoon at ten!”
I nod.
She smiles, and they keep going.
“Jenny?” my mother says after a moment, frowning as she stares at me. “Since when did you start using your middle name?”
“I'm just trying it out,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee.
“Jenny Bradshaw,” she mutters, as if she doesn't like the sound of it. She scrunches her nose up. “Jenny... Bradshaw...”
“You chose it,” I point out.
“Your father chose it,” she counters. “God knows why. I wanted your middle name to be Penelope. You know, something with eternal class. Or Audrey.”
“It's just something I thought I'd experiment with,” I continue, feeling distinctly prickly. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, but...” She reaches out and runs a finger through my hair, although I quickly pull away. “You look so different. Dying your hair, wearing new glasses, this whole new style you've got going on. I swear, darling, it's almost as if you're trying to become a completely different person. I almost didn't recognize you when we arrived at the airport yesterday.”
“It's normal to change things,” I point out. “I came to study in Amsterdam because I wanted to try a new lifestyle. There wouldn't have been much point coming all the way out here and then just doing the same old things, would there?” Feeling a little defensive, I take another sip of coffee. “Anyway, I haven't changed that much, it's just a few superficial things here and there. I'm still me.” I sigh. Damn it, it's true: I am still me.
“Any plans to come home for a visit?”
“Soon.”
“But when?”
“I don't know. Soon.”
“You've been saying that for eighteen months,” she continues, a little huffily. “This whole idea of coming to study in Amsterdam happened so suddenly, and now it's almost as if you've got no plans of ever coming back to London. I thought you were originally only going to do half a year out here?”
“I like it, so I decided to stay a little longer,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no-one's watching from one of the passing boats.
“Give her a break,” Bob chips in. “She's a young woman, it's natural for her to want to experiment. People these days are constantly changing their hair color and God knows what else. At least she hasn't gone and got a load of tattoos or piercings.”
“Exactly,” I continue, glad of the support, “and if -”
Before I can finish, a camera flash goes off nearby. I turn so fast, I almost knock the table over, and after a moment I see that two girls are looking at a picture they just took. I have no idea what they were aiming the camera at, but they're laughing and giggling at something. I guess two girls roughly my own age might be a pretty good cover, it's the kind of thing I'd never be expected to suspect, which at the same time makes me more nervous than ever. Besides, even if it's completely innocent and they weren't photographing me directly, there's still a chance that they could upload a picture to social media, and then facial recognition software might pick me out, and then...
“I suppose I wouldn't have to eat a whole one,” my mother says suddenly, nudging my elbow. “I could just have a nibble of a space cake, eh? Or a brownie or a rainbow cake, or whatever the best one is. The whole thing is so complicated and the menus don't seem to tell you very much. I was going to look it up online before we came, but I didn't want that sort of thing in my search history. Do you know which type of cake I should try, Elly? Or rather, Jenny?”
Turning to her, I pause for a moment. This entire conversation is completely surreal and definitely not one I want to be having with my mother. “No,” I tell her, “I don't have a clue.”
“Great load of help you are,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Oh, I can't come to Amsterdam and not try one, can I? It'd be such a waste.” She turns to Bob. “I'm not going into a coffee shop myself, though. You'll have to go in for me. And make sure you tell them it's for a first-timer, and let them know I only want a little buzz. I don't want to go off my rocker or whatever the modern term is for it. High as a kite, no, I don't want that.”
As they continue to discuss the impending test in excruciating detail, I turn and see that the two laughing girls have already left. It's as if they sat down for just a few minutes, took a photo, and then headed off. Glancing around, I try to spot them, but they seem to be long gone already. I know I shouldn't get paranoid, and I know they were probably just tourists, but these days I'm living in a state of constant tension and I feel as if I could crack at any moment.
They're coming. They're looking for me. And sooner or later, they're going to find me.
Mark
2008
I hold my breath.
Waiting.
Wondering.
What if I just stay like this, under the surface, and I never go back up? What if I let myself drown? The crystal c
lear Mediterranean wouldn't be a bad place to die. I could just let the water take me, and let the fish nibble at my body. No-one would ever have to bother with a funeral, and I could just return to nature. From here, the currents could wash me anywhere. Maybe I'd wash up on an Indian shore, and crabs would set about picking my bones clean. Doesn't sound too bad.
Then again...
Decision time.
I'm starting to run short of breath.
Looking up, I see people swimming several meters above. Holiday-makers, people who've come to this part of the world to relax. A kid paddles over on an inflatable raft, with another right behind him. They have no idea that I'm down here, and although I have friends on the shore, I doubt they'd make much of a fuss if I simply stayed down here.
I want to disappear.
I want to slip this life, this name.
I pause for a moment, listening to the water all around me.
Goddamit, I'm an idiot.
Pushing myself up from the sandy seabed, I break through the surface just a couple of seconds later and take a deep breath. The sounds of the world – the shouting, happy people nearby, and the splashing children by the water's edge – rush into my mind, and as I tread water, I turn and look toward the beach. I spot Meredith, and a moment later she smiles at me and wave. Instinctively, I smile and wave back, but I don't mean it. I don't mean any of it. Then again, maybe I was just being self-absorbed and arrogant. Damn it, even my existential crises are cliched.
