The Broken Trilogy

by Amy Cross

  I don't know who I am. Not really.

  Maybe I should have stayed down on the seabed. Bobbing along.

  ***

  “I lost track of you for a moment,” Meredith says a little later, as I sit on the next sunbed along and dry myself with a towel. “I was watching you out there, I don't mind admitting it, and when you went under, I waited for you to come up and...”

  I wait for her to continue, but when I look over at her I realize that she's already lost interest. She's reading one of the magazines she picked up at the beach shop, and she doesn't seem to have a care in the world. She's holding a pen between her teeth, and there's a half-finished word-search on the page. Weird. I met her at a rave, she was off her face on pills, and now here she is doing the same kind of word-search my grandmother used to enjoy. I can't help but smile.

  “Where would I go?” I ask, wrapping the towel around my waist and then reaching under to pull down my soaking wet swimming shorts.

  “God knows,” she mutters, glancing up at me. She takes takes the pen from her mouth and glances at my crotch. “Give us a flash, then.”

  “Meredith -”

  “Just a quick one. Jesus, don't be such a prudey McPruderson.”

  Realizing that she means it, I briefly part the towel to let her see my cock. She grins, and I cover myself up again. Glancing around, I see that no-one else was looking this way.

  “Well,” she says, looking back down at her magazine, “remind me to give that a good going-over when we get back to the hotel. You know I like to suck you off before dinner. Your dick is the perfect size for my mouth.”

  Smiling, I turn to grab my clothes, before noticing a woman sitting on a sunbed a little further up from the water. She's watching me from behind large, round sunglasses, and she seems to be making no attempt to hide the fact that I've attracted her interest. She's at the wrong angle to have seen anything when I flashed Meredith, but it's still a little disconcerting to see that she's watching me, and to realize that she doesn't care that I know. I stare at her for a moment, expecting her to look away, but she just keeps staring and staring, until finally I look back down at Meredith's back and see that she's started to catch the sun across her back and neck. Grabbing a bottle of lotion, I sit next to her and then start rubbing some lotion over her shoulders.

  “You like that, don't you?” she asks idly.

  “I don't want you to burn.”

  “Do you wanna fuck me in the ass later?”

  I pause. “Sorry?”

  “Just a thought. I know guys like that sort of thing.”

  “I'm not sure,” I tell her, glancing over at the woman on the other sunbed and seeing that she's still staring at me, almost as if she's challenging me to react. I look back down at Meredith. “It's never been my thing.”

  “Mine either,” she mutters, “but I thought I'd offer. According to this magazine, guys are obsessed with the bum-hole.” Turning to me, she lowers her sunglasses for a moment so that I can see her striking green eyes. “I'd hate to get in the way of your lust for anal sex. If you have such a lust, anyway.”

  “Can't say that I do.”

  “Huh.” She stares at me for a moment longer, before looking back down at the magazine. “Shame. Still, we'll give it a try, yeah? If we don't like it, we can always go back to the reliable old vag. Sorry, I hope you don't mind me being so open about these things, but there's no point being delicate. Call a spade a spade, eh?”

  I force a smile, but I can't help glancing at the woman again. She's still watching me, and still making no attempt to hide her attention. Figuring that she's just some lunatic who doesn't understand beach etiquette, I look back down at Meredith's back and continue to rub lotion into her skin.

  “I think I'd like to be anally penetrated,” she says after a moment, sounding mildly bored. “We'll try it later, Mark, and you must give it your all. You never know, you might like it. It might open up whole new doors for you. God knows, we need to find something that puts some spark into your eyes.”

  Elly

  Today

  “The quickest way to bring down a larger opponent is to go for the neck,” says the voice-over on the online video, as the screen shows two men demonstrating the move. “A clear, hard chop to the area outlined in red will drop the opponent to his knees instantly, and then -”

  Rewinding a few seconds, I watch again as the two men show exactly how the move is supposed to be performed. Once I'm sure I've got it right, I turn to the makeshift practice dummy I created out of some over-stuffed pillows, and I try to aim for the neck. It's not easy to practice self-defense moves in my cramped little room, but I quickly manage to send the pillow-man flopping down onto the floor between my desk and my bed. He lands on a pile of open textbooks and a few crumb-laden plates. Success, of a sort.

  “In my next video,” the voice-over continues, “I'll show you how to cause a massive amount of pain just by applying two fingers to a man's armpit. In the meantime, don't forget to hit the Like button, and subscribe so you don't miss any of my self-defense videos.”

  As the video ends, I can't help but sigh. I've been practicing with these things for the past eighteen months, and although I've become adept at beating my pillow-man to a pulp – even to the extent of having to regularly re-stuff him – I'm not so sure that I could translate those moves to an actual human opponent. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I don't see the confident, deadly figure I'd hoped to become; instead, I see the same frightened twenty-three-year-old who lives under constant fear of her life being ripped apart by an enemy she can't possibly see coming, and who she can't possibly stop. It was crazy to think I could somehow train myself to become a fighting machine.

  “Welcome to -”

  Before the next video can auto-play, I close the tab and switch to a news page. Checking my phone, I see that I've received more messages from Kate, asking if I'm going to meet her and some other people at one of the local bars. I don't get why they keep trying to get me to go out with them, since I'm not exactly fun company and I usually just end up glancing around in case someone sneaks up behind me. For a while, I even began to wonder whether Kate might be a plant, someone who was paid to come and get to know me, but I'm starting to think now that she's just a nice person, and that by contrast I'm becoming a paranoid freak.

  Just as I'm about to reply to her message, however, I spot a headline on the laptop:

  'Leading MP John Sebastian Dunn arrested over sex ring claims.'

  My blood immediately starts to run cold, and I stare at the headline for a few seconds, reading it over and over. I keep telling myself that it has to be wrong, that I've finally lost my mind and started imagining things, but slowly it dawns on me that I might be right. Pulling the laptop closer, I scroll down and see a familiar face in one of the photos.

  It's him.

  Mr. White.

  Within a fraction of a second, my whole body has begun to tremble. The sight of his face, even picked out as pixels on a screen, is enough to churn my stomach and give me flashbacks to that horrific night I spent in his machines:

  "You might be relieved to know that I won't actually be putting this withered old thing inside you," I remember him telling me as he stood naked in the room. "I don't fuck the girls I bring here, Elly. I use things on them. It's a much more convenient experience.”

  Images of that night flash through my mind, but finally I force myself to focus on the here and now. I start reading the news story, but my mind is spinning and I can't make sense of anything. I read the first line several times, but I'm starting to feel nauseous so after a moment I hit play on the video at the top of the page. A few seconds later, I see images of Mr. White being led out of his house in Central London, while a female reporter describes the story:

  “Senior figures in the party are refusing to comment on the arrest of Mr. Dunn, who has long been regarded as a grandee back-bencher, and sources have indicated that the Prime Minister is not planning to discuss the matter dur
ing election hustings tomorrow morning. The accusations against Mr. Dunn, however, continue to mount as it has emerged in the past hour that police believe he was involved in a sex ring that saw countless women being provided for the pleasure of high-ranking officials.”

  As the video continues, cameras flashes fill the screen as White is ushered into a police car. I recognize the house and the street: it's the same place where Mark dropped me off that night.

  “It's understood,” the reporter continues, “that Mr. Dunn's arrest is not the only one to have taken place today in connection with this investigation, but that he is considered to have been the lynchpin in an organization that claimed to have facilitated something known as the game. A source told me this evening, off the record and on condition of anonymity, that the game might have been active for many years, perhaps even preceding Mr. Dunn's involvement. A further police statement is not expected until tomorrow, by which time Mr. Dunn will have been questioned. All of Westminster is in shock, however, and braced for further revelations that could shock the political establishment to its core, and the detective in charge of the case says that the investigation is still at an early stage.”

  Suddenly another man appears on the screen, and I recognize him as the police officer who interviewed Mark about Christine Briggs a few years ago. Along the bottom of the screen, a caption identifies him as Detective Michael Stone, as he starts to speak to a reporter:

  “Obviously I can't say too much,” he tells her, “but we believe we've made significant inroads today and that a number of items located at this address should help us to identify other individuals who might have been involved in these events.”

  “But how could someone like Dunn operate for so long without being caught?” the reporter asks. “Have the police been covering these things up?”

  “I can assure you that there have been no cover-ups,” Stone replies, clearly a little annoyed by the implication. “If there was a cover-up, we wouldn't be here today conducting these raids.”

  “So there you have it straight from the horse's mouth,” the reporter says as the camera turns back toward her. “Police expect to be examining Mr. Dunn's London home, as well as properties in Cheshire and Lincolnshire, all through the night, and no further statements are likely to be issued before the morning. As to how these revelations might affect the upcoming general election, we can only wait and see.”

  The video ends, and I sit in stunned silence.

  Mr. White.

  The game.

  It's all out in the open.

  It's over.

  With trembling hands, I reach over to take my cup of tea from the bench, but I can barely hold it still without spilling. I've spent the past eighteen months running from these people, running from The Game, constantly worried that they'll catch up with me, and now...

  Unable to quite believe that it's true, I run the video again, and again, and then a fourth time. I just stare at the screen, feeling my mind going blank, until I realize that I have to get out of this room. It's as if the walls are starting to close in, and I swear to God, I'm about to start crying. Getting up, I accidentally drop the cup of tea, sending it tumbling down to the floor, where it smashes into several pieces.

  ***

  “I can't believe you came!” Kate shouts, struggling to be heard over the music in the bar. “You never come out!”

  Forcing a smile, I down another shot of vodka, almost gagging in the process. This is the first night I've drunk in more than a year, since I never trusted myself to be out of control, but right now I need to escape my thoughts, if only for a few hours. I just want to forget everything and pretend I don't exist. Unfortunately, despite having drunk six shots in the space of half an hour, I don't feel anything at all: my thoughts are still pin-sharp, and I'm not even remotely groggy. It's almost as if my body is so wired and tense, it won't let me lose control.

  “Slow down, though, yeah?” Kate continues, nudging my arm. “You don't wanna get hammered too early.”

  “I'm okay,” I reply, signaling to the barman for another. In my mind's eye, I keep replaying those images of Mr. White, seeing them over and over again. Is it possible that he's really been arrested, that the game is over, or is this all part of the trick? Then again, the same news story is playing on all the major websites, all around the world... I know the game is huge, but I can't believe they could fake something this massive and this public. I mean, it's one thing to be naturally cautious, but I don't want to be completely paranoid.

  That news report was real.

  The game is over.

  “Jesus Christ,” Kate laughs as I down the latest shot, number seven. “You're a fucking warrior, you know that? If I tried keeping up with you, I'd be on the floor by now!”

  “I'm fine,” I reply, wiping the corner of my mouth before turning to look across the dance-floor. Loud, thumping music is filling the room, and the rapidly flashing lights are picking out a sea of bodies dancing with abandon. For a moment, I watch one particular girl as she throws herself around in time to the music, and I can't help envying her. She looks as if she's forgotten all her cares, as if she's surrendered entirely to the evening, and I wish I could do that. Even with seven vodka shots in my stomach, however, I seem completely unable to get drunk. Getting drunk won't help me escape my thoughts, just as coming out to Amsterdam didn't help me escape my past.

  “Hey,” Scott says as he comes over, with a half-empty glass of beer in his hand, “you okay?”

  I nod, still watching as the dancing girl spins around. For a moment, time seems to drag and I see her in slow-motion, throwing herself into a series of moves as her long hair is tossed around behind her. When she opens her mouth to laugh, her teeth almost seem to be glowing under the lights.

  “Jenny's had seven shots,” Kate says, leaning across me. “Can you believe that? Seven!”

  “Seriously?” Scott replies, grinning as if he's impressed. “Jesus Christ, what are you, some kind of robot?”

  Staring at him, it takes me a moment to realize that he's talking to me. “Jenny,” I whisper, suddenly wondering whether I still need to use that name. After hiding for so long, maybe I can be Elly again. Maybe none of this matters anymore.

  “Back in a sec,” Kate continues, pushing past us, “just off to use the facilities.”

  “So are you having fun?” Scott asks me.

  I nod, watching as the dancing girl stumbles away into the crowd. She looks so happy, so carefree. I need to be like her, even if it's only for a minute or two.

  “Kate didn't think you'd come out,” Scott continues. “She thought it'd be another night when you say you'll meet us and then you don't show up.” He pauses, as if he expects me to find say something. “I mean, I was pretty sure you'd show. I don't know, I just had a feeling, like maybe -”

  “Fuck me,” I say suddenly, turning to him.

  He stares at me, clearly shocked.

  “Take me somewhere and fuck me,” I continue, trying not to sound too desperate. I had no idea these words were going to come out of my mouth until I spoke, but now I realize that if alcohol isn't going to help, I need to find something else. “Please.”

  “Well, um...”

  “I can find someone else if you won't do it,” I tell him. “I just... I need it, right now. I'm not a slut, I swear, I just... It's complicated.”

  He seems awkward, but at the same time there's a smile on his lips.

  “I'm not talking about something serious,” I continue, “I just want someone to fuck me right now. It only needs to take a few minutes, it can be outside in an alley, I don't care where you want to do it, I just need...” I pause for a moment, imagining us in bed. The thought is pretty horrific and embarrassing, but I can't shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, it might help clear my mind. “Will you do it or not?”

  “I...” He pauses. “Well, I guess...”

  “Come on,” I continue, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him through the crowd. The lights ar
e flashing everywhere, and drunk dancers keep bumping into me, but all I care about is getting Scott outside and finding somewhere for us to be alone for a few minutes. As soon as we get out onto the street, I look both ways before leading him along the edge of the canal, heading away from the busy part of town. There are drunks locals and tourists milling around everywhere, and people on bikes ringing their bells to get past.

  “So,” he says after a moment, “I don't want to be rude, Jenny, but... are you okay?”

  “I'm fine,” I reply, not even turning to him. There's an alley up ahead, I figure it'll give us some privacy for a few minutes.

  “I really didn't see this coming,” he continues. “I mean, I like you, totally, but -”

  “You talk too much,” I tell him, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than thinking about Mr. White and everything I left behind in London. Reaching the alley, I lead Scott past a set of bins before stopping and lifting my dress up, and then I pull my underwear down. I can hear people laughing and partying in the distance, but I doubt anyone'll decide to come wandering down this alley in the next few minutes.

  Scott stares at my crotch, as if he can't quite believe this is happening.

  “You have done this before, right?” I ask, suddenly starting to worry. “Please, tell me you're not a -”

  “No,” he replies, starting to unbuckle his trousers, “of course I have, just... Not like this. And now with... Well, I mean, I just never thought you'd... be like this...”

  “Do you need more?” I ask, slipping the straps off my dress and pulling the front down, before unhooking my bra and pulling it away to expose my breasts. I watch as he undoes his trousers, and finally I see his erect penis poking toward me. “I just need this,” I tell him, as I sit on a nearby wooden crate and open my legs as wide as possible. Reaching out, I take one of his hands and force it onto my right breast. “Does that help? Did you need some visual stimulation?”