by Amy Cross
Glancing at the photo again, I see Mr. White's startled face lit up by camera flashes as he's about to be driven away in the back of a police car. I feel a shiver pass through my body as I think back to all the other times I saw that face, including the night when he pushes me beyond my limits with his various machines. I ended up in the hospital after suffering a heart attack, and even that wasn't enough for him. He and Alice kept pushing me, testing me almost to destruction. And then I remember the very last time I saw Mr. White, when I was leaving his office. I'd already worked out my plan to escape, and I was terrified that he was onto me. Not once did I ever see the confidence leave his eyes. He seemed like the kind of man who had the entire world worked out, the kind of man who couldn't possibly lose.
“You'll be here again on Monday, Lady Red?” he'd called out to me that night.
“Of course,” I remember telling him. “We have so much to do.”
I left London just a few hours later, heading for Amsterdam. And now I'm back.
Glancing across the arrivals lounge at Heathrow, I watch as passengers hurry past in various directions. When I left London eighteen months ago, I actually wasn't sure that I'd ever come back. I've always loved London, I feel British through and through, but I figured I might have to keep running for the rest of my life. Part of me wanted to just disappear into the world and abandon every last vestige of my life as Elly Bradshaw. I had vague plans of buying a new black-market identity, faking my death, and starting a completely new life somewhere else. Of course, none of that really worked out. I managed to start using my middle name, but I never made any black-market connections, and I don't think I'm the kind of person who's cut out for a life on the run. I was able to get by financially on the money I took from Lady Red's apartment, along with some extra income that I earned as a freelancer on various websites, but it wouldn't have lasted forever. I guess I always knew that one day -
“You gonna buy that?” a voice asks suddenly.
Turning, I see that the guy behind the counter is watching me, and he doesn't look impressed.
“This isn't a library,” he adds, with a voice that sounds like a bag of gravel.
“No, it's fine,” I reply, folding the newspaper and putting it back on the stand, before hurrying away and heading toward the train station.
“Sorry,” a man says, almost bumping into me.
I slip past him, but I can't help glancing over my shoulder to make sure that he's not watching me. He hurries toward the departure lounge and doesn't look back at me, so I guess -
“Jesus!” a woman shouts as we collide, almost knocking both of us over.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling my backpack onto my shoulders again.
“You should watch where you're going!”
“Sorry.”
“Goddamn idiot!”
Hurrying away, I reach the ticket machines at the train station and quickly buy a ticket that'll get me into London, before heading down to the underground platforms. To be honest, there was a part of me that thought I wouldn't even make it this far, that I'd be stopped at passport control. After all, Mr. White has high-level connections, and I'm not even sure that he won't implicate me in everything he's been doing. As far as he's concerned, I'm still Lady Red, which means I'm still part of The Game, which means he won't go down without taking me with him. So far, however, I see to be getting through the airport unnoticed, even if I feel as if I might have another heart attack at any moment.
Then again, at least that'd be an easy way out of this mess.
A few minutes later, as the train pulls out of the station, I take a deep breath and look around at the other passengers. It feels strange to be back in Britain again; I'd forgotten how this country smells, how it sounds, how the rhythm of life is just a little different to the rhythm anywhere else in the world. For a moment, as the train emerges from a tunnel and rushes past tower blocks and industrial estates, I actually feel glad to be back, almost as if this is where I belong. When the train pulls into the station at Hatton Cross, I find myself watching as other people get on and off, and I realize that maybe I should never have run away in the first place.
Maybe I should have stayed and fought.
The train rattles on, stopping briefly at the three Hounslow stations before continuing toward Osterley. Having not slept at all last night, not even after going to the bar and then having that sordid encounter with Scott in the alley, I finally start to feel tired. With my backpack resting on my knees, I involuntarily start to learn forward, and I soon start zoning out a little, allowing myself to be gently rocked into a light sleep by the rhythm of the train. I hear and feel the carriages pulling into Osterley, and I keep my eyes closed as I listen to the swishing of the doors and the sounds of people getting off and on, and moments later we're on our way again. Slipping deeper into sleep, I start to block out the sounds of the other passengers until everything seems to become completely silent.
And then I hear a faint buzzing sound.
Sitting up straight, I look at the opposite seat and see that it's empty. The train is still rattling along toward the next station, but as I look around I realize that there are only two other people in the entire carriage, and they're sitting at opposite ends, with their faces turned away from me. I look down at my backpack for a moment and tell myself that I'm just being paranoid, but at the back of my mind I still have this slow, creeping sensation that something's wrong. Taking a deep breath, I try to compose my thoughts and focus on the fact that I'm back in Britain, that I'm going to go back to my mother's house today so that I can work out what to do next, that my life in Amsterdam is over...
After a moment, I hear footsteps nearby and I become aware of the two other passengers approaching me from either end of the carriage, until finally they stop nearby. I keep my eyes on the backpack, but I can tell I'm being watched, and eventually I look up and see that the two men – one around my age, the other in his forties or early fifties – are watching me calmly. They don't seem to be making any effort to hide their interest, and it's almost as if they're expecting me to be the one who breaks the silence.
“Well?” the older man asks eventually. “What do you want us to do?”
I stare at him, before turning to the other man.
“There's never been a situation quite like this before,” the younger man adds. “We had no choice but to wait for you to come back. Why didn't you get in touch sooner? You could have at least let us know that you were planning to return, instead of leaving us to monitor the passenger lists of every aircraft, boat and train entering the country. The cost alone was enormous.”
“I...” Pausing, I try to stay calm. “I think you've got me confused with someone else.”
“I don't think so,” the older man says.
“I'm not -”
“Lady Red,” he continues. “We've been waiting for you.”
“I'm not Lady Red. I don't know who -”
“Elly, please,” he adds, interrupting me, “you must know that there's no point lying. The game continues as ever, and as Lady Red you must resume your position at the pinnacle of the organization. Mr. Blue has already identified some candidates for the next phase, we're simply awaiting your agreement that it's safe to proceed. Obviously the arrest of the previous Mr. White has caused some complications and a great deal of unwelcome publicity, the game was almost revealed to the public due to his carelessness, but we feel the situation is going to come back under control. We took the only decision that was available to us in your absence. Now that you're back, of course, full control returns to you.”
“No,” I reply, looking along the carriage and trying not to panic as I realize that we're alone. “You've got the wrong person.”
“Please -”
“I don't want to do this!” I shout, pushing my bag aside and getting to my feet. “Leave me alone!”
“You're Lady Red,” the older man says calmly, as if that simple statement settles everything.
“I d
on't want to be Lady Red,” I tell him, with tears streaming down my face. “I never wanted to be part of this! I just wanted to be normal!”
“Normal?” he replies, as if the word means nothing to him.
“I don't want this!”
“I don't think Lady Red can be normal,” the younger man says with a faint smile, stepping toward me. “The game persists, always. Did you really think that hundreds of years of history would simply come stuttering to a halt?”
As I step back, I realize that the train has begun to move faster than ever, to the extent that the carriages are starting to shake a little. It's almost as if we're running out of control.
“The best thing,” the older man continues, “is for you to come with us. As Lady Red, you have many duties to perform, including -”
“No,” I say firmly, interrupting him.
“Are you abdicating your responsibilities?”
“I never accepted them in the first place!”
“That's right, you ran away.”
“The game has to stop!” I shout.
“It can only stop when someone wins,” he reminds me.
“How can someone win?” I ask, wiping tears away.
“You know how.”
“I really don't. Tell me and I'll -”
“There's only one way for the game to end,” he continues, stepping toward me as the train speeds up again. “You do know, deep down, even if you don't want to admit it. You can't leave the game by running, Elly. It will always, always catch up to you, or it will always be waiting for you to return. You can only leave the game by winning, and you can only win by being the last one standing and then, only then, you have to take the final step.”
“I don't know what that is!”
“Then you'll lose,” he replies, “and you know what losing means.”
I shake my head.
“Is that your choice?” Mr. Blue asks. “Do you choose to leave the game?”
“I can't do this,” I reply. “I tried, but -”
“Losing carries a certain penalty.”
“I can't win,” I tell him. “I tried, but there's nothing I can do!”
“Then we shall permit you to leave,” Mr. White says calmly, “in the only way possible.”
Before I can reply, the train lurches to one side and then the carriage leaps the tracks, slipping over onto its side as the wheels start screeching against the rails. I try to grab hold of the handrail, but it's too late: the entire carriage tumbles onto its roof and then starts rolling, smashing itself to pieces and sending me slamming window and then into the metal ceiling with such force that I swear I can feel my brain being pushed against the back of my skull. I try to call out, to scream for help, but the sheer force of the impact is enough to knock me out as the carriage rolls and rolls, completely out of control. Before I can even think about moving, there's the sound of an explosion followed by a massive burst of flames that envelop me completely, and I feel my skin starting to burn away -
“No!” I shout, sitting up suddenly and finding that I'm still in my seat, with my backpack still on my knees. The other passengers are staring at me as if I've completely lost my mind.
Looking around, I realize that everything's back to normal. The carriage is rattling along the tracks, and all the others people in the carriage seem to be absolutely fine. There's no sign of the two men who approached me, and as the train slows and finally stops at Boston Manor station, I realize that I must have nodded off for a few minutes and started to dream about the game again. Everything felt so real, so intense, but I guess I've been on edge lately, which means my fears must have burst through from my subconscious mind. Looking down at my trembling hands, I realize I can still feel the sensation of my skin being burned to a crisp.
“Are you okay?” asks the woman sitting next to me. Reaching into her pocket, she takes out a small metal tin. “Do you want a mint?”
“I'm fine,” I tell her, trying to regather my composure. “I'm... I'm totally fine...”
“Don't worry about some stupid game,” she adds.
I stare at her. “What did you say?”
“You were muttering away in your sleep there,” she continues, smiling at me. “Something about a game you didn't want to play. You seemed very upset about it.”
“No,” I reply, as the train's doors slide open, “I just...” I pause for a moment, keenly aware that everyone else in the carriage is staring at me, before suddenly I realize that I have to get out of here. Grabbing my backpack, I hurry over to the door and then out onto the platform. I feel as if I can barely breathe, so as the train pulls out of the station I make my way to a bench and take a seat. My heart is pounding, and for a moment I swear there's a faint, dull ache in my left arm.
“There's only one way for the game to end,” says the voice from my dream, ringing in my ears. “You do know, deep down, even if you don't want to admit it.”
“No,” I whisper, “I don't know, I don't know anything. The game's over, it has to be...”
“You okay, love?” asks a man standing nearby.
Looking over at him, I almost expect him to suddenly reveal himself as the next Mr. White, but he just looks a little confused. I guess I probably seem like a complete nutter, sitting here and muttering to myself on a cold London morning, with my backpack on my knees.
“Sorry,” he adds, “I just thought...” He pauses, before looking down at his newspaper.
“I'm fine,” I mutter, getting to my feet and hurrying along the platform. “Everything's fine.”
***
“Fucking disgusting pervert,” mutters the barman at the King's Arms as he glances up at the television screen, which is silently playing images of John Sebastian Dunn being led into a court building. “Can't say I'm surprised, though. That's the kinda thing people with power do, isn't it? You hear rumors about it all the fucking time.”
Instead of replying, I simply stare at the screen. It's so strange seeing a hint of fear in Mr. White's eyes, and although there's a part of me that worries this is still all a trick, I find it hard to believe that he's such a good actor. He looks so old, as well, as if he's finally surrendered to the inevitable and accepted that his days as the all-conquering Mr. White are over. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“The worst thing,” the barman continues, “is that a bloke like him is gonna get a right cushy deal. If you ask me, they should bring back the death penalty for those bastards. It's sick, what they were up to. What's the good in having the state pay to bang 'em up for the rest of their lives? Tie a noose around their necks, or better still, put up a fucking guillotine in Parliament Square. That'd soon act as a deterrence, know what I mean?”
“What exactly have they been saying on the news?” I ask, turning to him. “I've been traveling all morning, I couldn't keep up.”
“They reckon he was procuring girls for all these horrible parties.”
“Girls?”
“Well, women,” he adds, “like, all legal, but still... They reckon some of 'em ended up dead, too. I reckon it's just the tip of the iceberg, they're gonna find all sorts of stuff if they go lifting up all the rocks. The police aren't much better, either. They must've been protecting bastards like Dunn for years, pushing investigations under the carpet and pretending like nothing was happening. It's one law for the rich and powerful, and another for people like you and me. Still, I guess Dunn finally upset the wrong people, didn't he? Someone obviously pulled his protection and let his little house of cards come crashing down.”
“I guess so,” I mutter, watching the screen for a moment longer before turning to look across the room. When I used to come to the King's Arms, it had a terrible reputation as one of the most notorious dives in the whole city. There were regular band nights, regular fights, drug-dealers in the toilets, and it was said that in the past the place was a haven for murderers and killers. When I arrived today, however, I found that everything had changed. The King's Arms is a win
e bar and gastro-pub now, and the burger I ordered has arrived not on a plate but on a piece of slate, along with a small metal bucket of fries.
The impossible has happened. The King's Arms has been gentrified.
Hearing the door open, I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone I recognize. When an elderly man enters, however, I realize that the days of seeing old friends in this place are probably over. Looking up at a nearby wall, I spot a grainy photo of a large, heavily-scarred man.
“Darius Wolff,” the barman explains. “He used to own this place a century ago. They say he was the hardest man in the whole of London. Until he got his throat cut by a customer, anyway. The new owners want to get away from the old reputation, but I figured it was only right to keep one little souvenir of how it used to be. You can't completely wipe out the past, can you?”
“No,” I mutter, glancing at the screen again and watching as the reporter addresses the camera, with the volume turned down to zero, “I guess you can't. It always -” Suddenly a flash of red appears on the screen, along with the words Breaking News. The reporter seems troubled, as if she's hearing some new information over her earpiece. “Hey,” I continue, turning to the barman, “can you turn this up?”
Grabbing the remote control, he increases the volume until I'm able to hear the reporter's words:
“-just to confirm, and in fact we have received confirmation in the past few seconds from a source, so...” She pauses. “Yes, I can confirm that an official announcement is expected in the next few minutes, but multiple sources have now said that John Sebastian Dunn, the MP arrested yesterday in connection with a high-level sex ring, has been found dead in his cell. Reports suggest that he was found hanging, and that although there will of course be a full investigation, the incident is being treated as suicide.”
“Bloody hell,” the barman mutters with a smile, “I guess he couldn't handle the shame, could he?”
“That man never had a moment's shame in his life,” I whisper, feeling as if I'm going into shock as I stare at the screen. “He didn't kill himself. Someone silenced him.”
