by Amy Cross
“I need to tell you something,” Mark says suddenly.
“More revelations?”
“You want me to be completely honest, don't you?”
Sighing, I realize that he's serious.
“This way,” he adds, getting to his feet and heading along the corridor, before reaching a door at the far end and stopping to look back at me. “Elly, in here.”
“Mark, can't we just -”
“Please, Elly, it's important.” With that, he pushes the door open and heads inside.
Despite the fact that I feel as if I have no energy left whatsoever, I take a sip of coffee and then stand up. Carrying my polystyrene cup along the corridor, I reach the door and step through, only to find to my surprise that I'm in a small, dimly lit chapel with candles burning nearby. At the far end of the room, there's a fake stained glass window, back-lit to show a colorful representation of Jesus on the cross, and Mark is standing next to the altar.
“I didn't know this was here,” I tell him.
“For grieving families,” he replies, not turning to me.
“Are you religious?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Me neither,” I continue. “I mean, not really. I mean... Sometimes, when it suits me, I guess I kind of believe in God. Maybe.”
“Sit down,” he replies. “When you got that phone call earlier, I hadn't finished explaining things to you.”
“Mark, if there's more, I don't think this is the -”
“Sit down,” he says again, indicating one of the chairs nearby.
Heading over, I take a seat and look up at the stained glass. Regardless of everything else, I can appreciate the beauty of this room, and I like the sense of calm. I've never been religious, but at times like this, I wish I believed in God. I figure it might help.
“I'm sorry,” my father's voice whispers in my ear. “I think, deep down, you've already guessed what you're about to be told.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes, you have,” he continues. “It's just too horrible for you to admit.”
“You're going to hate me,” Mark says finally, turning to me. “With good reason, too. The lies, the deception... Everything I told you earlier was just the tip of the iceberg. You have no idea how deep the roots of this thing have grown into your life.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning...” He pauses. “Elly, you have to understand that I'd never say these things to hurt you. I should have told you sooner, but I'm telling you now.” Another pause. “Margaret Bradshaw is not your real mother, not by birth anyway, and Graham Bradshaw, the man you thought of as your father... They took you in a long time ago and raised you as their own, but they knew who you really are, and what you really are.”
My mind goes blank as I stare at him. I want to tell him he's lying, but there's something about the look in his eyes that makes me realize he's telling the truth.
“You're a child of the game,” he continues. “Like Thomas Pope, actually, but... Your real father was named Edward Longdale. He was the twenty-sixth Mr. Blue.”
“No,” I reply, even though I can already tell, deep down, that he's telling the truth.
“Your real mother was Carol Banks,” he tells me. “She was the eighteenth Lady Red.”
I shake my head.
“Thomas Pope was considered to be a missed opportunity,” Mark continues. “He was born a century ago to Jonathan Pope, the nineteenth Mr. Blue, and Lady Henrietta de Havilland, the twelfth Lady Red. They died shortly after his birth, and he was sent away. Later, certain interested parties within the game came to believe that it might have been better if he'd been raised to play his own part. Your parents, Elly, decided to set in train a series of events designed to end the game forever. They knew it would cost them their lives, but that was a price they were willing to pay. In a way, they were heroes.”
“No,” I say firmly, trying not to let my voice tremble.
“They were willing to sacrifice themselves,” he says firmly, “and that's exactly what they ended up doing, so that you might live and be raised in a manner that would...” He pauses, before stepping over to me. “All parents want the best for their offspring,” he continues, taking a seat nearby but leaving a few seats between us, as if he's worried I might try to hurt him. “That's what I've heard, anyway. I've never been a parent myself, but... Your parents wanted the best for the world, Elly. I don't want to say that they were willing to sacrifice you, but they understood that if just one person was raised specifically to end the game, a lot of suffering would end. So two associates, two people who knew a little of the game and who could be trusted to keep secrets, agreed to raise you as their own. Those associates were Graham and Margaret Bradshaw, and -”
“You're lying,” I tell him. “My parents didn't know anything about the game.”
“They knew what they needed to know, and no more. They went into the whole thing willingly, with their eyes open. They understood the basics of the game, and why it was so important that you should be protected. They knew that a child of the game, especially a girl, would be the only one who could make it all stop. Thomas Pope himself talked to them and helped them to see the truth. After that, I think the decision was probably quite easy. They raised you as their own, and they truly loved you. You have to believe that.”
I shake my head.
“I think you know I'm telling the truth,” he continues. “Deep down, Elly, you can tell.” He pauses, watching me carefully as if he's trying to work out how I'm reacting. “Graham was the first one who broke the rules,” he adds finally. “Lady Red, the previous Lady Red, received some messages from him, questioning whether it was right for you to be drawn into the game. She knew immediately that a problem had arisen. Graham had already begun to stray from the central mission, he'd even contacted an old lover, Felicity Haughton, and rekindled their relationship. He was a good man, perhaps too good to go through with the plan, so...”
I wait for him to finish.
“So?” I ask eventually.
“He was dealt with.”
“Dealt with? What the hell does that mean?” I wait, but suddenly he seems unable to continue. “Mark,”I say firmly, with tears in my eyes, “what did they do to him?”
“It was a heart attack,” he continues. “I didn't know about the plan until it had been carried out. Alice arranged the whole thing in her capacity as Lady Red. I knew I'd be meeting you shortly and I didn't want to be burdened with the knowledge of what had really happened, so I asked to be kept in the dark as much as possible. All I know is that Graham Bradshaw's heart attack was induced. I suppose you could say he was murdered, to keep him from ruining everything. And your mother, Margaret, accepted all of this because she still believed in the importance of your role.”
I shake my head. “You're lying.”
“She was a very good actress,” he adds. “I remember the day of your father's funeral. My God, that woman was so convincing. I honestly don't know how she did it, but to be honest, I found the whole thing a little terrifying. She lied and she lied and she lied, and she kept up the pretense... Right to the end, she acted like a ditzy fool.”
“My mother wasn't a liar.”
“Margaret Bradshaw wasn't your mother. She was your guardian. One of them, anyway. Your real parents died.”
I shake my head again, as the first tears start to roll down my cheeks. I've been holding them back for so long, but now I can't stop them.
“Raven knew the whole truth, of course,” Mark continues. “Until late on, at least. As I told you before, Alice began to fear that he was deviating from the course, that instead of adjudicating the game he was actually working to keep it going, which in turn meant working to keep you from succeeding. Even now, I think Alice might have been right. Raven wants to stop you.”
“My parents were really my parents,” I say firmly, although my voice is already starting to crack.
“They were very good to you,” he replies,
“and they looked after you, and they raised you well, but they weren't your parents, not by blood. The only thing they gave you was your name. You were still so young when they took you in, they were permitted to choose a new name for you, and that's how you became Elly Bradshaw.”
I pause for a moment, trying to take all of this in, before getting to my feet and stepping past him, heading for the door. I feel as if I'm going to throw up at any moment, or faint, or just explode and start hurting someone. Whatever happens, I need to be alone.
“Your whole life up to this point has been constructed around you,” he calls after me. “Elly, you need me. We need each other, we can work to -”
“What's my real name?” I ask, stopping at the door and turning to him. “If it's not Elly, then what name did my birth parents give me?”
“I don't see what -”
“Tell me.”
“Elly -”
“You owe me that!” I shout, stepping toward him. For a moment, I feel as if I might actually punch him, but I manage to hold back, despite the tears in my eyes. “I deserve to know my real fucking name!”
He pauses. There are tears in his eyes, but they're probably fake. I guess he's had plenty of practice over the years, learning how to fake emotions and act like he cares. “Sophie,” he says finally. “Your name is Sophie Longdale.”
“Sophie,” I whisper, feeling a shiver run through my body. “No, I like Elly better.”
“Me too.”
“I'm not Sophie Longdale,” I continue, as the sense of panic in my gut fades and I start to feel cold, like ice. “That name, it doesn't... It can't be me...”
He gets to his feet. “Elly -”
“Leave me alone,” I say firmly.
“Elly -”
“This is over,” I continue, somehow managing to keep from bursting into tears. “All of it. The game, the running, the stupidity, it's all done. No more.” I pause, trying to work out how I can make him accept what I'm saying. “If you ever come near me again,” I add finally, “I will kill you, do you understand?”
“You can't escape the game.”
“I will kill you,” I say again. “Look at me, Mark. What do I have left to lose? You're not the only one who's been led over a line and encouraged to do things they'd never have done before. If you think I wouldn't kill you, that the old Elly you met a couple of years ago would never do anything like that, then try to remember that it's been eighteen months since you last saw me and a lot has happened in that time. For one thing, I sure as hell am not playing this stupid game anymore. If that means someone comes and hurts me, then fine, let them, but I'm not playing. If I ever see your face again, I will take a knife and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He stares at me.
“Do you understand?” I shout, barely able to keep from hurrying over to him and wrapping my hands around his throat.
“I understand, but -”
“Good,” I say firmly, opening the door. “If you happen to speak to anyone else who's mixed up in this stupid mess, tell them the same thing. Tell them Elly Bradshaw doesn't care anymore. Tell them she's going to live her own life, by her own rules, and she's not going to waste another second thinking about this bullshit. I'm out of the game. I'm not playing anymore, I don't care if it ends or not, and I never want to see, hear from or think about any of you again. It's over. Got it?”
He pauses. “Got it.”
“Goodbye,” I add, stepping out of the chapel and letting the door swing shut.
Spotting Bob at the other end of the corridor, I hurry to the toilets and head into one of the cubicles, before locking the door and then closing my eyes. I want to believe that Mark was lying, that everything he just told me is part of some insane fabrication, but deep down in my gut I somehow know that it's true. There are tears in my eyes, but they refuse to fall down my cheeks now, instead building and building as I feel the pressure in my head getting stronger. Eventually I crouch down and put my head in my hands, feeling as if my mind is about to explode. I try to push the dark thoughts out, to ignore everything, but it's all becoming too much.
Finally, I scream.
Part Five
Game Over
Mark
Today
Once she's gone, I turn and look up at the stained-glass window. I knew it was a long-shot to explain the truth to her, but I still had to try. I owed her that much.
I don't blame her for hating me. I could have saved her so much pain if I'd just done the right things before I met her, but I kept thinking that I'd somehow find the right path. I guess I thought that somehow I'd be able to guide her through the game and help her win, but now I guess I don't have that chance.
I still remember the very last chance I had to save her, when she came to the hotel a couple of years ago and told me that she was determined to keep going and take her place in the game:
"I came back," said that day, with a confident smile.
“Why?” I remember asking.
"Because..." There was a hint of doubt in her eyes at that point, but it quickly passed. "Because I feel like you were testing me," she told me, "and I don't like failing when people test me. And because I think that when you pushed me away, it was part of the test. Mr. White, the car crash... everything was part of the test."
And that was when I should have told her.
I should have warned her.
Instead, I did the worst thing possible. I fell in love with her and I let her stay. I was selfish, I wanted her around when I should have warned her to run. Maybe she wouldn't have got very far, but at least there was a chance, at least I could have tried to spare her this misery.
There's only one way I can help her now, and it's the one thing I was hoping to avoid.
Elly
Today
“I always hated funerals,” my father says, whispering in my ear as I stand at the door of the crematorium. It's a dull, gray Monday lunchtime, and although it's not actually raining, the heavens are clearly about to open at any moment. Great. It's as if the weather is conspiring to make this day as miserable as possible. The worst part is, so far my mother's funeral seems to be a carbon copy of my father's.
Glancing through the door, I spot the pews at the front where, a few years ago, I sat with my mother. She was fussing so much, and sobbing, and now I find myself replaying Mark's words over and over again. Was the whole thing fake? Was her grief a show, to make the lie more convincing? Or was Mark just lying, and trying to use my father's death as part of some sick attempt to explain his own actions?
“You know I'm not really talking to you, don't you?” my father's voice continues, as I turn and see guests getting out of their cars on the other side of the parking lot. “You know I'm a defense mechanism, right? This is your brain's way of not cracking up. You're just doing a very good impression of me.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“It's also your way of analyzing things,” he adds. “You seem to remember extra details when you filter them through an imagined version of my voice. I've got to admit, Elly, that's a little weird, but I guess if it works for you, it works for you. Oh, wait, I called you Elly... Sorry, should I not do that? Would you prefer it if I called you Sophie?”
“I...”
Before I can reply, I realize that the gaggle of guests is getting closer, and they'd probably notice me talking to myself. Time to plaster a fake smile on my face and play the role of the grieving daughter.
“Hey,” I say, handing a folded A5 sheet of paper into their hands, “I'm glad you could make it.”
They smile politely as they head inside. I didn't recognize any of them, and thankfully they didn't make a big fuss. Maybe they don't know that I'm Margaret's daughter, or maybe they just feel as if they shouldn't say anything. Either way, I prefer that approach. I'm sure there'll be some people I recognize, and they'll make a hell of a fuss over me.
“Why don't you use my voice in your head?” my mother whispers suddenly.
Instinctively, I turn to look at her, only to remember that she's not here.
“Because you're angry at me?” she asks. “Oh, don't be angry, you silly bugger. Everything I did, I did to protect you.”
“Elly,” Bob says, making his way over while tugging at his collar, trying to loose his tie, “how are you doing?”
“Fine,” I reply. “Glad to talk to someone who isn't a disembodied voice for once.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Forget it,” I mutter, glancing across the parking lot to make sure that there are no new arrivals yet. “How are you doing?” I ask, turning back to him.
“Oh, I'm...” He pauses, and I can tell he's going through a huge amount of pain. “Getting on with things, you know? I suppose it's best to keep busy at these things. There are so many people coming, your mother was a very popular woman.”
“Yep,” I mutter, as Bob takes the printed sheets from me and starts counting them.
“I'm not sure there'll be enough,” he frets, clearly focusing far too much on the small things.
“Don't worry,” I reply, gently taking them back from him. “I'll work it out.” I pause for a moment, as a couple more cars arrive. “Bob, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Did my mother ever say anything to you about a woman, or a girl, named Sophie Longdale?”
He stares at me for a moment. “No,” he says finally, with a hint of a frown. “I don't think so, anyway. Why?”
“It's important. Are you sure she never mentioned that name, not even once?”
“Well...” He pauses. “Maybe some context would help. What might she had said about her?”
“Oh, I think you'd remember the context if it had come up,” I tell him. “What about that John Sebastian Dunn case?”
“The politician who died?”
“Did she mention anything about it?”
“She said it was sick. Like any right-minded person.”
