by Amy Cross
"Then let us acknowledge our desires," I reply. "Leave Benjamin, and together we shall leave the game entirely. We shall travel the world, and we shall never let anyone or anything find us".
"It's not that simple".
"It's exactly that simple," I continue. "Why do we have to continue to play? If Mr. White is the only problem, then we can deal with him. I spoke with him this evening, and it's clear that he has certain suspicions. I fear that he's onto us, and we'd do well to start planning a way to get away from his influence. We've killed so many people. Most of them were innocent. Why should we not kill a man who has so much blood on his hands?"
"That would achieve nothing," she replies. "The game would still find us".
"You talk about the game as if it's alive".
"It is," she says. "I'm certain of it. I feel as if there's some other force moving through our lives, guiding everything. Believe me, Jonathan, I've witnessed the results of the game's attentions. It has the ability to reach out and..." She pauses, as if she can't quite find the right words. "You mustn't think that I've lost my mind, but the truth is, the game is bigger than any of us could ever have imagined. We're not in control. I know that in my role, as Lady Red, I'm supposed to know everything, but there are parts of the game that are hidden from me".
"But if -" I start to say.
"Listen to me!" she shouts, grabbing my arms. "The game can correct mistakes. It has methods. I've long suspected that there are agents in the world, directed by the game itself. We've made mistakes, Jonathan, and the game is going to correct those mistakes. The game is going to put itself back on course, and that means..." Her voices trails off, and it's clear that she's terrified. For the first time since I met her all those years ago, she seems to be losing control of the way that the game is unfolding.
"You speak as if we're in real danger," I say.
She nods. "You have no idea how far the game has spread its influence. It's like a cancer, pervading all parts of modern society. Often, it goes under different names, but it can effect great change and great chaos. It has agents in the shadows, working to keep the game on-track. If those agents are directed to protect the game, they'll act with ruthless glee. It's happened before, and it can happen again".
"What kind of agents?" I ask.
Pulling away from me, she walks over to the window and stares out at the night sky. "I believe that a man arrived today," she says eventually. "I have spies along the river, and they tell me that there was an unusual passenger who came to London this morning. I can't be certain, but I believe he's the man whose arrival I have been anticipating for many years". She turns to me. "His name is Pagen Romm, and I'm quite certain that the game intends to use him in order to correct recent events. There is, of course, only one way that this will be achieved, and that is by killing us. Even now, I fear that such a man is on his way to find us".
"Impossible," I reply. "How could the game enlist the help of a man?"
"Because the game is alive," she insists. "I've told you over and over again. The game is sentient. It has a mind of its own. None of us can even begin to fathom the true depths of its influence, but it's everywhere! That's why we can't run, and it's why..." She pauses, as if there's some great horror that she can't bring herself to acknowledge.
I stare at her, shocked that such a resolute and rational woman could have degenerated to the point where she believes in such strange and arcane ideas. There's simply no way that the game itself can be alive; the fact that Lady Red is suggesting such a thing is a clear indication, in my view, that her sanity is starting to fail. I've always seen her as someone who views the world in a cold and rational manner, but now she seems to be promoting ideas filled with phantom menace. This strong, powerful woman suddenly seems frail and scared.
"There is no man coming for us," I say firmly, walking over to her and putting a hand on her bare waist. As she turns to me, I see the fear in her eyes. "This isn't like you. We're in charge of the game. It's not the other way around. We're the ones who decide the destiny of the players".
She stares at me for a moment, and finally I see a faint smile cross her lips. "That's why I like to keep you around," she says, with a hint of sadness in her voice. "You're so optimistic, Jonathan. You always see the possibility of a strong and vibrant future". Stepping closer, she places her hands on my chest. "Do you know what might take my mind of things right now?"
"I came because we need to -"
"Everything can wait," she says, placing a finger against my lips. "My husband is away for the night".
"We need to talk about the game," I say firmly.
"The game can wait until morning," she replies. "First, there is something I must tell you. I can only pray that you will not turn your back on me, for this is the most unexpected news we could ever have received. You must promise not to tell Mr. White".
"I promise," I reply.
Slowly, she takes my hand and moves it down to her belly.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"All those times we've made love," she continues, with tears in her eyes. "It has been a long time since my husband was in my bed. There has only been you".
"Of course," I say, "but -"
"I am with child," she says, her voice trembling. "There has never, in the history of the game, been a pregnancy, but now..." She looks down at her belly. "This is against all the rules. The game will not permit a child to be born. Our secret can no longer be kept hidden, Jonathan. A child is to be born into the heart of the game itself, and our sin is sure to be punished".
Book Two:
Suspicion
Elly
Today
Sitting up in bed, I let the white silk sheet slip down to expose my bare breasts. Something's wrong; there's some noise, far off in the spacious apartment. Something, or someone, is stirring.
"Mark?" I call out.
Silence.
Well, not exactly silence. There's something, a noise but not a noise; more of a sensation, really. Mark's apartment is white and minimalist, stripped back to the bare essentials. Somehow, the openness and quiet of the place seems to amplify the silence, making it louder and more immediate. It's our first morning back in London, and I feel incredibly unsettled.
"Mark?"
Nothing.
It's 7am. Reaching across to the other side of the bed, I feel no warmth. Mark has clearly been up for a while. I know I should just go back to sleep; after all, if he needed me, he'd have let me know. At the same time, I'm wide awake and I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.
Pulling the silk sheets away, I reach down and grab my panties. I don't mind walking topless through the apartment, but somehow I feel as if I should at least be wearing something. Once I'm wearing the panties, I leave the bed and head over to the door, where I lean out into the corridor and listen for some sign that Mark's still here. It occurs to me that maybe he's already left for work, except I know for a fact that he was supposed to be working from home today. Something's definitely not right.
Walking along the corridor, my bare feet squeaking on the marble floor, I soon reach the front room. London's early morning sunlight is streaming through the wall-length window, bathing the room in a warm orange glow that highlights the immaculate lack of dust in the apartment. I hear the air condition adjust to my presence; bio-tags in the bracelet around my wrist are encoded with information about my preferences, and the apartment is changing the temperature accordingly. It's as if the place is alive.
"Mark?" I call out, my voice sounding small and empty. I step forward and catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs next to the drinks cabinet. I look... I don't know, it's weird, but I don't really look like myself. Suddenly I feel a little self-conscious about being topless, even though there doesn't seem to be anyone around. It's as if -
Turning, I realize there's a noise coming from the kitchen. I hurry through, to find that it's just a drip coming from the tap.
"You're up early," Mark says.
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br /> Spinning around, I find that he's standing right behind me, already dressed in the crisp suit he wears every day.
"Where were you?" I ask, my heart racing. I don't get how he managed to sneak up behind me.
"I couldn't sleep," he says. He steps past me and goes straight to the fridge, where he takes out a glass bottle of ice-cold water. "You want some?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Thanks".
"You sure?" he asks, walking back to me with a smile. He holds the bottle out so that it brushes against my left nipple; the extreme cold makes me step back, while a shiver runs through my body. "Everyone needs water," he adds, taking a sip.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"You think something's wrong?"
"You seem thoughtful," I tell him. "I mean, I guess you always seem thoughtful, but the last couple of days, it's been different".
"Has it?" He pauses. "How?"
I stare at him. It's a good question; something has changed in Mark, something subtle but important. It's been a month since I decided not to go back to Bristol, and a few days since we got back from that tumultuous trip to Zurich. I could have gone back to university, but instead I moved in here and we spent the first ten days or so making love; we were in bed almost all the time, having sex half a dozen times a day in a kind of amorous haze. I started to get sore, but I didn't care. It was invigorating and stimulating and exhausting, and then a couple of days ago it just stopped. A dark pall seemed to come across Mark; he no longer initiated sex, and he began to rebuff my advances. It's now been almost a day and a half since he was inside me, which might not sound like very long, but it's a drought by our standards. I mean, I know the initial passion has to wear off at some point, but this is something different; this is an ice age compared to how things were before. I keep pretending that he's just reacting to Isabella Raynard's death, but I get the feeling that the problem is something deeper and more personal. It's almost as if he's running from something, as if he's constantly scared that someone's going to catch up to him.
"Well," he says with a smile, "when you figure it out, perhaps you'll let me know".
"Is it me?" I ask, immediately regretting the choice of words. I close my eyes, inwardly cursing my naivety. If there's one guaranteed way to drive a guy away, it's surely this kind of defensive, under-confident approach. "That's not what I meant," I continue, opening my eyes. "I meant -"
"It's not you," he replies, interrupting me. "There's really nothing wrong, Elly. I don't quite get what you're talking about". He reaches down, grabs the elastic of my panties, and gives them a quick flick. "Don't get your knickers in a twist".
"You want to come back to bed?" I ask.
He shakes his head.
"You sure?" I step closer to him and put my hands around his waist. Staring deep into his eyes, I force myself to stay patient rather than pushing him to the ground. "I'd like it if you came to bed with me," I whisper. "It's been a while".
"Soon," he says quietly, smiling that infuriating smile he uses whenever he wants to mask his real emotions.
"When?"
"Later".
"I might not want you later," I say. "I might not be turned on later".
"Well," he replies, "I guess that's just a risk I'll have to take, isn't it?"
I stare at him. It's almost as if he doesn't care, as if he's daring me to pounce on him. I can't help wondering whether I should take him at his word, and accept that there's nothing wrong other than a brief variation in his sexual appetite; or whether I should view this as some kind of test. If the latter is true, then perhaps he's waiting to see if I can come up with a way to seduce him. Perhaps he wants to test my sexual intelligence, to see if I've got any weapons in my arsenal other than simply throwing my body at him. The problem is: I've got nothing. I'm still so new to all of this, and I feel woefully ill-equipped to play games.
"There," he says.
"What?"
"That look". He frowns a little as he continues to stare at me. "You get this look in your eyes, Elly. When you're troubled by something, you get this... I can't put my finger on it, but it's quite stunning".
I pause for a moment. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" I ask eventually. "I mean, if there was something on your mind, you'd share it with me, right? I just don't want to think that you're keeping stuff from me. I might even be able to help".
He shakes his head.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, starting to get a little frustrated by his constant refusal to give a straight answer to a straight question.
"It means you're worrying about nothing," he replies.
"I know you want me," I say, pressing my crotch against him and feeling his erection. I want nothing more than to unzip his pants and let that big, hard penis slip into the open so I can pay it some proper attention. It's been so long since I tasted him in my mouth, since I felt him in my hand. I want him inside me. Reaching down, I brush the top of my hand against the front of his trousers. "Can't we just -"
"I have visitors coming," he says suddenly.
"You do?" I say, frowning. "Who? When?"
"They'll be here at nine," he replies. "We don't have time to do anything right now".
"We have two hours," I point out.
"That's almost no time at all. Let's just wait until the afternoon, okay? I promise you, I'll have these panties off you straight after lunch. Is that a deal?" He reaches down and gently presses the tips of his fingers against the front of my underwear, exerting a very faint pressure on the spot just above my clitoris. From the look in his eyes, I can tell that he knows exactly what he's doing. Mark's a very, very skilled operator and it seems as if he's trying to frustrate me. "It'll be good," he says quietly. "I promise".
"I know," I say, pushing a little closer in an attempt to get him to increase the pressure on my crotch. Instead, he pulls his hand away.
"Later," he whispers.
"Now," I say, reaching up and cupping my breasts together. I part the fingers, to let my erect nipples show through. "Let's have a quick one. We always have long, marathon sessions, but let's just go quick and hard. It doesn't always have to be romantic. Just once, don't you want to throw me down onto the bed and get it over with as fast as possible?"
"Later," he says again.
"Maybe I won't want to later," I reply. "Maybe I won't be wet later".
He stares at me for a moment. "Elly, this isn't a game -"
"Yes it is," I say, smiling. "That's exactly what it is, remember? You told me all about it. The whole damn thing is a game. You can't just pick and choose".
"Sometimes -"
"The game's the game," I say firmly. "What's wrong? Don't you want to play anymore?"
He stares at me for a moment. I'm not sure what he's thinking, or what he's going to say next, but we're interrupting as the doorbell rings.
"They're here," he says, getting to his feet and hurrying to the mirror, where he proceeds to check his hair. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Mark is actually nervous. Granted, I don't know him that well, but it's still strange to see that he seems not to be in total control of this situation. "You really need to put some clothes on," he says, glancing over at me. "There's a time and a place for everything, Elly, and right now you need to be clothed. I might need you to... Just wait in the bedroom, okay?"
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then I realize: what's the point? He's obviously made his decision, and I don't feel sufficiently comfortable to turn this into a 'scene'. I guess I should just slink back to the bedroom like a dutiful little girlfriend and wait for my master to come through and have his way with me.
"Fine," I say, turning and marching back to the other end of the apartment. Grabbing my clothes from the floor, I start getting dressed as I hear Mark greeting his visitors. I don't pay any attention to what they're talking about; to be honest, I'm a little pissed off at the whole situation. Once I've got my clothes on, I realize that there's no way I can just sit through her
e like an obedient, mindless idiot. If Mark doesn't want to hang out right now, I'll just go somewhere else.
"I'm sure you'll understand the need to cover every angle," a man is saying as I walk back through to the front room.
"Elly," Mark says, clearly annoyed that I've shown myself. "I thought you were -"
"I'm going out," I reply, aware that even this simple act might be interpreted as a transgression.
"No," Mark continues, seeming slightly shaken. "Maybe you should stay". He turns to the man and woman who are standing nearby. "Elly, these are police officers. They're here to ask me about something quite important".
Jonathan Pope
1901
She sleeps soundly, yet I'm quite certain that the pain and fear will return when she wakes. After we came to bed, she sobbed for hours, and I was unable to comfort her. She spoke incessantly of the child, clutching her belly and asking me how we could possibly save this precious life from the grip of the game. She told me that she had been considering suicide before she learned of her pregnancy, and that she was almost ready to take her own life when she realized that there was a second life forming in her body. Now she feels trapped, desperate to carry the child but terrified of what might happen once it has been born.
For so long, I have sensed... something in the back of my mind, troubling me. I'm not one who's given to flights of fancy, but I can't help wondering whether in some way I might have sensed the conception of this child. Sitting here all night, staring into the darkness, I find my mind filled with so many strange ideas.
Now, as the first rays of dawn begin to reach the edges of the window panes, I'm forced to face the very real possibility that we might be unable to escape the game's clutches. For years, I've bided my time, confident that eventually I would develop an exit strategy for the pair of us; now that there is a child, however, I feel as if my options are running out. It's simply impossible to conceive of a way to extricate the pair of us from this situation. Henrietta is a well-known figure in London society, and she cannot simply run away with a commoner such as myself. At the same time, there are dark forces circling us, preparing to tear us apart, and I fear that these forces have greater resources than we can possibly imagine.
