Broken White: The Complete Series (All 8 Books)

by Amy Cross

  "If you say so," he replies, turning and walking out of the room. "Be careful, Mr. Pope," he calls back to me. "The mark of a great warrior is that he can make one believe that the war is over, right before he makes his fatal attack".

  Sitting alone with the child, I find myself unable to dismiss those final words from John the Pig. In a way, everything feels too calm and too peaceful. If the game was truly such a huge and powerful arrangement, how is it possible that Henrietta was able to destroy it simply by burning a small box? Standing and walking over to the window, I look out at the dark street and find myself wondering if perhaps the game persists. Even if it's not at full strength, it might still be out there somewhere, gaining ground and filling up with blood again. For my son's sake, I hope that this is not true, but I feel certain that I must get us as far away from London as possible. If the game, with its long, dark tentacles should ever reach out and try to grab us, we must be out of reach.

  Book Seven:

  Knives

  Elly

  Today

  "He's stable," says the police officer as he comes through to the bedroom. "We managed to get his heart restarted, so now we just need to get him to the hospital so he can have the bullets removed."

  Sitting on the end of Mark's bed, with his blood still on my hands, I try to process this latest piece of information, but I feel as if my mind is completely blank. For the past few minutes, I've been listening as the paramedics worked on Mark in the other room; I heard them shouting to one another and using the defibrillator, but somehow it felt as if it wasn't really Mark who was in danger at all. I kept trying to focus on the fact that he was on the verge of death, but somehow my mind seemed to have put up a wall, preventing me from really accepting the truth. Even now, following the news that Mark is more stable and can be moved, I feel completely blank. It's as if every atom in my body has stopped moving.

  "Ms. Bradshaw," the police officer continues, crouching in front of me. "Did you hear what I said?"

  I look straight at him, but I can't work out what to say. Everything just seems blank. How am I supposed to react? I keep wondering if I should scream, or cry, or run, or... There are so many options, and finally I find myself wondering why I have to choose. Shouldn't it come naturally? What's wrong with me? Why do I always have to over-think everything? Why can't I have one natural, instinctive reaction?

  "Ms. Bradshaw, did you hear me?"

  I look at him, and for a moment I find myself struggling to remember why he's here. Soon, though, it hits me. Mark. Mark's hurt.

  "We've stabilized Mr. Douglas," the police officer says, "and now we have to take him to the hospital. I need you to come with us and -"

  "No," I say suddenly, surprising myself.

  "It's very important that you -"

  "No," I say again. The thought of going with them, of even getting up from this bed, is shocking, and I can't even begin to contemplate the idea of leaving the apartment. "I have to stay here," I say eventually, my voice sounding so calm and still, it's almost like it's not my voice at all. "I have to stay here and clean up. I have to call people. I have to -"

  "Everything can be taken care of at the hospital," he replies. "Please, there isn't much time."

  I shake my head. In the absence of a proper emotional response, I figure I should just get on with more practical matters. That's what Mark would want, right? He's going to need the place to be tidied up in time for him to come home.

  "You're in shock," the police officer continues. "We're going to get you the help that you need, but only -"

  "I'm not going to the hospital," I say firmly. "I'm staying here."

  "That isn't an option," he says. "This is a crime scene, so we're going to have to go to the station and talk about what happened." He pauses. "We need to establish the identity of the man who you say shot Mr. Douglas, and we need to understand the chain of events that led to that man being found dead on the floor of this apartment. From what you said when we arrived, I'm struggling to put the pieces together."

  "The game," I whisper.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "The game," I say again, meeting his gaze. "This is all..."

  He stares at me.

  "Nothing," I say after a moment, realizing how close I came to saying something I'd regret.

  "They were playing a game?" he asks. "Is that what this was? Some kind of game?"

  I shake my head.

  "Okay," he replies with a sigh, "we'll talk about it at the station."

  "Am I under arrest?" I ask.

  He pauses. "No," he says eventually. "Not at this moment."

  "But I might be?"

  "That depends on what we find out," he continues, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I'm sure you'll appreciate that this is a complex situation, and we need to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible." He waits for me to say something. "I'm going to come right out and be honest with you, Ms. Bradshaw. Something about this situation strikes me as being unusually complicated. Without going into detail at this point, would you say that my estimation is correct?"

  I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

  "Tell me about the game," he says.

  I stare at him.

  "Were you playing too?" he asks. "Was this all part of the game? It's okay. I know."

  "You know what?" I ask.

  He stares at me.

  "You know what?" I ask again.

  "About everything."

  I stare at him, and after a moment I realize that he's bluffing. There's no way he knows anything about the game. He's just bluffing. He's guessed that maybe there's a secret wrapped up in this mess, and he's hoping to trip me up.

  "Ms. Bradshaw?" he asks.

  "What game?" I reply, feeling as if there's no way I can tell him about everything that's been happening. Not yet, anyway. I need to speak to Mark first. I need to make sure that we're going to be okay.

  "You mentioned a game," the police officer says, "and then you backtracked. But you still said the word 'game' twice, and it seemed to mean something to you."

  "I don't know what I meant," I tell him.

  "Okay," he replies, with clear suspicion in his eyes. He doesn't believe me, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to push. "We'll discuss that later."

  "I want to stay here."

  "That's not possible," he says firmly. "I need you to come with me so that we can establish the chain of events that led to there being one dead man on the floor of this apartment, and one man with bullet wounds." He pauses. "I don't want to place you under arrest, Ms. Bradshaw, but if you refuse to come with me voluntarily, I will be forced to compel you to cooperate, and I'm afraid I will arrest you if necessary. I certainly have grounds, given the situation here. I'm sure you don't need me to remind you that this is a very serious incident."

  "I didn't shoot him," I reply.

  "I know that," he says. "I still need to know what happened."

  "But he -" I start to say, before I hear movement from out in the main part of the apartment. Getting up from the bed, I hurry through the door and see that Mark has been moved onto a trolley, which is being wheeled to the door by two paramedics. Still, the whole thing feels unreal. For one thing, the paramedics don't seem to be in much of a hurry, and for another, the police officer seems far too casual. Besides, shouldn't there be more police here? As I stare at Mark being wheeled away, I can't help but feel as if something strange is happening.

  "They're taking him to hospital," says the police officer, standing behind me.

  "Wait!" I call out, hurrying over to the trolley and looking down at Mark. There's an oxygen mask over his mouth, and his shirt has been cut away to reveal the bullet wounds, which have been dressed with gauze. It's a shocking sight, and as I look at his face, I can't shake the feeling that somehow this is all my fault. If I'd done things differently, if I hadn't encouraged him to leave the game, maybe he wouldn't have ended up like this. It's just a few days since I was rushed to hospital, and
now our positions are reversed.

  "He can't hear you," one of the paramedics says calmly. "We need to get him to the hospital."

  "Is he going to die?" I ask, my voice trembling as tears start to fill my eyes.

  "He's stable -"

  "Is he going to die?" I ask again. "It's a simple question. Just tell me."

  "He has a good chance of making a full recovery," the paramedic replies, "but we need to get him to the hospital. He'll have to undergo surgery to have the bullets removed, and he's going to face a long road to recovery."

  I nod, trying to take in all this new information.

  "Ms. Bradshaw," the paramedic says after a moment. "We really need to get moving."

  "I'll come with you," I say.

  "You can come in my car," the police officer says, walking over to join us.

  I turn to answer him, but suddenly I'm struck by the realization that something feels wrong about this whole situation. I look down at the dead body of the man who tried to kill Mark.

  "What about him?" I ask.

  "Someone will be along to deal with him shortly," the officer says, as Mark is wheeled out into the corridor.

  "Why aren't they here now?"

  "Excuse me?"

  I turn to him, and finally I start to understand. Since the moment that this police officer arrived with the paramedics, the whole situation has felt like a dream. I assumed that I was just in shock, but now I'm starting to realize that something else is wrong. Two men have been shot, one of them fatally, and yet there's just one police officer here; the paramedics, meanwhile, were willing to stop and talk to me, as if there was no real urgency.

  "This is still part of it," I say slowly. "Isn't it?"

  "I don't know what you mean," the police officer replies, but his voice sounds strangely blank. There's been a subtle shift in his demeanor, as if he knows that I'm onto him.

  "You're part of it," I continue, taking a step back. "They sent you, didn't they?"

  He stares at me for a moment. "What would you prefer?" he asks eventually. "Actual policemen sniffing around? The game unraveling? You're a smart young woman, Ms. Bradshaw, or at least that's what I've been led to believe. How about you make some good decisions for once?" He pauses. "Calling the emergency services was a very bad idea. If you'd got through to the real thing, instead of to us, who knows what kind of people would have ended up coming to the hotel tonight? There would have been so many awkward questions."

  "He was dying!" I shout.

  He shrugs.

  "You can't take him," I say, running toward the door just in time to see the doors of the elevator slide shut. I should have realized that this would happen; I should have known that we wouldn't be able to get out of the game so easily, but instead I allowed panic to override my mind. I have to be smarter; I have to come up with a better plan for getting away from this place.

  "He's in safe hands," the man continues calmly. "He's being taken home."

  "Home?" I ask, turning to him. "What do you mean?"

  "Home," he says again. "The game's home. The heart of the game. That's where we like to take people when their participation is coming to an end. It's not always possible, of course, but we feel that it's nice to bookend their involvement and show them what might have been. He'll be quite alright, at least for now." Pausing for a moment, he starts to smile. "Do you want to know my name, Elly?"

  I stare at him.

  "Come on," he continues, walking toward me. "Ask my name."

  I shake my head.

  "I know you want to," he says. "Even if you think you know it already, I know you need confirmation. You need to know that it's happened."

  I take a deep breath. "What's your name?" I ask.

  "My real name is Luke," he continues, "but you can call me Mr. Blue. It's a new name. I was given it today. Apparently the old Mr. Blue has been moved aside." Placing a hand on my shoulder, he stares at me for a few seconds. "The good news, however, is that I'm going to pick up where the old Mr. Blue left off." He leans closer, his eyes focused on my lips. "Right where he left off."

  "Go to hell," I whisper, before slamming my knee as hard as possible directly into his crotch. As he drops to the floor, I turn and run, slipping away from his clumsy attempt to grab me; I race along the corridor and, figuring that the elevator won't come fast enough, I make my way through the fire escape door that leads into an access stairwell. I stop for a moment, trying to work out where the hell I'm going to go, but finally I realize that I just need to keep going. I run down the stairs as fast as possible, focusing purely on the fact that I have to get away from this place as fast as possible.

  When I reach ground level, I make my way out through the back of the hotel and finally I reach the street. It's dark and there aren't many people around, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. The game is everywhere, and I half expect to be grabbed at any moment. Filled with a sense of panic, I turn and run along the street, determined to get as far away from the Castleton as possible. I have nowhere to go, but I need to keep running.

  Jonathan Pope

  1901

  "The child sleeps," says Darius Wolff as he stares down at Thomas. "So innocent and calm, and yet filled with the promise of such absolute horror. Are all children like this?"

  "I wouldn't know," I reply, unable to comprehend the enormity of the child's innocence. "I have never held a child, nor have I thought about their lives. Still, he is clearly free of all the sins that men accumulate over the years, and he must be kept safe from blemishes. I must find a way to hide him away from the world until the dangers have passed by."

  "You'll be lucky," Wolff says with a laugh. "There are rumors going around about you, Mr. Pope. It's said that you've been dabbling in things that should have been left well alone. You know how these things develop over time. A man commits a single sin, and soon he's being denounced as the Devil incarnate. There's a lot of idle chatter, and plenty of people are willing to lend their tongues to the process of bringing down your character. Even here, there are those who would rather see you hang than accept the possibility that you might walk free."

  "They're right," I say darkly. "Of late, I have been responsible for..." Pausing, I realize that there is no way I can put the horrors into words. "I'll be taking the child far from here," I continue eventually, preferring to focus on more concrete plans. "Thomas and I will be leaving the country, and we will never return. Hopefully I can start a new life far away, and I can only hope that my past sins will be left behind at the border. Thomas will grow up without any knowledge of the pain and misery that surrounded his birth, and when he inevitably asks about his mother, I shall simply tell him that she was a good woman."

  "And was she?" Wolff asks.

  I nod. The truth is, every time I think of Henrietta, I'm overcome by an urge to scream. I have no doubt that she was a victim of the game in the truest sense; she was drawn in and offered the chance to participate, and over time the game became a part of her personality. She struggled greatly, and it's certainly the case that she made some bad decisions, but she tried to change the game's course. She wasn't helped by the fact that men such as Harrison Blake and Vincent D'Oyly were drawn into her world, and I'm quite certain that they encouraged her to explore the more violent and hateful aspects of the game; Henrietta herself was a wise and kind woman whose only mistake, in the end, was to fall in love. If she had never met me, she would still be alive today, and the game would still be running, but Thomas would not have been brought into the world. It is surely impossible to separate all these effects from one another.

  "I heard a lot of stories about the woman," Wolff continues. "Some say she was fomenting revolution, that she gave grand-standing speeches designed to whip men up into a fury of political anger. She had some funny ideas, from what I've heard, about wealth and property, and about the way power should be carved out in this land. She even supported the abolition of the monarchy. I've heard from one man who heard her speak that she mad
e jokes about placing the king's head on a pole outside the Tower of London." He pauses. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, Pope, but there are suggestions in some quarters that the government might have wanted to get her out of the way."

  "The government had nothing to do with what happened," I reply. "This was all about love."

  "You loved her, did you?"

  "With all my heart." I pause for a moment, as I realize that Henrietta's death means I shall never experience true love again. Not for a woman, anyway. There is still love in my heart, though, when it comes to my son, but this is a very different and very new type of love. I must protect him, and nurture him, and see that he grows into a man far stronger and far more worthy than his father. Thomas Pope must soar to the heights of mankind, even if this means that I, Jonathan Pope, must be forgotten in the mud.

  "When do you leave?" Wolff asks.

  "There's no point delaying," I tell him.

  "Will you take one last beer?" He pauses. "On the house, so to speak."

  "I never thought I'd see the day when Darius Wolff gives away even a free drop."

  "Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age," he replies. "Either way, don't go spreading news of this to anyone, or half of London's gonna be at my bar, begging for a complimentary pint."

  "Half of London wouldn't dare set foot inside this place," I point out.

  "Wrap the child up warm," he says, looking down at Thomas. "It's a cold night."

  Once he's gone down to the main part of the pub, I set about getting Thomas ready for the journey. He's a quiet child, and despite the horrors of his entry into the world, he cries very little; he looks at me often, however, and I can't help but wonder if he intuits some measure of his mother's pain. It is a terrible feeling, to look into the eyes of a newborn child and wonder if perhaps he has already been damaged by the world, but I feel confident that I can give him a good life. I will dedicate my every waking moment to ensuring that he receives whatever he requires, and I'm certain that he'll make me proud. The only thing I wish, for myself, is that my son will never know the depths of my own abject misery, and that he will never learn the truth about my ways. For my sake, and for his, the past should stay hidden.