Broken Blue: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  "There is a great book," Lady Red says, sneering at me. "The book is a record of the game, going back to the very beginning. Tonight, when I get home, I shall have to sit down and update your entry in that book. Do you want to know something, Edward? You are the seventeenth Mr. Blue, and I feel quite certain that in years to come your entry will stand out as a lesson to all others that they must not try to run from their responsibilities". She pauses for a moment. "Do you have any final words, Edward? Is there anything you'd like to say?"

  I stare at her, my mind still racing as I try to think of some way I can save myself. "Go to hell," I say eventually, filled with hate and anger at the vicious grin on her lips. I want nothing more than to reach out, grab her neck and wring the life from her body. "Go to hell," I shout. "Both of you!"

  Smiling, she starts picking up pebbles from the ground, and Mr. White grabs hold of my jaw and forces my mouth open. Although I struggle with all my heart, I am unable to prevent Lady Red from slipping the pebbles into my mouth one by one and forcing them down my throat. I stare up at her in horror as she drops more and more of these cold little stones inside me, until finally I feel an excruciating pain in my belly. Unable to contain myself any longer, I let out a garbled scream.

  "All those little pebbles are so heavy, Edward," Lady Red says calmly, still smiling as she pokes the last one down my throat. "Why, you'll sink straight to the bottom". She looks up at Mr. White. "Get this miserable little wretch out of my sight".

  Still in agony as the pebbles fill my stomach, I feel Mr. White grab hold of my collar and drag me over to the quay. He hauls me along until we reach the same spot where, just a few minutes ago, we stood and tossed Elizabeth's body into the icy depths. I make one final attempt to get free, but my hip is destroyed and my belly feels so heavy, I doubt I could even stand up properly. All I can hope for now is some kind of divine intervention.

  "What are you waiting for?" Lady Red calls out to Mr. White. "Send him down there to meet all the girls whose fates he sealed. Who knows? Perhaps he'll land directly on top of poor Elizabeth? Or poor Sophia Marchant? Or one of the many, many others who we've sent down there over the years".

  "No!" I manage to shout, but at that moment Mr. White throws me off the quay. "If you -" I try to shout, but it's too late and I tumble into the freezing cold, pitch black water of the Thames and I immediately begin to sink. No matter how hard I struggle and try to swim back to the surface, the pebbles in my belly weigh me down, and the ice cold water starts to make my entire body cramp up. I stare up and see nothing at all, just the absolute darkness of the depths as I continue to sink. Desperately gulping for air, I start to swallow the foul, dirty water of the river, which my lungs with its dirt. I keep trying to breathe, but more and more water floods in through my mouth; not just water, either, but rubbish and detritus from the river.

  Finally, just when I think I must be able to lose consciousness, I feel myself come to a bumpy rest on the riverbed. I desperately scramble about, trying to find some way that I might yet save myself, but suddenly I realize that the riverbed itself is covered with the dead bodies of the girls who have been thrown down here over the years. No matter how I try to get away from them, my hands keep brushing against the girls' frozen, dead limbs. Eventually I can no longer struggle, and I simply wait for death. Reaching out into the darkness, I accidentally touch a dead hand; instead of recoiling, I slowly wrap my fingers around that hand and it almost feels as if the frozen hand reciprocates. With my other hand, I reach out and feel a frozen human face, its mouth open in a scream. Is it Elizabeth? In my panicked state, I feel that it is her face.

  Determined not to die down here with the bodies of Elizabeth, Sophia and all the other girls, I lift my head and try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth and, finally, I realize I can no longer feel my own body at all. The cold has numbed me to the point where I can no longer move, and finally death envelops my soul and carries me down to a freezing cold hell.

  Book 4

  Blood of a Billionaire

  One

  Today

  The black dress is draped over a chair in the corner of the bathroom. Standing naked, still wet from the shower, I take a deep breath and tell myself it's time to get changed; I've been telling myself the same thing over and over again for half an hour. All I have to do is put on some underwear, slip into the dress, and finish drying my hair. Not a big job. Not a big job at all. At the same time, that dress looks so ominous and dark, as if it's waiting for me. I can't help feeling that as soon as I start putting it on, it'll grow teeth and start chewing me up. Either that, or I'll find that it doesn't quite fit properly, or it looks stupid, or there'll be a rip somewhere, or a million other problems will rear up at me. I guess the real problem is pretty simple: this is the dress I have to wear to my father's funeral today.

  "You should have gone to Exeter," says a voice behind me.

  I don't turn around. I don't need to turn around, because I recognize the voice: it's my father, or rather it's my mind's approximation of my father. All morning, I've been imagining him talking to me, trying to think of all the things he'd say. So far, he's been pretty supportive, though he tends to ask questions I'd rather not answer. I know he's not really there, of course, but it gives me a little comfort to imagine that he'd understand how difficult this situation has become.

  "Why did you come back?" he continues. "You could be there right now, having fun with the band. You could be living the dream of sex, drugs and rock n'roll. What's wrong with you? Why didn't you grab that with both hands?"

  "I couldn't not go to your funeral," I reply quietly, keeping my voice down just in case my mother hears me from elsewhere in the house.

  "Of course you could," he replies. "Fuck it. Anyone with any spirit of adventure or fun would have blown this joint and headed off with the band". He pauses for a moment. "I guess you're just boring, Elly".

  "I'm not boring".

  "Yes you are. You chose the safe, boring option. You chose the path of least resistance. You had your shot to do something crazy and non-conformist, and you backed down. You got scared".

  "I didn't get -"

  "You broke down crying by the side of the road," he points out. "You literally started sobbing like a child. You went out into the big bad world, trying to do something independent, and you got scared. Fucking hell, it's a miracle you didn't piss yourself out of sheer terror. I'm not saying it makes you a bad person, but it shows who you really are. Huh? You're just like everyone else, Elly. All those years spent convincing yourself that you're somehow different or special, and you failed the first test". He laughs. "I guess we know how your life's gonna turn out now, don't we? Predictable, safe and sterile. Boring".

  "That's not fair," I tell him.

  "Isn't it? Poor little Elly, huh? People aren't being fair to her. Why can't people be fair? Listen to yourself. My God, are you really my daughter? You sound more and more like your mother every day. You're turning into her. You know that, right? Look at yourself in the mirror. You know it's true".

  I turn and stare at my reflection. Maybe he's right. I always thought I'd be carefree and smart like my father, but maybe I'm going to be staid and rigid like my mother.

  "When we were younger," my father's voice continues, "your mother and I used to have good times. But over the years, she got older and more boring. Maybe I shouldn't be saying this, but I figure I'm dead so why not? By the end, I couldn't stand to look at that woman. I hid it well. Everyone thought we were happily married, but the truth was that I hated her. She made my skin crawl. So boring and dull, and gray. And you're going the same way, Elly. Better find yourself a nice, safe, boring man so you can settle down in a nice, safe, boring house and have nice, safe, boring children. You'll be like all the rest. You'll go to sleep and then one day you'll wake up and find you're on your deathbed, and life has passed you by, and it's too late. But do you want some advice?"

  I take a deep breath.

  "Don't fight it,
" he says. "Don't make yourself miserable by trying to be special. Just sit back, relax, switch off and go to sleep. Sure, your life won't be exciting or fun or unique, but after a while everything will just become comfortably numb. Millions of people live like that. Don't be ashamed. Just go with the flow".

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but then I realize: what's the point? He's right. I should just accept that there's nothing special about me. Damn it, I didn't even have the guts to skip my own father's funeral and go to Exeter with some third-rate band. After I broke down crying at a service station, I had to be rescued by Mark, and he didn't even bother to come and get me himself; he sent a driver, who brought me back to London in silence. I guess that was my one attempt to really rebel, to really do anything interesting, and at the last minute I backed down. Let's face it, if I was going to live an interesting life, I should have started by now. I'm in my early twenties and I can't fool myself any longer. I'm boring. I'm normal. I'm nothing special.

  "Get dressed," my father says. "Come on, kid. Let's get this show on the road. I don't wanna be late for my own funeral".

  It takes me a few minutes to slip into the dress, which turns out to fit just fine. When I take a look at myself in the mirror, I see that I look okay. Not good, not bad, just... okay. I guess that's going to be the story of my life. I spend a few minutes finishing my hair, trying to make it look nice before eventually giving up and just tying it back. All I want is for this horrible fucking day to be over, and then I can go to sleep for a few days until finally I can get on a train and go back to Bristol on Thursday morning. I still have a few months of college left before I graduate, and I guess I'll have to start looking for a job soon. It's weird, but I always thought I'd end up being someone interesting, or doing something amazing, but life is closing in around me and now I see that it's easier to just accept things the way they are.

  I'm boring. I'll always be boring.

  When I step out of the bathroom, I realize that although I spent an hour in there getting ready, my mother didn't come and knock on the door once. Normally she'd be fussing around, demanding to know if I'm ready yet, but it's half past ten and there's no sign of her. Wandering along to her bedroom, I knock on the door and then push it open. She's sitting on the end of her bed, wearing her dressing gown, looking as if she's only just got up. She's so still and quiet, it's almost like I've stumbled into a painting.

  "You okay?" I ask.

  She turns to me. "I'm fine, dear," she says.

  "You know it's half ten, right?" I say, starting to worry. "Don't we have to get going in half an hour?"

  "Half ten?" She pauses for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right. We should..." Her voice trails off. "You look nice, Elly. That dress really suits you".

  "Thanks," I say, noticing her own dress still hanging from the wardrobe door. "You want me to help with anything?" I ask, hoping to stir her into action.

  "No," she says. "I'm fine".

  I wait for her to start getting ready, but she seems content to just sit on the end of the bed and stare into space. Sighing, I realize that something definitely isn't right here, so I walk over and sit next to her. The last thing I want to do right now is to be talking to my mother, but I feel like she needs some help to get moving.

  "You want to talk about it?" I ask, cringing at the thought of having a heart-to-heart.

  "Talk about what?" she replies, a faint smile crossing her lips.

  "Are you mad at me?" I say.

  "No," she says. "Why would I be mad? Look at you, you're all ready and everything".

  I take a deep breath. She's clearly not angry. It's worse than that. She's sad. She seems totally deflated. I've never seen her like this, and I have no idea what to do. "You know," I say eventually, "half an hour really isn't very long to get ready. You should probably get started".

  "Yes," she says, sounding so calm and blank. "I will. In a minute".

  "Are you hungry?" I continue. "I can make some toast for you".

  She shakes her head. "That won't be necessary. I don't think I could eat anything right now". Slowly, she stands up and walks over to the wardrobe, taking her dress of the hanger before laying it on the bed. "I should just get dressed," she says. "The car's coming at eleven, and we need to -" She pauses, staring at her dress.

  "We need to what?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "We need to what?"

  She shrugs. "We just need to be ready," she continues. "The car's coming at eleven".

  "I know," I reply, getting up and walking to the door. "I'll make some tea," I say. "I'll be downstairs, okay?"

  "Okay, dear," she says.

  I pause for a moment, wondering if there's something I should say. What if she's having some kind of emotional breakdown? What if she's having a stroke? Even worse, what if she's going to try having a mother-daughter chat? "I'll be downstairs," I mutter, hurrying out of the room and down to the kitchen. As I fill the kettle with water, I realize my hands are shaking. Damn it, I feel like I should have tried to do more to help her, but I wouldn't know where to begin. With my father, I was fine talking about emotions and all that stuff; with my mother, I'd be completely confused. Talking to my mother about feelings would be like talking to a monkey about computers; it just wouldn't work.

  "Why are you such a bitch?" my father's voice says. "Your mother's a human being. She has thoughts, and needs. Why don't you go out of your way to help her?"

  "Shut up shut up shut up," I say quietly, grabbing a cup from the sideboard.

  "You'll be like her one day," he says, "sitting on the end of your bed, getting ready for your boring husband's funeral. I hope you'll have a bitchy daughter who'll not give a damn about you. At least you'll finally know what it feels like".

  I take a deep breath, trying to block him out of my mind. To be honest, I'm starting to wonder if maybe I'm going a little crazy.

  "I know what you're thinking," he continues. "You're thinking that you'll be okay because maybe you'll get together with Mark Douglas. But why the hell would Mark Douglas like you? The guy's a millionaire. A multi-millionaire, in fact, probably even a billionaire. He can pick up women left, right and center. Why would he be remotely interested in a girl like you, Elly Bradshaw? The only reason he sent someone to pick you up the other day was that he felt sorry for you, and the only reason he ever kissed you was that he was drunk, or wanted to mess with your head, or he was horny. He's a real man, Elly, and he's not interested in someone like you".

  "I know," I say. It's true. Mark hasn't called to see how I am, and I don't even know if he's coming to the funeral today. He's probably already flown off to some other country, where he's got his hands all over a bunch of hot blondes. I doubt he even remembers my name.

  A few minutes later, my mother comes downstairs, all dressed up and ready for the funeral. She doesn't say much, and it's clear that she's lost in her own little world. I know I should try to talk to her, and see if she's okay, but the truth is I wouldn't know where to start. Rather than risk messing things up, it's better to just stay quiet and let her get on with it. I'm sure she'll ask if there's anything she wants me to do. I guess my job today is to help out, be polite to the funeral guests, and generally stay invisible as much as possible. As I hear the car pull up outside, I realize it's time to get going. After putting this moment off for as long as possible, I have to face my father's funeral. I walk to the door and see a hearse parked outside, with a coffin in the back. Closing my eyes, I take a moment to pull myself together.

  "Come on," my father's voice says. "Let's get this over with".

  Two

  1895

  "Edward Lockhart," says Constable Laverty as he drops a notebook onto my desk. "Does that name ring any bells?"

  Picking up the notebook, I open it to find that it contains what appears to be a set of diary entries. The handwriting is undoubtedly that of a female, and as I glance at the first few pages, I see that she seems to have been writing mainly about family matters. I've n
ever understood why women are so keen to record their every thought, but there seems to be a compulsion - common among the fairer sex - to note down a record of their every thought and action. I suppose it's good to keep the ladies occupied, but I'm quite sure that the vast majority of this muck is vastly uninteresting.

  "Lockhart's the man who came to see you last week, isn't he?" Laverty continues.

  "He is," I reply as I flick through the diary's pages. "He spun quite a tall tale. If nothing else, I found him to be a rather interesting man. In fact, I rather expected to hear back from him, but I suppose he got tired of fooling around and developed some other amusement". I put the notebook down. "Why do you ask?"

  "That diary belonged to a Miss Sophia Marchant," he explains. "Seems it was where she wrote down her most intimate thoughts and the like, including about her dealings with men". He clears his throat. "She had many dealings with men, Sir, if you catch my drift".

  "And Edward Lockhart was one of them?" I say. "I think the gentleman admitted as much when he was here".

  "But it's proof, Sir," Laverty replies. "She also talks about him in some most regrettable ways. They were clearly having a carnal relationship".

  "How do you deduce that?" I ask.

  "From the things she wrote," he says. "She talked about... bits".

  I stare at him. "Bits?"

  "Bits of their bodies," he replies, turning a little red. Laverty has always been a somewhat prudish man, and I must admit I rather enjoy mocking him gently.

  "Where did you get this?" I ask. "The Marchant house was destroyed in a fire".

  "The diary was found at the Castleton Hotel in Mayfair," Laverty says, clearly a little relieved to be back on firmer round. "A cleaner found it tucked under the mattress in one of the bedrooms. The penthouse, as it happens. Until a few days ago, that room was occupied by none other than Mr. Edward Lockhart himself, though it seems he vacated recently in quite a hurry".