Broken Blue: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  "Leg?" He kneels next to me and roughly prods the leg; I scream as the agony shudders through my body. He prods me a couple more times, clearly enjoying the fact that he can cause me such pain. "Right there, huh?" John asks. "What about here?" He touches me again, a little higher, and once again I scream. "And here?" he asks, reaching out to the spot just above my knee.

  "Do that again," I say through gritted teeth, grabbing his hand and forcing it away, "and I'll dip you head-first into that fucking pit until your head's all gone".

  "Tough talk," he says, but I can see from the look in his eyes that I've made my point. He pulls his hand away. "So you've got a broken leg, huh? That's got to hurt, Pope. That's got to hurt a lot. Think about those broken bones grinding together, ripping into your flesh. All those jagged edges". He pauses for a moment. "You've got two options. The first option is to just lie here and hope it heals. You've got about a fifty-fifty chance that the bone might just knit itself back together, albeit with some inconsistencies and some weak spots. Of course, the downside of that option is that you might develop blood poisoning, or any one of a number of other conditions. It's a big risk, but it might be preferable to your other option".

  "And what's that?" I splutter, keen for him to get on with it.

  "I can operate," he says. "Granted, I don't have the resources of the Royal College, but then I also lack their scruples, and I reckon you've got to take what you can get, Pope. A licensed professional wouldn't touch you for dirt, but I'm willing to have a go. No promises, mind, but I might be able to patch you back together". He smiles. "Of course, I'm not exactly blessed with anything that might numb the pain, but the good news is that you'll probably pass out eventually. Anyway, you know what the priests always tell us. Pain's good for you; it's bleach for the soul".

  "Do it!" I say firmly.

  Leaning closer, he runs a finger over my forehead. "You're already sweating, Pope. I hope that's from exertion, rather than a sign of infection. I want to be totally clear: if you develop an infection, you're done for. I can't even begin to help you. So this is still a very risky procedure, but there's a chance it'll work".

  "Do it!" I shout.

  "Fine," he replies, getting up and walking over to the far side of the room. "Fortunately, you're already in my office. Wolff keeps me down here, out of the way". He pulls out a bag of equipment and comes back over to me. From the bag, he produces a large white sheet, which he lays out on the floor. "It's not the most sterile thing in the world," he mutters, "but it's better than a floor covered in rat piss". He smiles. "And cat piss. And dog piss. And, if I'm brutally honest, my piss". Without any warning, he grabs me and roughly rolls me onto the sheet. I let out another scream; it feels as if the two edges of my broken leg are grinding against one another.

  "Hang on," he says, walking over to the corner, pulling his trousers down and squatting over a small drain. As he stares at me with a demented smile, he passes several liters of diarrhea. "There," he says, eventually pulling his trousers up without so much as a wipe, "you wouldn't want me being distracted by full bowels while I'm operating, would you?" He crudely brushes his hands clean on a nearby cloth.

  "Fuck you," I whisper.

  "If it all goes wrong," he continues, apparently having not heard me, "I might decide to amputate. Of course, there'll be a lot of blood either way". He pulls some tools from his bag. I watch as he sets a couple of saws and hammers, and a large set of industrial pliers, on the sheet next to me. "You might want to make your peace with your maker, Pope. There's a good chance you'll be meeting him shortly, though I want to assure you that I'll do my absolute best to get you all fixed up nicely. I have pride in my work, even if I recognize my limitations". He takes a large, serrated knife from the bag. "I'm ready," he says finally, holding the blade close to my face. "You ready, Pope? You ready to feel this slice through your meat?"

  I nod, desperate to get it over with.

  "Try not to scream too much," he says, pulling my trousers down to expose the bare flesh of my leg. "Oh, this looks nasty, Pope. This is going to hurt a lot. This might well be the most painful thing I ever do to a man".

  "Get on with it," I say.

  "You're the boss," he replies.

  Seconds later, I feel the blade of the knife rip through the surface of the skin, accompanied by the ragged sound of my skin being torn. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and let out a grunted scream as I feel John cutting through my flesh and muscle; the pain is so strong, it feels as if it's rushing through my entire body, almost as if it has become my soul. For what seems like an eternity, and with hot sweat pouring down my face, I feel John's blade cutting and cutting and cutting, slicing through my leg as hot blood pours down onto the floor. I manage to hold in the screams, but I'm definitely starting to think that death might have been preferable to such an ordeal. As I feel the blade judder against bone, I can no longer contain the agony, and I scream louder than ever before.

  "Calm down, calm down," John says eventually, as he pulls the knife away. "You're a lucky man, Pope. It's actually a fairly clean break".

  "Fix it!" I shout, thinking back to the moment a few hours ago when Vincent D'Oyly slammed his foot down against my leg. At least I got the bastard; at least, even if I die, he died first. Still, I can't believe I let the weasel hurt me. Maybe I'm losing my touch and going soft. After all, I've never been so badly hurt in a fight before.

  "This is going to be the most painful part," John says. "I'm going to reach in and -"

  "Just do it!" I shout.

  "No no no," he replies calmly. "Part of the fun is telling you what I'm going to do. I imagine that it makes it hurt more, you see. So what I'm going to do, is I'm going to reach in and take hold of the two ends of your broken bone, and then I'm going to wrench them back together. Even if it goes well, Pope, it's going to hurt more than you could ever imagine, and if it doesn't go well, it'll be unbearable. Either way, you might black out. I mean, don't fight it. If you feel yourself losing consciousness, just let go. There's a lot of blood what's come out onto the floor now, so you'll probably be feeling weak anyway".

  "Do it," I say, bracing myself in anticipation of the pain.

  "A man in a hurry," he replies. "I like that". After a moment, I feel his hands pushing past my skin and into the leg; seconds later, I feel him taking hold of the bone. "Three," he says, a hint of pleasure and enjoyment in his voice. "Two. One". With that, he jerks the bones against one another. He was right: the pain is beyond anything I've ever experienced before, or anything I even thought was possible. It's as if a huge explosion of agony is coursing through my entire body; when it reaches my brain, I start to scream, but finally everything goes completely black and I lose consciousness. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, opening my eyes and staring up at the dark ceiling. There's still pain, but it's more of a dull, persistent throbbing feeling rather than the nagging agony I felt before.

  "You awake?" John asks.

  I take a deep breath. "What happened?"

  He laughs. "You've been out for more than two hours, my friend," he says eventually. "I don't blame you. You lasted a lot longer than most men could have managed. You're a tough one, Pope, I'll give you that".

  "My leg," I say. "Did you save my leg?"

  "No," he replies. "I cut it off. It's next to your head".

  Turning, I see nothing but the sheet and some bloody tools.

  "Just kidding," he continues. "Yes, Pope, I saved your fucking leg. For now, at least. Whether it'll still be good in the morning is another matter, but I did everything I could. In fact, I'd venture to say that the whole process went rather well. I'm definitely improving as I get older, given the limitations of the resources at my disposal".

  Sitting up, I look down at my leg and see that it's a mess. There's a lot of blood all over the sheet, and some very crude stitches have been inserted to hold the damaged skin together; along one side, there's a piece of wood that has been crudely tied to me in an attempt to create some kind of ma
keshift splint. "It looks like shit," I say.

  "It is shit," he replies, "but a simple note of gratitude would suffice".

  "Thank you," I say, somewhat reluctantly. It feels strange to be actually thanking a low-life piece of scum like John the Rat for anything, but there's no doubt that he did a good job on my leg. Without him, I'd most likely be dead by now, and I'd certainly have no prospects for lasting the night. At least this way, I've got a small chance of survival.

  "There's no charge," he continues. "I'm willing to offer my services for free, since I learned a great deal. It's not often that one gets to practice on a live specimen such as yourself, and I must admit I gained some pleasure from hearing your screams. It's times like this when I realize I'd never have made it as one of them professional doctors in a proper hospital".

  "Glad I could help," I say, feeling relieved that I'm no longer sweating. "The infection..."

  "No sign so far," he replies, "but again, we'll have to wait until morning. You're not out of the woods yet".

  "I can't sit around here," I say, trying to get up before realizing it's impossible. My leg is painful at the top and numb at the bottom. "I have to get out of here," I continue, grimacing as I try yet again to get to my feet.

  "You can't," John says, stepping over and pushing me back down onto the floor. "Not yet, anyway. An ordinary doctor would advise you to wait a week before even attempting to stand up. Me, I'm happy for you to walk out of here in the morning. It's gonna hurt, but as long as you don't suffer any more injuries in the same spot, you should be okay". He pauses for a moment. "Besides, Pope, who's gonna get at you while you're in here? This is probably the safest place in the whole of London right now for a man like you, especially if your enemies are who I suspect them to be".

  "I'm leaving first thing," I say.

  "And until then," he replies, "you'll sleep down here". Putting his tools in a bucket of water, he walks to the steps. "I'll be down at dawn to check on you," he says. "If all's good at that point, you can go. Don't expect to move fast, and don't expect to be free of pain, but at least you'll be able to walk". He smiles. "Not sure you'll be able to run, though".

  I take a deep breath. "I wasn't planning to run," I say eventually. "I just need to be able to stand".

  Two

  Today

  Rushing out of the bedroom, with my clothes clutched to my chest, I stop when I reach the door. My mind is racing so fast, I'm not even able to form proper thoughts; all I feel right now is the uncontrollable urge to get as far away from here as possible, to hide from my shame and embarrassment. My heart is pounding, though, and in my panicked state I fumble with my dress.

  "Fuck!" I mutter under my breath, as the fabric twists in my hands.

  "Elly," says a voice behind me. At first, I don't turn around. I just keep on struggling with the clothes, not even bothering with any underwear. "Elly," the voice says again.

  Turning, I find Mark standing naked next to me. Without a second thought, I push him away before I continue trying to get into the dress. In my frustration, I find the damn thing is still twisting and stretching, and I can't even work out which end is which. Instead of pausing to get it straight, I try to force the issue and finally the entire front of the dress rips open like a cheap piece of tat. I hold it up and realize it's ruined; worse, it's the only thing I can wear when I walk out the door. What am I supposed to do, walk out of the hotel naked?

  "I have some clothes you can borrow," Mark says, his voice hushed and strangely blank.

  "I don't want your fucking clothes!" I shout, before realizing I have no other option. I try to think of some solution, anything that will save me from accepting his offer of help. "Fine," I say after a moment, throwing the tattered dress onto the floor but refusing to look over at him. "Give me something. Fast".

  He turns and slowly walks through to the bedroom. I hear muffled voices from inside, before he returns with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "These aren't ideal," he says as he comes over, "but they'll keep you respectable for the journey home. If you wait just a couple of minutes, I can drive you".

  "Go fuck yourself," I mutter, snatching the clothes from his hands. As I'm about to pull the trousers on, I notice Mr. White walk through from the bedroom. To hide my nakedness, I immediately turn my back to him while I pull the trousers all the way up and fasten the button. He's already seen more than enough of my body tonight; there'll be no more free shows.

  "Elly," Mark says, "we should -"

  "I don't care," I reply firmly, almost breathless as I slip the t-shirt over my head.

  "Elly -"

  "I don't care!" I say again, raising my voice. "What the fuck's wrong with you? Whatever sick shit you've got going on here, it's really nothing to do with me. I'd rather just get out of here, and forget any of this ever even fucking happened".

  "I warned you that tonight might be a little extreme," he continues. "I told you there was a danger that you might not like what happened".

  "Yep," I say. "You warned me".

  "So really -"

  "I didn't think you were going to turn it into some kind of fucking voyeuristic spectacle," I say as I step back into my shoes. "I thought you'd have some kind of limit".

  "It's all part of the game," he says. "I thought you might even like it".

  "I bet you fucking did," I mutter, quickly tying my shoes so that I can get the hell out of here. "There'd better not have been a fucking camera in there".

  "There was no camera," he replies.

  "Great," I say. "So it was just an intimate moment between me, you and some random old pervert, huh?"

  "You seemed to like it for a while," he adds.

  "Seriously?" I ask, staring at him. I'm quivering with rage, almost ready to punch him in the face. Damn it, I'm not a violent person, but I could cause him some serious damage right now. "You thought I might like finding out that there's some old guy watching while we fuck?" I look over at Mr. White; I'm sickened by the thought of him staring at my naked body while Mark was making love to me. He saw me sucking Mark's cock, and he saw me cum while Mark was going down on me; damn it, he saw everything, even the part with the whip. All those intimate moments, all those moments that I thought I shared just with Mark... We were being watched the whole time. "Did you get a kick out of it?" I shout over to Mr. White. "Did you have your hand down your pants while you were staring at my tits?"

  "Elly, please..." Mark says, his voice trailing off.

  Seeing a smile on Mr. White's face, I turn to the door, but then I change my mind and turn back, walking quickly across the room until I'm face to face with him. Up close, I can see that he's got a lined and wrinkled face and old, sad eyes, but that smirk remains on his lips. "Is this what gets you off?" I ask angrily, getting right up in his face. I swear to God, I've never been so angry in my entire life; I've always avoided confrontation, but this whole mess has awoken some other side to me. "What's wrong with you?" I continue. "Can't you get it up? Do you just have to sit in the corner and watch while someone else fucks girls?"

  He opens his mouth as if he's about to reply, but then he just shrugs. There's something particularly loathsome about him, as if he's quite happy with the situation.

  "What was your favorite part?" I say, still simmering with rage. "Was it when he had his tongue in my pussy? When he came on my face? Or was it when I was whipping him? Huh? Did any of that get you squirming in your pants?" I wait for him to say something, but he just seems to be happy observing me. "Did your pathetic old cock quiver just a little?" I ask finally. "Did it stir enough to brush the cobwebs away?"

  "Young lady," he says suddenly, his voice old and filled with upper-class gravitas, "I think you misunderstand the nature of my interest".

  "I misunderstand the nature of your interest?" I ask, unable to hide an incredulous smile. "I misunderstand the nature of your interest?" I stare at him for a moment, my mind racing as I try to work out what exactly is going on here. It's as if I've stumbled into the middle of s
ome kind of weird, perverted set-up. Does Mark make a habit of bringing girls back to his penthouse so he can fuck them while some old bastard watches? "You're just a sweaty, slimy old man," I say, my chest tightening as I try to contain my anger. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but..." I pause, and suddenly I'm overcome by a feeling of total embarrassment. This man saw me in my most intimate moments. He saw me with my legs wide open, and he saw me as I came; he saw me swallow Mark's semen; he saw Mark gently biting on my nipples. "Fuck you," I say quietly, turning and hurrying to the door. All I want is to get out of here and never, ever be seen by these bastards again; in fact, I want to crawl under a rock and never be seen by anyone. I don't think I can ever have sex with anyone else, not after this. As I emerge into the corridor, I pause for a moment, convinced I'm about to throw up; the feeling soon passes, but I'm clearly having a physical, visceral reaction to what feels like the ultimate betrayal.

  "I can explain everything," Mark says, stepping naked into the corridor.

  "I doubt it," I reply, taking a deep breath so I can be sure I'm not going to vomit.

  "Elly," he says, "do you really think I'd do anything to humiliate you on purpose?"

  I turn to him, and for a moment I see in his eyes that same lost, wounded look that attracted me to him in the first place. There's clearly something dark and sordid going on in the depths of his soul; I used to think he was exciting, and that maybe I could help him, but now I see that he's far more depraved than I could ever have imagined.

  "I'll leave you two alone," Mr. White says, emerging from the room and walking toward the elevator. "Mr. Blue," he continues, not looking back, "I'll speak to you tomorrow. We have a lot to discuss". Reaching the elevator, he hits the Call button. "Ms. Bradshaw, it has been a great pleasure meeting you. I'm only sorry that our first encounter was under circumstances that proved so traumatic to you. I had been informed by Mr. Blue that you would be more amenable to the arrangement, but it seems his assessment of your character was somewhat flawed". The elevator doors open, and the bellboy's eyes immediately widen as he sees the bizarre scene. "Would you care to join me for the journey back down?" Mr. White asks, smiling at me.