by Amy Cross
"Molly?" I call out. "Is that you?" There is no-one in my life named Molly; this is merely an attempt to confuse any potential attacker, and to persuade him that my defenses are down. "I'm going to be away for a few days," I continue, trying to make my voice sound relaxed. "I'd appreciate it if you could just pop by once a week and make sure the place doesn't get too dusty. I'll find some money for you and leave it on the kitchen table, is that okay?"
Silence.
And then the faintest of creaking sounds.
Someone's definitely here.
"Okay," I say. "There's no need to come twice a week while I'm away, but -"
Suddenly, an arm is wrapped around my neck and I'm pulled back into my office. As I try to struggle, the pistol falls from my hand and I feel my throat being crushed. I have no idea how this person managed to sneak up behind me, but I fear that I only have a few seconds before I suffer permanent damage. I manage to slam my elbow back into my assailant's ribs, causing him to loosen his grip just a little, and then I'm able to twist around and slam him into the wall. He's a young man, clearly some street-kid who was slipped a few coins in order to come and take a shot at me. With a couple of blows to the side of his neck, I'm able to drop him to the floor, at which point I grab my pistol and aim it straight at his head.
"Who sent you?" I ask breathlessly.
"Don't kill me!" the boy shouts.
"Who sent you?" I shout.
"A woman!"
"What woman?"
"I don't know her name," he stammers, "but she wore a red cloak with a hood".
Shaking my head, I cock the pistol.
"I swear!" he shouts. "She paid me to come and -"
"Don't lie to me!" I say firmly. It's clear that no-one could have expected such an ill-trained boy to take me down, so he must have been sent for some reason. This story of a red-cloaked woman is clearly an attempt to sow doubt in my mind, and to foster suspicion; someone wants me to question Henrietta's loyalty and to wonder whether she would try to have me killed. It's such a desperately obvious ploy, I find it hard to believe that Mr. White would have thought me to be so gullible. Still, perhaps he is becoming desperate, in which case it would seem that I might have the upper hand after all. Either way, I feel that I must tie up these loose ends before Henrietta and I leave England. If I kill Mr. White, the game will be dead forever.
"I've got a wife," the boy says, "and a child!"
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty, Sir".
"And you have no job?"
He shakes his head.
"Then you have no business taking a wife and siring a child. The world would be better off without you and your kind, reproducing like rabbits and filling the world with worthless swine. Tell me who really sent you, or I'll put a bullet through your face".
"I swear," he continues, "it was a woman in a red cloak!"
"Liar!" I shout.
"I swear!" He stares at me with wild, fearful eyes. "She came to me yesterday and offered me ten shillings if I'd come and hurt you! She didn't want you killed, just warned off! I was supposed to tell you to run from London and never return!"
"You didn't do a very good job," I reply.
"Please don't kill me," he whimpers. "I just needed the money".
"I'll spare your life," I say firmly, "if you admit that there was no woman in red!"
"I spoke to her!"
"You're lying!"
"I spoke to her!" he shouts.
"She would never do that!" I shout back at him.
Unable to control myself, I pull the trigger and the side of the boy's head bursts open, showering the wall with blood and fragments of bones. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regret my decision to end his life, and as I lower the gun I realize that my hands are shaking. The boy was just a pawn, used by Mr. White to get to me; in my anger and fear, I allowed myself to be tricked. Still, if I'm to leave the country with Henrietta, there's no need to tidy the boy's dead body away. Let the world think that Jonathan Pope is a common murderer; by the time anyone is looking for me, I shall be in Paris with the woman I love.
Elly
Today
"So was Chrissie part of the game?" I ask, as Mark and I stand in the elevator as it slowly heads down to the ground floor.
"What game?" Mark asks, glaring at me.
I open my mouth to ask again, before realizing that the bellboy is standing just a few feet away. I guess I've still got a lot to learn about spending time with Mark; talking about the game in public is probably off-limits.
"No," Mark continues after a moment, clearly annoyed. "She wasn't".
I smile politely, realizing that I've probably stepped over a major line. "Sorry," I say quietly.
"For what?"
I glance over at the bellboy and see that he's watching us from the corner of his eye.
"Nothing," I mutter as we reach the basement and the elevator doors open out to reveal the underground parking space beneath the Castleton Hotel.
"Thank you, as always," Mark says, pressing some cash into the bellboy's hand before stepping out of the chamber.
As I follow Mark to his car, I can't help but glance back at the bellboy; he's staring intently at me, his gaze unwavering as the elevator doors slide shut.
"Are you sure you trust that guy?" I ask as I run to catch up with Mark.
"Eduardo has been working at the Castleton for five years," he replies. "He's seen a lot of things, but he knows to keep his mouth shut". He glances over at me for a second. "Which is more than can be said for some people".
"I'm sorry!" I reply as we reach his car. "I didn't mean to get you into any trouble. It's not like the game's illegal or anything". I wait for him to say something, but he simply opens the car door and climbs inside. "Is it?" I ask, getting into the passenger side. "Mark, is the game illegal?"
"It's not about legality," Mark replies. "It's about morality. The game has to be a secret. Can you imagine if it got out? Can you imagine, even for a moment, if this whole thing became public knowledge? It'd be a circus. The moral police would be all over it, and eventually it'd be reduced to the status of a..." He pauses for a moment, as he tries to come up with the most degrading example possible. "It'd be a reality TV show," he says finally, the distaste positively dripping from his voice.
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I was just casually wondering -"
"Whether I murdered Chrissie," he replies, fixing me with a determined stare.
Taken aback by his forwardness, I stare at him for a moment. I feel as if I've been put in the spotlight. I mean, I have to admit that the question crossed my mind, but I wasn't actually going to ask. "I didn't say that -"
"But you're thinking it," he continues, with a resigned tone to his voice. There's an awkward pause. "I understand, Elly. You barely know me. Despite everything we've been through so far, you don't..." He pauses again. "I didn't kill Chrissie Briggs. She and I dated for a while, before I met you, and as far as I'm concerned she's been out of my life since that night at the restaurant. I'm sorry if something has happened to her, but it's nothing to do with me and I certainly didn't hate her enough to get her killed. Even if I had, I'm not that kind of person".
I nod, feeling as if the past couple of minutes couldn't have gone any worse.
"You'll see," he says, smiling hesitantly. "Eventually you'll get to know me better, and you'll understand that there's no way I could ever do anything to hurt anyone. Especially you, Elly". He reaches over and puts a hand on my knee. "You're caught up in something extreme. I understand that. You're in a world that must seem totally alien. Maybe I've been pushing you too fast, making you handle situations for which you're not prepared. I shouldn't have taken you to Zurich".
"Of course you should!" I reply, starting to feel as if he's pulling away. "Zurich was amazing! Well, I mean, until Isabella's accident. But I think I did okay, right? I'm not some wide-eyed kid, Mark! I just wanted to know if Chrissie was part of the game. That's not a totally unreasonable
thing to ask, is it?" I wait for him to reply, but I can't help feeling as if I'm being far more pushy than usual. "There's still so much I don't know," I continue. "About you, about the game. Even about myself. I feel like everything's on hold. Whenever you talk about the game, it's as if you're delaying things. Don't you want me to be part of this?"
"I do," he says, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.
"Then why are we waiting?" I ask, looking out the window and seeing the dark, empty parking lot spread out around us. "You keep saying you're going to take me to Mr. White some time, but it never actually happens. It's like you're scared of something".
"I just..." He stares at me. "You'll meet them soon," he says after a moment. "Very soon. I just wanted to make sure you were ready, that's all. Besides, I've got a surprise lined up for you".
"You do?" I reply, feeling as if things are maybe getting back on track.
He nods. "Weren't you going to ask where we're going today?"
"I just assumed -"
"You just agreed to come with me, without even asking," he replies. "Relax. I've got something very special to show you. I thought it might be a good idea to reconnect you with something from your past. When you're playing the game, it's important to make sure that you retain some sense of your own identity". Starting the engine, he eases the car out of the parking bay and across the garage.
"Is that what you've done?" I ask, watching the determined look on his face. He knows I'm staring at him, but he refuses to even acknowledge me. "Did you retain any of your own identity when you started playing? What's the real Mark Douglas like? Before all this, were you -"
"Let's focus on you," he says firmly.
"But I want to know about you".
"There's nothing to know".
"But you must have a family." I wait for a reply, but he seems determined to shut down my line of questioning. "You must have had a life before you started playing the game," I continue, hoping to push him to open up a little. After all, I feel as if we've got to know each other a little better recently so I figure it's about time for him to open up and at least tell me something about his life. "You must have been someone before you became Mr. Blue," I add. "The real you".
"This is the real me," he says, as he swings the car onto the Mall. Buckingham Palace flashes past the window.
"Where were you born?" I ask. "Where did you go to school? Who was your first girlfriend? What were your parents like?" I can't help but notice a slight flicker of emotion in his eyes when I mention his parents, as if perhaps I've struck a topic that has particular meaning to him. "Tell me about your mother. Or your father. Do you have any siblings? Have you ever been -"
Suddenly he slams his foot on the brakes and the car screeches to a halt. The car behind us honks its horn and moves around us, but Mark makes no attempt to move us off the road.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I'm trying to do something nice for you today," he says, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. "I'd prefer it if you could try not to be so aggressive".
"Asking about your parents is aggressive?" I reply, shocked.
"It is when I've specifically told you that I don't want to talk about them". Finally, he turns to me. "I know it's fashionable in the modern world to pick apart one's past, and to talk about one's feelings, but that's not how I do things. You won't ever meet my parents, Elly, and that means there's no need for you to ever know anything about them. What they were like, what they did, what happened... It's all in the past. It doesn't affect what's happening now, so why keep trying to bring it up?"
"So they're not around?"
He ignores the question.
"Are they dead?" I ask.
"I'm not answering questions," he says, as a couple more cars honk their horns while maneuvering around us.
"You know about my parents".
"Purely by accident," he replies. "I had to know something about you in order to bring you into the game, but I certainly haven't asked about them since you've been living in my apartment have I?" We sit in silence for a moment. "Your parents don't define you, Elly. I could sit down and tell you every excruciating detail about my parents, but it wouldn't help you get to know me any better. In fact, it'd probably obfuscate a few things. Rather than indulge in amateur psychology, I think you'd be better off devoting your energies to the tasks at hand. The game is going to ask a lot of you".
"When?" I reply. "I thought I was supposed to meet Mr. White soon?"
"You will," he says, becoming notably more nervous. He eases us back into traffic, and soon we're silently on the road again. "Just wait," he continues after a moment. "You'll meet Mr. White soon enough. Believe me, everything's planned out to perfection. Don't try to rush things".
"But are we still playing the game?" I ask. "Or is it paused?"
"We're still playing," he replies. "We're always playing. Every second of every day. There's never a break. If there's ever a moment when you think the game has stopped, you need to be careful, because that's when it's got so deep under your skin that you don't even notice it anymore. It's everywhere. It's all around. Every street. Every moment. Every person you meet, even if they seem completely random, might be part of the game. Don't let your guard down. If you only remember one thing, Elly, you must remain vigilant at all times. And don't try to hurry things along, because they'll happen at their own pace. I promise".
Turning to look out the window, I find myself wondering if there's any way I can find out the truth about Mark's past. I don't buy his claim that knowing about his parents would somehow make it harder to understand him; on the contrary, I feel as if it would help if I knew where he'd grown up and how his early years had shaped his life. I mean, it's not normal for people not to know the history of the people they love, and Mark's determination to block my questions is only making me more keen than ever to know the truth about him.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, as I suddenly realize that I love Mark. It's crazy, and I should just be focusing on this whole thing as a bit of fun, and as a source of great sex, but I've fallen in love with him. I can't tell him, of course. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever.
"We're here," he says suddenly, disturbing me from my thoughts.
Momentarily dazed as the car comes to a halt, I look out the front window and stare at a large, familiar building. It takes a couple of seconds before I realize that we're at Paddington train station.
"Where are we going?" I ask, turning to Mark.
"Nowhere," he says with a smile. "We're here to meet someone. Someone you know".
Jonathan Pope
1901
"But when will they announce the news?" asks a gentleman as he stands in the corner of the bar. "Everyone knows Her Majesty has passed away, but it seems that no-one wants to come out and say the words".
"I'm sure it's Edward's doing," replies his companion. "There'll be all sorts of maneuvering behind the scenes. Best to just let them get on with it and wear themselves out".
The whole of Westminster is buzzing with the latest gossip about Victoria's health. Most people seem to have accepted that the Queen is dead, but the palace is for some reason holding off on making an official announcement. As I make my way through the foyer, my eyes scanning the crowd for my target, I can't help but think of the chaos that will befall this country once Edward takes to the throne. The man is a fool, and I feel certain that there will be unrest in the north. Perhaps Henrietta and I will be better off away from this place after all.
After a moment, I spot him up ahead: Harrison Blake, aka Mr. White, talking amiably to some fellow parliamentarians. This is his natural habitat; the corridors of power are home to many such beasts, and while Blake is unlikely to ever become Prime Minister, he is a highly adept political strategist, and his support is valued by all sides. Throughout the land, he is known as the kind of man who could make or break the leadership of those who purport to hold real power. According to rumor, he has already begun to
work against the Marquess of Salisbury and is supporting the ambitions of Arthur Balfour. At this precise moment, he's deep in discussions with a number of men, including the notorious plotter Sir Addison Cotteringham.
"Gentlemen," Blake is saying as I get closer, "there is no need to -" He stops suddenly as he sees me; I recognize a flicker of concern in his eyes, as he realizes that his carefully-constructed facade of honor could come crashing down. After all, I'm one of only a few people in the land who could expose his secret double life.
"No need to what?" asks Sir Addison.
"No need to panic," Blake continues, forcing a smile to his lips. "Gentleman, I'd like you to meet an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Jonathan Pope".
The other men turn and stare at me, and it's clear that they can tell I'm from a lower class.
"Mr. Pope is a fine orator," Blake continues. "He has some very interesting ideas on the future of the monarchy, and he is very adept at getting those ideas across. You simply must find the time to listen to him speak some time, but..." He pauses for a moment. "I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Pope. I was unaware that you had access to the parliamentary estate".
"I don't mean to intrude," I reply, "but I've had a very eventful day and I felt the need for more refined company. Fortunately, it seems I had been added to the entrance list. It seems someone was under the impression that I'm one of your official guests for the day, Mr. Blake".
