Broken White: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

"I'd better get back in there and clean up," John the Pig replies, turning and heading back into the room.

  "Can I -" I start to say, before spotting a dismembered hand on the floor. Immediately, I realize that it would be hopeless to ask if I might see Henrietta's body. As John the Pig pushes the door shut, I realize that this miracle of life has occurred at the same time as a horrific death. It's clear that Henrietta was damn near hacked apart in order to have the baby retrieved, and I can't help but feel that this is no way for a child to enter the world. Still, he's here now, and although I would dearly love to have Henrietta here to share the joy, I can at least take solace in the fact that this child has the brightest of futures. I swear to God, he will never know the kind of pain that his mother endured.

  The game will not have him.

  Elly

  Today

  When I wake up, it's dark and we're still naked. At first, I don't move. I feel as if Mark and I are bonded together, and any movement might ruin everything. All I want to do is feel the warmth of his skin against mine and hear the sound of him breathing. I might be wrong, but I can't help thinking that maybe this is what it's like to have a 'normal' relationship; this is what normal people do when they're together. They don't play elaborate games, they don't try to push each other to extremes. They just spend time together, sharing their warmth and enjoying one another's company. In a way, this is a primal experience. This is what it's like to be with someone you love.

  Eventually, realizing that I need a glass of water, I carefully slip out from Mark's embrace and quietly leave the room. The apartment is dark and quiet, and it's hard to reconcile the tranquility of the place with the drama of some of the things that have happened here over the past few months. Standing naked in Mark's kitchen and pouring myself a glass of water, I find myself thinking back to that first night here, when I accepted Mark's challenge and slept with him for the first time. Even in my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd end up living here, engaged to him, facing a future that might not be quite as shitty as I'd always feared. For the first time in my life, I feel as if things are going to be okay.

  After finishing the glass of water, I close my eyes and listen to the hum of the air-conditioning unit.

  "Are you sure?" asks a voice suddenly.

  I take a deep breath.

  My father's voice.

  "What if you're being a naive idiot?" he continues. "What if you're being unbelievably stupid? What if you're making a decision that's so ludicrously blinkered, you'll one day look back on this moment and tremble with fear at the very idea that you could be such a fool?"

  "You don't know Mark," I whisper.

  "Don't I?" He laughs. "And who do you think I am?" He pauses. "Come on, Elly. If someone else was doing what you're doing, you'd rip them to shreds. You think Jess is crazy to fly to India with some guy she knows fairly well, and yet look what you're doing".

  "This is different".

  "Why? Because of the money?"

  "Fuck you".

  He laughs again. "You don't know that Jess is in India. You've only got Mark's word for it. And you don't know that his ex-girlfriend is still alive. Do you really think the police would be tailing him if they didn't have some kind of evidence?"

  "Mark's not a killer," I reply.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I know him".

  Standing in silence, I wait for my father's voice to contradict me. He sounds so real and so close, I'm tempted to fear for my sanity. After all, most people don't start hearing the voices of dead relatives. Still, I keep reminding myself that it's all just my way of talking to myself. I don't believe for a second that he's actually come back to talk to me. I thought I'd stopped hearing his voice after his funeral, but I guess that maybe this is always going to be my way of dealing with stressful situations.

  "Are you still there?" I ask after a moment.

  Silence.

  I walk over to the window and stare out at the city. With so many lights blazing in the darkness, it's hard to believe that night has really fallen. There are two Londons, one that lives during the day and one that lives during the night. Right now, I feel as if I belong to both of them.

  "Why are you still here?" my father's voice asks.

  "I belong here," I reply.

  "In this penthouse?"

  I nod.

  "Is that what you think?"

  "I'm going to marry Mark," I tell him. "I want to marry him. The game's over now. He's sorting it all out -"

  "Do you have any idea how naive you sound right now?"

  "I'm not naive". I pause for a moment. "Why are you even here? If you haven't got anything useful to say, you might as well just leave me alone". I wait for his reply. "I don't need to listen to you. Not now. I'm not a kid, okay? In case you haven't noticed, I'm an adult. I don't need to have my father's voice whispering in my ear every five minutes".

  "You had a heart attack".

  "And now I'm fine".

  "Are you sure? Haven't you felt any vague tremors? Not even a slight buzz?" He pauses. "Are you sure you haven't been telling little white lies every time Mark asks if you're feeling okay?"

  "I'm fine," I say firmly.

  "Whatever. You can say what you want, but it doesn't change what's happening inside your body".

  "Why are you still here?" I hiss, starting to get annoyed.

  "Why?" He pauses. "I guess there are two options. One's that your mind is so divided, so troubled, that you've resurrected my voice so you can bat the pros and cons around a few times. The other is that you're making such a monumental fuck-up, I've returned from the dead to whisper the truth in your ear. I don't give a damn which of those you believe, Elly. I just need to know that you're listening to what I'm saying. You only get so many chances to make a decision before the result sticks".

  Silence.

  After a few minutes of mindlessly staring at the city, I turn and hurry back through to Mark's bedroom. I grab my phone and head to the kitchen, where I bring up my mother's number and try calling her again. To my surprise, instead of going through to voicemail, I suddenly hear the sound of the phone being answered.

  "Elly?" my mother asks wearily. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

  "I thought you were on holiday," I stammer. "I thought you were in a different timezone".

  "We had a weekend in Brighton," she mutters, "but I'm home now. What do you want? Is something wrong?"

  "No," I reply, "I just..." Pausing, I realize that I want to tell her about my engagement, but it's clear that I can't do it over the phone. "Do you mind if I come over?" I continue. "There's something I really want to tell you. It's good news. It's, like, the best news. Is it okay if I drop by tomorrow?"

  "You can come home any time you like," she replies, sounding as if she's still half asleep. "You know this is still your home. Just because I've got a gentleman friend, there's no reason for you not to come over. In fact, I'd like you to get to know Bob properly". She pauses. "Are you sure everything's okay? It's so late, Elly".

  "I'm fine," I reply, feeling strangely buoyed by the sound of her voice. It's as if the thought of telling my mother about the engagement somehow makes it more real. It's not just a private thing between Mark and myself; it's a part of real life, and it's actually going to happen. "I'll drop by in the afternoon," I continue excitedly. "I won't be alone. I'm going to bring someone".

  "That's nice, dear," she mutters. "Can I go back to sleep now? It's been such a long day".

  "Goodnight," I reply, before ending the call. As I stand alone in the kitchen, I'm overcome by the feeling that this is all real. My life with Mark has been a secret so far, something to be hidden and denied, but now I can feel it starting to explode and become much bigger. Tomorrow I'll tell my mother about the engagement, and then we'll have to start planning things. Hurrying back to the bedroom, I know I'll never be able to get back to sleep, but I -

  Before I reach the bed, a hand is clamped over my mouth and I'm pulled back a
gainst the wall.

  "It's me," Mark whispers. "There's someone in the penthouse".

  I try to get free, but he's holding me too tightly.

  "You have to stay in here," he continues. "It's going to be okay, but stay out of sight. I'll deal with it. I'm going to let go of you, but you have to promise not to make a sound. Okay?"

  Slowly, he moves his hand away from my mouth. I turn and see that's he's still naked, but the old fear has returned to his eyes. After a moment, I realize that he's carrying something in his right hand, and finally I see that it's a gun.

  "Mark," I whisper, "you -"

  He puts a finger to his lips.

  My heart racing, I step back toward the bed.

  "I was in the kitchen," I hiss. "You heard me! There's -" Before I can finish, I realize there is a noise coming from the next room: a kind of creaking sound, like someone took a step forward.

  Still naked, I stand and watch as Mark makes his way slowly toward the bedroom door, and finally he steps out into the main part of the penthouse. I can hear my heart racing as I see Mark's figure moving through the shadows. It's hard to make anything out, but all I can do is wait and hope that everything's going to be okay. I can't help thinking that somehow Mark has got this all wrong. There can't be someone else in the apartment. I'd have heard them, for one thing, and for another... Why would anyone want to break in? After a moment, I realize that the question of 'why' is kind of redundant. I should have known it was too easy. I should have known that the game would never let us get free so easily. If only the -

  Suddenly there's a gunshot, ringing out through the dark apartment. Seconds later, I hear the sound of a body slumping to the ground. I step back, my heart pounding as I desperately wait for Mark to come back and tell me that everything's okay. Whatever just happened -

  A figure walks to the doorway and stands staring at me.

  I stare back.

  It's not Mark. It's too big. Whoever this is, he's taller than Mark and wider, more sturdy. The first thought that hits me is that Mark might be hurt. The second thought is that there's no way anyone's going to hear me if I scream.

  "I..." I start to say.

  The figure takes a step forward, raises a gun and fires.

  Ducking down, I hear the bullet slam into the mirror, smashing the glass. I hide behind the bed, but I can already hear the figure walking around to get at me. I try desperately to think of something I can do, but it's too late and the figure is already standing over me.

  "No!" I shout. "You can't -"

  Another gunshot runs out.

  I stare up at the figure.

  I wait for the pain.

  Silence.

  It takes several seconds before I realize that I haven't been shot. In the confusion, I don't notice at first that the figure has slumped down onto the bed. It's hard to see much in the darkness, but as I lean closer, I realize that the side of his face has been blown away, and blood is pouring out of the wound and seeping into the bed-sheets. I open my mouth to cry out for help, but at the last moment I realize that I can't even make a sound. My mind is blank. All I can do is stare and stare.

  Silence.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  "Elly..." Mark calls out from the other room, his voice sounding weak. "Elly, please..."

  Getting to my feet, I race out of the room and find Mark on the floor by the window.

  "Elly..." he whispers, trying to get up but quickly collapsing back into a heap. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

  I kneel next to him and immediately see that there's a wound to one side of his neck, with blood pouring out. I know I should try to staunch the flow, but I don't know where to begin. I lean over to the writing desk and fumble with the lamp, until finally I manage to flick the switch. Turning back to Mark, I see the true extent of his injuries: part of the left side of his neck has been completely destroyed, with mangled pieces of flesh and meat trailing down, and there's a huge patch of blood already soaking into the carpet.

  "You have to get out of here," he says quietly, as if he's starting to lose consciousness. There's blood leaking into his throat, and a small amount sprays out every time he speaks. "You have to run. There'll be others. They won't stop until they've got you too..."

  Without saying anything, I run back to the bedroom and grab my phone. I can't even begin to process the fact that there's a dead man on the bed, and as I head back to Mark, I realize that my heart is beating faster than I've ever known. At the same time, I haven't really reacted yet. It's as if my entire body has become cold and numb, and my mind is focusing on the practicalities of trying to save Mark's life. There'll be time to scream and panic later. Right now, all that matters is getting help. Fumbling with the numbers, I eventually manage to call the emergency services.

  "Listen to me..." Mark whispers.

  "I need an ambulance!" I shout as soon as someone answers the call. "I need an ambulance at the Castleton Hotel! He's been shot! You have to get here now! We're in the penthouse! He's been shot in the neck and he's bleeding!"

  Dropping the phone, I kneel next to Mark and try to work out how to help him. There's so much blood on the floor, and his eyes are starting to glaze over. It's as if he's dying right now, right in front of me, and there's nothing I can do to help him.

  "Mark!" I shout, with tears pouring down my face. "You have to stay with me! Are you listening? Mark!" I try to lift his head from the floor, but more blood pours from the hole in his neck. "Mark!" I scream. "You have to stay alive!" I wait for some kind of response, but it's as if he's passed out. "Mark!"

  Jonathan Pope

  1901

  The child sleeps peacefully. It he knows anything of the pain and misery into which he was born, he shows no sign of fear. I cannot even begin to imagine the traumatic circumstances of his birth, or the way in which John the Pig virtually hacked the poor child from Henrietta's body, but for now at least Thomas Pope seems to be at peace with the world. How long this can last, I do not know. All men must eventually face reality, and yet I'm determined to keep Thomas safe for as long as possible. Looking now at his innocent face, I cannot bear the thought that one day his skin will be etched with the pain of experience. He must never know the truth.

  When he eventually asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was a good and intelligent woman, and that she died in childbirth. When he asks how I met her, I will tell him that we had shared interests in changing the world. When he asks where he was born, I will tell him that he was born in London and that he will always be a child of the city. These things are true, and they help to avoid the more devastating aspects of his life. Ultimately, the truth is a many-sided thing, and when one is young, one can look at one of these sides while ignoring the others. Perhaps, later, one will inevitably learn to turn the truth around and see it from different angles. Children, however, should not be exposed to such harshness. Thomas Pope will live a good life. A long life. Happy and fulfilled. If all goes to plan, he will never even know of the game or its sinister implications, and he will certainly not know anything of the madness that gripped his mother in his final moments. I simply cannot allow these shadows to claim him.

  "Your mother was the most remarkable woman I ever met," I tell him. I know he can't hear me, of course, since he sleeps so soundly, but I feel as if I need to practice these half-truths. "She commanded men and women alike. She had wonderful, world-changing ideas, and she expressed them wherever she went. She was known throughout the city as a forward-thinking agent of modernity and change. I have no doubt that in many years to come, she will still be remembered as a pioneer. When you yourself are an old man, Thomas, your mother will be famous throughout the world. God willing, people will know only the good things, and the worst of it all will have been swept away".

  "Talking to yourself?" John the Pig asks, standing in the doorway. "Some people reckon that's the first sign of madness. As for me, I reckon not talking to yourself is a sign that something's wrong. After all
, you should always make use of an intelligent and available audience, don't you think?"

  "How long have you been watching?" I reply, turning to him. In my old life, I would have instantly detected his presence. Lately, however, I have begun to let my senses drift, and this is something that must change. With a child to care for, I must be alert to the possibility of any threat. Unfortunately, changes in my private life - first with the arrival of Henrietta, and now with the birth of Thomas - means that I find myself easily distracted. If I cannot reclaim some part of my former preparedness, I fear that I will swiftly be picked off by my remaining enemies.

  "Long enough," he mutters, limping into the room. "I've finished cleaning up. I don't know what you want doing with the woman's body, but I've placed it in three different bags -"

  "Do what you want with it," I tell him.

  "Really?" he asks, his eyes lighting up.

  "Just make sure to..." I pause. A woman such as Henrietta deserves the most magnificent burial, but I cannot afford to draw attention to what has happened. The world believes her to have died some time ago, and even now a maid's body rots in Henrietta's grave. Perhaps the mortal, physical remains of Henrietta's corpse are of no great importance. "Do what you normally do when someone dies on your table," I say finally. "Just don't tell me about it".

  "The child is healthy?" he asks, stepping over to the bed upon which Thomas continues to sleep. "I must say, I've never delivered a baby before. I'm starting to think I'm rather good at it".

  "He sleeps soundly enough," I reply. "Tomorrow morning, he and I shall set forth from this place, and we shall never look back".

  "Where are you taking him?"

  "Even if I knew, I would not tell you. We must make a clean break from everything that has gone before. There are still too many people in this city who would like to get their hands on the child". I pause for a moment. "At least the game is over," I add eventually. "That vile tradition of pain and torture has come to a conclusion. I can't fathom how much blood has been lost and how many lives have sunk into the depths of the Thames, but it's over now".