by Mark Tilbury
‘Will she’ll be mad at me?’
‘Why would she be mad at you?’
‘For running away.’
‘You followed your dream, Amy. That takes guts. I’m sure she knows that.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Tell me more about this game?’
‘One False Move?’
‘Yes.’
‘I already told you. We were just game pieces. They moved us around their stupid board.’
‘I want to learn more about the Punishment Square and the Death Square.’
‘Don’t want to talk about them.’
‘You’ll feel better.’
‘How?’
‘It will help with the healing process. Did you ever land on a Punishment Square?’
‘Course I did.’
‘How many times?’
‘Maybe a dozen.’
‘That’s an awful lot of punishment. What did they do to you?’
‘Locked me in the cage, mostly.’
‘What sort of cage?’
‘The ones you see monkeys in.’
Westwood hesitated. He glanced at King before continuing. ‘Then what did they do?’
‘Made me crouch down until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Threw buckets of iced water over me. Poked this long thing through the bars and gave me electric shocks.’
‘Like a cattle prodder?’
‘I don’t know what it was. But it fucking well hurt. I used to scream and beg them to stop, but it made no difference. They enjoyed hurting me. The more I screamed, the happier they seemed to be.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Not as bad as the whipping post. I got flogged at least half a dozen times. Twenty lashes. Then they rubbed salt into the wounds. I actually thought my back was on fire. Blood was running right down the backs of my legs.’
‘You were naked?’
‘They always stripped you to punish you. Even in the stocks. I got put in those three times. They pelted me with rotten fruit. A plum stone took my eye out. They thought that was hilarious.’
Westwood’s voice dropped to little more than a croak. ‘You’re being very brave, Amy.’
‘Am I?’
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I want you to tell me what happened the day you landed on the Death Square.’
Silence, save the ticking of a clock and King’s exaggerated sighs.
‘How did they kill you?’
‘With one of those guillotine things.’
‘Can you describe it?’
‘It was made of wood. I had to kneel down and put my neck in this big groove. They tied my hands behind my back with leather straps. Then the bastard stood in front of me with one of those scroll things and read out a load of crap about being refused a pardon. Said I’d been ordered to suffer death by guillotine in accordance with the rules of the game. He also rambled on about losing one of his better players, and that he’d be sorry to see me go. If it was up to him he’d offer me a pardon, but the opposition’s word was final in such matters. Then he asked me if I had any last requests.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I hoped he rotted in hell. He told me he would pray for my soul. I could hear the other one behind me, Marlowe, fiddling with the rope securing the blade. Hear him breathing hard. I could see the board squares painted on the floor in such vivid vibrant colours. Purples, yellows, oranges and turquoises. It was as if all my senses were heightened. I saw a spider weaving a web on the bars of the cage. I could smell the damp in the air. Garlic. Shit. Polish on the guillotine frame. The fluorescent overhead light was flickering. And then I heard the blade fall. It made a whooshing sound. I didn’t actually feel it hit me. I must have passed out before it struck home.’
‘At least you were spared that.’
‘Next thing I knew, I was floating up near the ceiling. It was great. No longer in pain. The sight was back in my blind eye. At first, I thought I was dreaming, that I’d somehow fallen asleep in the middle of a game. And then I saw what was happening below me.’
‘What did you see?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Amy?’
‘The one who called himself Shakespeare shouted at the other one to pull the rope on the guillotine up.’
‘Was Shakespeare the one who abducted you?’
‘Yes. The Game Master.’
‘Go on.’
‘The blade had failed to cut my head off. Blood was running everywhere. All over my shoulders. The bottom of my hair was stained red. It was dripping onto the floor. The Game Master said the blade wasn’t sharp enough. He blamed the other one for not checking it. They argued about whose fault it was. Then the Game Master walked over to the table and grabbed the knife they used for prompting.’
‘Prompting?’
‘If you fell asleep in the cage, they would stab you. Not deep, but hard enough to jolt you awake. Anyway, he walked back to me and hacked my head off.’
‘Thank God you were already dead.’
‘I’m not sure I was. I was making this horrible noise that sounded somewhere between screaming and gargling. Blood was spurting everywhere. All over him. The wall. The floor. It took ages. He used the knife like a saw. When he was finished, he held up my head as if it was some kind of trophy. I no longer cared. I was just glad I’d never have to play their game anymore. I was finally free.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I was taken away.’
‘By who?’
‘An angel. She came straight through the ceiling like a beam of light. Materialised and turned into the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. No wings, just a golden aura. When she spoke, this amazing light shone from her eyes. She said, “It’s time.” Then she held out her hand. When I took it I felt the most amazing sense of peace wash through me. Peace and warmth and light. And then we floated out the top of the building. Up and up. Above the clouds. Higher and higher.’
‘To Heaven?’
‘That’s enough,’ King interrupted.
Chloe twisted her head around. ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s no one, Amy. It’s time to leave the special place now. I want you to take my hand.’
‘But I heard someone.’
‘It’s just your imagination.’
‘But—’
‘You’ve just relived a very traumatic experience, Amy. But it’s over now. Do you understand?’
‘I—’
‘We’ll go back across the bridge now.’
Chloe didn’t answer.
‘Amy?’
‘How do I know he’s not waiting for me?’
‘He’s not. I give you my word.’
After a long pause, Chloe agreed.
Westwood walked her back across the bridge, reassuring her, promising to protect her. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘I don’t like it here.’
‘We’ll walk back up the steps now and leave the garden.’
‘Okay.’
‘With each step, I want you to leave this life behind and return to your life as Chloe Hollis.’
‘Okay.’
He gestured for King to leave the room. Once gone, he walked Chloe carefully away from the past and back into the present.
Chloe opened her eyes and looked around the office. ‘Where am I?’
‘With Mummy. You had a little nap.’
Westwood brought Mel out of her trance, telling her Chloe was in good health and suffering no abnormalities. She would have no recollection of coming to The Wellbeing Clinic once she returned home.
Mel kissed the top of Chloe’s head. ‘Did I doze off?’
‘These sessions often make it seem that way,’ Westwood said. ‘It’s best to give it a while before you get up.’
‘I feel so much better knowing there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Glad to have helped.’
‘Where’s Charles?’
‘He’s sti
ll in the waiting room. You stay there and take a moment. I’ll get Olivia to bring you both a drink.’
‘Can I have fizzy, Mummy?’ Chloe asked, her voice showing no trace of Amy’s.
‘You’ve had a lot of fizzy drinks this Christmas.’ She looked at Westwood and rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll have squash.’
‘And you?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’
‘Coming right up.’
30
King left the building by way of the fire escape. His mind was so engrossed in what he’d just witnessed that he drove halfway home without even being aware he was doing so. It was only a jam on the southbound bypass that dragged him back to reality. The traffic was tailed back, reminding him of the fragile state of British roads. It was an insufferable fact of life that the infrastructure of this once proud nation was at breaking point. Why didn’t anyone care anymore? Lily-livered politicians were only bothered about feathering their own nests and provoking the occasional war to satisfy their jingoistic needs.
What in devil’s name just happened in that room?
King’s usual failsafe mechanism for dealing with paranormal activity failed. His whole belief system had been turned on its head. It was as if a giant hand had tipped him upside down and capsized his brain. Left him in no doubt that the girl had once lived as Purple-five.
Not only had she described, with unerring accuracy, her abduction, imprisonment and subsequent death, she’d done it in a voice unrecognisable as that of a child. It had been like watching a case of demonic possession in one of those ghastly horror films.
Someone honked a horn behind him, making him jump. He noticed the traffic had started to move again. Aware of his frailties, and conscious of his encounter with the tractor driver, King resisted an urge to retaliate. He slipped the car into drive and cruised home with thoughts of Chloe Hollis dominating his mind.
By the time he’d had two stiff brandies and treated himself to a Havana cigar, King felt better. He sat in a dark-red leather recliner exploring the deep caverns of his mind. His belief system was still in denial. How could death not be final? He’d always dismissed talk of spirits as drivel. Rubbish made up to facilitate a primitive need to frighten one another on dark nights.
‘“I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits o’ the dead may walk again: if such thing be, thy mother appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream so like a waking.’”
A fine quote, enhanced by King’s ability to deliver the lines with the reverence and authority they deserved. Shakespeare possessed an ability to make the most trite subjects credible. He could probably turn ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ into an authentic piece of literary prose, but that didn’t mean King fell into line and adopted as fact every word spoken by the great man.
He treated himself to another glass of brandy. ‘It can’t be true,’ he told the crystal decanter as he returned it to the mahogany drinks cabinet. ‘She can’t know. She’s barely out of nappies.’
Do you doubt your own ears?
He settled into his favourite chair, sipped his drink, and tried to come to terms with what Gavin Westwood had unearthed with his psychiatric shovel. The girl had even remembered the fictitious name he’d used on Paddington Station to lure her away. Lure all the girls away. Thomas Kowalski.
Not to mention how she’d described the botched attempt to execute her by guillotine, the cage, the stocks and the whipping post.
The girl would have to die. And soon. Hesitation was never a good friend to destiny.
What about Westwood? He knows far too much. Not to mention his unfavourable reaction to murder. Acting as if he was a paragon of virtue. Bloody lowlife hypocrite. His father had once announced that it was impossible to trust a man with a beard. King could now vouch for the dubious nature of those sporting facial hair, albeit just a moustache.
King cursed his rotten luck. He’d expected Westwood to prove it was all a load of rubbish; not to open a can of worms large enough to excite the entire bird population.
How will you kill him?
With memories of Nathan’s impromptu slaughter still fresh, King rounded on his inner voice. ‘I don’t know! I need more time to plan.’
Time waits for no man.
‘Stop throwing clichés at me.’
You should have listened to Charles when he first told you of the girl. Disposed of her without getting Westwood involved.
King opted for a quote from All’s Well That Ends Well to settle his frazzled nerves.
‘“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky gives us free scope, only doth backward pull our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.”’
All very well until we involve third-parties in our private affairs.
‘I am master of my own affairs.’
Unless Gavin Westwood drinks too much wine and babbles secrets in the wrong ear.
‘He knows better than to discuss my private affairs with anyone. His house, and the foundations which support that house, are built of glass. Let he who casts the first stone…’
If Purple-five lives on in Chloe Hollis, then what of all the others who have perished?
King’s stomach dropped down a lift shaft.
There could be eighteen more kids out there experiencing similar flashbacks.
To ground himself, and still the voice in his head, King walked to the wine cellar and opened the purple trophy cabinet. He slid out the drawer containing Purple-five’s severed head.
‘Dead,’ he slurred. ‘Dead as a Dodo.’
Purple-five’s remaining eye stared to one side, but he detected an accusatory glint in that orb.
‘You can’t be in that child,’ King concluded, touching the icy bag, tracing the contours of the frozen head. ‘You’re Amy May Constable.’
Amy May Constable responded by regarding him like a one-eyed Mona Lisa with a squint. The gentle hum of the freezers purred in the background.
‘You were always my favourite,’ King told the head, as if trying to garner favour. ‘Gutsy. Not like others I could mention. Your successor has something about her, but she’s mouthy and common. Still, credit where credit’s due, she’s still rattling her chains after five years. She landed on the Death Square once, but I negotiated a pardon by offering Charles a forfeit. Suffice to say, he was a happy headmaster after a long night of sexual favours.’
Amy didn’t look as if she could give a hoot about the progress of Purple-six. She seemed more concerned about the possibility of thawing out. And with good reason. Water trickled down the outside of the bag, creating a realistic illusion that she was shedding tears.
‘Grief spills like molten bullets as divinity mourns,’ King whispered. ‘But we should not fear the silver-streaked reaper.’
He considered the statement and concluded his brain was very near to tipping point. He would need a holiday after Westwood and the girl had been dealt with. Perhaps Switzerland. The Alps. A spot of skiing to recharge the batteries.
He told Purple-five of his plans. Purple-five didn’t seem interested.
‘I’m going to go now. If I don’t see you before, I’d like to wish you a happy and prosperous New Year.’
Purple-five didn’t look in a very celebratory mood.
‘Peter?’
King jumped, heart banging like a gong, sending shockwaves through his head.
‘What are you doing down here?’
He held onto the freezer for support. Purple-five appeared to wink at him, further heightening his paranoia.
‘Are you all right, Peter? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘How dare you sneak up on me like that? You almost gave me a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Why are you looking in the freezer?’
King looked at his lover and imagined the man’s head encased in ice. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I’m selecting something nice for dinner.’
&
nbsp; ‘Ugh!’
‘What do you fancy? Ear or a tongue?’
‘That’s gross.’
King slammed the freezer shut as Purple-five appeared to pucker her lips and blow him a kiss.
‘What happened during the regression?’
King chose his words carefully. ‘I’m at a loss to make any sense of it.’
‘Did Chloe talk of a past life?’
‘Of sorts,’ King lied.
‘What did she say?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it down here in front of the guests. Let’s go to the lounge.’
Once seated in his leather chair, feet resting on a genuine Persian rug, fresh brandy in one hand, cigar in the other, he felt able to relay the hypnotherapy session with unerring accuracy.
‘My God, it’s all true,’ Honeywell squawked. ‘I told you so, didn’t I?’
King puffed on his cigar.
‘She really is Purple-five?’
‘It seems so.’
‘What are we going to do?’
King blew on the tip of his Havana. ‘What do you suppose we do, Mr. Marlowe?’
Honeywell didn’t seem to hear him. ‘I knew something was wrong. I could see it in Westwood’s face.’
‘That bugger always looks suspicious. Even when he’s…’
‘Go on.’
Tied to the bed and enjoying oral sex. ‘Nothing.’
‘I want to know the true nature of your relationship with him.’
‘Hostile, Mr. Marlowe. Hostile.’
‘I don’t want to share you.’
King tried to cluck his tongue and almost bit it. Cursing his poor coordination, he put the brandy glass on the coffee table. He arranged his thoughts into a coherent line and then attempted to articulate them while revealing none of his innermost secrets. Particularly those relating to his tempestuous sexual relationship with Gavin Westwood.
‘For what it’s worth, Mr. Marlowe, I don’t like the man. And I don’t trust him.’
Honeywell looked pleased, relieved and confused all at the same time. ‘But I thought you said he could be trusted?’
‘Is life not fluid, Mr. Marlowe? Opinions change, as do our goals and motivations. I now believe Gavin Westwood to be devious and devoid of shame. That’s why we must tread carefully.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
