The Broken Trilogy Page 2

  I can only pray the she is the one who will win the game. I cannot bear the thought that this nightmare might last another day, or another year, or even another century.

  Elly

  Today

  "Guess what I'm doing!"

  I pause. "Um..."

  "You'll never guess! Not in a million years!"

  Sitting on the end of my old bed, in my old room, I listen to Jess's excited, crackly voice coming out of my laptop speakers. She sounds totally buzzed; it's almost as if she's on another planet, compared to the stillness of my parents' house in London. Jess is one of those people who can stay awake and bubbly for days on end, never running out of people to hang out with, or things to do, or funny little pills to take. She's a one-person party machine and even talking to her over the phone, when we're hundreds of miles apart, is kind of exhausting. The two of us are so insanely different, it's pretty weird that we're best friends, but somehow I always end up tagging along with her and she always seems to like having me around.

  "You're having sex with some random guy?" I ask. To be honest, I'd be shocked if she wasn't having sex with some random guy. It's what she does.

  "Not quite," she says, laughing. "I'll give you another clue. I'm sitting here with a guy named Robert, and he's got a huge cock." She laughs. "Okay, now what do you think I'm doing?"

  "You're blowing a guy," I reply. "Jesus, Jess. You know, if you're busy, you could've just not answered the phone. I really wouldn't have been offended."

  "Fuck off," she says, "of course I'm gonna answer the phone! I wanted to make sure you're okay. You were acting pretty weird last night."

  "Was I?"

  "Totally," she replies. "I mean, most people cry when they find out their Dad's dead, but you just carried on getting ready for the party. It was like nothing had happened. You just seemed focused on all the boring shit we're normally doing. I had to pretty much force you to get a train home this morning."

  I pause, not sure what to say. She's right, but does it really matter? Different people cope with bad news differently. I'm sure I'll cry at some point, but there's no point forcing it. It'll happen when it happens, like most things in our dull, gray lives. Until then, I'm totally fine. Damn it, I phoned Jess because I wanted some inconsequential chat about Bristol, not so that we could talk about my father.

  "I should let you go," I say eventually, hoping to wriggle out of the conversation.

  "No way!" she shouts back. "Don't worry about Robert. I'm giving him the hand-job of his life right now. So tell me how you're doing. You okay?"

  "I'm just sitting here in my old bedroom," I say, glancing around at the walls. It's so weird being here these days. Although I moved out three years ago to go to university, my mother has never reclaimed the space. All my old things are still here, just as they were before.

  "You're just sitting in your room?" Jess asks.

  "Yeah," I reply.

  "Is that it?"

  "I guess."

  "Sounds exciting," she continues. "How's your dear mother doing, anyway?"

  "As endearing as always."

  "That bad, huh?" She laughs. "I'm joking. I like your mother."

  "Try living with her," I say.

  "Fair point," she replies. In the background, I hear a man gasping with pleasure. "Listen," Jess continues, "I think I have to go. Robert's getting to the point where he needs my full attention, if you know what I mean. Talk soon. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and enjoy the two bottles of beer I slipped into your bag!" With that, the line goes dead and I'm left sitting alone on the bed, trying not to imagine what Jess is doing at this exact moment, and trying not to feel slightly jealous that she gets so much action.

  Getting up from the bed, I wander over to the window and look out at the back garden. My heart seems to skip a beat as soon as I spot the greenhouse where my father's body was found. I can't imagine what it must have been like for my mother to see his body on the ground, and to have run out to help him. From the little she's told me so far, it sounds as if he died almost immediately, but I'm sure she desperately tried to revive him. I'm not my mother's biggest fan, and she drives me insane sometimes, but it's heartbreaking to think of her kneeling next to my father's body and realizing that there was nothing she could do for him. I know it's selfish, but I'm really glad I wasn't here when it happened. I don't think I could have handled seeing him die. I definitely don't want to see the body.

  "Cucumbers," says a voice in my head. A familiar voice. Great, I'm having imaginary conversations with my father now.

  "Cucumbers?" I whisper, staring at the greenhouse.

  "That's what I was watering when I felt my heart stop," he continues. "I watering my cucumbers. You know, if you start talking to me now, it's a slippery slope to the madhouse."

  I take a deep breath. "Great," I mutter eventually. "I'm losing my mind."

  "All the best people do," he replies, with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

  "I haven't cried for you yet," I reply. "Does that make me a bad person?"

  "It'll happen," he says calmly.

  "But what if it doesn't?"

  "It will. All emotions have to come out eventually."

  "But what if it really, truly doesn't happen?"

  "Then I guess you're a soulless monster who doesn't care about anyone," he replies, with a hint of amusement in his voice. "That's what you want to hear, isn't it?"

  Figuring that I can't just stand here having this imaginary conversation, I grab some clean clothes and head through to take a shower. I was hoping to take my mind off things, but as I stand naked under the showerhead I find myself thinking about the party last night. Flashes of memory are coming back, and I'm pretty sure I got completely hammered. I guess I was trying to forget about the bad news, which just makes me feel like an even worse kind of person. The truth is, I don't even like parties and drinking that much. I just do it because I want to fit in. A few minutes later, as I wrap a towel around my body and start drying my hair, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and realize that my eyes look stony and hard, as if I'll never cry again.

  Heading downstairs, with the towel still wrapped around my naked body, I make my way to the kitchen and find that there's no sign of my mother. After a moment, however, I become aware of a noise somewhere else in the house. At first, it's a kind of abstract sniffing sound, and it takes a moment before it resolves itself in my head and I realize it sounds like someone's crying. I walk through to the hallway, at which point it becomes clear that the sound is coming from the laundry room. I walk quietly along the corridor until I'm just outside the closed door. Sure enough, my mother is crying in there. She's literally hidden herself away, hoping she could get all the emotion out without anyone seeing. I'm torn between sympathy and envy; even my mother is managing to cry, yet I'm dry-eyed. It's as if I'm some kind of monster. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth, ready to ask if she's okay.

  "What are you doing?" my father's voice asks in my head. "She won't thank you. Let her get on with it. Everyone grieves in their own way. Except you, obviously. You're a cold-hearted monster, remember?"

  Just as his words are sinking in, the doorbell rings. I immediately hear the sound of my mother pulling herself together in the laundry room, but I figure it'll take her a few minutes so I hurry through to the hallway. Grabbing a coat to put over my bare shoulders, and making doubly sure that the towel is securely fastened around my chest, I take a deep breath and stare at the door. I guess we're going to have a load of visitors over the next few days. Glancing over at the mirror, I see that I look ridiculous: my hair is still wet from the shower, and my body is covered by my mother's full-length raincoat, with just my bare legs poking out from the bottom.

  "Go on," my father says. "Open the door. Flash a bit of flesh. It'll probably be the first bit of fun some of these old farts have had for years."

  Sighing, I pull the door open, expecting to find some middle-aged friend of the family standing on the doorstep. Instea
d, I come face to face with the most handsome guy I've ever seen in my life. Smiling awkwardly, as if he's not quite sure what he's seeing, he opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to be stuck in his throat. Reaching up, I pull the raincoat closed just in time, as the towel drops around my ankles.

  Edward Lockhart

  1895

  "So tell me about this Sophia Marchant girl," says Mr. White, as he and I walk along Praed Street. Leaning heavily on his cane, Mr. White is fully thirty years older than me, and of late his age has begun to show a little more. I fear he is approaching the point at which he will have to leave the game and be replaced. Retirement, of course, is not an option; there is only one way in which anyone can leave the game, and it is absolutely final. "How did she measure up?" he continues. "Could she be a long-term proposition, or is she just another one for the pile?"

  "I do not wish to be unduly confident," I reply, "but I have high hopes for her. I know it's early days, but so far she is showing some very admirable qualities. I intend to push her a little further tonight and see how she reacts. Even if she cannot go all the way and win, I feel certain she will last a lot longer than most of the others."

  "Huh," he mutters. "I believe you've had similar sentiments about other girls in the past."

  "I can't explain it," I say. "There is something in her eyes, and something about the way she presents herself. I remember when she opened the door to her father's home and I saw her for the first time. She just seemed so self-assured, as if she had an advantage over all the others. I suppose I was just easily seduced, but I still believe she is different. We shall not be writing her name in the book just yet, I can assure you."

  "And her body is good?" he asks as we reach the corner of Spring Street and pause to look up at the vastness of Paddington Rail Station, which is currently being rebuilt.

  "Her body is exceptional," I reply. "Tight and wet, although she doesn't really know how to please a man yet." As I speak those words, a passing man stares at me with a shocked look on his face. I wait for a moment, until he has disappeared into the crowd. "She tried," I continue, "but it was rather a case of trial and error. I even let her sit on top of me for a while, but it was saddening to watch as she desperately attempted to work out what to do. By the end of the session, she was rather forlorn. I think she understood that she had failed, but there were signs that she might improve. It is her capacity to learn, perhaps, that excites me the most."

  "Look at this infernal place," Mr. White says, his attention apparently having wandered as he stares up at the imposing edifice of the railway station. "One could almost believe that it has risen from the depths of Hell. How big do you suppose these railway stations need to become? It seems like every year, some fool is proposing to add to one of them." He turns to me. "I cannot fathom this constant need to be on the move. Why can't people pick a place and stay there? I don't like it, Mr. Blue; I really don't like it at all. The world is changing too fast. Everyone's always in a hurry. I fear the game will have to change in order to keep with the times."

  "And it will change," I reply. "The game game adapts to each new age, does it not?" I stare up at the side of Paddington station. "The game will persist for as long as it takes to find the right girl. Even if she hasn't been born yet."

  Elly

  Today

  "Sugar, Mark?" my mother calls out from the kitchen.

  "No, thank you," Mark replies politely.

  Having raced up to my room, quickly dried my hair and got changed, I'm now back down in the front room, sitting in awkward silence with this Mark guy while my mother is making tea and coffee in the kitchen. I've already failed in my hosting duties, and I'm sure I'll get an earful later. Plus, I'm wearing jeans, which is obviously a huge disgrace. Still, the biggest disaster here is that Mark and I clearly have nothing to say to one another. Damn it, why am I so socially awkward?

  "Talk to him," my father's voice whispers.

  I look down at my feet.

  "What's wrong?" my father's voice asks. "Shy?"

  Realizing I've been looking at my feet for a few seconds, I look back over at Mark.

  He smiles.

  I smile.

  "Talk to the man!" my father insists. "What's wrong with you?"

  I smile again.

  Mark smiles again.

  "Jesus Christ," my father says with a sigh. "Are you mute, Elly? Just be polite!"

  "So," I say, before my mind goes blank. I have no idea what I'm going to say next.

  There's an awkward pause.

  "So..." Mark replies, raising an eyebrow.

  "I just meant..." I continue, feeling my chest tighten. This is going disastrously. "I didn't know about my father's business partner," I say eventually. "I mean, I knew he had one, I just assumed..." I pause again, as my mouth dries up. Where the hell is this sentence going?

  "You're really not very good at this, are you?" my father says.

  "You and my father," I say. "You were working on..."

  "Skin," Mark replies.

  I stare at him.

  "Your father developed a new type of skin for the aviation industry," he continues. "A membrane, to be used on military and commercial jets. It's still being tested, but I'm confident it's going to revolutionize the industry."

  "Huh," I say. "That's..." I pause, trying to come up with some words that wouldn't sound stupid.

  "Hopeless," my father whispers. "Absolutely hopeless."

  "Skin's good," I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. "I mean, everything needs skin, right?" I pause for a moment. "Well, maybe not everything, but some things."

  Mark smiles. "The right skin can make a huge saving," he replies. "It can increase air-speed, it can reduce friction and structural damage, and if the co-efficient is scaled accordingly, it can..." He pauses, and then he smiles again. "You know, it's very technical and very dry. Let's just say that it's very important and potentially very lucrative. I've already invested ten million in the project."

  "Ten million?" I say, feeling my heart racing. "Pounds?"

  "Biscuits," my mother says, carrying a tea tray into the room. She sets out some cups, along with a plate of biscuits. "I thought everyone might like some biscuits."

  "I want you to rest assured that all the money that was due to your husband will now be paid to your family," Mark tells her as she pours out the coffee. "There's no question that you'll benefit from his work. Without him, the project wouldn't even exist and I know he'd want his work to benefit his family."

  "That's very kind of you," my mother says, before turning to me. "Isn't it kind, Elly?" she says, clearly prompting me to agree.

  "Sure," I say. "Thanks."

  "When I heard of his unfortunate death," Mark continues, "my first thought was naturally for his family. He was very careful to ensure that there was a smooth process in place for a transition once he was gone. Obviously he didn't expect anything to happen to him just yet, but he put measures in place to ensure that his work wouldn't die with him. For that, the whole scientific community must be extremely grateful."

  "Do you hear that?" my mother says. "Your father was important!"

  I smile awkwardly.

  "You'll realize one day," my father's voice says proudly. "I was a genius!"

  The next half hour passes in something of a haze. I sit quietly drinking my coffee, while Mark and my mother exchange pleasantries. It's all very civilized and very polite, and I feel as if I have no way of entering their conversation. It's almost as if, despite being in the same room as them, I'm behind a sheet of glass. My mother ignores me completely, while Mark occasionally glances in my direction as if he's wondering why I'm such a silent idiot. He probably spends his time hanging out with other millionaires and sleeping with models. Hell, I'm surprised he can even see me at all.

  "Mark would like you to go with him to help sort through your father's belongings," my mother says suddenly. "It seems your father left a great number of personal items on his desk." />
  "Me?" I say, shocked as I'm pulled out of my dazed state.

  "It needs to be done," she replies. "It's not a big job, Elly."

  "I..." I pause, feeling a sense of panic rising through my body. I honestly didn't think she'd entrust me with that kind of job, especially since she seems to think that I'm some kind of dumb girl who needs to be constantly following orders. Normally, I'd fight against her demands, but I feel like on this occasion I need to just keep my mouth shut and get on with things. Still, the thought of going off with Mark is kind of terrifying.

  "There's no rush," Mark adds, as if he senses my discomfort. "Perhaps it would be better to wait until -"

  "Nonsense," my mother says, flashing me a stare that lets me know I'd better do what she says. "There are so many things to get done over the next week before Elly has to go back to Bristol, so we might as well get started now. I'm going to spend the afternoon going through Graham's old clothes so we can take them to a charity shop. Elly doesn't mind helping out, do you?"

  "No," I say after a brief, terrified, wide-eyed pause. "Sure."

  My mother smiles, clearly satisfied that she's managed to bend me to her will. Mark, meanwhile, looks pretty awkward. After all, he's clearly a very rich, very successful guy who probably has much better things to do than chaperone some random girl to an office. Still, I guess this is his way of 'helping out' at a time of crisis. Smiling awkwardly, I realize with a heavy heart that Mark and my mother are waiting for me to go and get my shoes on so we can get going. As I hurry through to the hallway and start getting ready, I glance at myself in the mirror and see that I look like a mess.

  "I'm sorry about my daughter," I hear my mother say in the next room. "You know what children are like. She's a little all over the place at the moment."

  Sighing, I feel like that word 'children' has cut straight through to my soul. I'm twenty-one years old, but she talks about me as if I'm still a baby. Deciding I'd rather wait outside, I open the door and wander down the driveway, until finally I spot Mark's car. It's this long, low sports vehicle that looks like it belongs in a Bond movie. Seriously, the thing looks like it must have cost a million dollars. I should probably be excited by the prospect of getting a ride in something like this, but I'm dreading the awkward journey.