Broken Blue: The Complete Series Page 5

  "Nickelback?" he says, smiling.

  "I don't like them any more," I reply, feeling totally humiliated.

  He walks to the door. "Take your time up here," he says. "Come and let me know when you want a lift back to your mother's house".

  Once he's gone, I take another cursory look around the office before deciding I've done enough. I take the box of junk and carry it down the stairs to the main part of the warehouse, but there's no sign of Mark. In the distance, though, I can just about hear a voice, so I wander across the open space, past the large gray skin that hangs from the ceiling, and eventually I find Mark over in one part of the warehouse, speaking to someone on the phone.

  "That's not what we agreed," he's saying to someone, keeping his voice low as if doesn't want to be overheard. Deciding I shouldn't really listen to his business dealings, I turn to walk away. "She clearly wasn't suitable," he adds. "I could have told you that weeks ago. The first time I slept with her, I knew it was a waste of time. I know Lady Red is keen to give chances to girls who seem unsuitable, but surely there's a limit?"

  I stop walking, intrigued by what I'm hearing. Stepping to the other side of the large gray membrane, I wait for Mark to continue.

  "She has to learn to trust our judgment," he continues. "It's time to move on from Laura. As long as we've covered all our bases, we'll be fine. Let the game take care of her". There's a pause. "I have to go," he says eventually, sounding a little annoyed with the person on the other end of the line. "We'll start again. There's no point sticking with something that's not working. I'll meet you tonight, down by the river". There's another pause, and I realize the conversation is over. Panicking for a moment, I step out from behind the membrane and find myself face to face with him.

  "Hi," I say, acting as if I've just arrived. "Sorry, I couldn't find you. I thought maybe you'd left without me or something".

  He smiles, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes, as if he's worried that maybe I overheard what he was talking about. "Are you ready?" he asks.

  I nod, and we turn to walk away. Suddenly, however, he stops and turns to look at the membrane. There's a pause before he steps over to it and reaches out to touch one of the edges, where there's a slight piece of frayed fabric.

  "Something wrong?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "Must be a manufacturing error," he says, running his finger over the damage. "It can't have been damaged after it was produced". He turns to me. "Let's go," he says. "I'm sure you need to get home, and I have a few more appointments this evening". As he leads me to the exit, though, I notice him glancing back at the membrane, as if he can't quite understand how his perfect skin could have been damaged.

  Nine

  1895

  "You made a mistake today," Mr. White says, sitting in the chair by the fire as he cleans Sophia's blood from his knife. Normally, we would have removed the girl's body from the room by now, but this evening Mr. White seems unusually pensive and tired. It has been half an hour since Sophia breathed her last, and her naked body remains on the floor, her hand still outstretched as if she's reaching for something she believed might save her. The pool of blood has not yet dried.

  "There was something different about her," I reply, unable to take me eyes off the corpse. "She had more vigor than the others. I truly believed -"

  "You were wrong," Mr. White says, interrupting me. "You allowed yourself to be distracted by a pretty girl, and your judgment was clouded. I could tell the other day that you were becoming infatuated with her. Let this be a lesson to you. The game does not make provision for love".

  "I know," I say, feeling a little annoyed that he continues to lecture me. "I did not love her. I merely liked her, and thought she had potential".

  "Well she didn't," he replies.

  "You seem rather out of sorts," I say, turning to him. "Is everything okay?"

  He slides the knife back into its sheath and puts it in his pocket, before disposing of his bloody handkerchief. "The game requires mental as well as physical discipline," he says finally. "Sometimes I wonder if you..." Suddenly he pauses, as if some other thought has crossed his mind. "Just be more careful in future," he adds. "More clinical. Remember what's at stake here".

  I nod. "Shall we move the body?" I ask, feeling as if I want to get the gruesome sight out of the room.

  "In a moment," he replies. Sometimes is definitely on his mind tonight, and he seems distracted. "Do you know how long I've been playing the game?" he asks suddenly. "Fifty years. Only one man has ever played for longer. The second Mr. White lasted fifty-two years, according to the book. I had hoped to surpass that record, but now I think I shall fall a little short".

  "Nonsense," I reply. "You're still strong. How old are you? Seventy-five?"

  "Eighty-one," he says. "I'm three times your age, boy. Don't think for one moment that you can understand what it's like to have these creaky old bones". He smiles wistfully. "Soon it will be time for another Mr. White to take my place. I remember when the last Mr. Blue died, and we brought you into the game, Edward. I knew then that I would probably not see another Mr. Blue in my lifetime. It has all gone by so fast".

  "If you don't mind my saying so," I reply, "you seem unusually thoughtful tonight. Is something the matter?"

  He shakes his head. "I have merely been noticing the accumulated signs of my own mortality," he says. "Little things here and there that let me know my body is falling apart. Hints that the end is coming. You're young. To you, such things seem ridiculous, but trust me. At my age, you start to notice the warning signs".

  I sigh, glancing down at Sophia's body. "Do you ever wish that there could be some other way?" I ask. "I mean, do they always have to die?"

  "What would you suggest?" Mr. White asks. "Do you think the game would remain secret if its players were able to run off and start talking? The cost of losing must remain high, so that it has equal value to the prize one receives if one wins. She knew what she was getting herself into".

  "But you said yourself that the game must change with the times," I point out. "Soon it will be the year 1900. Surely we have to consider how to make the game fit a new age? Is there not a danger that, one day, someone will notice all the victims?"

  "Not if you're smart," he replies. "Besides, the game is able to look after itself, to some extent. Do not underestimate the capabilities that were put in place back when the game was set up. It is a far bigger thing than any of us can possibly realize. There have been times when men have sought to threaten the survival of the game, and the game always defends itself. Sometimes I wonder what truly lies at the heart of the whole thing, but of course only Lady Red knows the truth. For the rest of us, the game remains a mystery".

  "But do you think there will ever be a girl who can win the game?" I ask. "There have been so many who have tried. Surely there is a danger that the game has become impossible?"

  "There will be a girl one day," Mr. White says. "Mark my words, it will happen, but it will take a very special type of girl, one who has a kind of strength she doesn't even know she possesses. Perhaps modern society does not promote such qualities, in which case the game must simply be played over and over again until finally the conditions are right".

  "And then what?" I ask. "What happens when the game has finally been won? What does the game want with such a girl?"

  "Only Lady Red knows that," he says. "I..." He pauses, as if something has again distracted him. "You might have to get Lady Red to help with Sophia's body. She knows what to do".

  "Are you feeling unwell?" I ask.

  "Fetch a sheet," he says, ignoring the question. "I'm tired. Wrap the body up, and then you must contact Lady Red and tell her to come".

  Realizing that it's futile to ask any more questions, I hurry through to the bedroom and grab the sheets from my bed. This little ritual has become sadly familiar to me over the years. Returning to the main room, I kneel by Sophia and gently place the sheets on the ground, before rolling her stiffening corpse ont
o the fabric and finally covering her up. She is ready to be taken away now. For some reason, however, I feel more sorrow for her suffering than I have felt for previous girls. There was something about her that truly got under my skin. I allowed myself to believe that she might actually win, and that the rest of us might finally be set free. Such a foolish notion.

  "Sometimes I feel the game is a little unfair," I say, before looking up at Mr. White. "All these girls..." I pause as I see the icy expression in his eyes. It takes a moment before I realize that something is wrong, but finally I get up and walk over to him. He doesn't react to my presence at all, and when I place a finger against the side of his neck, I realize that he has no pulse. His age has finally caught up to him and death has taken his soul.

  Walking to the desk, I pick up the telephone and ask the exchange to put me through to Lady Red's number. She was one of the first people in London to get a telephone connection installed at her private residence, and it is at times like this that one is grateful for her foresight. After a moment, the call is connected.

  "It's done," I say.

  "Did she suffer?" the voice on the other end of the line asks.

  "Not so very much," I reply, "but there is another problem. Mr. White is out of the game".

  She pauses. "How so?"

  "Old age," I say, glancing back across the room at the figure slumped in the armchair. "I could tell something was wrong. He seemed very talkative this evening. Very reflective and philosophical. I fear his heart has given out".

  "I expected as much," the voice says after a moment. "I assume you still have the young lady's body to remove from the premises?"

  "I do," I tell her.

  "I shall come over shortly," she replies, and the call ends.

  Sighing, I walk to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a whiskey, before sitting in one of the other armchairs. As I sip from my glass, I cannot help but consider the fate of my two companions. Mr. White sits in his chair, and Sophia is on the floor, wrapped in a sheet and awaiting the disposal of her corpse. I, on the other hand, remain very much alive, and I feel that my position within the game has perhaps improved. There will be another Mr. White, and there will be another girl to take Sophia's place. One day, there will even be another Mr. Blue. For now, however, I remain in place. I am still playing, and I have not lost yet.

  As I finish my whiskey, I look down at Sophia's corpse and see that something is stuck to the bedsheet in which I have wrapped her body. I get up and walk over to take a look, and finally I see the single rose petal. Picking it up, I examine it for a moment before walking over to the desk. In some ways, I should very much like to keep the petal as a reminder of my time with Sophia, but I know that the rules dictate otherwise. I place the petal in the bin, before opening the book on the desk and carefully writing Sophia's name at the bottom of the list of girls who have played the game. It's such a long list, going back over a hundred years. So many girls. When will it ever end?

  Ten

  Today

  By the time Mark drops me off at my mother's house, the evening is starting to close in and it's getting dark outside. I carry the box of my father's possessions to the door and turn to watch as Mark drives away. There's a part of me that think I just missed an opportunity to make some kind of connection and maybe arrange to see him again, but I guess I'm probably just fooling myself; there's no way a guy like Mark would be interested in someone like me. That's not false modesty, it's a plain fact. After all, we barely spoke on the drive back here, and it's not as if he asked for my phone number. Maybe someone like Jess would have thrown herself at him, but at least I get to know that I have a little dignity. Instead of obsessing, I simply head inside and walk through to the lounge, expecting to find my mother cooking dinner.

  Instead, the house is dark and still.

  Setting the box on the kitchen counter, I listen for any sign of movement. Nothing. It's as if my mother has simply disappeared. I walk from room to room, and eventually I find her in the conservatory, fast asleep. Making sure to stay quiet, I approach the sofa and see that she's nodded off while reading a magazine. It's weird, but right now she doesn't look so fearsome; she looks like a fifty-something-year-old woman whose husband just died, and who's too exhausted to get everything done. Feeling a surprising pang of sympathy for her, I fetch a blanket from the front room and gently place it over her, to make sure she doesn't get too cold. Sometimes I hate her, but sometimes I feel as if there's another side to her. I wish people could be more consistent.

  After eating some boil-in-the-bag noodles, I go up to my room and try to call Jess, but she doesn't answer. I guess she's busy with that Robert guy, which is understandable. Damn it, maybe I should have thrown myself at Mark after all. What was I so scared of? He might have rebuffed me, but that's always a risk with guys. I feel like I'm always so terrified of getting rejected, I end up not making an effort. Jess would have been all over him. Sitting here, bored and alone, I imagine what it would have been like if I'd pinned him down at the warehouse and seduced him. After a moment, I can't help laughing; the idea is so ridiculous, it's impossible to take seriously. I've never seduced anyone in my life. I wouldn't know where to begin.

  "Elly!" my mother calls out suddenly from the bottom of the stairs. "Elly, I'm going to order a pizza. Will you have some?"

  I pause, surprised at the invitation. My mother is the last person who would ever order a take-away pizza. I guess people change sometimes. "Sure!" I shout back. "No anchovies!"

  Half an hour later, I'm sitting downstairs with my mother, eating this big greasy pizza while we watch TV together. We don't really talk much, and it would be an exaggeration to suggest that this is some kind of bonding moment. Still, it seems we can stand to be in one another's company, at least if she stops ordering me around. It's hard not to think about my father, though; he was always the one who kept the conversation alive in this house, and now he's gone it seems like there's a huge empty void. I guess maybe my mother feels the same way, even if neither of us knows how to change things. I can't help glancing over at his chair occasionally. How can someone be here, and not here, at the same time?

  With the pizza eaten, I decide to go up to bed. My mother tells me about all the things we have to do tomorrow morning, and I obediently agree. I don't have the energy to put up much of a fight right now, and I figure the best approach is just to get through the next week with the minimum amount of friction and then get back to Bristol. I have my own life, and I can't hang around here forever keeping my mother company. I don't know what she'll do, now that my father is gone, but I guess she'll find something. Whatever she does, I feel like this is the end of an era for us. With my father dead, I know I probably won't bother coming home much any more. I'll still keep in touch with my mother, but we both know there's not much of a connection between us. My father kept our little family together, and now he's gone forever.

  Later that night, after I've been reading in bed for a while, I start thinking about Mark again. I grab my laptop and start looking him up online, but there's surprisingly little information about him. It's almost as if he's made a conscious effort to fly under the radar and keep a low profile; there are a few brief mentions of him as an investor with various companies, but he has zero social media presence and he doesn't even have his own website. I guess he's not the kind of guy who likes a lot of publicity. He seems very driven, as if his whole life is focused on work. I wish I was like that; I wish I had some kind of real passion.

  As I sit there, lost in thought, my phone - which I've finally managed to charge again - lights up with a message. I assume it'll be from Jess, but instead it's an unrecognized number:

  Hi Elly. I just wanted to say thank you again for your help today. It was appreciated. Mark.

  I read the message over and over again, finding it hard to believe that it could be real. For one thing, I keep my number unlisted and I didn't give it to Mark, so how did he get it? For another, why would he even bother thanking me? A
ll I did was pick up some crap from the office and bring it home. Feeling my chest tighten a little, I try to work out how to respond to the message, and finally I type out a reply:

  No problem. Let me know if I can help with anything else.

  As soon as I've hit the Send button, I start to wonder if maybe I was too forward, or not forward enough. Did I seem desperate? Or maybe I seemed uninterested? I wait for him to reply, but there's nothing. Sighing, I realize he was just being polite. I mean, I'm the daughter of his recently deceased business partner; of course he's going to send me a message thanking me for going to the office with him. It'd be rude if he didn't thank me. Putting my phone on the bedside table, I decide it's time to go to sleep, but it's hard to stop thinking about Mark. I know he was just being polite and I know I'll probably never talk to him again, but what if things were different?

  Slowly, and feeling a little embarrassed, I slip a hand down the front of my pajamas and start touching myself. This is what happens every time I meet a new guy; I just end up using him as a masturbatory fantasy for a few weeks, before I move on to someone else and the whole cycle begins again. It doesn't take long for me to cum, and I have to force myself to stay quiet as I let out a little gasp. Finally I'm left breathless in the dark, imagining what it would be like if only I'd managed to make Mark like me. Maybe somewhere, in some parallel universe, there's a version of me that's fucking him right now. In this universe, however, I simply roll onto my side and close my eyes, and soon I'm fast asleep.

  Eleven

  1895

  Standing on the banks of the Thames, just after midnight, I watch as Sophia's carefully-wrapped and weighted body sinks beneath the surface and disappears into the icy depths. There's a momentary ripple on the surface of the water, and finally everything is calm again. Sophia is gone, just like all the other girls before her, and now the game can begin again. It's hard not to imagine her body sinking slowly through the darkness and finally coming to rest among all the others we have sent down there.