Benedict Beaufort, or better known as the newest Prime Minister, sat vigorously rubbing his temples. The news of the mass breakout in Terrill Prison had just reached him, and he had no idea what to do. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had no information whatsoever about "The Artist". There was no file, no criminal record, no birth certificate, no nothing. It was as if he was magic.

The thought of fighting a foe who had magic and could appear and reappear anywhere chilled Benedict to bone. Silly thoughts to be thinking in a crisis, he mentally scolded himself.

Sighing, he turned back to the mound of papers, letters, and documents that spilled across his office. Wading through the mess would be similar to parting the Red Sea.

Suddenly, a nervous knock rang out. Straightening, he righted his askew glasses. He called out, "Yes?"

The youngest member of the Parliament, Thomas Jameson, eased open the door of Number 10. He had a youthful, boyish look about him, only enhanced by his bright brown eyes and freckles. But now, he looked anything but happy. He stood in the doorway, scuffling his feet apprehensively.

Impatiently, the Minister barked "What is it, boy? Go on, spit it out!"

His eyes flared. "Well, you see here, your Primeness, or what ever they bally well call you, we found a package on a trolley outside of London, addressed to Benedict Muffleworf Beaufort, and it had this."

He held up a plain cassette tape, only adorned by a small white slip of paper that read From A Special Friend.

"Well, don't just stand there! Bring it to me!" Benedict commanded harshly.

Thomas proceeded to work his way through the sea of paper, upsetting heaps mail that cascaded onto the already covered mahogany floor. By the time he reached Beaufort, he was panting from exertion. He finally heaved himself up and silently handed Beaufort the tape.

For a moment, Beaufort merely stared at the tape, dreading what he would find. But he also had an insatiable curiosity about the contents. The curiosity won out. He slid the tape into the recorder. A picture projected onto the parallel wall. Both heads snapped to the screen, transfixed.

The picture showed hundreds, if not thousands, of people crowded into a stadium. Manchester Stadium, he realized. In the midst of the field lay a raised platform with a person hidden by the shadows. Benedict squinted in vain, trying to make out the figure's facial features. Nervous tittering erupted from the stands when suddenly the lights surrounding the stadium lit up the field brightly. A voice boomed across the intercom, its rasping intensified by the high quality microphone.

"Ladies and gentleman, you are gathered here today to meet a very special person, and to help him with a favor." The voice drawled, and Benedict glimpsed Jameson wincing.

"I am The Artist." He stepped forward, revealing his grotesque face. Several screams echoed from the stands. He smiled coldly.

"Now, everyone, wave and say hello to the Minister! He is watching this right now, and we shall explain the rules of our little................ Game to him."

"Mr. Minister, I would like to inform you I hold in my possession the entire city of Manchester. I also have within my grasp the means to destroy them in an instant."

"I know your first urge is to protect them, and you are probably dialing the police force this moment." Beaufort lowered the hand he had reached for the telephone.

"But, if you make any attempts to penetrate the stadium, they will all be destroyed instantly. And I know you hold these three in particular priority." He beckoned his bony hand offstage, and two muscular convicts dragged forth a tiny woman and a small, scared child. The woman held a whimpering baby in her arms, and had a thin, willowy frame, as if she would break at any moment. The child had round, chubby cheeks that gleamed with tears, and had a hollow, vacant look in his eyes.

The Prime Minister's heart stopped. He knew he was defeated, because standing there, was his captive family. With his breath held in so tight as to make his insides scream, he prayed to God that his family would be all right.

As he watched with abated breath, the Artist motioned for the guards to grab the baby. They forcefully tried to pull the baby from the mother's arms, but she screamed with such velocity and clung with the strength as only a mother protecting her child can do. Desperately she struggled, kicking and shielding the baby, which was now crying piteously.

Annoyed by the resistance, and one burly, scowling guard slapped the woman, hard, across the face. She stumbled backwards, an angry, scarlet print branding her face. The crowd gave a collective gasp, but were powerless.

"Martha! No!" The Minister bellowed in outrage and agony. He attacked the wall on which the scene was projected, pounding soccer-ball sized holes into the once meticulous veined marble, imported from Tanzania. His knuckles bled crimson, pouring from the torn skin. But he didn't care. All he cared about right now was his family. So, with dull horror, he sunk to his knees, tears streaming in rivulets down his face, and stared at the screen once more.

The Artist frowned at delay, tut tutting with his tongue clacking against the roof of his mouth. But his horrid grin returned, as he was handed the now wailing and bawling infant.

He turned towards the camera, still smirking that chilling, maniacal smile.

"Now, Benedict, for the real fun. Until you turn over the government to me, I shall kill one person in this stadium every hour. Starting with your child."

With renewed effort, the Minister threw himself at the wall, screaming "NO! NO! NO!". But, before his eyes, he saw the Artist lift the newborn by a leg, dangling him upside down. The child was really crying now, a heartbreaking, desperate sound. The one of a baby, lost and alone, without any comfort. It was the cry of the truly helpless.

Raising his knee, in one swift, emotionless motion, the Artist cracked the tiny skull. The cry abruptly came to a halt, and blood dribbled in a little, consistent line of drops from the little tuft of hair.

He lifted up the broken body, and with one long, claw like nail, gouged a hole in the child's neck. Jameson threw up. Then, even more gross and horrific, the Artist lifted the mangled corpse to his mouth, and licked greedily at the blood.

The Minister felt his heart explode into thousands of tiny fragments, at the sight of his newborn son, dead, being violated by a crazed maniac.

His mouth opened in a silent O, an unheard scream of complete and utter agony. He felt as if he would never even feel a shadow of happiness again.

Death would have been so much easier than this.

"Oh My Bloody Lord. I.... I am gonna contact the..... The Parliament." Jameson left the room, his face a picture of revulsion and horror.

_____________________

He couldn't stand the loneliness. Every breath, every beat of his heart, reminded him your son is dead, because of you. Your son is dead, because of you. Your son is dead, because of you. The grim mantra tore at what was left of his broken heart.

The thought that it was his fault sent waves of guilt washing over him. Because, really, it was. He wished he could have had a moment to ask for forgiveness, or to trade his own life. But no, life was too cruel for that. It was his harsh punishment, to live while his son died. There had to be a way, somehow, to end the suffering. To rejoin his son.

Suddenly, his eyes locked on the ceremonial ship rigging rope, given to him by the fisherman of Boscastle for the trading arrangement. Then, again, of their own accord, they slid to the light socket.

As he positioned himself on the chair, the rope's tough fibers digging into his tender skin, he prayed, one last time. Please forgive me, I am a coward, but I have to end the pain.

That was his last thought before he leapt.