Id

by P. Craig

  The man soon discovered why—powerful arms wrapped around his body, lifted him clean off his feet and then carried him at speed across the kitchen towards a set of glass doors that led out into the back garden. The man struggled to break free but he was too slow, too late—the giant threw him through the doors in a storm of shattered glass and wood.

  The man landed in a heap on the grass some six feet from the broken doors. He fought hard to stay conscious—black spots temporarily obliterating his vision before clearing away just as quickly—and then he heard footsteps coming down from the house and into the garden, quickly followed by a grunt of effort as the giant kicked him hard in the ribs. Once more, the air exploded from his lungs.

  The man lay curled up on the ground, desperately sucking in air, but the giant wasn’t finished yet—he grabbed the man by the arms and began to pull him in the direction of the far end of the garden. Groggily, the man turned his head and stared back at the house. The woman was standing by the broken doorframe; it looked like she was speaking to someone on the phone.

  Damn.

  It was too late to silence her now; he had let slip his opportunity to kill her. With that realisation—a pathetic failure—the man could sense the emptiness that had been so all-consuming earlier once more clawing at the door to his conscious thoughts. He knew he would be lucky to get away from this mess—the giant was seemingly hell-bent on beating him senseless—but some part of him, somewhere deep down inside, demanded he give himself every chance of survival by putting up a good fight. If he didn’t, the emptiness would consume him, just as the beast would undoubtedly do, and then everything would be lost for good.

  Squirming, the man freed his arms and then lashed out with his legs, kicking the giant in the back and buying himself enough time to scramble to his feet before the brute could turn and bear down on him again.

  Something told the man that he couldn’t win this particular fight—hazy memories of some sort of training surfaced in his mind and reminded him that some causes simply weren’t worth dying for, that sometimes discretion was the better part of valour. The giant was simply too strong, too powerful, too motivated for the man to overcome in his weakened condition. There was only one option left for him—only one thing that could save him.

  The man turned and ran.

  With the giant’s roars ringing in his ears, the man scrambled across the vegetation bordering the grass and then threw himself onto the fence. For an awful second, his feet floundered to find adequate purchase on the varnished wood—but the sound of approaching feet, thudding even on grass, gave him the boost he needed to get up and over.

  The man landed awkwardly on the other side—the paved surface a particularly unwelcome sight while falling from higher up than he’d anticipated—but he quickly got back to his feet when a pair of large hands appeared on top of the fence.

  The man glanced around frantically. To his left, the path he had landed on stretched away down a long line of rear gardens towards some unknown point in the far distance. To his right, however, was salvation—a forest, thick and dark with trees.

  The man swivelled on the spot and raced towards the woodland. He hoped the giant couldn’t run as fast as his long legs suggested.

  Quickening his pace, the man sprinted flat-out across the hard, compacted earth in the direction of the forest, not daring to look back and see how close his pursuer was; there was no thought in his mind other than putting everything he had into running as fast as he could.

  The man smiled. This was the here and now; this was everything; this was the thrill of the chase, though this time he was the one being hunted. He could hear their shouts—their howls of derision and hatred—as he sprinted away from them, racing for the safety and the darkness of the forest. In truth, their cries already sounded distant, faint against the pounding in his head and the pounding of his feet, but in his mind they were still close—their breath almost touching his neck, spurring him on, making him run even harder, even faster.

  The forest loomed large, the swaying branches waving and encouraging him on; seconds later, he was in amongst them, breaking past the tree line at full tilt.

  The man drove on and on, his feet barely touching the ground. His pursuers’ shouts soon faded into nothingness, lost amidst the maze of trees, yet the man charged on, zigzagging through the forest and forcing his way past the shrubs and thick brush that sprung up in his path. The only thought in his mind now was that no one was going to catch him. Not anyone.

  On and on he raced, deeper into the forest, further and further from those pursuing him. He ran harder, faster, continually finding another gear, and kept on going and going, pushing and pushing. No one, nothing, could stop him.

  Five

  April 5, 1.25 p.m.

  The man felt lost, alone, unsure of everything. His head was hurting, aching terribly, yet he didn’t know why. The only possible answer was that it had something to do with the crash. Assuming it had actually been a crash, he thought, not that the hell he had escaped from looked as though it could have been anything else.

  He was thankful that he had seen the file—his file—for without the knowledge it had given him, he knew his freedom wouldn’t last too long. People like him always attracted too much attention—and that was exactly what he intended to avoid. He didn’t want to make it easy for them to hunt him down and lock him away again.

  There was, of course, nothing in his mind to corroborate what he had seen in the file—every trace of a memory, every single past recollection, everything up until the moment he had woken up, was lost to him. Still, there was no arguing with what he had read—no arguing with the cold hard truth of the matter, the bare facts.

  Without realising it, the man had reached the edge of the woods; strong sunlight was bathing the green expanse in front of him with its golden brilliance. His earlier doubts had proved groundless—the sun had been the sole source of light all along.

  What a wonderful sight.

  The land was radiant and lush, in stark contrast to the darkness of the woods behind him. The man took it all in—the gentle rolling hills, a lake shimmering in the sunlight, the hurry and scurry of a few small animals looking for food around the edge of the woodland. His eyes narrowed on something, movement, in the distance. His view was partly obscured by a small cluster of trees but he was sure he could see people—children?—running around and playing with a ball. Have I stumbled across a park?

  The man nibbled on a nail, thinking. On one hand, a park meant people, lots of people, adults as well as children; people who could spot him, who could recognise him, report him and put him back in harm’s way. Yet, on the other hand, the park was warm and inviting, and the longer he stood there, the more the sun seemed to strengthen and shine down even more brightly, trying to tempt him out.

  After a minute’s hesitation, the man stepped out into the open. The realisation that it was harder—nigh on impossible, in fact—to feel lost, alone and unsure in a place such as a park, especially one that was teeming with life under bright sunlight, had made up his mind for him. Besides, those children are pretty far away. They won’t notice me.

  The man strode across the grass—wet, he assumed, from a recent shower—and breathed the cool, clean air deep into his lungs. He closed his eyes, fighting again to keep the pounding in his head at bay, but the battle was easier now—the sun’s warmth helped greatly.

  Opening his eyes, he found he had inadvertently wandered close to a pathway; it seemed to wind through the park before disappearing down a dip somewhere in the far distance. Towards the entrance?

  The man set off in that direction. After a few minutes of brisk walking, he passed over the brow of a hill and spotted a wooden bench not too much further along path; it looked a particularly warm and inviting place to sit for a short while.

  No, I can't waste time. I have to keep moving and—

  His head started to pound again and his legs added a twinge of complaint to the argument; the man’s body
was clearly trying to tell him that sitting down to refresh himself in the sun might not be such a bad idea.

  Okay, but only for a moment.

  He walked quickly over to the bench and sat down. The wood was warm through the seat of his trousers and its immediate support of his body was most welcome. As he absorbed the sunlight, the man closed his eyes and relaxed. A faint wind drifted by; its warm touch washed over him, making him feel like someone had wrapped a big, cosy blanket around him. His tired muscles fell silent, their aching complaints all but forgotten; at last, the pounding in his head eased sufficiently for other thoughts to trickle into his mind. One thought in particular.

  A convicted killer. That was who he was, who he was supposed to be. A mass murderer—a serial killer, no less—of unquestionable brutality and savagery; a man of no morals, no compassion and no reason; a man who was considered—officially regarded by a court of law—as ‘dangerous, a menace to society’.

  He had been shocked to discover those facts about himself, but he couldn’t dispute the evidence. He was all of these things and probably more besides; the guilt of his brutal life was something that even the blank slate in his mind couldn’t sufficiently excuse or defend. Everything he had ever done to others, all the lives he had taken—nineteen, if the file was to be believed—marked him out as a wanted man, an evil man, irrespective of how he—a man with no first-hand knowledge of his past, a man who could lead a normal life—now chose to view himself.

  I’m not a killer. I’m not that man. Not now.

  Still, he feared his dark past would never allow a normal life. No matter what he tried to do, or where he went, or who he said himself to be, the ghosts from his previous life would always catch up with him again; his past was inescapable, no matter how far or how fast he tried to run away from it—or pretend it had never happened.

  More than anything, it was difficult to understand how he could have been who he was in the past. Sitting there now, on the bench, soaking up the sun, he didn’t feel any of the urges, any of the twisted desires, which had surely driven him in the past to commit the crimes that he had. It was as if he was two different people, in two different times, irrecoverably separated by the huge hole—the total damned blank—in his memory. He had no knowledge of this other person beyond what he had read, beyond what he had concluded from studying his own face, but this person, this savage other person, was going to affect his life every waking moment until the day he died. There was no him, the person who he wanted to be in the here and now; there was only the other, the person he didn’t want to think of himself as being.

  But that other is who I really am.

  Despite the warmth from the sun, the man shivered. He felt naked, exposed, as though he shouldn’t have been sitting there in the park, like he should have instead stayed within the woods, safely hidden from the gaze of strangers—and the threat of what he might do to them if the other person within him returned.

  Opening his eyes, the chill running down his spine suddenly froze as he watched an old man pass by and then sit down next to him on the bench. The old man looked tired, exhausted even—his old sagging face was red from some exertion, though his grey beard hid it to some extent. As he sat there catching his breath, the old-timer turned to look at the man, who instinctively knew, with a sudden sense of dread, that the new arrival was about to try to strike up a conversation.

  “Fine day now for a walk in the park, isn’t it?” The cracked, dried skin around the old-timer’s lips pulled back into a smile of sorts, revealing a set of yellow teeth.

  The man remained silent; he was equal parts engrossed and disturbed by the state of the old man’s teeth. He had a suspicion the disconcerting colour had more to do with something, some habit, other than the natural ageing process.

  “It was absolutely pouring down with rain for a short time earlier, but it’s turned out just grand, right enough,” said the old-timer, answering his own question, but making it sound like the man had responded with some comment other than silence.

  The man really didn’t want to engage the greybeard in idle chitchat of any kind; he was more concerned with trying to deal with the bare truth that his life was effectively over.

  But the old man was persistent in his attempt to strike up a conversation. “You look a little the worse for wear, my friend,” he said, eyeing up the man’s bruised face and tattered clothing. “You must have had a bit of a tumble in the woods, I suppose?”

  The man turned his head slowly and looked into the greybeard’s inquisitive eyes. “F-f-falling... right... trees... yes.”

  The old-timer raised an eyebrow at the garbled answer; his mind seemed to take a moment to disentangle and re-arrange the words. Finally, he smiled ruefully and nodded. “Ah, well, not to worry,” he said, looking away and closing his eyes as he turned his face towards the sun. “Sitting here for a few minutes will do you the world of good, no doubt. Should do the trick for me too, hopefully.”

  The man was staring blankly past the greybeard, somewhat oblivious to what the old-timer had said; the few words he had uttered himself had made him stop and wonder why they hadn’t come out of his mouth in the way he had expected. The very act of speaking had been awkward, slow and difficult; it had required a great deal of effort on his part. And somehow it had still come out wrong.

  Again, the pain in his head knifed through his thoughts, reminding him in brutal fashion that it hadn’t totally gone either. His desire to converse with the old-timer hit a new low.

  “I usually walk round the park for about an hour most evenings,” said the greybeard, his eyes still firmly closed as he soaked up the sun. “Helps to keep everything in good working order, I find. Mind you, some of the steep hills can be a bit tricky. I suggested that they might want to consider making another path on a flatter route through the park, but I doubt they’ll ever take my wishes on board. Too much sense in that idea for them, no doubt.”

  The man stayed silent; the old-timer’s musings didn’t demand an answer this time, not that he would have offered any after his last stumbling efforts at a reply.

  The old man, however, didn’t seem to need an active participant in order to continue the conversation. “Yep, life’s difficult sometimes, isn’t it?” he said, opening his eyes. He gave the man the once-over and then smiled with amusement. “Seems like you could use a wee drink to perk yourself up, my friend. Always helps to ease the burden of whatever’s bothering you, doesn’t it? Leastways, I find that’s the case.”

  The man watched out of the corner of his eye as the greybeard reached into his coat pocket, fumbled around and then pulled out a small silver flask.

  “I like to keep this close at hand for those moments when it all seems like too much effort,” said the old man, smiling as he unscrewed the top. He took a quick swig and then gently shook the flask in the man’s direction.

  The man shook his head and looked away again; he pretended to concentrate on something in the far distance, hoping that the old-timer would take the hint and end his chatter.

  The greybeard tapped the flask against the man’s arm. “Now, I’ll not take no for an answer. Take a sip of this stuff and I swear you’ll thank me for it.”

  Frankly, the man doubted that. Doesn’t seem to have done the old duffer much good. Yet there was a dry feeling in his throat, a sudden thirst, which made him give the suggestion some consideration.

  The man grabbed the flask without any kind of acknowledgement and poured a good shot’s worth into his mouth. He immediately wished he’d been more cautious; gagging, he doubled-up and spat what he hadn’t swallowed of the fiery liquid onto the ground beneath his feet.

  The old-timer laughed and clapped a hand on the man’s back to help him out. “See, I told you,” he said, grinning. “That’s put a bit of colour back into you too. Blown the cobwebs away, and no two ways about it.”

  The man returned the flask and glowered at the greybeard. Their eyes locked for a moment—a long probing, searching moment�
�and then the old-timer laughed and took another quick swig from the flask.

  “Ah, it’s good stuff, right enough,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  The man watched the greybeard slip the flask back into his coat pocket. He wondered how much longer he’d have to wait before the old-timer got up and left him alone.

  But the greybeard didn’t seem to be in a rush to go—a deep, long breath and an even longer stretch of the arms and legs, followed by a slump further into the seat, didn’t seem to signal an intention to leave any time soon.

  “You know, it’s funny,” said the old-timer. “I find it hard to believe that something that tastes so good, and has helped fuel many a happy evening, could be the end of me—but by some quirk of fate that seems likely to be the case.”

  Folding his arms, the man focussed on a particularly gnarled tree trunk at the edge of the path; he was going back to his original plan of pretending to concentrate on anything other than the conversation—not that he would have called the one-sided prattling such a thing in any case.

  “Yep, it’s true though,” the greybeard continued, obviously taking the man’s silence to mean something entirely different. “Fifty years, man and boy, of drinking hard liquor every night... aye, it seems to have caught up with me.” He smiled ruefully. “The doc says that unless I quit drinking there’s only a ten per cent chance my liver will hold out for longer than a few months.” He shook his head, laughing. “I mean, ten per cent—what’s that about? Where the hell did he conjure that figure from? I don’t know, I’ll tell you that much. Thing is, even if I follow the doc’s advice, there’s still a fifty per cent chance my liver will give out before the year is over anyway.”

  The old-timer took another deep, sighing breath and patted the small bulge in his coat where the flask was resting. “My ex-wife always said my drinking would be the death of me; now it looks like the bitch may have had a point.” He chuckled quietly. “Ach, well, what can you do, eh? A man’s a slave to his passions, isn’t he? Once you start down a certain road, there quickly comes a point when there’s no turning back and only then do you realise oblivion lies ahead of you. Worse, even though you can see it coming, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. It’s almost like it’s written in the stars, isn’t it? Destiny or some such.”