Id

by P. Craig

  Oddly, the greybeard’s musings were beginning to grab the man’s interest. As he turned to look at the old-timer, he spotted the flask was out again.

  The greybeard noticed the man paying him close attention; grinning, he offered the drink for a second time. “You sure?” he asked, confirming the shake of the head that had followed his offer was indeed a refusal. “Well, good for you, my friend.” Nodding, he took another swig. “Yep, best not to go down that particular path if it’s not for you. As for me... well, my will is weak and my thirst is strong, so what can I do? I mean, I could stop drinking today—for sure, I could—but I reckon the doc was fiddling the odds, making them a little more palatable to an old codger like me. Yep, I figure my time is nearly up whether I stop now or not. Heck, I could stop this very minute, live my life here on out like a totally different person—a normal person, whatever such a thing is—and I bet you a million big ones I’ll still be dead before the end of the year anyway. So, frankly, what’s the point of stopping? Why deprive myself of one of the few pleasurable things in my life for no reason?” He shook his head again. “No, screw that. Drinking until I drop—that’s what I’ll be doing, my friend. Drinking until I drop.”

  Despite himself, the man nodded in agreement; after all, there was a kind of logic beneath the apparent madness of the greybeard’s conclusions. The old-timer couldn’t deny that he was going to die because of the damage caused by years of heavy drinking, so why even bother try to resist the truth—why not just turn around, embrace it and keep on drinking? Surprisingly, that conclusion—wrong though it may have seemed on the face of it—really did seem to make some kind of sense.

  And more to the point, why don’t I do the same thing too?

  His circumstances were entirely different to the old man’s potted history, but nonetheless, the man could see a very definite parallel between the two. His past was something that he couldn’t run or hide from for very long; it was going to catch up with him regardless of the life he tried to live in the future, and when it caught up, it would destroy everything that he tried to make for himself in his new life.

  But why even bother to run? Why even bother to hide? Why not just turn around and embrace the person who he had been in the past?

  The person I really am.

  As an act, killing someone was morally wrong—but for him, for the person he truly was...

  Well, it’s right. I am a killer.

  The man nodded. He could no longer deny who he was, or what he had done. Missing memories or not, the undeniable truth was that he was a murderer, a killer. So heaven help anyone who tries to stop me from following that calling.

  The man looked round to thank the greybeard for unwittingly guiding him back to the path he should never have considered leaving; to his surprise, he found that the old-timer had gone, the sly rascal slipping away unnoticed while the man had been engrossed in sorting out the thoughts, the mess, in his head.

  The man didn’t give the greybeard’s disappearance another thought. It was time for him to make a move too; his muscles were relaxed and re-energised after the rest, brief though it had been.

  He stood up, turned to his right and started down the path. After a few minutes, his eyes locked on the gateway in the distance that marked the entrance to the park, just as he’d expected. The wind picked up again, warm like before, and seemed to push him in the direction of the gate. He took it as a sign that he was definitely on the right path.

  Walking with a spring in his step, the man’s eyes scanned the park; he quickly realised it was empty, all trace of the children he had seen playing earlier now gone. No sign of the old-timer either.

  Smiling ruefully, he focussed on the gate ahead. Through the bars and occasional gaps in the trees immediately beyond, he caught glimpses of the white-walled houses that were dotted along the outside of the park’s perimeter.

  The thought of finding someone close by, someone weak and vulnerable who he could prey upon, to satisfy his base desires—those dark desires he had been trying to deny—suddenly made his heart flutter and his pulse race a little faster. A hunter, a stalker, a killer—that was what he was; truly that was who he was. Obeying those instincts, feeding those desires, listening to those urges, filling the emptiness inside of him, doing what his soul told him to do—those were the right things to do; more than that, though, they were the only things he could do.

  And finding someone—someone weak—and finding them soon is what I have to do right now.

  Quickening his pace, the man soon reached the park gate, where he came to an abrupt stop as a car sped past on the road in front of him.

  Satisfying his urges was one thing, but doing so without care or attention for the need to evade discovery while performing the act, or leading up to it, was quite another thing altogether; at the very least, he figured he would have to think twice before charging blindly across the road towards the row of houses opposite.

  Looking to his right, the man saw the woodland he had walked out from still visible in the far distance, presumably at the outermost edge of the park. To his left, the row of houses stretched away to the horizon before seeming to disappear into a bank of trees that indicated yet another forest of some description. Ahead of him, across the road, the line of houses was broken at regular intervals by junctions leading into streets that appeared to have rows of houses on either side.

  The man realised he was at the edge of a residential area. A suburb somewhere. He smiled. Perfect. This was exactly the kind of place where he could satisfy his urges, his desires, without fear of a quick response by anyone in authority who might be alerted to his presence.

  The man crossed the road at an angle, bypassing the first few houses immediately opposite the park entrance, and turned into the next street running perpendicular to the main road. The houses on either side were simple two-storey affairs; their compact build was in stark contrast to the almost cartoonish size of the cars, mostly four-by-fours, parked in the driveways—huge beasts of machinery that sullenly and quietly guarded the homes.

  Every house, every garden, every car—they all looked the same to the man as he walked past; they were all immaculately presented with everything in its rightful place. Frankly, he found the uniformity of it all somewhat disconcerting. And bland.

  The street was quiet, only his footfalls and the odd birdcall occasionally breaking the monotony of the silence. No one was out walking their dog; no one was out driving their car; no one was around at all. Though someone, somewhere, must be home, surely?

  He walked on glumly. Sunlight was still shining down over the area, but there was just a hint of something—a faint chill in the air, a few shadows creeping across lawns—that suggested the sun had passed its peak and was now arcing down towards the horizon. And like the light, the man’s hopes were ebbing away too; the thrill of the hunt, which had spurred him on, was fading and dying with every step.

  He reached the end of the street—a cul-de-sac—quicker than he had expected. He stood with hands on hips in the circular turnaround area and looked at the surrounding houses. He shook his head ruefully; the driveways here were empty—a clear indicator that people were likely not at home. Nonetheless, he stood there for a long moment, studying each of the houses in turn, wondering if maybe someone was inside. Anyone will do.

  Looking down the side pathway of one house, he spotted woodland looming once again in the background. The street he’d walked down had been long and monotonous, ultimately proving fruitless in his search for prey; frankly, he had little desire to repeat the walk in the opposite direction. Yet beyond these houses, there was only the forest—and its darkness and emptiness were hardly inviting.

  Nowhere else to go.

  With a heavy heart, the man turned on his heels and began the long walk back to the main road. He wondered if perhaps the next street over would yield a richer harvest, at least one person upon whom he could feed his desires, but in truth he doubted whether he’d have much luck. Perhaps I’ve
used up my share today.

  As he walked, slowly, his eyes studied the long line of houses ahead of him, and his legs suddenly felt even heavier than they had done before resting in the park earlier. Looking ahead, the street narrowed as it neared the main road and the park beyond, but this time there was something else there, something bright and red, which he hadn’t noticed previously—a car.

  Even from several hundred feet away, the man could tell it was similar to all the other vehicles he had passed on this street—it looked like another big, sturdy four-by-four—but what was interesting, what was exciting, different, about this particular car was that it was heading his way. And it’s carrying someone.

  He stopped abruptly in his tracks and darted out of sight behind the trunk of a tree standing at the edge of a nearby garden. Peering round, he watched as the car continued to approach, coming slowly down the street yet drawing inexorably closer.

  As the car passed by, the man edged out from his hiding place, trying to get a better look at the driver. His eyes narrowed. A woman. She was young—late twenties, he guessed—and she was wearing her long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.

  The man’s heart raced a little faster, his body suddenly flooding with adrenaline, and his eyes followed the car as it continued into the turnaround area before parking in one of the driveways still visible to him. A second or two later, the driver’s door opened and the woman stepped out, her ponytail bouncing around her shoulders. There was a look of total indifference on her face; she was blissfully unaware that someone—the man, a killer—was scrutinising her every move.

  The woman reached across to the passenger’s side and stood up a moment later with two bags of groceries in her arms.

  The man crept into the next garden along, closing in on his target. He was watching her like a hawk, a hunter eyeing its prey.

  Closing the door with her hip, the woman turned and walked across the driveway, struggling slightly with her load as she headed towards the front door to her home.

  The man’s eyes followed her, studying her body as she moved; his desire to take her, to kill her, was growing with every step she took.

  The woman reached the door and tried to open it with her elbow, but it didn’t budge.

  Locked unexpectedly, the man thought, judging by the surprised expression on her face.

  The woman carefully placed her groceries on the doorstep and then pulled a key from her pocket. Second time round, she pushed down on the handle and, with a look of relief, opened the door.

  As she crouched down to pick up her shopping, the man took up a position in the neighbouring garden, keeping out of sight behind the bordering hedge. The woman was oblivious to his movements; arms laden, she shouldered the door aside and stepped into the house. The door closed behind her.

  The man waited a moment, wondering if she was going to come back out, wondering if anyone else was in the house with her; he quickly decided she wasn’t and that there wasn’t—instinct told him everything he needed to know.

  He stepped back onto the sidewalk and glanced over his shoulder to check that no one had popped out of another house and noticed his movements. Satisfied, the man made his way cautiously forwards. All his energies were now devoted to watching the door, the windows; all his thoughts were now solely focussed on the woman in her home—a woman all alone.

  He stopped briefly at the edge of the driveway, a faint flicker of doubt crossing his mind and disturbing him for a moment, a second; it left as quickly as it arrived, but still...

  He put the doubt down to the thrill of the chase, the fear of the unknown, and walked on. He refocussed on what he was going to do—what I need to do—and pushed the fear firmly to one side.

  The beast guarding the driveway remained silent as he approached, its tough exterior belying its placid nature; in truth, the man gained more comfort from hiding out of sight behind the four-by-four than the car gave him cause for disquiet. His fingers traced along the doors as he crept by, keeping his head low; he glanced inside the cab, noticing that the woman had left the doors unlocked. And the key in the ignition.

  Leaving the cover provided by the huge car, he hurried quickly and quietly across the front of the house. His desire, his hunger, urged him on, willing him to go inside and do with the woman what he so longed to do.

  He paused on the doorstep, hesitating. In a heartbeat, his desire had fallen silent, as though suddenly reticent to tell him how to proceed now that he was so close. He had a feeling he had been in this position before, that split second before stepping out onto a path from which there was no return, but it was little more than a feeling—the memory, like all his memories, was still lost to him.

  Yet I must have stood at this crossroads before. His numerous victims testified to the truth of that assertion from beyond the grave—he had obviously walked down that path at least nineteen times before. Perhaps more.

  He remembered the old man’s words, remembered his own thoughts, his own conclusions—there was nothing to fear from embracing the past, or from trusting his instincts.

  The man cursed his doubts; he knew that to hesitate like that again could prove costly.

  Hand on the handle, he slowly applied some downwards pressure and then pushed against the door, hoping and praying the woman hadn’t locked it behind her as she closed it. To his relief, the door opened freely and easily.

  The man, with his heart suddenly leaping and pounding in his chest, stepped quietly into the house.

  Six

  April 5, 11.42 a.m.

  The man awoke suddenly.

  All around him was carnage—wires and tubes were hanging loosely from the ceiling like some strange creature’s tentacles; the metal walls surrounding him were twisted, battered and slashed open, with shafts of strong light entering through the ragged wounds.

  The man tried to move and quickly realised he was strapped on his back to a bed. He looked down and found the metal frame beneath him was lying at an awkward angle, almost on its side, over a precipice of sorts; a quiet creaking told him of the precariousness of his situation. He strained to free himself but the strap across his chest was thick and held him tightly; his arms were barely able to move beneath its grip. A second strap further down was pinning his legs to the bed; it was thinner than the strap over his chest but it was no less strong. He was stuck fast.

  The man lifted his head as best he could and peered down past his feet; his eyes narrowed on a pair of heads hanging limply at an odd angle just beyond some seats several feet below him. The sight took his breath away; his stomach turned in revulsion at a cold, shocking realisation that there were two dead people trapped inside this metal thing—this prison, this hell—with him.

  Grimacing, he looked away; his eyes instantly fell upon the lifeless body of a third dead person lying strapped to a wheeled stretcher next to him. The victim’s face appeared peaceful, almost serene, but the prison’s torn, jagged metal walls had sliced inwards and slashed open his body in countless places—the once white mattress beneath the victim was now a deep, dark red, saturated with blood.

  The man’s stomach churned and pushed bile up his throat and into his mouth; he gagged, almost choking on his vomit, but managed to force the sickness back down. He closed his eyes, fighting hard to hold the tide back, and rolled his head away to keep the stench of death from his nostrils.

  The leather straps dug in against his body as he moved; they bit down hard, gnawing and tightening around him like a noose when pulled taut around a neck—he could almost feel Death flicking its icy cold fingers all over him.

  Struggling, panicking, his body shaking violently, the man screamed in a bewildering mixture of pain, anger and fear; his furious efforts were straining his gut, his throat, his heart; every fibre in his body was burning.

  The wind in his lungs quickly dissipated and the man’s screams faded into silence; all he could hear now was the drip-drip of something unknown hitting metal somewhere below him. He lay limply on the bed under
the leather restraints; the realisation that he was trapped had numbed him, sapped his will.

  The man hadn’t the faintest idea how he had come to be in this place, this macabre vision of hell that was all around him; his mind drew blank after blank as he tried to think of some reason, find some logic, a memory, anything, to explain his presence there. But there was nothing but an empty void where he felt there should have been something. Only the memory of waking and seeing the horror all around gave him any sense of a past, a sense of self.

  He found that particular thought deeply unsettling—his lack of a past, of a coherent picture of himself, made him feel vulnerable and utterly alone. He had nothing, not even one single warm memory, to comfort him in his misery; he had nothing to give him the will to struggle on.

  He lay still for several minutes, his eyes closed as he tried to calm himself, hoping that something would come back to him in time if he cleared his mind of all other thoughts.

  But nothing came. All he had were those few memories since waking, and they were constantly repeating in his head, taunting him with their terrible visions of death—visions that he knew were still lingering close by in reality.

  The man opened his eyes. Not far above his head, a shaft of light was beaming into his prison through a small gash in the crumpled metal. The light made him think of the outside, reminding him—triggering a thought, a realisation—that there was something beyond this prison; something that was perhaps worth striving for.