Id

by P. Craig

  “Stop right there, sir,” said a large man in white uniform—an orderly—who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was blocking the corridor with his expansive girth and spread-eagled arms and legs. “There’s nowhere else to go. Just take it easy, okay?”

  The man crawled to the wall closest to him; grasping the waist-high railing, he hauled himself to his feet.

  “That’s far enough,” said the orderly; his demon eyes were flaring with anger, and his hands—his huge, giant hands—were balling and clenching into fists.

  The man glanced over his shoulder and spotted a group of about six or seven doctors and nurses slowing to a standstill behind him, their faces red with exertion. One doctor, he noted, was clutching a syringe in her hand.

  “That’s right—take it real nice and easy,” said the orderly, as the man turned to face him once more. “No one wants you to get hurt. We just want to help you get better.”

  The man had a sudden urge to laugh in response to that—such an obvious lie—but remembering his earlier failures when called upon to speak, he kept his derision firmly in check. As it was, he decided to let his actions do the talking.

  “Hey, back off...” the orderly started to cry, but the man pounced and silenced him with a vicious blow to the gut that had the larger man doubling over in pain, the wind punched straight out of him.

  The chasing group erupted with furious shouts, angered by the sight of one of their own sinking to his knees, but the man, with adrenaline suddenly coursing through his body, was already nearly out of sight, lurching down the corridor with scant concern for anyone that he passed.

  The man pressed on, racing harder and harder, faster and faster, taking turn after turn down one corridor and then another, and all the time his eyes were desperately searching for any clue as to how to get out of the hospital, his prison, his hell.

  There has to be an exit somewhere.

  But finding it, if indeed it even existed, very quickly began to feel like an impossible task. If they, the hydra and her demon minions, managed to catch him before he escaped, then he knew he would never see the light of day again. And that was a fate, a misery, he was not willing to let happen.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity of running through the halls of hell, he rounded a corner and burst into a hallway filled with a mixture of startled, innocent onlookers and a group, a large group, of waiting demons, all seething and snarling with anger.

  The man’s survival instinct kicked in once more, and as the first of the foul beasts lurched towards him, he spun out of harm’s way, kicking at the back of the demon’s knees as he passed by, leaving the wretch writhing in agony on the floor. Another one cried out in anger and charged, claws ready to strike, but the man was alert to the danger and ducked out of the way, his fist flying into the demon’s unprotected face as he slipped by. Skills he never knew he had were suddenly coming to the fore. As another beast dipped down low to tackle him, the man instinctively kneed the poor unfortunate in the face and then pushed the limp body out of the way, all the while keeping his legs running in the direction of the light pouring in through the glass doors at the front entrance.

  The exit!

  Clumsy and short-lived though his efforts had been, the third attacker had done enough to slow down the escape attempt. As the man’s gaze lingered upon the shining light, he felt powerful arms—one pair, then two, then three—grabbing him around the body and legs, trying their best to haul him to the floor, down into the shadows.

  Instinct wouldn’t let him go quietly, though, and with a howl of rage, the man lashed out at those grappling him to the ground. Firing his elbows back and forth like pistons, he bucked and kicked and, eventually, wriggled free of his assailants.

  Just as he started to push himself back onto his feet, something heavy pushed downwards with even greater force, pinning him back down onto the floor.

  “The syringe! Get the syringe!”

  Immediately recognising the voice, anxious and riddled with fear though it was, another surge of adrenaline pumped through the man’s veins; he turned onto his back and glared into the eyes of one of his chief tormentors.

  “Quickly now!” screamed the puffy-faced doctor, his wild eyes stricken with panic, his breathing heavier than it had ever been.

  Forgetting all about the need to escape, the man slipped his hands from beneath the doctor’s grasp, reached up, wrapped his fingers around the cretin’s saggy-skinned neck and squeezed for all he was worth. A strange gurgling sound came from the doctor’s throat, and his eyes—those dark, evil eyes—were bulging out of his fat, bloated skull. But neither of those outcomes were enough for the man—he wanted to see more; he really wanted to inflict pain; he really wanted to send this demon back to the very depths of hell where it belonged.

  Gritting his teeth, the man summoned up all his strength and then tightened his grip, slowly squeezing the doctor’s eyeballs up, round and into the back of his head. The end was close, the man could sense it, and then he would—

  “Now!”

  Something struck the man on the shoulder—something hard, something sharp, something penetrating—but strangely there was no pain, no sense that anything was wrong. It was only when his grip suddenly began to weaken, and as a dark fog started to drift across his vision, and as he suddenly forgot what he was doing, why he was doing it, why he was there, that he knew, too late, that something was wrong.

  Nine

  January 30, 2.45 p.m.

  Sighing, the man settled back into his seat and absentmindedly looked out through the window.

  Rain was beginning to fall now and the sky was turning a dark, leaden colour that threatened to blot out the sunlight from horizon to horizon; nonetheless, the sidewalks were still busy, with hundreds of people—mostly shoppers, he presumed—braving the elements to catch a few last minute bargains before the stores closed for the day.

  The man smiled at the ordinariness of it all, thinking back on similar days, evenings, weekends, when he and his wife would be hunting for that special something, that great deal they couldn’t afford to miss. He would be the first to admit that, at times, shopping could be something of a chore, an irritating distraction from the pleasure of spending time with his family when away from his work. But at other times, times when he and his wife were out on their own, times when they were out and about solely for the pleasure of each other’s company, an afternoon of shopping could rekindle memories of their early years together, when it had just been the two of them. Back when everything was simpler.

  Those early years seemed like a long time ago now, though, and he couldn’t help but wonder, perhaps fear, that he might never have the opportunity to experience such simple pleasures again.

  The taxi slowed to a stop at a junction. The driver peered over his shoulder, grinning as he made eye contact with the man. “Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it, buddy?”

  “Pardon me?”

  The driver nodded in the direction of the front windscreen and then turned away, whistling quietly under his breath as a young blonde woman, no older than twenty, walked past the car, her short skirt barely covering her modesty.

  “Now that, my friend, is what I’m talking about. Mighty, mighty fine.”

  Smiling at the driver’s enthusiasm, the man watched as the woman passed the car in the next lane, the side-to-side movement of her hips drawing a howl of approval from the young men inside.

  Simple pleasures, the man thought with a wry smile.

  “Almost makes me wish I’d never got hitched,” said the driver, shaking his head ruefully. He put the car back in gear and gave the engine a gentle rev. “Must be about ten years, three kids and sixty pounds since the other half looked anywhere near that good. Mind you, I suspect she’d say the same about me.”

  The taxi lurched forwards unexpectedly, the driver perhaps still a little distracted by the woman who had passed them by, but soon they were driving smoothly along the road leading out of town.


  A cool breeze snaked inside the car through the driver’s side window and ruffled the man’s hair. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the headrest, letting the wind do its worst. He almost felt like laughing; in a few hours’ time, the very idea of the wind being able to do such a thing would be little more than an ironic joke—a cold reminder of what he had lost. What I’m about to lose.

  In truth, the prospect of surgery scared him greatly, but the man hoped—no, he prayed—he’d managed to keep his fears from being too apparent to his family. His daughter hadn’t said much when he’d told her the news—in fact, she hadn’t even so much as blinked—but deep down he knew that she, like his wife, was every bit as shocked, every bit as scared, as he was. The only positive, if he could call it such, was the speed with which everything was happening; there was little time for dwelling on the difficulties, the hardships and the uncertainties that lay ahead like a long road fading into oblivion on the horizon.

  As little time as there was, though, there was at least some time—even if only minutes—in which the man’s mind could run through all the possible scenarios, all the possible outcomes, all the possible nightmares about what the future might hold. All the plans that he had, all the ambitions he still wanted to achieve, everything that he had expected for him and his family, were all now in limbo—mere empty promises in a future that was now as unlikely as it was unwritten. All he had left, all he had to cling onto, was what was with him in the here and now. Truth be told, he suddenly felt very alone; part of him wished he’d allowed his wife to come with him to the hospital.

  “Almost there, buddy,” said the driver, snapping the man out of his dark thoughts.

  “Right, thanks.” The man forced a weak smile, spotting the driver looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

  The taxi slowed and then turned sharply to the right, cutting across the oncoming lane before passing through the wide arched marble gateway that marked the entrance to the hospital.

  “Which building do you want to be dropped off at?” the driver asked, looking at the man via the rear-view mirror again.

  “The main building will be fine.” In truth, the man had half a mind to ask the driver to keep going, loop around and drive straight back out the exit gate.

  The driver looked away, nodding. “Sure thing, buddy.”

  The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in his stomach. This is it, he thought—no going back now, no changing my mind, no time left to do anything.

  As the car slowed to a halt, the man opened his eyes and glanced out the window, catching his first proper glimpse of the hospital since he had last been there some several years earlier when his daughter had been ill with leukaemia. Everything had worked out well back then, but now, this time, he was the one who was on the receiving end of an illness. The worrying, the anxiety, the feelings of helplessness—perhaps the hardest parts of all—would be left to his loved ones. He prayed that his wife would be every bit as strong as she had been the last time.

  “That’s twenty-three fifty, buddy,” said the driver, turning in his seat and looking over his shoulder.

  Nodding, the man pulled two crisp twenties from his wallet and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change,” he said, already reaching for the door handle.

  “That’s kind of you,” said the driver, with a grin and a nod of appreciation. “Here, hold on—let me get that for you.”

  The man already had one foot on the tarmac, but the driver was quickly out of his seat and held the door open for him.

  “Do you need a hand with your bag or will you be okay from here?” the driver asked, gesturing at the glass doors a dozen yards away.

  The man smiled but shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

  The driver nodded his understanding. “Well, best of luck with everything, buddy. Hope it all works out for you.”

  That makes two of us, the man considered saying, but he kept the thought to himself.

  Turning on his heels, the man started the short walk towards the reception area he could see through the glass. The doors slid open as he approached and out walked two doctors deep in conversation, neither one so much as lifting an eye in the man’s direction.

  An elderly man—a patient, if the wearing of a light blue gown and the accompaniment of an intravenous drip hanging from a metal stand were any indication of the matter—was standing inside the doorway, casually, albeit surreptitiously, rolling himself a cigarette. There was a look of absolute pleasure on his face as he placed the finished article between his lips.

  “I’ve been dying for this all day,” said the patient, noticing the man watching him out of the corner of his eye as he passed by.

  The man said nothing and kept walking, though the implicit irony of the remark amused him and raised a smile.

  A woman behind the front desk looked up as the man approached. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  The man paused, wondering if he should pretend to be visiting someone else rather than checking in as a patient himself. A silly thought.

  “Sir?”

  “Huh?” Startled, the man tore his eyes away from the floor and quickly noticed the expression of concern upon the young woman’s face. “Oh, I’m here to see Dr Rubinstein. I’m booked in for surgery tomorrow, apparently.”

  The woman smiled sympathetically and then looked down at her computer screen. Just as she started to type on the keyboard, the man felt a hand on his shoulder; he peered round and was pleased to find a familiar, friendly face right behind him.

  “I thought I’d come along to make the necessary introductions and see that you got settled in well enough,” said Dr Nolan. Smiling, he caught the woman’s eye and leaned across the counter. “I’ll take my friend, here, along to see Dr Rubinstein. I’ll come back and handle the paperwork in a moment or two, okay?”

  The receptionist nodded and then, glancing across, gave the man a reassuring look.

  “Well, what did you decide to tell your daughter in the end?” Dr Nolan asked quietly, as he and the man started down a nearby corridor leading into the heart of the hospital.

  The man thought back to that moment of frantic indecision outside his house, when he and his wife had debated whether to tell their daughter the full extent of his condition. A rueful smile came to his lips as he remembered how quickly his resolve had crumbled the instant he had set foot inside their home.

  “It was too difficult not to,” he said finally, sighing. “She knew something was wrong as soon as I walked through the door.”

  The doctor placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Well, despite your reservations on the matter, perhaps it might prove to be for the best. Attempting to hide the truth from as perceptive a mind as your daughter’s may have been even harder for her to take, let alone understand. Now it’s out in the open, you can all deal with it from a much stronger, healthier position.” The doctor glanced up and saw the pensive expression on the man’s face. He smiled reassuringly. “Lecture over, my friend. I have every faith that you will make a full recovery.”

  Those words were welcome to the man’s ears; nonetheless, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was just false optimism, his doctor’s judgement perhaps clouded by years of friendship. The man wanted to believe what he was hearing, he truly did, but there was still that doubt, that fear, that nagging question, lingering in the back of his mind, swirling his emotions around like a giant spoon in a cauldron. Perhaps by the day after tomorrow he would know definitively one way or the other, although that, he thought with some irony, assumed he even had any memory of the doubt in question. And that’s not a given.

  “Here we are, at last,” said the doctor, as they rounded a corner and entered the neurology department.

  Stopping outside the nearest office, Dr Nolan knocked twice on the door and then promptly pushed it open without waiting for a response.

  A round-faced yet rather distinguished-looking man of advancing years rose from behind the large
desk that dominated the room; he beamed and extended a hand as Dr Nolan approached. “Ah, John! It’s been too long, has it not?”

  “It’s been quite a while, Dr Rubinstein. We really must catch up properly soon. However, today I’m here on business. I believe you will be taking care of one of my patients for a short while...?”

  Standing a few paces behind Dr Nolan, the man took a small step to the side and gave a weak, joyless smile in greeting as Dr Rubinstein turned his gaze in the man's direction.

  “Ah, yes, but of course,” said the older doctor. He shook the man’s hand. “I’ve been expecting you. How are you feeling today? A little apprehensive, perhaps?”

  The man was at a loss for words but managed a half-hearted shrug.

  “You needn’t worry too much, my friend,” said Dr Rubinstein, smiling in a reassuring manner. “Operations such as yours are quite routine these days, and it is rare, rare indeed, for anything unexpected to happen. I would hope to have you out of here and back home within the week.”

  “I hope so too,” said the man, glad to hear such words of optimism.

  “Shall I leave you to handle things from here?” Dr Nolan asked of his colleague.

  Dr Rubinstein nodded; after shaking both his and the man’s hand in turn, Dr Nolan said his goodbyes and departed.

  Watching his old friend leave, the man suddenly felt more alone than he wanted to be—everyone he loved was now gone.

  With a quiet sigh, he turned to face Dr Rubinstein.

  “Well, we have a number of preparations to make before surgery,” said the doctor. “If you’d like to follow me, we’ll make a start, yes?”

  The doctor’s broad smile did much to placate the man’s fears; the man had no doubt his friend had left him in more than capable hands. “I’m all yours,” he said, forcing a smile to his face that, in truth, wasn’t as false or contrived as it might have been under the circumstances.