Identity X

by Michelle Muckley

  He felt the danger of his situation as he heard footsteps approaching and a voice on the other side of the exit door. Snatching his fingers from the button, he scanned around looking for somewhere to hide. A clothes rail lined one wall, but with a stroke of good fortune he realised that his legs would be visible from underneath, and that as a hiding place it was a poor choice. The nearest corner had several boxes stacked up on top of each other, and looked just about wide enough to crouch behind. He bolted for the boxes as he saw the red flashing button turn green.

  A girl, no more than eighteen years old, walked through. As he peered out from the shadow of the boxes he could see that she was carrying about twenty coats under her arm, pulled directly from a rail, and still attached to the coat hangers. She was chewing gum, and her eyes were black under layers of heavy makeup. She paid him no attention, and the slow closing door gave him a chance to see out into the store. Immediately he recognised where he was. If he could get out of the doors unnoticed he could slip into the array of hanging rails that littered the shop floor.

  The girl threw the coats onto a pile in the corner and sat down onto one of the unopened plastic boxes. She took a wad of gum from her mouth, pushing it underneath one of the finger grips of a close-by box. She pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and peeled back the wrapper. The very sight of it was enough to reignite the agony of Ben’s empty stomach and he felt it somersault, unleashing a gurgling cry. He gripped onto his stomach and clenched his muscles, hoping that she hadn’t heard it.

  The girl discarded the wrapper and stood up. Ben ducked as far into the wall of boxes as he could, concealing himself in the shadows, hoping that she would pass him by without detection. She headed for the clothes rail that sat against the opposite wall, and he praised his decision not to hide there. She selected a pair of dark trousers and used the inside edge of the cuff to wipe her hands, before pressing the red button to open the doors. This was his chance. He waited for her to pass through, and as soon as there were a few feet between them he slipped out behind her, light footed and surreptitious as a ghost. As he came out into the light she became acutely aware of his presence as he breezed past, and turned around to see him only feet behind her. She looked at him, her eyes scrunched up with confusion, her brow frowning and forming two deep vertical lines between her eyebrows. She glanced back at the doors to the store room to see them just closing. He had been quick to put distance between the store room and himself. He wanted to shake her suspicion, and he wanted to do it fast. He soon formed the opinion that the girl had an inappropriate level of self-interest considering the amount of time she must have spent applying the eye makeup. He shot her his best come-over-here-pretty-lady smile, the kind that forms only on the left side of his face and with a subtly raised eyebrow. He had perfected it whilst he was at university, and it had worked miracles. Today though, dressed in the cheap clothes that looked even worse in their starched just unfolded way, he looked like nothing but a forty year old man who was trying too hard. Her eye muscles contracted inwards, and her obvious distaste of the sight before her was clear to see, such was the antipathy of his advances. She began to walk away from him, all the while keeping a watchful eye that he didn’t attempt to follow her. It had worked, and he knew that he should be grateful. But he also knew on some ludicrous and inexplicable level that he could not help but feel disappointed in his ability to repel a woman.

  He slipped through the store without further hindrance and out into the street. He tucked his hands in his pockets and ducked his head down low as if bracing an oncoming wind. He wanted to look back towards his lab, but it was too risky. He had heard some sort of commotion as the bullets had hit the windows earlier, and wondered if a crowd had gathered, or if indeed the shooter was back out in the street initiating ‘Phase Two’, whatever that was. As he reached into his pocket and felt the plastic case of his telephone he suddenly remembered what he had arranged before the moment that somebody had attempted to extinguish his life. Mark. He was on his way to the lab. He had to warn him.

  He ducked onto Fifty First Street, a quiet side street that ran away from the main Central City station. From here he could see back out onto the main Fiftieth Street, and it seemed to him that everything appeared to be carrying on as normal. There were mothers pushing pushchairs. Women carrying luxurious structured carrier bags which advertised their expensive tastes. There were men dressed like he was only half an hour ago in suits and ties, with hair slicked neatly into place. He scanned the crowd, not wanting Mark to be one of those guys approaching the lab. Who knew where the shooter had gone? He could be in the lab for all Ben knew waiting for anyone that turned up. He pulled out his telephone and scrolled through the list of recent calls until he saw Mark’s name and then he hit the green call button. He heard it ring a couple of times, and then it sounded like it connected. He could hear some sort of static on the line and a click.

  “Mark?” He spoke quietly, his finger held up to his ear to block out the humdrum of the background. He waited for an answer. He was sure that he could hear breathing. Oh God! He was too late. The panic rose in his throat.

  Had they already got him? I have to go back.

  Just as he was contemplating the first steps back towards the laboratory, he heard a voice speak on the other end.

  “Yeah mate, what’s up?”

  “Listen, Mark. Don’t go to the lab,” he spluttered. “Don’t whatever you do go to the lab.” His words sounded as frantic as he felt.

  “What’s going on?” Mark still sounded calm. Alive. Thank God.

  “Meet me at the café in the shopping mall. The one on the corner on the first floor.”

  “Ben, what’s up? What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but somebody just tried to kill me.”

  “What?” Mark shrieked.

  “Listen, I have to go. Meet me there.” With that Ben hung up, and stashed his telephone back in his pocket. He had backed into a disused door way, and wanted desperately to stay there, concealed and safe in this recess, obscured from view. He thought back to how secure the hideaway in the stock room had felt only minutes before, and wished now that he had just stayed there. He could have pretended that everything was okay and that there was nobody chasing him with a taste for his death. Every step that he took from this point on felt like it could be his last. He picked up his telephone again and dialled Hannah’s number. He waited, but the call didn’t connect. “Shit!” He had no choice but to press on.

  Choice. He thought about that word for a moment. Did he really have no choice? If he could choose, what would he do now? If he hadn’t just lost the last twenty years of a career overnight, if he hadn’t just nearly been killed, if there wasn’t an order to move into the unknown world of ‘Phase Two’, what was it that he would choose? Would he choose to go home and sit with his wife, pull up the covers on the bed like when they first met? Back then they would happily check out, let the world carry on without them. How long had that lasted, until he tired of her company and craved the sterile world of a laboratory? Would he choose Saturday afternoons in the park kicking a football? How long had it really been until he had sacrificed the first football session in place of an analysis run that just couldn’t wait until Monday? How many times had he prioritised the lab and his research over anything else in his life? Mark had been right when he had questioned his happiness. His times at home felt like a countdown, a clock initiated when he put his key in the door, until the next time he could legitimately get out and back to his work life. All the time he had been focused on saving the future, he had forgotten what he had in the present.

  He pushed himself out of the safety of his recess and took his first steps towards his next move. He didn’t know if it was better to stay on the quiet streets, or head into the safety of the crowd. Another choice. The old adage ‘safety in numbers’ played out in his head, and he turned left into the main street and slipped the bustling crowd where he hoped
that he would disappear. He thought how simple it was for these other people, going about their everyday lives without the knowledge of how easily it could all be snatched away. They were running backwards and forwards not paying any attention, living without thought in their carefree fantasies. To Ben, that’s all they were now. Normal life seemed nothing more than a fantasy.

  He walked the streets with his head down, glancing up every so often to see the direction in which he should walk. On one such occasion he noticed the magazine booth. It was one of the few places that you could still pay with cash, no questions asked. The newspapers were tucked into neat rows and secured underneath crisscrossing cords of elastic. When the weather was warm the ink would smudge off onto your fingers at the slightest touch, compliant under the strength of the sun, easily pushed out of place. Most people didn’t bother with newspapers anymore, but there was something about this store that people clung to. There was a sense of nostalgia about it, and it reminded Ben of the past and childhood, and therefore of his father.

  Every day the owner would stand a little A-frame notice board outside of his kiosk and write the main headline and the date on a sheet of cheap white paper. Today was no different. The little board was there. The headline informed him that interest rates would be falling in the next week. Ben had been waiting to reap the benefits of the reduction. But it wasn’t this news story that grabbed his interest, pricking his attention with the same urgency as a pin to an inflated balloon. Interest rates have little to spike your curiosity when you have spent the last thirty minutes unsuccessfully dodging bullets. The details that interested him now were the day, and the date.

  When he left Simpson’s bar more than a little worse for wear, he had been more than certain that he was putting a wet and rainy Wednesday behind him. He had no doubt in his mind that when he returned home that night they had watched the soap opera that Hannah was obsessed with that is only shown on a Monday and a Wednesday night. Yet before him the news that was being advertised was for Friday. Friday the sixth of April. But what about Thursday?

  “Hey, excuse me,” Ben shouted up towards the news vender, temporarily forgetting his need for anonymity and his wish to keep a low profile. He looked at Ben as he picked at his fingernails, each finger poking through half gloves. He was scraping out traces of ink which had leeched onto his fingertips.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled.

  “Is this right? Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?” Ben pointed down at the board.

  “What mistake?” he said, still only half paying attention.

  “The date!” Ben could feel his voice becoming raised and frustrated. He consciously calmed himself down, pulling up the collar of his stolen jacket a little. “The day I mean. It’s definitely Friday?”

  “Well that’s what these papers say.” Ben looked down at the rows of newspapers tucked neatly inside their elasticated strings. He pulled at one, crimpling up the corner. He felt the familiar sensation of the cheap flimsy paper and the immediate residue of ink on his skin. He took no satisfaction in it today. He pulled out the paper and as it unfolded automatically before him he saw that sure enough the date was Friday, sixth of April. The vendor was already turning away, realising that Ben had no intention of buying anything. There was only one question on Ben’s mind as he turned to walk away. It had nothing to do with interest rates or his uncertain future. Now he couldn’t even be certain of the present. His question was simple.

  What the hell had happened to Thursday?

  SIX

  The realization that he had slept for almost thirty six hours brought with it a whole new set of problems. The main one of which was his family. Realistically, he could accept that Hannah had left him in bed the first morning. She had probably woken up to the smell of fresh vomit, saw the pile of it on the carpet next to the bed. He could imagine her tiptoeing her way through his trail of drunken destruction on the stairway, privately and secretly savouring the fact that he would be late for his precious work. He could imagine her closing the door and smiling sweetly to herself at the prospect of his accidental placement of his feet into the expelled stomach contents as he swung them out of bed. If she had been feeling particularly malevolent she may even have enjoyed the idea of him accidentally stepping into the shards of glass on the stairs. The first morning was explicable in any way he chose to look at it. But later on that day when she had calmed down and succumbed to the inevitable guilt of her earlier thoughts, surely she would have questioned his whereabouts.

  She would have found Ben still in bed that night. Would she not have attempted to wake him? Would she not be worried that he had slept for almost a day? Surely there wasn’t a soul that could find sense in somebody sleeping for twenty four hours solid? Ben couldn’t remember waking or stirring. He couldn’t remember anything from that period of time. He could barely remember arriving home, if he thought about it. The only explanation for him remaining undisturbed in bed for that length of time was that Hannah hadn’t been home.

  If she hadn’t been home, where the hell was she? Where the hell was Matthew?

  Suddenly there was more at stake than a lifetime of research.

  As he quickened his pace towards his meeting place with Mark he could feel the telephone buzzing in his pocket. He looked at the screen. It was Ami, his colleague from the laboratory and chosen subject for all manner of inappropriate thoughts.

  “Ami?”

  “Oh my God, thank God you’re still alive.” She knew what was happening to him and she sounded desperate, her voice quivering at an unnatural frequency. “I thought they had already got you. It took me so long to find you.”

  “Ami, what the hell is going on?” Ben found the entrance to a side street and slipped into another doorway to conceal himself as he spoke. He held his free hand up to cover his mouth as he spoke. “Who are they? Who is trying to kill me?” He couldn’t believe he was asking Ami about this. “How the hell do you know anything about it?”

  “I can’t explain now. I need you to meet me. You’re in danger, Ben.”

  “Ami, I think they might have taken my wife and son.” Ben’s mind was working double time, impulses firing off with the fervidity of new lovers, fumbling and grappling around for sense that doesn’t exist. “I don’t have time to meet you. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Forget Hannah. Meet me at…..”

  “Forget Hannah? I can’t forget Hannah. How do I even know I can trust you? How do you know all this?” He was sure he had never told Ami his wife’s name. He had made a point of not talking about Hannah with Ami.

  “I’ll explain when I’m with you. Meet me at the park behind Seventy Fourth Street. Stay out of sight. They’re looking for you.”

  “No way! Why should I trust you? Where is everybody from the lab Ami? Huh? How do you know all this? You know too much. I can’t trust you.”

  “Ben you can’t trust anybody. Whatever you do don’t trust anybody.” After this all he could hear was the empty hum of a dropped call. She had hung up.

  For a moment he stood in the doorway watching the nearby crowds as they passed him on the main street. He began walking towards them in a daydream, a state of mental paralysis. The people knocked him left and right, while his telephone hung in his limp hand. His mind was overloaded by the lack of a logical explanation. He lived by logical explanations, and when there was doubt he would retrace his steps and find the fault, the mistake, the unexplained variable until he understood. He felt like his body was being pulled in a million directions by every random synaptic response charging around in his brain. But Ami was wrong about one thing. He still had somebody that he could trust. He had known Mark his entire life. He had stood at his side in the line-up for football practice. He had stood at his side when they graduated from university. He had stood by his side throughout his father’s illness and death. If ever there was anyone he could trust, it was him.

  Lacking the advantage of a functional identity and the freedom to use the underground train
system to travel around the city he was confined to moving around on foot. He had selected the shopping mall knowing that it was close to the centre of the city and therefore not too far. Mentally it felt close, but the city was crammed full of people, and his progress was hindered.

  But he was propelled onwards by a developing sense of responsibility for what had happened. He had no idea what he had unwittingly involved himself in, but whoever it was that was after him, they were serious. They had tried to kill him, and there was a good chance they had taken Hannah and Matthew. If he hadn’t drunk himself into such a stupor on Wednesday night maybe it would have been different. Maybe then he wouldn’t have slept for a whole day and he could have been around to protect her.

  Slept for a whole day?

  No, that just didn’t make sense. Even in the muddle of his thoughts he couldn’t see how it was possible for him to have slept for such a long time. He had been drunk many times before his celebratory night of inebriation, and yet had never suffered the same inexplicable after effects. It just wasn’t possible.

  Could they have drugged me?

  He trawled through his brain, trying to remember all the people he had come into contact with that Wednesday. He had spent the day at the lab, drunk the Champagne from the flimsy plastic cups. But he had bought that himself and he had opened it himself. He had watched Phil pour a measure into each of the other cups before he had got his own share, and he remembered it being less in his cup than any of the others. He wondered if somebody could have drugged him at the bar, but even thinking about these scenarios made him feel like he was losing his mind.