Identity X

by Michelle Muckley

  She didn’t speak as they broached the house. It was a small bungalow, constructed from white wood panelling that had weathered gradually through the years. It looked like a large version of the jetty, and he imagined that in the right conditions it would have been quite beautiful. The windows were small and dark. Ben peered through but he saw nothing but his own reflection staring back at him.

  Inside the cottage smelt musty, like damp wood, as if it had been closed up for years. He heard a series of beeps as she punched in a code for an alarm system. The low light through the windows illuminated the dust motes floating through the house. She dumped the bag onto a couch. Ben could feel the dust at the back of his throat, and watched his wife suspiciously as she pulled back the curtains to light the room. She turned to look at him as he stood aimlessly in the doorway, no idea what to do or say.

  “We have to wait here for a while,” she said. “We need a car and a few other things. They will be delivered for us.” She could see his discomfort at the prospect of waiting longer in this temporary base. “Matthew is safe for now, as long as nobody knows where we are, and what has happened.” She stopped a few feet away from him, uncertain of the welcome that she might receive should she attempt to shorten the distance any further. Ben had considered her silence on the boat as a display of strength, but in reality it was born out of fear. What would he say if she spoke to him?

  “And if they do work it out?” Ben dared.

  “They won’t,” she said. “You need some rest too. You look dreadful, and you’re starting to get the shakes.” Ben held up his hands palm-down in front of him. His fingers jittered back and forth just as she had proclaimed, scoring one or two on the Richter scale. She approached him, her arms outstretched and submissive, trying to look as reassuring as she could, her aim to do anything but intimidate. She helped him to remove the heavy load of the bag and placed it on the floor next to the couch. She reached for the other bag nearby.

  “Come on, take a seat,” she said, as she closed the door behind them. He allowed her to guide him to the nearest seat, a small armchair with wooden armrests, a cushion worn and threadbare. More dust motes circled above him. She unfastened the holster of the gun that her father had attached to his waist and slipped it out from around him, placing it on the table behind her. She saw his blue tinged fingertips, and took both hands into her own. “You’re cold.” She rubbed her hands across the top of his, trying to restore some blood flow. Afterwards she placed his hands into his lap, and pulled out the flask from the rucksack. She poured him a cup of tea, taking one of his hands and placing the plastic beaker into his cupped palm. She felt the hesitation in his wrist as she pushed it towards his lips. “I promise, it’s just tea.”

  She stood up and grabbed a woollen blanket from the settee and shook it open. She draped it over him, tucking it underneath his knees, and raised it up towards his chest. “You need to get some rest. Try to sleep. You have time.” She stood up and side stepped the chair. As she did so, he looked up towards her, arching his neck backwards.

  “Hannah,” he called, his eyelids heavy. He raised a hand upwards, and his finger tips brushed the exposed skin of her wrist. To hold her hand seemed so alien to him now, yet to not touch her was even worse.

  “Yes?” she looked down at Ben as she stood at his side.

  “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead. Right?”

  She nodded her head before shamefully muttering, “Yes.” She feared that even her willingness to save him might never make up for what she had done beforehand.

  “Thank you.” He pulled his arm back under the woollen throw, and allowed his eye lids to close. Before she left he was already drifting into sleep. She rested the palm of her hand onto his face, stroking his cheek, whilst praying that there would again be a time when she could do so again, when the risk of death for either of them was a distant and terrible memory.

  She threw her jacket onto the settee exposing the holster and gun resting on her hip. She left that in place and picked up the heavier of the two bags, transporting it to the small kitchen table. She unzipped the bag, which opened from corner to corner unfolding like a blanket. She took comfort from the familiar sound of Ben’s breathing as his chest rose and fell, and the patter of raindrops as they dripped onto the tiled roof above her. She let herself dream for a moment that they were just an average couple on a weekend retreat. Yes, that was where they were, a rented cottage somewhere. Later she would cook and Matthew would come out from his bedroom and eat. After, when he fell asleep, Ben would turn and kiss her and they would have fumbled half naked sex. Then she saw the weapons in front of her and the image passed.

  She inspected each of the weapons as they lay before her; a selection of hand pistols, and an Uzi submachine gun with its shoulder stock wrapped around the bulk of the gun making it look short and squat. She zipped the bag up and left it on the table.

  Grabbing a chocolate bar from the rucksack at Ben’s feet, she peeled it open and took a large bite. The air felt cold so she picked up another throw from the settee and draped the thick woollen pile across her shoulders. Walking towards the window, which she knew offered no visibility to the outside world, she traced the line of the driveway from the house as it meandered towards the forest. The road was shielded by the cover of trees for over five hundred meters before you hit a main arterial road. Nothing would come down the track to the house that didn’t intend to. Taking her telephone from her back pocket, she looked at the screen in search of a message but as of yet, it was still blank. She wanted the car here already, and didn’t want to linger wasting time. Her son was at Headquarters, and every moment that slipped by was a moment closer to Mark finding out what she had done.

  She knew at some point he would discover her betrayal. He wouldn’t care about the agents that she had killed. But to foil his plan, to take Ben’s life back, that was going too far. With Matthew still at Mark’s side, he had more power over her actions than she ever wanted to imagine possible. There is nothing that she wouldn’t risk for his safety. She had known that from the moment he was born. But with his birth the same protectiveness extended to Ben. As he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his sleep disturbed by the drugs and memories of the past day she promised herself that there is nothing that she wouldn’t give to keep both of her boys safe.

  Moving through to the kitchen, her muddy heels leaving a trail of triangular footprints on the wooden floor, she could hear Ben stirring. She hoped that he would be able to sleep for a while longer until the message arrived from her father to say that the car was on the way. She opened the kitchen cupboards, more out of curiosity than necessity, wondering if somewhere inside her memories were waiting for, hidden in the dusty corners of this cottage. The smell that had first hit them could be explained twice over by the decomposing bag of potatoes that she found in the kitchen, and another of onions that were in a similar state of putrescence. She shut the door again, hoping that as little as possible of the odour had escaped.

  She opened the adjacent cupboard door and saw a few old cans of paint, remnants of string, and dirty rags. The man that lived here had welcomed her and her father into their home when they had needed sanctuary. When one of his missions had proven unsuccessful they had spent a summer here in hiding. It had been a difficult few months, watching her father stand relentlessly at the window monitoring the driveway, night and day as immobile as a mannequin. But there were happy memories of those times too. It was only now that she realised that she appreciated the bizarre life she had lived. Why else would she have chosen the same reality and a life of detachment for herself?

  It was as she was closing the cupboard door that she saw the large white pot hiding in a back corner. She remembered how there had been a pot just like it many years ago, and how Mr. Johnson, the man that had sheltered them, had tried to show her how much fun she could have without having any toys around. They had mixed the contents with sugar, thrown in some baking powder and watched as a soft glue formed. At the
last minute they had thrown in some old red paint powder from the shed and left the mixture to dry in little pots. Once they added a fuse and a bit of tape he had given her a box, and into it he made her place the three black cylinders. She took little disappointment as he sealed up the box with more black plastic tape. He had made her promise not to open it until he took her somewhere where she could play with it.

  True to his word, one day he woke her early, before first light had broken. He had already made them a flask of hot tea, and gave her a rucksack to carry that was almost too big for her eight year old shoulders. After they had driven for just over an hour through a snake box of winding roads, he parked the car at the edge of the forest. He tightened the rucksack on her shoulders, and they set out along a small path. It wound through moorland where the Heather grew wild and required their careful footing. The light was just coming up as they reached the top of the rocky ridge. They sat high above the fields of wild plants below, sharing a cup of sweet tea as they dangled their feet over the ledge. He fastened a small rope around her waist, and secured it to a stable boulder behind her. He pulled it tight and wagged his finger mockingly in front of her face. He said that son of mine will never forgive me if anything happens to you. It had never made sense at the time. She had no idea who Mr. Johnson’s son was.

  After they had eaten a breakfast of jam sandwiches he asked her if they should open the box. She hadn’t realised that he had been carrying it in his bag. As he handed her the first black cylinder and struck a match, he told her as soon as he lit it to drop it over the edge of the cliff. At first, as she dropped the little black cartridge she didn’t know what to expect, but then the first swarms of princess pink smoke filtered up through the sky. The silence of the man beside her only enhanced her sense of wonderment. As she turned to look at him he was smiling at her, not a Cheshire cat I’ll get you type smile, but rather soft and gentle, a hug waiting on his face. It was one of a handful of memories of her grandfather, and one she treasured as preciously as she did the memories that she created with her own child.

  Pulling the other cupboards open she found some sugar, baking powder, and a cigarette lighter. The sugar bag was hosting several lodgers, and a small colony of ants had found their way into the cupboard, marching regimentally in and regimentally out. Brushing the insects aside she took a large pot and threw in the sugar and the contents of the white pot, cooking up the memorable sticky brown paste. She threw in some baking powder and took the pot away from the cooker. She picked up the lighter and stowed it safely in her pocket.

  Braving the heavier rain she ducked back outside, lowering her head forwards to avoid the drops as they descended from the sky. The clouds had swung in low, and as she pushed open the door, she smelt the same balm of that summer; the damp, the peat, the dusty remnants of terracotta pottery. She had forgotten to bring a torch with her, and the diminishing light from outside made it difficult to see into the darkest corners of the small shed. She checked her wrist watch. It was a quarter past three. The car should be here by now, she thought to herself.

  She spotted the dusty old box in the corner on the floor. It was the probably the same box that she had used all those years ago with her grandfather. As she pulled up the box and opened the lid, she saw how it had been sealed with an old piece of string, the paint itself in several layers of plastic bag, each a little less worn as she pulled the first degraded layers away. Giving it a shake, she could hear the contents skirting around inside, like sand grains in an hourglass. Grabbing the black tape that she never doubted would be in the old toolbox on the floor, she darted back over the grass, slipping as she did so. She pushed the front door open, slamming it shut behind her.

  The sound of the door closing woke Ben. “What are you doing?” he asked. He startled her, and as she gasped the roll of tape in her teeth made a thud as it dropped and rolled along the floor. He leant over and picked it up as it arrived at his feet.

  “You scared me!” she exclaimed, as she held her hand up to her chest. “Help me with this, quickly.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She shed her woollen throw, tossing it to the floor. She held up the bag containing the paint and began tipping it into the pot of brown goo.

  “Bring me all the toilet rolls from the bathroom cupboard,” she demanded.

  “Why, what do you….”

  “Ben, please, just bring them here.” He did as she asked. He dropped them onto the table in the kitchen, next to the bag full of weaponry, and she brought over the pot from the cooker, now transformed into a red, glue like substance.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s our cover, Ben. We don’t have anybody on our team. Everybody is against us, even if they don’t know it yet. Anything I can think of that might help us get Matthew out, I’ll try. Here,” she said as she took the first toilet roll. “Take off all the paper, we want the cardboard tubes.”

  After covering the wooden floor in a fanciful swathe of tissue, he lined up four cardboard tubes on the table. She covered one of their open ends with black insulating tape. Turning them closed side down she instructed Ben to fill up the tubes with the red paste. By the time he had done so, she had returned with two pens and two pencils, and stuck them into the sticky pots one by one. She also threw a box of matches onto the table, which she had found by the fireplace.

  “Cut the heads off these.”

  “How many?” he asked, as he opened the box of matches.

  “As many as there are.” His heart sank as he saw an almost full box. His disappointment was interrupted by the buzz of a telephone. It reminded him of the outside world and the threat that it posed. She picked up the telephone, read the screen and then placed it back down on the counter.

  “Car will be here soon. It’s late, but at least it gives us time to finish this.”

  As they sat waiting for the smoke bombs to dry out, making match head fuses, it was virtually impossible for Ben to concentrate on the task that she had set for him. All he could think about was Matthew, imprisoned in a building that she referred to as Headquarters, or, The Shop. Neither place sounded acceptable for a six year old boy.

  “What do you think Matthew is doing now? Where is he?” She looked up from her match head fuse and eyed up her husband coolly.

  “He’ll be where I left him.”

  “Which is where? Where did you take him?”

  “It was agreed that he remain at Headquarters on Thursday. That gave us time to complete a full debriefing. But Mark was so over excited by your research. He couldn’t stop celebrating, and everything got put back. Debriefing was moved to Friday morning. That’s why I never got to you in time before you woke up, because I should have moved you on Thursday night. Matthew is safe there, until I collect him.” She offered up the idea of his safety convincingly enough, but she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

  “And what about me? You told me that I was supposed to get on that boat. Where was I going?”

  “Here,” as she raised her head and motioned to the room before her. “My father would have brought you here. I didn’t expect them to turn on me.”

  “I don’t think they expected you to kill them.”

  “Nobody expects to be killed, Ben.” She looked towards him. “You of all people should know that.” They sat in silence for a few moments, until Ben spoke again.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s my grandfather’s home. My real grandfather. I came here as a child. I didn’t know at the time he was my grandfather, but we came here when my father had to stay off the grid.”

  “What was he? A spy?”

  “No, and neither am I. Our job is not to spy. It’s to do the things that are necessary, but that a nation cannot be seen to do publically. We do the work that the public don’t need or want to know about, and make the politicians look clean. They look clean because they are. They don’t know anything about us.”

  “And what now? What happens when you turn up with no
agents, no van, and no prisoner? Do you think that they’ll let you just turn up, pick up our son and walk out like nothing has happened? I don’t know these people, but that sounds a bit naïve to me.” He set the first smoke bomb down and assessed it. It looked okay to him, but what did he know? He looked to Hannah and she gave him a nod.

  “I only need ten minutes. I have access to almost everywhere in that building. When I am almost there I will call Mark. I’ll report a car accident, and say that we have stayed with the van. That’s protocol. You are going to stay at the car, just out of view. They are looking for you, but not right outside their own front door.

  “I have to go through the main entrance. Once I am in, I can go directly to the room where they are holding Matthew.” The words cut Ben deeply. The very thought that Matthew was being held against his will, against Ben’s will, was enough to shatter his hope, but it also strengthened his sense of purpose. “I will have to move fast, but from the main door to being back to the car I can do it in ten minutes. I’ll be out before Mark knew I was there.”

  “And you guarantee that this will work?”

  “There is no other choice, Ben. They have no reason to suspect me until they realise that there was no accident. By that time I’ll be back in the car with you and Matthew.” She set the last smoke bomb on the table. They both stopped talking and raised their heads towards the front door as they heard the sound of gravel crunching under the weight of a vehicle.

  “It’s the car,” she said as she rose to her feet. Get your stuff together, including your gun. Get these bags, and get ready to go.”

  SIXTEEN