Ben flashed his identity card in front of the screen and the door slid open. He cursed the courteous computerised greeting as was customary, and watched as the guards made their way over to the troubled man. He was protesting his innocence but it was no use. He already knew the guards wouldn’t listen to any of his reasoning, no matter how logical he made it seem. They would never oblige by opening the doors at the hint of a convincing explanation. If your identity card failed you, you were out of the station on your heels.
The streets were quieter with the passing of the rain, and the syrupy sweet smell that it left behind permeated the clear air. It was early April, and as much as people expected the bad weather, the first proper downpour always caught the world unawares. There were people walking home in rain soaked suits, their expensive shoes soaked through to the sole. Aside from his own rain soaked shoes, Ben enjoyed the purity and cleanliness of such an atmosphere and inhaled it deeply as he walked through the streets. As he approached the bar, the glow of the lights from inside licked at the oily streets. Shaking off the last drops of rain from his coat, Ben stepped into Simpson’s and could see Mark standing at the side of the bar. Ami was stood to the side of him and waved over for Ben to join them. Ben shuffled his way through the crowd, walking sideways and dodging the hoards of wayward elbows. Mark was the first to speak. He was Ben’s oldest friend, his boy, his wing man, and the first person he called when he saw the first positive results earlier on that day.
“Hey, buddy. Congratulations are in order. You did it.” They greeted each other with open arms and embraced, ending with a simultaneous slap of each other’s back. It was a stereotypical male embrace, but genuine nevertheless.
“No, that’s not right. We did it,” Ben said, breaking away from Mark and playing to the crowd. Ben turned to look at his colleagues, eager to include them in the success after their effort in turning up at a bar. In comparison to the rest of the clientele, his crowd of colleagues looked out of place in their jeans and threadbare jumpers. Ami was the only one who looked like she might have come to this bar of her own accord. The others looked like they might be part of an organised group outing, rounded up and dragged into somewhere they would neither choose or wish to be.
“Yeah, but they’re not going to get to go to Dubai are they?” Mark was laughing as he said it, and looking at everyone except for Ben, playing to a tough crowd. A few of Ben’s geeky-looking colleagues raised a smile, but Ben could also hear the rumblings of discontent as they considered that indeed there would be no foreign trips for any of them. He wanted to give Mark a good dig in the ribs for mentioning Dubai, but also found himself wondering if Ami had heard. Surely she would like a trip there?
“Take this, and raise your glass.” Everybody was already holding another glass of champagne, only this time the bottle cost six times that of the first and people were holding up crystal flutes rather than paper cups. Ben took the glass from Mark and raised his hand as instructed. “Ben, very soon people will know your name. You will present in London and then Dubai, and the world will learn what you have done and it will be a better place for it. Here’s to my man, Ben.”
“To Ben,” they all cheered. As Ben glanced around, they all smiled back, tipsy from another alcoholic drink when most hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. He caught Ami’s eye, and she tipped her glass and head in unison towards him in recognition of his success. A vision of white sand and blue water flashed through his mind once more. One by one they sipped on their drinks and began their own private conversations.
Mark motioned to Ben to sit at the two empty spaces at the bar. They pulled out the leather stools and set their champagne flutes onto the glass topped bar. Mark raised his fingers and the barman poured two Whiskey shot’s over brilliantly transparent ice. Ben shuffled off his raincoat and loosened his tie as they both sat down on the stools, their legs turned to face each other, their elbows resting onto the surface of the bar. Ben picked up the Whiskey shot and prompted Mark to do the same. They tapped their glasses together and knocked back the shots.
Mark nodded his head towards the crowd who were all just out of earshot above the humdrum of the background soul music. “So, how many of these guys do you think are saying that had it not been for them you wouldn’t have succeeded?”
Ben laughed as he sat back in his stool, stretching out his legs. “At least fifty per cent of them. The others are just waiting their turn,” he grinned. He raised his hand to the barman and motioned to the empty glasses. The barman set down another two perfectly poured shots.
“So, what now? Is that it?” Mark asked.
“No. I have to prove that we can succeed across a whole spectrum of disorders. I think we will be well on our way by the conference next month.”
“I still don’t understand exactly how you have done it.” Mark leaned in a little closer to encourage him to continue.
“You have to remember the past research, Mark. You remember, when you were still a good scientist and not just about the money.” They both smiled before Ben carried on with his explanation. “Remember what Yamanaka did. It was brilliant in theory to make stem cells from skin. He reprogrammed genes to create a pluripotent stem cell, a cell capable of becoming any type of cell in the body. The problem was, when they remodelled the cells by inserting new genes, they delivered them to the host via a virus. The new genes got inserted in an arbitrary position. If this happens to be in the middle of an original gene, it gets disrupted.” Ben stopped to take a sip of his whiskey, and Mark did the same. “If that gene modifies cell division for example...”
“You cause cancer,” Mark finished on his behalf.
“Exactly,” Ben smiled, as if to say so you do remember some stuff. It was their usual banter and they had slipped into their usual roles, Ben the genius and Mark the sell-out who had traded a workbench for a desk. “So adding in new genes was problematic. They did a lot of development, and the oligonucleotides went a long way to help, but the real magic was to correct what is already there. Instead of trying to cleave out mistakes and replace faulty bits you just repair the fault. That’s what NEMREC does.”
“Replace one DNA base with another?”
“No, not replace. If we know what a normal genome looks like, one without any genetic mutation, then we can model NEMREC to hunt down the faults in the code and repair it. Nothing is inserted, nothing is removed. Just repaired.”
“Wow,” Mark said as he shifted in his seat, as if the weight of such a discovery had made him physically uncomfortable. “It is quite something you have created here, Ben.” Mark sat recumbent on his bar stool swirling the ice around in his glass before knocking back the remaining liquor. “It could be very valuable.”
“It’s not about that, Mark. You know that. You know what it’s about.” The memory of his father mixed with the intoxicating whisky was a heady combination, and he felt the effects of both.
“Don’t be hasty. Just let your mind wander a little bit,” Mark pushed on. “I know it’s about your father, and Matthew. But just think what this is capable of. Think of the capabilities of a product like this; to the cosmetics industry, to the food industry,” Mark dared push on, “to the military.”
“The military?” Ben looked up and tried to determine which undulating outline was the actual embodiment of Mark. “What the hell would the military want with it?”
“I’m just saying that the ability to alter genetic code stretches further than medicine.”
“It’s all about disease, Mark,” Ben chuckled as he knocked back the last of his whiskey and slid himself forward from his chair, his feet unsteady, his vision not far behind.
“And what about her?” Mark nodded towards Ami who was standing in the corner, attempting to look like she wasn’t paying Ben any attention. “She’s got to be a pretty valuable researcher, right?” Ben knew their conversation had already moved on. Mark’s interests in the capabilities of NEMREC had no chance of frustrating his other, primary interest. Which at this moment w
as Ami, or in her absence, any willing and typically beautiful female.
“For God’s sake. After the last time, do you think she’s even going to talk to you tonight?”
“She already did,” Mark said as he too stood up and slid along the bar towards Ben, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. Mark was smiling broadly at Ami, who had realised that she was now their topic of conversation. “What did I do that was so bad the last time?”
“Mark, you spent the whole night talking to her and then at the end of the night she found you outside with that blonde getting into a taxi.”
“And what exactly is your point? Ami made it quite clear that my efforts were going to waste.” Ben dropped his head back in frustration at Mark’s lack of understanding of the female disposition, or the inappropriateness of his bullish behaviour. He raised his hand for another two shots and knocked the one in front of him back.
“How’s Beth, by the way?” Ben reminded Mark of his real life by overemphasising the name of his wife.
Mark scowled as he said, “She’s fatter.”
“You’re such an arsehole.” Ben had known Mark since high school. They had sat next to each other on the very first day. Since that first meeting when a forthright Mark had offered out his hand to Ben, nothing had changed. They became inseparable. Where you saw one, you would surely find the other. Like the moon and the earth they were different, but yet totally dependent upon each other.
“That I might be, but it’s not me she’s interested in,” Mark said, as he turned the conversation back to Ami. “Just like everything with us, you’re the star. It’s you she wants.”
“What do you mean?” Ben said, sipping at his drink.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it. She is crazy about you. Are you trying to tell me that you never got a bit close when you were working late, putting in extra hours? Come on man, she’s gorgeous. I would have.”
“I know you would have. You don’t need to tell me that.” Ben had accepted Mark’s flaws. He had known him so long that all flaws, including the inability to remain faithful to anything, namely women, were just part of his character, like the fact he liked a good whiskey or enjoyed a game of football. It didn’t affect Ben, so he turned a blind eye. But Mark was still staring at him, waiting for an answer, a half grin on the left side of his mouth in reference to Ami. His face was saying, there is a space on my team if you want to play my game.
“Yeah, I like her,” Ben admitted as he averted Mark’s non-judgemental gaze, “but, I’m married.” Ben tried to sound firm in his stance, unwavering and committed. He didn’t share Mark’s values. That’s what he told himself anyway, but recently he found himself cruising along dangerously close to the edge. He soon discovered another Dubai based scenario formulating in his mind, and berated his thoughts and words for behaving like the polar ends of a magnet.
“Yeah, you seem really happy.” Mark’s words were flat and overstretched like a deflated balloon. Ben knew that he wasn’t happy, and he knew things had been tough. But still, it wasn’t that simple. Getting involved with Ami, no matter how tempting it was, would be career suicide. It could kill his work in the same amount of time it took for him to hoist her up and lift her skirt.
“There are more important things going on in that office. You know that. You know why I do what I do. You watched him die too,” Ben said. Mark was quiet. There was nothing more to say. Ben shuffled his arms into his jacket in a series of stuttering movements. He held up his hand and Mark hit him with a sideways high five, their hands gripped together, their thumbs interlocked. “We still on for Saturday?” Ben asked.
“Yeah man, I’ll see you there.” Their eye’s met for a moment, and Ben didn’t know if it was the alcohol that they had drunk in too quick succession, or if Mark was thinking back to the time when Ben’s father died. His eyes appeared glazed. As Ben began to pull his hand away, he felt resistance as Mark held onto him, counteracting his departure.
“Always better than me. Always get it right where I fuck up.” There were lots of things Ben could have said in response. But he remained silent. The alcohol had whipped into Mark’s system, done its best work, and left a usually well composed man on the brink of what looked suspiciously like tears. The last thing Ben wanted to see now was Mark crying.
“You’re full of shit. And you’re pissed,” Ben said. Mark nodded in agreement, and finally let go of his friend’s hand. “Don’t let me down on Saturday,” Ben walked away pointing at him as if his fingers were a rifle. “Matthew is looking forward to it.”
After stepping back outside and into the evening chill which whipped annoyingly at his damp trousers, he realised that he hadn’t said goodbye to Ami. Postulating that perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing, he turned, permitting himself one final look into the bar. His blurred eyes found their way through the crowd. They settled upon Ami and Mark who were deep in conversation, and Ami looked angry. Ben took a glance at his watch, finding it hard to focus on the hands, before taking the first steps towards the underground station. He found himself wondering whether Ami had really looked angry with Mark, or whether in his own inappropriately jealous mood, it was just his own wishful thinking.
It had got colder outside, and he pulled his jacket up around his neck. There was silence in the street, with the exception of the occasional crawl of rubber tyres gliding over rain soaked tarmac. The sky had cleared, and the few grey clouds that dawdled lackadaisically in the tail end of the storm were swept along by a high wind. Ben darted across the road and ducked back into the entrance of the station. He was too tall for most of the archways and always had to lower his head as the tunnels to the platforms grew narrower and more diminutive in height. The rumble of the approaching train clattered up through the black of the tunnel, and as the wind raced past, Ben felt his coat tails whip up behind him and he steadied himself against the shiny white tiled walls. He sat down on the first empty seat, his eyes heavy and head swimming from the whiskey shots. In the warmth of the bar he had still felt clear headed in spite of his difficulties with his vision. Now, sitting on the train as it rumbled along the tracks, sloshing the contents of his stomach about with every bump, he felt more than a little drunk. He could feel the contents of his stomach somersaulting back and forth. He considered the humiliation that would ensue if he vomited into the small metal grooves on the floor in front of him. The vision of being escorted from the station was a sobering idea, and he clenched his jaw together and clung onto the silver pole next to him. The sight of the pole made him consider where Mark might be going later on in the evening if he didn’t manage to sweet talk Ami into leaving with him. For an unjustifiable reason, Ben hoped that would be the case. Mark ending up in another type of club, a couple of hundred pounds poorer would be the best outcome as far as Ben could see.
He rested his head back onto the graffiti covered window and stretched out his legs in the almost empty carriage. His only companions were an old man with a deeply wrinkled face, and a boy probably no older than eighteen. He wore his hood pulled up loosely over his head, and his oversized headphones silenced the world around him. Ben thought about the first results from earlier on that day, and how many diseases he already knew he could cure. If he could repair genetic code with just a simple injection there would be no end to the possibilities. Pharmacy would be redundant in many cases. Lives would go on normally without hospital visits and surgery. Children would be born and screened, and treatment could be given before even the first sign of disease would show. Nobody would have to die because of genetic illness. Nobody would suffer the fury of their father’s fist because he couldn’t comprehend his own actions anymore. Nobody would have to wait to see if their own child would develop the crippling illness that cursed through their family like a malevolent fault line. All of his years of hard work, and all of the hours of effort had finally been rewarded.
He closed his eyes and let his mind travel to Dubai, where Ami reclined on a sun lounger next to his own with a bottle
of sun lotion ready in her hand. His dream was interrupted by the vibration of his telephone, and he fished it out from his inside pocket. It was a picture message from Mark of a woman wearing a tight pencil skirt that he assumed based on the perfectly formed shape of the enclosed rear-end must belong to Ami. The caption read, early night? Ben’s finger lingered over the delete button for a while and after wrestling with his conscience and telling it no, decided to leave the message, and placed his telephone back in his pocket. Five minutes later he took it back out and took another look before pressing delete. It was definitely Ami, and he wondered how such a small thing as a message combined with a lot of imagination could place a blot on an otherwise perfect day.
THREE
By the time Ben was walking up his front steps the sky had cleared, and the streaks of cloud had passed to reveal a blanket of twinkling stars. He was already regretting deleting the photograph, and wished that he’d had the clarity of mind to at least email it to himself for another look tomorrow.
After the train ride he had a ten minute walk home and it had worked wonders for the heavy eyes and swirling head. On the train, his eyes had felt like they were moving independently from his head, swirling around in their sockets like a psychedelic kaleidoscope and as heavy as lead balls. Manoeuvring across the last steps to his house, he inserted the key into the lock on the third attempt. He pushed open the thick wooden door and slipped into the hallway. He pushed the door closed, shutting out the night behind him.
Identity X Page 2
