Identity X

by Michelle Muckley

  The hallway was dark, and he could only just make out the stairs. The only light was a strip of flickering illumination that snuck out from underneath the door to the living room, and was accompanied by the laughter of whatever television programme Hannah was watching. He pulled the cord of the lamp that sat on the hallway table and the bulb shone softly to light the hallway, the glare still managing to startle his eyes. Before him, above the ornate polished wooden handrails of the old banister the wall was lined with certificates. Over twenty framed papers that documented his rise from top of his class university student researcher of the year. Then his latest accreditation from the Genetics Society of Great Britain. In his own world, he was quite the celebrity. He put his keys into a small china dish which sat atop the table, and dropped his jacket onto the wooden ball of the banister. He set his right foot on the first stair, planning to head straight up to watch Matthew sleeping. Before he took another step, the door in the hallway opened. The light from the lounge poured through, and Hannah was standing on the other side of it.

  “Were you not even going to say hello?” The stern and empty look on her face communicated her displeasure at finding her husband creeping up the stairs before even speaking to her. “I heard you come in.” This neither surprised nor concerned him, for in his less than lucid state, he had never once trusted that he held the ability to creep anywhere.

  “I did it, Hannah,” he said, ignoring her question. He turned to face her, cupped her cheeks in the palms of his hands. He hoped the significance of the day would be enough to stifle any argument that might be heading his way. “I made it work.” For a moment she looked alarmed, surprised even. Her eyes darted around looking at nothing in particular until they eventually found his gaze. “NEMREC works.” She reached up with both hands and took his wrists, pulling them down from her face, and rested them together just beneath her chest. She looked away for only seconds, but as he stood watching her reflect on what he had just told her, it seemed like almost their whole lifetime passed before them. He knew that his work was destroying their relationship. He knew only a fragment of the closeness that they once shared remained. He knew from her breathing that when she closed her eyes in bed at night she wasn’t really asleep when he spoke to her. He knew she was just pretending, choosing not to answer. He did love her, and he wanted their relationship to survive, but the structured and dedicated functioning of his brain could not be altered to suit his personal life. He knew they were hanging on by a thread.

  “I’m proud of you. Well done,” she said quietly. It was a simple response, and as she was saying it she was already walking towards the back of the room and towards the kitchen. He heard her calling out to him, asking if he was hungry or not. In fact he was starving. He was sure that was why the whiskey had taken such a tight grip on him. He loosened his tie and pulled it out from underneath his collar as he followed her towards the kitchen, tossing it casually down onto the sofa. Unbuttoning his shirt he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. He sat down at one of the stools that were tucked neatly under the island worktop. As Hannah placed a plate of food down near to him he pulled it closer with his fingertips. It was a plate of pasta in an unidentifiable sauce which was starting to dry at the edges. He opened the far drawer whilst balancing on his stool, placing more trust in his ability to counter balance with an outstretched foot than he should have afforded himself. He gripped onto the granite work bench to stop himself from toppling down as he felt the legs of the stool wobble. As he righted himself, he used the fork that he had risked a fall for to mix the pasta together, and took a mouthful. It tasted good, although too creamy for his already curdled stomach. From the other side of the kitchen he could hear her telephone beginning to ring. Hannah was standing in front of him propping herself up on her elbows with her hands underneath her chin watching him as he ate the first mouthfuls of pasta. She didn’t seem to hear the telephone, and remained in position. The fondness on her face, evident in her simple and effortless smile and the tissue-paper wrinkles underneath her eyes which did nothing to dilute her beauty, made him feel guilty for considering the photograph for a second time. Even more so for wishing he had emailed it to himself.

  I’m no better than Mark, he thought.

  “Are you not going to answer that?” he suggested, finding the call a welcome diversion from his own thoughts. She turned to look at the telephone, her previous gentle expression now wiped to reveal a blank, and if he was honest with himself, nervous appearance. She turned back to him, her face unchanged. “Shall I get it?” he asked. He began to stand up, and he wiped the corner of his mouth on a napkin which he had also pulled from the drawer. As he did so she too stood upright and smiled at him, resting her hands on his, encouraging him to sit back down.

  “No, I’ve got it.” She walked over and picked up the telephone. “Yes?” She listened for a while, and Ben took a large swig on his beer. Eventually she spoke. “Sorry, you have the wrong number.” Setting her telephone back down she returned to face him and picked up his beer. “You know, tonight is not a night for beer. We are celebrating, right?”

  “I believe we are,” he said, smiling through a mouthful of pasta. She took his beer and poured it into the sink. She opened the cupboard from beneath the island at which he sat and took out two glasses and a bottle of expensive looking champagne. In truth he had already drunk just about all the champagne that he could handle for tonight. But such a truth could easily shatter this fragile and unexpected ceasefire.

  You don’t give a fucking shit about me, you motherfucker! Or our son! I’m trying my best to keep us together and you couldn’t give a shit!

  He could hear the argument already, a replay of yesterday’s, or the day before, or the day before that. He would drink the champagne whether he wanted it or not. “Wrong number?”

  “Yeah, looking for a Sally somebody,” she said, waving her hand to bat the idea away. “I got this a while back, when you thought you were close,” she smiled. “I put it here ready for when you succeeded.”

  “I didn’t even know we had a cupboard down there.” He leant over to see the hidden cupboard but as he did so she popped the cork on the bottle, interrupting him, and he sat back into his stool. She handed him a glass and they drank together, toasting the success that had ripped a ragged line through their family, which had divided their time and rendered their relationship incomplete. Hannah always described the best relationship that Ben had as the one with his work. She told him at least weekly that he was never really happy unless he was in the lab, working every free hour that came his way. When he was at home she said, he was just killing time until the moment came that he could legitimately and without argument return. He resented it and he had argued his case, but he also knew that somewhere in amongst her words lay the truth.

  They sat watching the end of the show that Hannah had been watching when he arrived, slumped together in front of the television in silence. Ben had chugged back his champagne within moments of Hannah setting down the glass, surprising even himself. Yet he could see hers was almost full and still on the table at her side. He offset the banality of the show by trying to recall exactly how many drinks he had enjoyed, and by calculating how many units they equated to. His eyes were open, but his vision was as blurred as his concentration. He felt the whirling of his stomach, the contents swirling around like water being sucked through a drain. He could feel his head dropping to the side, and he had slumped right down in the settee. Sensing Hannah was watching him he was trying desperately hard to stay awake.

  How many whiskeys had he had? Two? Four? That’s either two point eight, or five point six units, right?

  He could hear the generic canned laughter coming from the television, but he couldn’t hear the words properly anymore. He didn’t understand the jokes. The sound of static was playing out in his head.

  Is that rain?

  As his head rolled first backwards and then forwards, he was certain that he could see Hannah’s face in front
of his. She was peering at him, and as incoherent as he felt his thought process to be, he was certain that his sleepiness would be the last piece of the jigsaw to finally get him in trouble.

  “I’m, I’m awake,” he heard himself saying unconvincingly.

  “Yeah, sure you are. Let’s get you to bed.” He felt her lift up his arm and slide her own underneath his, around his shoulders. He knew by now that he was on his feet, perhaps after a small stumble, but he could barely feel them underneath him. As he bumped his way past the hanging certificates, sensing his feet clattering haphazardly against the steps, he was certain he heard one of the frames crash to the ground.

  “Did I do that? Is it broken?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The warmth of the soft quilt underneath him felt good as she dropped him on the bed. He opened his eyes just in time to see Hannah, propping herself up with both hands splayed out above him as she sat on the edge of the bed. He reached a hand up and cupped her face as he had when he first came home earlier that evening. He was sure that he could feel her hand on top of his. It was warm and soft, and it felt comforting to have her next to him.

  “I’m sorry Hannah.” He was mumbling and his words were blurring together in a long string of unidentifiable sounds. Even under the cloud of intoxication he was aware that the succession of rank smelling and poorly executed apologies were not winning him any favours, but yet the drunken will of his subconscious overwhelmed his ability to control himself, and he continued to ramble.

  “I had to do it. What if Matthew gets it?” His breathing was laboured and he was starting to huff and puff as the chemicals in his body made him feel sick all over again.

  “It’s alright. You don’t have to explain.” He felt her hand rubbing against his own. “I understand.”

  “You don’t. You didn’t see it. I can’t bear to watch that all over again as an old man.” His words cracked into tears, and he brought his left hand across his face and tried to wipe away the drops that were trickling across his cheeks. His movements had become uncoordinated and his hand butted up against his eyes. After more deep laboured breaths, he felt his hand drop away from Hannah’s face and fall loosely over the side of the bed. In a matter of moments he fell into the deepest of sleeps.

  FOUR

  Ben was dreaming. He was dreaming about gobstoppers. He kept eating them, shovelling the first into his mouth, closely followed by the second, and then the third, until eventually there was no room left for any more. He could feel his jaw stretching and aching under the strain of the bulbous chewy mass filling his mouth, saliva running out in sticky streaks from the corners. He tried to spit them out, only to find that they were stuck, the edges softened into his teeth, too pliable to lever out with his tongue. In his dream he started to panic, frantically tearing away at the sugary flesh of the slimy gobstoppers, trying to pick it out from his mouth piece by piece. He couldn’t breathe and his situation was becoming more and more desperate and he was pulling and pulling and coughing and coughing, and then he was gagging and before he knew it he was choking and.....

  He woke in a start, the soft goose down pillow stuffed inside his mouth. He had no explanation if his dream triggered the insertion of the pillow, or if indeed the dream itself was a sensory indicator to wake up and remove the respiratory impediment. His throat felt drier than it ever had as he rolled onto his back, kicking his legs out from the duvet. His head was throbbing as if it had been gripped in a metallic vice since the moment he had fallen asleep, and his mouth was as grainy as sandpaper. The light streamed in through the open curtains, and like a vampire in danger of self combustion he closed his eyes and covered his body protectively with the blanket, letting in snippets of light in the proceeding moments to allow his eyes to adjust.

  “Some celebration,” he whispered into the pillow. He sat forward a little and rolled himself towards the edge of the bed in a desperate hunt for water, his head as heavy as a cannonball. As he peered over the edge of the bed he saw a puddle of yellow looking fluid that looked suspiciously like vomit. He leaned in closer and his suspicions were confirmed by the cheesy smell. “Shit.” He had no recollection of throwing up, but he knew that there was no way that Hannah wouldn’t have seen it. Or smelt it. Either way she had chosen to leave it there, which meant that he was in trouble. He reached towards the bedside table, where there was always a carafe of water with a matching glass beaker. He took the beaker from the top, took hold of the carafe, and drank down the water. He had never felt such a thirst and no matter how much he drank, it didn’t seem to satisfy his need. It was only then that he saw the red LED lights blinking back at him. Ten thirty. He was late.

  Avoiding the puke puddle, he skirted up from the top of the bed and headed into the bathroom. Even the soft pile of the carpet seemed to grate against his skin like wire wool, such was the enormity of his hangover. Every footstep resonated through his body, striking his head as if it were the bell atop a tower. Underneath his eyes were two heavier than normal looking bags, puffed up and dehydrated all at the same time. He stood under the running water of the overhead rain shower, his face angled upwards and mouth wide open. He turned the water to cold, and as intolerable as the needle-like droplets felt on his tormented skin, a masochistic sense of relief ensued. He considered Hannah, who would by this time have already left for the day. Today she hadn’t even bothered to wake him. No nudge, no coffee, no good morning. She had just left him where he was. Next to the vomit. As he dressed in his customary crisp white shirt and slim black tie, he looked back at the bed. Perhaps she had tried to wake him? On second thoughts, it didn’t even look like her half had been slept in.

  As he approached the top of the stairs he could see the broken picture frames, shattered fragments of chipped wood and smashed glass scattered about the steps. He remembered knocking them off the night before. Hannah hadn’t even bothered to clean them up. He dodged past them, avoiding anything that twinkled as the light brushed over it, and headed into the kitchen. His congealed pasta dinner was still sitting there from the night before, and was starting to smell pretty ripe. He picked it up and tried to slide the leftovers into the bin, but it had congealed to the plate. It reminded him of a stylised version of Caesar’s golden laurel headpiece.

  “Screw it,” he said to himself as he dropped the whole plate into the bin. He ripped off a few tissues from the wall mounted roll and placed them on top of the plate, concealing the evidence. The same odour that was emanating from the puddle at the side of his bed drifted from the bin, confirming his suspicions that the puddle on the floor came from him. He slammed the lid shut. He dropped a pod of coffee into the coffee machine and placed a small cup under the spout. Picking up the broom from the cupboard he approached the hallway in order to clear up the mess on the stairs whilst he waited. He swept the broken pieces into a pile, and retrieved his fallen certificates. One of them was from the Board of the Genetic Research Society. They had nominated him as an honorary member several years back, and it had been a particularly spectacular occasion. He had been invited to the head offices across the city. They were situated in a remarkably leafy part of the city centre and the building was a grand and ostentatious affair. There had been a presentation and champagne reception, but even the thought of alcohol now was enough to make him shudder.

  He had been awarded a certificate and glass plaque for his research into the development of synthetic genes. He had accepted the praise gladly, and never once felt embarrassed by the constant stream of admiration and acclaim. In comparison to NEMREC, his previous findings were mediocre. But it was this very night when he had first been approached by Bionics, the owners of his current laboratory. This was the night that gave him the opportunity to change the world.

  Smelling that his coffee was ready, he headed back into the kitchen, tucking his certificates under the small china dish on the hallway table on his way. Taking the freshly brewed espresso from the machine, he splashed in a few drops of cold water and knocked it straight back. It was
good, and it was extra strong. God knows he needed it this morning. He was already going to be over three hours later than he should be.

  The air was chilly outside despite the sun, and it bit at his nose and his cheeks as his breath formed vapour clouds in the air. He could feel the blood being pinched out of his face with each step he took into the oncoming wind. His head was thumping, and the current constriction of the small blood vessels on account of the chill in the air was doing little to help. It was only now, as his stomach gnarled away at him that he realised that he hadn’t eaten anything. He remembered the small bakery that sold pastries inside the underground station. You could always smell it from outside as the wind from the passing trains whistled up through the corridors, picking up the aroma and enticing in the passersby. He would eat there.

  It was late morning by now, and there was no queue for the entrance gate at the station. He took his identity card out from his inside pocket and savoured the smell of fresh pastry. He held out the card in front of the small scanning screen. Ben almost walked into the automatic door as it failed to open, his own automaticity too quick to spot the failure. The momentary confusion cleared and he stepped back to look at the screen. Instead of the usual green light and green letters greeting him with Good morning Mr. Stone, there was a simple grey X. He had never seen such a response displayed.

  Only once before had his card not granted him access. On that occasion the green light had been replaced by a red stop sign and a courteous Please attend the Central Government Office Mr. Stone. That time, his pay check hadn’t cleared after a breakdown with a particular server. There had been chaos that morning and there had been over one hundred people in line, all waiting for the same thing. It had been the governments fault, but there had been no apology. Ben had read an article in the national newspaper the very next morning about the success of the new identity card system and the ease at which people were now able to streamline their lives. One card for everything: it was your identity, your money, your underground access, your entrance ticket, your exit ticket. It was everything you were, loaded onto a piece of plastic. It stored biological data, a finger print, and retinal recognition data. You didn’t get anywhere without it.