As he rounded the corner towards the east-bound lines he immediately saw a small group of people crowded in the corridor, no more than twenty meters ahead. There were five of them, each wearing a grey suit or beige jacket, long and sweeping and contrasting to the usual attire of this area. If he had been at Central City they would have gone unnoticed, blending in perfectly with the rest of the crowd. But this was an artistic area, where people wore colour, and changed their style according to their beliefs and theories on life. They saw their bodies, clothes, and hair as a canvas on which to display themselves to the world. Here, a well fitted suit or run of the mill office clothes had no place. Ben backed up and ducked into one of the telephone booths. He hid with his back towards the group, his torso and head shrouded by a small plastic canopy. Too far away to hear what they were saying, he picked up the receiver of the payphone and held it to his ear, pulling the handset across his face to obscure himself from view. He peered back over his shoulder towards the group. They had disbanded, flanking both the left and right sides of the corridor. As he could see it, there were two people on the left and two on the right, and a sole person, whose face was alien to him stood alert in the centre of the corridor looking his way. Ben had no way of knowing if these people were waiting for him, but there was no denying that their behaviour and attire were strange and out of place. He decided that his best option was to assume that he was their target and that his capture was their aim.
He had only two options. Westbound trains or the entrance from where he had just arrived. If the security guards recognised him, taking the entrance would alert their suspicions. They may ask to see his identity card, and showing it would under no circumstances go smoothly, and would almost certainly lead to his arrest. Using false documentation and using the identity of another person was heavily punished. It left his only other option the westbound trains, for which the entrance as far as he could see looked clear. He hung up the receiver and stepped out from the plastic canopy and began walking away from those blocking the eastbound entrance tunnel. He took steady steps towards the westbound entrance.
On his right he passed the walkway that would lead him to the main entrance. He turned his head just a fraction to look towards the main entrance. At first he saw nothing but a multitude of colourful clothes, a mixture of races and unnatural hair colours. But in the very corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the same cropped, blond hair that had pursued him that morning. Ben quickened his pace, his steps gathering speed until eventually he stumbled his way into a run. But the shooter had seen him and Ben could hear the commotion of discontent behind him as he barged his way through the crowd. The corridor wound left and right, and Ben hoped that its tight winding path would prove a bottle neck, trapping the shooter behind crowds of people, giving him a chance to catch the next train. But as Ben arrived at the platform there was no more than a handful of people waiting, and no crowd into which he could disappear. The signs stated the next train wouldn’t be there for another five minutes. His eyes skimmed about as he ran towards the other end of the platform, putting as much distance as he could between him and his assailant but desperately aware that there was no obstruction between him and the imminent arrival of the shooter.
He heard a chorus of screams emerging from the mouth of the corridor, and as Ben turned back he saw the shooter emerge with his gun held in his hand. With not a second lost he extended his arm in Ben’s direction and squeezed the trigger. Ben ducked down as the bullet skipped past him and hit the ceramic tiles behind where his head had been. As the sound of the impact rang out like a bell through the hollow of the tunnel the handful of people on the platform threw themselves to the ground, letting out a chorus of screams. On his knees, and therefore considerably less mobile, Ben hauled himself towards the tracks, and in one heave managed to drag his body down behind the temporary safety of the wall just before he felt another bullet impact on the floor above him. He hit his head as he fell onto the tracks, but he pushed his body in as tight to the wall as possible and blessed the presence of a recess in which he could hide.
He was almost out of options. The shooter would be coming up closer to him with each passing second and in no time at all would be above him without any chance of missing his target. Ben tentatively pulled the gun out from his waistband. He gripped it as tightly as he could, his arm shaking. He pointed its nose just over the wall. Squeezing off two rounds in the general direction of the shooter. He prayed that one of them would hit. With no time between his shots and the subsequent shots from the shooter, he heard the impact as bullets struck close to his own head and he ducked again for safety. Ben fired off one more shot, and then as fast as he could, he shuffled his body along under the cover of the platform towards the other end. He moved like a ghost, gentle steps so not to disturb the loose gravel beneath him.
Two minutes, left on the clock.
He kept his body in the recess of the wall until he was sure that he must have passed the location of the shooter. Fuelled by the rising levels of adrenaline and the drumming in his chest he dared a look above the level of the platform. He prayed as he raised his head that the shooter had passed him, and sure enough as the platform came into view he saw that he was behind the shooter.
One minute.
With the shooters back to him, Ben aimed the gun at what he thought was the centre of his back and fired. The bullet hit the shooter in the right arm, delivering recompense and satisfaction on Ben’s part for the equivalent wound on his own arm. Ben couldn’t feel his own pain or his heartbeat, even though it thundered along with the fast paced gallop of a racehorse. The shooter swung round, startled by the shot, almost falling to his knees. Clutching his wounded arm in his opposite hand he raised the gun at Ben.
For Ben there was only silence, and it seemed that time stood still. He pulled off two more shots in the direction of the shooter, both making an impact in his stomach. As the shooter’s body swung wide open, a forth shot rang out through the tunnel. The well aimed shot did exactly as was intended, and rocketed into the centre of the shooters chest, flooring him in an instant. It was the only shot that Ben had been aware of.
Ben began to hear the rumble of the train in the background, and the lights which were close enough to illuminate his position on the tracks came precariously close. The driver was still sounding his horn as Ben hauled his body up and over the wall. Once on his feet he staggered towards the body of the shooter as it lay before him. The commuters who lay crouched on the ground buried their heads further into their shoulders as the train rattled on through. In a single moment Ben realised that he had become the feared. He could hear people crying and begging for safety. Ben stood beside the shooter as the train rumbled past, the driver already informed that under no circumstances should he stop.
Ben watched the body as it quivered during its last moments of life like a bird caught in a set of locked feline jaws. Dropping to his knees at the side of his victim he felt a bewildering sense of guilt mixed with the paradoxical sensation of satisfaction. The shooter coughed up a mouthful of blood. But the gurgle of fluids at the back of his throat stopped bubbling, and the blood pooled into his lungs. As he took his last breath, Ben felt the burden of guilt at having taken a life, where before he had dedicated his own to saving the lives of others.
He thought he had seen both sides of death after he had watched it violently take Ami’s life and also soothe his father’s agony. But now he realised there was a third face to it, the most evil of all; death brought by your own hand. He fought back his tears and wiped his face, smudging the dirt from the tracks across his cheeks. Ben forced himself to rifle through the shooter’s pockets looking for clues of his identity. In the bloody inside pocket of the shooter’s coat, Ben uncovered something that bore a resemblance to an identity card. It was not like any card that he recognised. There was no picture or name, and instead just a small metal chip and a number. He reached his hand down to pick up his gun, but before he could touch it he heard a voice dist
inguishable from any other.
“Ben, leave that where it is.” Still on his knees, he turned to face the direction from where the voice came.
“Hannah?” He could barely believe his ears, or his eyes, as the image of his wife formed before him. She wore a long beige jacket and was flanked by two men either side of her. “What...”
“Ben, there is no time for us to discuss this here. On your feet.” She spoke in a way that was so direct and decisive that he obeyed her without question.
“I killed a man.” His voice trembled as his stare alternated between his victim and his wife. She looked for a moment as if she felt sorry for him.
“Don’t feel bad for it. He would have put a bullet in your head gladly, had you not killed him first.”
Ben waited before he spoke again, unable to focus on anything but the burgundy pool of blood forming underneath the waist of the dead shooter. “Why did he want to kill me?”
“Because you are already dead, Ben. There are no options left for you. They will kill you. They will not stop until they do. They have hundreds of these men, and each one of them will die before they give up their duty,” Hannah said, looking at the body on the floor. “Four of those men are standing next to me right now.” Ben looked up at the men to his wife’s side and contemplated in what possible reality his wife would be flanked by four assassins. “You are going to walk out of this station with me, and you will get into the van parked outside.”
“If I don’t?”
“Then we will kill you here and now. I will do it because you will leave me with no other choice. If you come with me, if you trust me, I will protect you.”
“Hannah, you wouldn’t kill me. You couldn’t.”
“Your choice, Ben. Come with us.”
“Hannah,” he said as he began to raise his voice, “what about our son?”
“Ma’am, we need to move, one way or another.” The man to Hannah’s left hand side had his hand on his gun and was pushing her to take action. He paid Ben no attention, as if he were as insignificant as a crushed ant under his shoe. He tried to tell himself that they were controlling her, forcing her into something, and that he had to find a way to save her. Yet the more he tried to convince himself, the more unlikely the story seemed, until the point where it became utterly unbelievable. She was the one in control.
“Ben,” she shouted, “they are coming. “With me, or against me?” He thought about his options which seemed slight in any stretch of the imagination. He thought about the loaded gun on the floor beside him, but knew that there was no chance of him being able to take down all four of them. A radio buzzed on her waist band and through the crackle of static he heard a voice announce what to him sounded only like a threatening confirmation of what Hannah was saying.
“They’re approaching.”
“Last chance, Ben,” she said, pulling at his jacket. One of the men on Hannah’s left whipped out his gun and pointed it at Ben, as if to confirm her offer. He noticed Hannah swallowing hard as her eyes begged him to accept her offer.
“With you.” She was his only hope. She held all the cards. The gun held out towards him dropped to the side of the man who held it, and the other two men on her right stepped towards him. One of them held up a small device, similar to a gun but smaller. The agent pushed it against Ben’s neck and pulled the trigger. It felt sharp, as if something scratched at him.
“Don’t struggle Ben.” After a sharp prick to his neck that felt like an insect bite, instantly warm and swollen, he felt his eye lids heavy and his head woozy. “Go with them,” he heard her say.
Half walking and half dragged, Ben disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel. In a medicated delirium, he questioned if he should even trust Hannah considering that she appeared to be the only thing that stood between his life and death only moments before, but she was for now his only option.
He became aware that his feet were failing him, and he felt the bump as his effort became increasingly passive. Then with a pull from above and a push from below, he was hauled from a tunnel and into the street through an inconspicuous works entrance. They bundled him into a waiting van.
Only meters away from the van, Hannah was explaining to another colleague how two of her men had chased him into the tunnel. She would meet them back at her base because the former Mr. Stone had once again evaded capture.
She stepped back into her own car and began the journey towards her base. She soon found herself trailing the back of a black van inside which lay Ben, her husband and father of her son. It would only be a few hours until he woke up, and she hoped desperately by that time she would have worked out what the hell she was going to do.
TEN
Ben awoke just over two hours later on a bed of cold concrete. As he had become accustomed, he had a global headache. It felt like his brain was swollen, pushed up against his skull. He was badly dehydrated from the effects of whatever it was that Hannah had administered in the side of his neck. He raised his fingers towards his neck and he felt the swelling from the injection. He had a tight nervous feeling in the bottom of his stomach, which he thought likely to be the consequences of the perpetual hormonal surges that had helped keep him alive. But he had been drugged at least once, most likely twice. Could be that too. And the lack of food.
Pushing himself to his feet he rubbed his head, trying to shift some of the haziness that he felt. He propped himself up, first onto his knees and then reluctantly back down onto his backside when he realised that movement was less comfortable than he had anticipated. He realised that he was wearing a donated shirt, much like hospital wear. He was grateful for the absence of the blood-covered T shirt.
He was enclosed in a room no larger than two meters square, with a ceiling low enough that he might not be able to fully stand up. It didn’t help much with the sense of entrapment and claustrophobia. The floor was grey concrete, the same as the walls. There were no windows, and the only source of light was a tatty old strip above his head that trailed exposed and damaged wires, tacked onto the ceiling and which buzzed constantly. Just below the point where the wires exited through the corner of the room where the walls met the ceiling, there was a small video camera. He didn’t know much about closed circuit television recording equipment, but to him that’s what it looked like. He was strangely reassured that somebody must be watching him.
With no stimulation from inside his bleak prison-like cell his relived everything that he could remember from the past day. In the space of only a few hours there had been an attempt on his life, Ami had been killed in front of him, and he had become a murderer. On top of that, as if that wasn’t already enough, Ami had told him that every element of the life that he knew was a lie. That idea had gained good ground when Hannah turned up in the underground station. Up until that point, the precariousness of his situation had been equalled only by his desire to seek the safety of his wife and child. Even thoughts of his research, which until that point he had assumed meant more to him than anything else, waned in the very real prospect of never seeing his family again. Now Hannah was just another face not to be trusted. He could have never imagined raising his hand to her, but he found himself entertaining thoughts of striking her, blacking her eye, or cutting her lip. He imagined how it might feel to be that person, the one that does harm, that belittles and denies another person a normal healthy life. Then he reminded himself that he was now a murderer, and so he should know how that feels very well already.
On the other side of the door he could hear the thud of footsteps. They were not gentle, and didn’t sound like Hannah’s high-heeled footsteps. Rather, they sounded like the dull thud of a male boot, heavy and murderous like the shooters from earlier on that day.
The footsteps stopped at what sounded like just outside the door without a handle. He had no idea who or what lay behind it. He had no recollection of what had happened to him since he had been with Hannah at the underground station when he had allowed himself be drugged. What a fool he reall
y was. No wonder they had managed to deceive him so impressively. It could be anyone on the other side of that door. Maybe Hannah never even got him back after he had been dragged away. Maybe her intentions were good and she too has been fooled. He didn’t leave with Hannah, after all.
Oh God, let Hannah be here. Let her be the one who has imprisoned me.
“Let me out!” Ben yelled, as somebody pushed a tray of mediocre looking food through a small inward opening portal at the bottom of the door. He clambered over it, tipping over a glass of orange juice. “I want to talk to Hannah! Let me out!” He banged against the door with a clenched fist, encouraged by the knowledge that there was at least somebody on the other side of it. His demands went unanswered, and as the hopelessness of his situation hit, knowing that he was fully under their control, he realised that it was pointless to waste his energy. He stumbled back into a seated position on the floor, propping his back up against the wall of the door. He dragged the tray of food towards him with his fingertips. He devoured the dry edged cheese and ham sandwich and banana as if it were a succulent and juicy fillet steak. It did little to soothe the headache, but it did settle the emptiness in his stomach. He rubbed in small circular motions at his temples to try to find some relief for his pain. He became aware of something pulling at his arm, and as he rotated it inwards for a closer inspection he saw that the wound on his arm had been rather expertly dressed. He sipped at the spilt orange juice and began to feel better.
After what felt like an hour he heard more footsteps, but this time they were softer and lighter. They stopped on the outside of the door, and after a short electronic buzz the door popped open. Hannah appeared. She walked through and closed the door behind her. For a moment husband and wife simply stared at each other, paralysed by the void of truth that lay between them.
Identity X Page 9
