“Wait, I know you. You were at the underground station.”
“Yes I was there. I work with Hannah.”
“But you didn’t come with us. You weren’t at the safe house where Hannah took me to.”
“No,” he said, as he tried to free his arm from Ben’s grip. “I don’t work for the Agency.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I would have thought that was fairly obvious by now.” He snatched away his arm from Ben’s grip. The boatman continued to walk towards the vessel, his arms outstretched to balance out the weight of the laden weapons bag.
“What does that mean?” Ben asked as he started after him, deciding not to push him any further on his presence at the underground station. “What are we going to do now?”
“What are we going to do?” the boatman replied, emphasising the we in his sentence. Continuing with the same cynical distain, he told Ben, “We are going to do what we are supposed to do. This whole plan was to get you out, and that is what I am going to do.”
“And Hannah? Matthew?” Ben couldn’t believe his ears. Would they really just leave Hannah here to face up to what had happened in the knowledge that the Agency knew that she was a traitor?
“Hannah made it quite clear back at the cottage,” he said as he walked back to where Ben was standing with a more sympathetic and amiable approach. “My aim is to get you out and that if anything was to go wrong for her, I should continue as planned.” He looked at Ben properly for the first time, with his dishevelled and sweaty hair falling lankly onto the creases in his forehead, partially covering the cuts on his face. He had the expression of a man determined yet frail, keen to make his last stand, his last charge in a battle where the odds were stacked so high against him that he was certain it would also be his last act in life.
“There is nothing I can do for Hannah right now. It’s you they want. Not her. Not Matthew.” The boatman shrugged his shoulders a little bit as if to suggest he was incapable to help or resolve the situation. “If they come here with Matthew and you are here, there is nothing that Mark won’t do in order to capture you. Your escape is his ruin. Don’t you understand that?”
“But what if my escape is Matthew’s ruin? Or Hannah’s?” Ben closed his eyes momentarily as if the mental image that his mind had conjured up was playing out in reality and he couldn’t bear to watch. “It’s because of me that they are even at risk.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.” The boatman started to walk towards the edge of the dock and Ben followed automatically, listening as he spoke. “Hannah was involved in something that she saw as wrong. She tried to fix it. We are here because of her actions. And her actions have done you good. You’d be dead if not for her.” The boatman placed a set of keys which he had been rolling around in his fingers into his jacket pocket and fastened the small zipper to prevent them from falling out. “If you die, all of it has been for nothing.”
“But if they die, it is still for nothing,” Ben tried to remind him, again touching his arm, but this time encouragingly rather than forcefully, in search of his understanding.
“I am going to take you away to a safe house as was planned before,” the man said, ignoring his pleas. “From there, you’ll wait. When we can, we’ll get you, and get them, out to safety.”
“But they know now. Before, Hannah was relying on the fact that they had no idea that it was her helping me. Mark knows now. He’ll kill her. He’ll kill them both.”
The boatman listened, and whilst he fiddled at the ropes of the boat for a distraction, he knew that somewhere hidden within Ben’s plea there was truth. Reluctantly, he knew Ben was right. If any of them died, everything was for nothing.
“He won’t let them go without me. If I’m gone, somebody will pay the price. It will be Hannah, and most likely Matthew too. I can’t be responsible for that. I may as well be dead if that’s what will happen.”
The boatman stopped untying the knots that secured the boat and stood back up straight, turning to face Ben again. “The only way of getting them on this boat is if he has you. Then Hannah will feel that she has failed.”
“But what if there was a way to get them on the boat, and for him to think that he has me.”
“If he thinks he has you, it’s because he does have you,” the boatman scoffed. “He might shoot you the second he see’s you.”
“He won’t shoot me. He’ll trade me in, but he won’t kill me. Not with his own hands.” Ben thought back to all of the times in their history when he had stood at Mark’s side, or when Mark had stood at his. There was a unity in their friendship, which he understood had been stretched to the limits, but just like Hannah, who he knew beyond any doubt that she still loved him, he knew Mark could not look him in the eye and take his life with his own hand. It just wasn’t possible. The past had to count for something. “He won’t be able to do it.”
“Ok, let’s say he doesn’t shoot you as soon as he sees you.” The boatman smiled a little at the willingness of his trustee. He tasted the sweet flavour of glory that would prevail in the event of such an impossible success. “What do you have in mind?”
TWENTY THREE
Hannah had purposefully chosen a long and winding route to the docks in the hope of giving Mark the false impression that they were heading in the direction of the new dock yard. She regularly looked around towards Matthew and made eye contact with him, smiling each time she did so and resting her hand on his knee, where she could feel him trembling. Occasionally she would catch him staring at Mark, his hands gripped onto the seat, and his eyes peering backwards in judgement of a man who he had both loved and trusted. It broke her heart to watch him learn the deceitful and fraudulent nature of people.
She sensed the impressive scale of Matthew’s judgment as he stared at Mark. She could sense Mark’s discomfort as she watched him fidgeting, avoiding eye contact with Matthew. The scorn of a child’s condemnation was an unexpected and unpleasant complication that he had failed to foresee. His preoccupation and mental torment had served Hannah well, and it was only as they passed the once elegant gates to the old dockyard that Mark realised his mistake.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his words sharp and dangerous, like broken shards of glass.
“The dockyard.”
“The old docks?” He hit the door in frustration and underneath her hand she felt Matthew flinch as Mark grunted and swore. Momentarily, Hannah enjoyed his displeasure, and praised the twist of luck that his misunderstanding had bestowed upon her. But she knew before long that he would divert the agents towards them, and he was already reaching for his telephone. But she hoped that she had bought them enough time in which to make their escape. At least Mark was isolated from the rest of the Agency, and that gave her a degree of hope. On one hand she was praying that Ben had already left. But at the same time she couldn’t help but selfishly pray he had waited for her. For them.
Before long, the car jolted as the wheels bobbled over the grassy, abandoned train tracks that Ben had crossed only half an hour before. The image of the old Caisson was cast in shadow, almost invisible as it began to disappear and blend into the low light. The moonlight reflected in the broken windows casting anthropomorphic shadows in the derelict old building, and as she passed them, she could see the black saloon car up ahead close to dock two, lights still on. The wheels of their car rolled through the giant puddles, the heavy reinforced walls thundering over the broken ground. As the distance between her and the stationary car grew smaller she saw the passenger door of the car had been left open, and that just to the side of it only feet from the docks she saw the body of a man lying face down on the ground. She tried to stifle her shock, but she had reacted automatically before she had had the chance to control herself, and it alerted Mark to the presence of the body.
“Pull up over there, near that body,” he said, pointing his arm between the front seats. Matthew tried to sit forwards in his seat, urged on by his curiosity to get a
better look. Scanning the ground where it lay, she looked at the beige jacket and flat cap, and by estimating his size she knew it wasn’t Ben on the floor. Relieved and saddened but not in equal measures, she did as Mark instructed and pulled the car up parallel to the dock side.
“Turn off the engine,” he instructed. They sat for a few moments in silence. Hannah scanned the dark in search of Ben. He should already be gone, she thought to herself as her frenetic eyes caught sight of the edge of the white of the boat bobbing in and out of view behind the dock wall.
“Mummy, where are we?” Matthew asked, but as she tried to reassure him, she heard Mark shush them both from the back of the car.
“Matthew, get out of the car,” Mark demanded. Matthew looked to his mother, who in turn was staring at Mark.
“What do you want from him? Leave him alone.”
“Shut up, Catherine. We are all getting out of the car. Come on, move.” He gave his order and they both followed, Matthew by clambering over the gear stick and into the security of his mother’s arms. As soon as they stood up and Mark had closed his door she felt the tip of a gun poke into her side. Mark grabbed her shoulder with his other weakened hand. She reluctantly stepped forwards as she felt him pushing her with the nose of the gun. They inched towards the prone body, near silence surrounding them. She cast her eyes out like a giant sea net, capturing image after image, discarding each when no trace of Ben was found. She desperately searched for clues to explain the bizarre scene in front of her. She stared at the boatman, face down in the mud. The boat still moored at the side of the dock. She covered Matthew’s eyes as he struggled to take a glimpse, wriggling his face out from her shoulder.
“Who is it, Catherine? Do you recognise him?”
“No,” she lied, not wanting to complicate her situation any further than she knew it already was. By choosing to help Ben she had drawn a line underneath her involvement with the Agency, and there was no choice for going back. There was only one way out now. There would be no severance pay for her silence as had been agreed. There would be no pat on the back for her excellent service that had resulted in the most significant development in warfare in the twenty first century. NEMREC he had told her, reciting words that she knew to be a bastardized representation of Ben’s own beliefs, would mark a turning point in biological weaponry development, and a reclassification of the order of the human race. It would not be possible to consider the human race as equal anymore, he had explained.
She understood now as they stood on the edge of the dock together that he would string her up and publicly shame her, like a village witch burnt on an agency endorsed stake as an example to others. She would become the face of anarchy, the face that fought against the Agency in a foolish yet gallant manner, but whose choices could always be seen as inappropriate and poorly judged. Her demise would be taught to future generations of agents as they became familiar with their weapons and pledged their allegiance to a force that they did not fully understand. Only once they had learned what being an agent really involved would they remember the lesson of Catherine Mulligan. Her horrible death would be the push to get them back in line.
“Check him. Is he dead?” Hannah stepped forward, temporarily freeing herself from Matthew’s grip. He stood on the ground next to her. He clung to her leg, as if they were one and the same. He was forced to let go of her as she leaned down to see the face. The mouth of the boatman was resting on the edge of a dockside puddle, and she could see the ripples on the water as his breath brushed past the surface. As she angled her gaze towards his, she saw the faintest of twitches in his eye. She knew from Mark’s position that her body would be blocking his view, and she watched as one of the boatman’s eyes peeled open and turned to look at her. She followed his line of sight as he directed his open eye across the puddle towards his hand, in position just underneath his head. The boatman tapped his forefinger on the well concealed gun. Then he held one finger up and pointed to the direction of the boat, lying low over the dock. But the boatman’s continuation to play dead gave her the sign that she too should play along. She placed her fingers on his neck as if to check for a pulse.
“He’s dead.” She turned back to Mark to see that he was now standing with Matthew at his side, his hand resting on his shoulder. The blood from the wound that she had inflicted was following the course of gravity and dribbling down onto Matthew’s jumper. Mark’s face was sickly grey, and she assumed from the blood on his clothes that he must have lost a lot, and the wound was still oozing. The thought of his blood on her son repulsed her, and she felt the bitter taste of bile rising in her stomach. She stood up and motioned for Matthew to come towards her, but Mark held him back with the remaining strength in his wounded arm.
“He stays here, Catherine. Now where is Ben?” She could see Matthew struggling and squirming again. There was a mixture of fear and anger on his face, his eyes scrunched together, his lips loose and unable to speak.
“I don’t know,” she said genuinely, tears hovering in her eyes as if all they were waiting for was an introduction to fall. “Please let Matthew go.”
“He’s here. This is all part of your plan, remember?” He tapped the shaft of his gun against his trouser leg just to remind her that he had it, and she was just thankful that it wasn’t aimed at Matthew. She could see from the contortions of his facial muscles that Matthew’s squirming was eliciting an inordinate amount of discomfort in Mark’s shoulder wound, and it seemed to be this very motion that had reopened the once stemmed flow of blood. Matthew was forcing him to use his muscles in this arm and the loosely knitted tissues and early clotting of the wound were being washed away by fresh, bloody flow.
“This isn’t part of the plan, Mark. I am blind now. It was never meant to be this way.” She held out her arms and pleaded with him again. “Let Matthew go. Let him come to me, please.”
“Ben!” Mark shouted. “I know you’re here, Ben,” he said with a smug tone that reminded her of playground games that Matthew should be playing. “Come out come out wherever you are. I’ve got your son, Ben. I’ll shoot him. You know it.”
It was Matthew’s tears that finally released her own. She could see a dark patch forming on the front of Matthew’s trousers, and she wanted to shoot Mark right then. She thought again how it might feel to have your son watch you shoot somebody. This time she promised herself that she would take the pain of watching her son recoil from her, that she would deal with his nightmares, and that everything was possible as long as he was alive. She began to reach her hand around her hip, Mark too distracted to realise. Just as she was about to rest her hand over the gun she saw Ben appear from behind the dock wall. He rose up, a gun held in both hands outstretched and pointing at Mark.
“That’s enough, Mark. Let him go. Let him go to Hannah.” Ben wanted to jump out of the boat and snatch Matthew in his arms, especially since the rocking of the water made his aim less than steady, but he tried instead to remain focussed, moving the guns in rhythm with the movement of the boat, all the while his sights trained on Mark. Mark found the whole scene hilarious. From his words to the guns, Ben seemed to him like a caricature of a movie hero, a fancy dress version of Billy the Kid, water for bullets. A full belly laugh erupted, curtailed only by the pain of his bleeding shoulder.
“Daddy!” Matthew shouted over Mark’s laughter. Relief ebbed onto his face, before receding as he once again felt the grip of his captor from behind.
“It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s here now. I’ll protect you.” Ben felt every inch of his skin contract, from the soles of his feet right up to the round mass that was his skull. His flesh was goose pimpled and the small hairs on his neck were standing to attention. He swallowed the wave of nausea and focussed on ignoring the continued laughter from Mark.
Several moments passed when it seemed nobody made a sound. The laughter ceased and not even Matthew spoke. The scene became paralysed, a moment of life captured in an oil painting. The realisation of Ben as a tangible entity had
stunned Mark, and once the nervous laughter had worn thin he was faced with the reality that he was the only one left to do the job. He was alone and had nobody to hide behind. No desk, no office, no agent, no hierarchy or agency to command. He was faced with only Ben before him, their history between them, and his directive willing him forward. The realisation of his efforts was no more than a single bullet away from being claimed. He took a step forwards and firmed up his grip of Matthew.
Mark broke the silence. “You, my friend, have proven difficult to trap. But it would seem you have had quite the little assistant doing your bidding for you.” He looked towards Hannah whose eyes flicked between the two men. “You wouldn’t have survived a second on your own.” Mark raised his gun in Ben’s direction again. Both Hannah and Matthew squealed in unison.
“I survived your first attempt to shoot me, Mark,” Ben reminded him, as he thought back to the shooter on the rooftop of the laboratory. Mark was pushing forwards and guiding Matthew with him. But he no longer looked steady. He almost looked like he was using Matthew as a human crutch. “How could you do it? How could you sell me out?”
“It was easy enough. Enough money, enough glory, we will all trade what we have for something that we want, for something we crave.”
“You would trade me for that? Mark, I can’t remember life without you.” Ben’s voice sounded fractured, as if it could shatter into a million broken-hearted pieces at any moment.
“And now you’ll never have to. I’ll take your work and I’ll be the fucking genius for once. No more of life in the shadows. No more comparisons.”
“You’re just a pawn Mark,” Hannah stuttered. “Just like I was. There is no glory for anybody in the Agency.”
“You’re wrong, Catherine,” he said arrogantly, not at all convinced by her theories. “There is. Once I turn you in,” he said as he took another step towards Ben, “your work is mine.”
Identity X Page 21
