Identity X (11 page)

PART TWO

He didn’t look over his
shoulder as he left the steps and headed
along the pavement.  He didn’t want to look back until he had put some distance
between him, the black van, and the potential of a gun toting psychopath
following him, and so he walked at pace up the street.  This was a quiet part
of town, often the birthplace of trouble, and he didn’t want to draw attention
to himself.  He figured that whoever it was that shot Ami and her accomplice,
and who had tried to shoot him too, would surely by now have realised that he
had got out and was not still lying underneath her cold and heavy corpse.  They
would have found the broken door and as easily as if moving through a funnel
would have followed his trail to the other end of the building and the bullet
formed escape route, for there was simply no other place for him to have gone. 
He must have only moments until they realised what he had done, and Ben
listened closely for the grunt of an erratic engine if they reversed the black
van out of the narrow lane in pursuit.  He imagined the terrifying scenarios in
his head, and the image of his own demise played out in myriad fashions, first
being manhandled into the van, followed by the inevitable interrogation that
somehow seemed more minacious than a quick bullet to the side of the head. 

As he
reached the first corner, he risked a glance back towards his escape route from
within the cover of safety provided by the edge of the building.  As he gripped
closely to the corner of the wall with his fingers curled protectively around
it, so white that they appeared almost hypothermic, he saw that the end of the
black van was still clearly and crucially visible in the same place as before
and had seemingly not been alerted to his escape.  Besides plumes of vapour
pouring out from the rear exhaust, there was no other movement, and no
calculating man dressed in black chasing him.  He reached inside his pocket and
retrieved the identity card that he had taken from Ami’s accomplice.  It looked
like a regular identity card, green, with a small photograph and a metal chip
that carried all of your details and financial status, allowing purchases and
passage through the city.  The photograph was of a young blond man, maybe no
more than thirty years old, and bore no resemblance to the man from whose pocket
he had retrieved it.  The man with Ami was no younger than fifty, and he had
dark hair and brown sun-kissed skin.  He was not the man whose face appeared on
the card.  He stowed it safely back into his pocket and took another one eyed
glance back around the building which revealed the same auspicious image of
calm before him.  There was nobody chasing him, and nobody was following him up
the street wielding a firearm.  He was overwhelmed by an unbelievable sense of
luck, and then remembered that he still had Ami’s blood on his face and a pool
of semi-congealed blood on his chest, and he proceeded to wipe his cheeks with
the sleeve of his jacket, before zipping it up. 

After
concealing the patchwork of blood that Ami’s crudely anatomized head had left on
his grey T-shirt, Ben kept up his pace as he cut along Seventy Fifth and into
the busier Sixtieth Street.  There were crowds of people here and the street
was lined with small shops and cafes.  It seemed to Ben after witnessing Ami’s
death, safer to stay enveloped within the crowd than it did to stay in
isolation, so he slipped inconspicuously amongst the people and bustled his way
towards the underground station, hoping that those around him could smell
neither his fear nor blood stained clothes.  He remembered coming here on
occasion with Hannah.  She loved to visit the smaller districts of the city,
where people courted art and culture rather than power and money.  She always
told him that it was those things that enriched their lives, and that made the
world a better place.  They would come here early on Sunday mornings when hours
dwindled by unaccounted for, where they would sip coffee and eat bagels for
breakfast in one of the cafes, or when the weather was fine at one of the small
patio tables on the pavement.   He passed the flower shop where he would buy
her tulips in the spring and roses in the winter, and it reminded him of the
early days of their marriage when life was simpler and happier. 

He
hung back on the opposite side of the road to the station, observing the
entrance and its passing traffic.  From his vantage point he observed nothing
more than an ordinary scene as people dashed about during stolen time from
work, or loung
ed
in the luxury of a day of
holiday.  As he scanned the constantly changing array of faces, he found no
trace of the blond man dressed in nothing but black and with the taste for
putting a bullet in his chest.  Taking a cursory glance back up the street
towards the direction from which he came, he saw no crowd of people on his
tail.  There was no sight of the black van that had been parked at the end of
Seventy Fourth Street either.  He snatched up every ounce of his courage,
knowing full well that staying where he was, was not an option.  He took
purposeful and determined steps, paying conscious attention to the nearest and
therefore most precarious of faces as he stepped into the shadow of the
underground station.  Hanging close to the wall, his eyes darted about the
entrance foyer, scanning the room for signs of possible attack whilst trying
not to alert the guards to his apprehension.  He stood with his back up against
the side wall of the newspaper kiosk.  There was no sign of anybody that posed
a known threat, and so he slipped his way in to the queue, clutching his stolen
identity card in his hand. 

His
heart thumped rhythmically in his chest, every beat reinforcing his anxiety as
he held the identity card up to the small scanner screen.  Each pulsation
pleading
stop.  Stop. 
The two seconds that it took to register the
details seemed like a lifetime as he waited for the red or green letters to
either permit him entry or to ignite the interests of the security guards
who
stood alongside the wall only two meters
away from him.  The small red light flashed to green and the usual greeting
message flashed up, greeting one Mr. Smith, and bidding him a good morning. 
There was no grey
X
, and the doors swung open in
front of him, giving him the chance to put some real distance in an unknown
direction between him and his pursuers.  He breezed through, momentarily
comforted by the brief realisation of success, before once again feeling the
return of his overenthusiastic heart beat as he concluded that as of yet he had
achieved nothing.

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 immediately and ducked into one of the telephone
booths to avoid the conspicuous crowd.  He hid with his back towards the group,
his torso and head shrouded by the small plastic canopy of the telephone
booth.  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 towards the entrance.  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.

From
what Ben could see, and thanks to the crowds, he had remained undetected to the
lone man stood with his eyes fixed towards the entrance and extending past
Ben’s current reclusive position.  But
Ben knew his
position was vulnerable, and the safety
of the telephone booth would soon expire.  Ben reached his left arm across his
waist and around his back and his fingers made contact with the handle of the
gun still sitting snugly in his waistband.  He cursed himself for how he had
come to cherish the safety and protection that it offered as he contemplated
his escape route.  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, never once
looking back.  He took steady steps towards the westbound entrance, his head
bowed in the hope that his guarded and cautious approach would render him unobserved,
and that his casual clothes would help him to fade into the crowd. 

On
his right he passed the walkway that would lead him to the
main
entrance.  Out of a confusing mixture of
curiosity and concern, the
same
unnecessary look
at a car accident which one always takes, he turned his head
just
a fraction and looked up towards the
sunlight which streamed in through the doors.  At first he saw nothing but a
multitude of colourful clothes, a mixture of races and unnatural hair colours. 
As he turned his head back towards the ground in the very corner of his eye he
caught a glimpse of the same cropped blond hair that had pursued him throughout
the morning, the dark collar of his coat highlighting the halo of golden
tresses.  All conscious thought would have told him to move faster, pick up his
feet and run towards the westbound trains.  But instead Ben momentarily froze
to the spot as the shooter came into view.  It was only a split second that his
subconscious mind took control of his body and rooted him down, just long
enough for him to confirm that the face upon which he looked was indeed that of
the man that had pursued him across the rooftops of his office, and who had
left his bullet mark in the top of his arm.  The head of blond hair shot out
from the crowd, startled like a rabbit in the glare of car headlights as his
target came into view.  Ben immediately quickened his pace, his steps gathering
speed until eventually he stumbled his way into a run.  He could hear the
commotion of discontent behind him as the shooter barged his way through the
crowd and Ben knew immediately that he had been seen.  He charged forwards,
longing that the crowds behind him would hold his attacker back.  He could see
the entrance to the train ahead, and he ducked into the corridor on his left
which was lined with shiny white tiles that reminded him of sanatoriums that he
had seen in movies.  The corridor wound left and right, and he hoped that its
tight winding path would prove a bottle neck, trapping the shooter behind
crowds of people and giving Ben a chance to catch the next train.  According to
the signs above his head it was not to be expected for another five minutes. 
Too
long.
  As Ben arrived at the platform there was no more than a handful of
people waiting, and no crowd into which he could disappear.  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, aiming the gun at him,
and squeezed the trigger.  Ben registered it, ducking down as the bullet
skipped past him and hit the ceramic tiles behind where his head had been,
sending them showering on top of him.  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 onto the ground,
letting out a chorus of screams as they
pray
ed
to remain unnoticed.  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.  Hitting
his head as he fell over and onto the tracks he pushed his body in as tight to
the wall as possible and blessed the benevolence of the recess underneath the
edge of the platform into which he ensconced. 

Amongst
the screams above him and his own consuming panic he knew he was almost out of
options.  The shooter would be coming up closer and 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, and summoning all of his courage, 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.  He knew that the
clock was ticking down and that he was running out of time.  Sucking in breaths
of courage amongst the soot and dust, 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 so that his movements remained undetected, his mind always
on the screen dangling above him counting down the minutes until the arrival of
the train. 
Two minutes. 
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 had managed to get past him.  Extending his neck back he glanced
at the screen above him. 
One minute.
  Unable to see another option
through
the cloud of uncertainty that
hung over him, he drew up the gun and braced his arm as he squeezed his finger
into position over the trigger.  With the shooters back to him he 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, and his thoughts became actions on autopilot.  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 now there
was only silence.  No screams from the crowds on the floor, no bell to signify
the imminent arrival of the train.  He didn’t hear the effort of the shooter as
he groaned in pain like a fallen soldier.  Just silence.  Before any conscious
thought had passed Ben’s mind, he had 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.