Identity X (3 page)

“It’s
not about that, Mark.  You know that.  You know what it’s about.”  The memory
of his father mixed with the intoxicating poison of the whisky was a heady
combination, and he felt the effects of both.

“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 it stretches further than medicine, the chance to change
genetic code.”

“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 had paid no attention to either Mark or Ben since they had
positioned themselves at the bar.  “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
interest, namely at this moment 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?”

“Mark,
you spent the whole night talking to her and then at the end of the night she
found you outside with whoever she might have been, 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.  This was the life that was spent away from the workplace, or
as Mark called work, ‘free time’.

“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, when they had been forced to sit in a
teacher designated order and when the worry of which classmate you might be
paired with seemed like the most monstrous disaster just waiting to happen as
you stood back and glanced at the line of spotted and oily pubescent faces.  
Both Mark and Ben had counted themselves lucky as they were paired together,
and 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.

“Anyway,
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?”

“Don’t
tell me you haven’t noticed it.  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.  They had become trivialities that
warranted nothing more than a tut of the mouth and a playful
oh you,
the
kind of crazy-kids activities their grandparents would have labelled as high
jinks, and had a bloody good giggle about.  Mark was still staring at him,
waiting for an answer, a half grin on the left side of his mouth.  His face
said
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
seemed to find 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 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 would be could be career suicide.  It could kill his work in
the same 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.”  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 too
was thinking back to the time that they had sat out on Ben’s front porch whilst
the undertakers removed his father’s dead body only months before he was due to
go to university.  His eyes appeared glazed.  As Ben began to pull his hand
away, he felt the resistance as Mark held onto him counteracting his departure,
their palms remaining together. 

“Always
better than me.  Always get it right where I fuck up.”  There were lots of
things Ben could have said
in response
. 
There would have been many encouraging words, hugs, things to buoy him back up
that had they have been a couple of girls Ben would have instinctively know
n
and found not just appropriate, but
essential for this moment.  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.  If Ben had been a girl, success would have depended
on seeing those tears, but he wasn’t, and the last thing he wanted to see now
was Mark crying. 

“You’re full of shit.  And you’re
pissed.”  Ben was smiling at him and Mark was nodding in agreement, finally
letting go of his friend’s hand.  “Don’t let me down,” Ben walked away pointing
at him as if his fingers were a rifle.  “He’s 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
h
e turned, permitting himself
one final look into the bar, and his blurred eyes found their way through the
crowd.  They settled upon Ami and Mark who were deep in conversation.  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 with
each step that he took whether Ami had really looked angry with Mark, or
whether in his inappropriately jealous and tipsy mood it could just be his own
wishful thinking.

In
the hour that Ben had spent in the bar 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 in closer
proximity 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, but now sat 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, and he considered the humiliation that would ensue if he was
not able to overcome the urge to vomit 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 and immediately felt better.  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, which for an unjustifiable reason Ben
hoped would be the case.  Mark ending up in another type of club and a couple
of hundred pounds poorer would be the best outcome as far as Ben could see,
although in the same breath he appreciated the foolishness of his own desires.

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 propping his hands up onto a walking stick positioned like
a staff in front on him, and a boy probably no older than eighteen.  He wore
his hood pulled up loosely over his head and his oversized headphones silenced
out 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’s son
would have to sit outside on the porch whilst the undertakers came to remove
the body of their father.  Nobody would suffer the fury of their father’s fist
because he simply didn’t comprehend his own actions anymore.  Nobody would have
to wait to see if their own child would develop the crippling illness that
curse
d
through their family like a
malevolent and volatile fault line.  All of his years of hard work, and all of
the hours of effort had finally been rewarded.

He had at least ten minutes of journey
time left before he had to disembark the train, and 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 place his telephone back in his
pocket.  Five minutes later he took it back out and took one final 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. 

By the time Ben was
walking up his front steps the sky had
cleared completely, and the streaks of cloud had passed by to reveal a blanket
of twinkling stars.  He was already regretting deleting the photograph, and
wished that he had had the clarity of mind to at least email it to himself for
another look tomorrow, which he assured himself was for no other reason than to
fully understand the situation.  Whilst he lived in the city, the dated
streetlamps outside of his home always seemed a little darker than anywhere
else he went, and as a result you could always see more stars here than
anywhere else.  As he looked upwards he was sure he caught the glimpse of the
tail end of a shooting star.  Behind his house there was nothing but open
grassland, a huge park where by day people would walk their dogs
,
and by night people would peddle drugs
in the darkest corners
,
and h
e recalled a
time when he sat there watching the most spectacular meteor shower.  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 step he inserted the key into the lock on the third attempt, pushing open
the thick wooden door, closing out the night behind him. 

The
hallway was dark, and he could only just make out the stairs as he placed his
briefcase to the side of them in the corridor that ran off towards the kitchen
behind.  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, to 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, but before he could take another step the door in the hallway
opened, the lounge light pouring through, and Hannah was stood 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.”  Ignoring her question he turned to face her, before walking
towards her and cupping 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 from the proof that lay before them that 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 and was starting to dry at the edges.  He opened the far
draw
er
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
marble topping of the 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.  She stood 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, staring at him whilst he ate.  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, and 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 the napkin which he had also pulled from the draw
er
.  As he did so she too stood upright and
smiled at him, resting her hands on his and 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, the sauce of
which was escaping onto his chin, and a couple of drops onto his shirt.  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 venomous and
spitty argument already, feel himself sticking his teeth together, clenching
his jaw and his fits, winding up his temper into a tight and knotted fur ball
waiting to be coughed up.  He would drink the champagne whether he wanted it or
not.  “Wrong number?”

“Yeah,
looking for 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 any 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, and he felt
the whirling of his stomach, the contents swirling around and around like water
being sucked through a drain.  The champagne had perhaps not been the best post
pasta digestif, he mused, and his stomach grumbled, protesting the most recent
bubble rich addition.  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 American 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 as if there was an
untuned television playing directly into his ears. 
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 enough that his
sleepiness, be it general fatigue or alcohol induced would surely constitute
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 and around his shoulders.  He knew by now that he was on
his feet, perhaps after a small stumble, and 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.”  Suddenly, he could feel the warmth of the soft quilt
underneath him, and the cushioning of the pillows as his head buried itself
into the comfort of the goose down beneath him.  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 sounds rather than anything immediately identifiable.  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 he 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,
but his movements had become uncoordinated and his hand merely butted up
against his eyes.  Had he have been
lucid
the finger that penetrated his eye socket would have hurt considerably more
than he was aware.  After another few deep laboured breaths he felt his hand
drop away from Hannah’s face and hang loosely over the side of the bed, and in
a matter of moments he fell into the deepest of sleeps.