Sixteen eyes gazed back at him, twelve of
them through heavy rimmed glasses. They stood there silently waiting for him
to speak whilst clutching their plastic cups
, shuffling first left, then right
. Graham was still holding
his pipette, his fingers poised and willing, trained for nothing but repetition
and tedium. Even in a moment of glory Ben could see that he was desperate to
get back to his workspace. Alan was pulling up a stool, rubbing the base of
his back like a woman in the third trimester of pregnancy who had reached her
daily limit. Ami stood behind them, her open lipped smile full of reassurance
,
and she was
staring
at Ben
as if they were the only people in the
room
.
Right now he was the centre of
the world. He was the centre of Ami’s world.
It felt good to have her approval.

Phil finished pouring the cheap champagne
into his own crumpled cup before tipping the remainder of the bottle, which
seemed to constitute little more than froth, into Ben’s. He stood nonchalantly
at Ben’s side ready for the celebratory cheer, the empty bottle swinging low.
As he nodded to Ben to speak,
a
quick
come on, we’re waiting,
a bizarre image of Phil crept into Ben’s mind. He
visualised a young Cambridge University student with smooth wrinkleless eyes,
but behind the same thick rimmed lenses that he wore today. The
imagined
face was youthful, yet
was still
topped with a balding scalp,
only partially covered by the long hairs that had been left to grow from just
above his left ear. So ingrained was the image of the aged Phil, it was
impossible to conceive a true and faithful representation of the young genius
that he must surely have once been.
It was like he had always been old.

“Well, it has been a long four years,”
Ben began, pausing for breath after almost every word. It was hard to concentrate
over the distracting sound of his wine as it fizzed about in his cup, and the
whirring of the air conditioning rattling along above him. His eyes were tired
and gritty from the dry atmosphere. It was seven thirty at night and he had
been here for over twelve hours already today. He had known by late morning
that today would be the day.
When
the first results came back,
he knew it had worked. As he gazed out from behind his own glasses to see
them all waiting for him to say something momentous, all he really wanted to do
was knock back his bitter and overly carbonated fizz and get out to the bar
with Mark.

The truth was that he didn’t know what to
say to them. He felt an uncontrollable
need
to find something meaningful and
poignant to say; to mark the life changing occasion with something that would
never be forgotten. He had to find something inspiring. Something that would
cause each of the scientists before him to regale their families with the
story, who would in turn tell the tale to their friends
,
before soon enough the story would
travel with the same inertia as a meteor through space. He felt the weight of
all great men before him who had stood on the same precipice of achievement,
isolated in the solitary moment before the world learns what has been
accomplished. All that kept coming to his mind were the fuzzy static heavy
words of Neil Armstrong as they were beamed back from the moon all those years
ago. People still spoke about that moment, even kids like Ben who were born
years after the event. It was impossible to forget the significance of that
first footstep. There was no person in the world that would forget that name,
that moment, or those words. His success today may not have the same
intergalactic stretch from one celestial body to the next, and would perhaps be
more quietly celebrated, but he felt the same sense of weightlessness. This
moment was the joy. This moment was
his, just before the curtains are drawn to reveal the
expectant audience.

Stood there in his lab coat and shoe covers in front of a sea of tired faces,
he felt as overwhelmed and excited, he imagined, as the first man to step foot
on the moon.

“We have done it together. This is our
success, and it will change the world. Raise your glasses.” Ben held up his
plastic cup, and a series of hands rose up before him, including Graham who had
finally relinquished his pipette to the bench.

“Here’s to us. And here is to NEMREC.
We did it
.
” They all nodded their heads
, their
plastic cups in the air in
muted celebration before knocking the liquid back. He saw a couple of smiles,
and several
of
them
patted their
nearest colleague on the shoulder, in a display of professional appreciation
and admiration. If he could have done so without automatically assuming an air
of inflated self importance, he would have patted each of them on the back
himself,
and thanked them for their
individual efforts. Instead he settled on a
submissive
handshake with each, as the formal line
of scientists disintegrated into a casual crowd. He wanted to emphasise the
joint effort today. He knew in the whirlwind of media attention and fervent
celebration that would surely ensue in the days to come that it would not be
his team appearing on the television. Nor would it be them who would be
whisked away, by business class no doubt, to the next conference for genetic
research that he was certain he had read was going to be a six day stint in
Dubai. It would be Ben Stone. Revolutionary Scientist. The one that cured
genetic disease. He rolled his self-awarded title around in his head enjoying
the way it sounded and getting drunk not on the alcoholic drink, but the dizzy
heights of accomplishment. It sounded good. Seeing that during his momentary
lapse into daydream the rest of the team were either finishing up at their work
benches or had already discarded their lab coats and were back in their own
clothes, he took a step towards his own office.

“Don’t forget, drinks at Simpson’s
tonight,” he called, as he saw a couple of them nod in enthusiasm. Ami nodded
too. “Eight thirty, I’ll be there.” He turned and opened the door to his
office, and sat down into the green leather chair. It was always darker in
here, although in theory there
were
the same number of lights as
the main laboratory. He
knew
because he
had
counted them last winter when one day he could barely see to read at his own
desk, and he had indeed established that based on an equivalent floor space in
the main laboratory, there were four recessed lights, just as there were above
his desk. The trouble in here was that there were so many papers and so many
books that the light literally got sucked into the heaving mass of a lifetime
of research. Every surface had been utilised to hold some item of importance,
including the uncomfortable looking couch that had on occasion formed an
impromptu bed when he realised that the time to catch the last train home had
passed him by. It lined the only wall that wasn’t covered by a bookcase that
stretched all the way up to the ceiling. He had read every page of every book
in here. He had spent the majority of his life either huddled over a test
tube, or with his head buried in a book. He established his life’s path from
the very first day that he learned of his family’s unfortunate trait.
It was the day that
his mother had sat him down
when he was fourteen and explained the basis for his father’s mood swings and
how they would likely get worse, until one day when they might not be able to
recognise the man they knew anymore. Until then, Ben had been happy to play
the role of a teenager. He offered up no complaint when passing his time
casually with his friends, racing his BMX around the park across the purpose
built ramps to perfect his bunny hop bar spin trick. But the day that she sat
him down to talk
,
that
changed
everything.

Consumed in his daydream he hadn’t seen
Ami approach, and when she
tapped
her knuckles on the glass
door she startled him. As he looked up from his desk he saw the cascading mass
of jet black hair, released and flowing like a waterfall across one shoulder,
pooling in the crevice of her elbow. Her eyes were set as endless jet black
saucers, so different to the Ionian blue of his, and her skin was the perfect
shade of honey. When she joined the team just over a year ago, he could
barely believe his luck. He motioned with a smile and a quick wag of the
fingers for her to open the door. In a single fluid motion, she pushed the
door ajar, and leant like a ballerina into the arabesque en l’aire, curling the
top half of her body around the half open door.

“We are all leaving now, Ben. We’ll see
you there?” Her hair fell casually forwards, spreading the scent of dried
rosebuds across the office that reminded him of his own mother in a disturbing
and yet somehow pleasant and familiar way. Ben wondered if he looked as
foolish as he felt in her presence when it was just the two of them. He sat
himself upright, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight around
uncomfortably, pulling in the nearest research journal and leafing through the
pages in an effort to look casual and unflustered.

“OK, yeah. I’m right behind you, just
finishing off here.” He motioned to the research journal and glanced down at
the page. He noticed that he had undesirably opened the journal at a location
that detailed a new stem cell treatment for erectile dysfunction. An article
complete with diagrams.
He
caught her glancing down at the journal, and h
e closed the cover, hoping that she
hadn’t deciphered the subject matter. “I just need to make a telephone call.”

Erectile dysfunction. Of
all articles I had to open it there.

“Shall we wait? It’s not a problem.”
She either hadn’t seen, or was too polite to joke at his expense. He was
grateful for either possibility, with a heavy preference for the former.

“No, go on ahead. I’ll meet you all
there.” She smiled
with
pursed lips and tucked her chin in. It made her look cute and sexy at the same
time. She
closed
the door behind her with her perfectly manicured hand. He lent back in his
chair, adjusting his position to watch her cross the laboratory floor until she
closed the far door behind her. He wondered if she swung her hips like that on
purpose, or if when he looked away they would rest into a more natural rhythm.
He took the offending journal, shook his head in disgust and tossed it with
revulsion into the waste paper bin. He kicked his chair out from under the
desk and put his feet up on top of the papers. Resting his head of thick blond
curls back onto the top of the chair he took the arms of his glasses in his
fingers and slid them
from
his face. He could barely
believe that all his years of work, and all of his effort had culminated in
this solitary moment. He was surrounded by brilliance in his lab
oratory
, and his team
was
made up from the best of the best in
their field. Yet now, when
it
was quiet
and he
was alone, when he should be revelling in the glory of his achievement it was
impossible not to go back to that day and that life changing moment when his
mother explained to him what a genetic disease was. He would have loved to
pick up the telephone
,
dial her number
,
tell her one simple thing. He would tell
her that he had done it. That nobody else would suffer, and that their past
would never be repeated. He glanced over at the telephone, playing her long
since redundant number over and over in his head. He could see the answering
machine flashing on the far side of his desk and it brought him back to
reality. There were three messages.
Swinging
his legs back down he propelled himself forward and hit the play button,
leaving thoughts of his mother in the past where they belonged. The first was
from a supplier of gene chips to let him know that Monday’s delivery would be
late.

“I don’t think we need to worry about
that now,” he laughed to himself. The second was from Hannah, asking him what
time he expected to be home. Her words sounded bitter, and he could hear her
mumbling to herself as she hung up the telephone. He wouldn’t let it spoil the
moment though, and he put her message to the back of his mind. The final
message was from a Mr. Saad. This wasn’t the first message he had left, and
Ben still had no idea how he had managed to get hold of his direct telephone
line. The familiar and gravelly accent needed no introduction.

“Hello Mr. Stone. I do hope you will do
me the courtesy of returning my phone call this time. I want very much to
discuss your research with you. I am able to offer a very substantial
contribution to your funding which I know that you will need very soon. My
personal contact number is....”

“No thank you.” Ben hit the delete
button before he finished listening to the message.
He had done it. The compound had been
shown to work. NEMREC was ready to go. It was only a matter of time before
support from a large pharmaceutical developer would roll his way. He had a
month until the National Genetics Conference, and that was more than enough
time to collate his results into something presentable. After that, the funding
and everything that came with it was virtually guaranteed. He could almost
feel the heat of the Dubai sun on his face. He wondered if any sponsor might
let him take an assistant, but with the same speed he considered it he reminded
himself of the inappropriateness of his intentions. He stood up from his chair
and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand. He had no windows in this office
but he could hear the falling raindrops as they fell onto the flat metallic
roof above. He made his way towards the door and
from the corner of his eye
he caught sight of the thick
brown wooden photo frame on the edge of the desk. It had been gradually pushed
to the side over a period of time by an ever increasing volume of paperwork.
He picked up the photograph with both hands and held it closely to him but
angled it so that he could see it. Staring back at him was the past
,
another time and another life it seemed
to him now. It was his own eight year old face, smiling and happy, pressed up
against the face of his father. His father’s hair in the photograph had
already started to turn grey, and he was close to forty five years old. The
first signs had already started. He was always restless, and to Ben he seemed
jerky, even at eight years
old
when he should have been too
immature to notice. He always seemed irritable and he kept forgetting things.
It was when he had asked several guests during the ongoing fourteenth birthday
celebrations why they had come to his home, and if it was only to bring in the
dirt from the garden in the tread of their shoes that his mother had sat Ben
down to talk to him.
It
had been quite a scene, after all.
Seeing this photograph reminded him that it wasn’t the
celebration, the glory, or the admiration on Ami’s face that he was looking
for. He didn’t need the all expenses paid trip to Dubai, as nice as it might
be, especially if he got to take an assistant. He didn’t need the nod to
significant and overwhelmingly important prizes. All the recognition he
needed was here in the eyes of his ageing father. He tapped the photograph
with the back of his fingers.

BOOK: Identity X

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