24: Mr X

Shorn of another identity, the man who had been John flitted across the landscape like a shadow; a shadow driven by rage.

He wasn't enraged by the loss of self; that person was easy to let go of. He had invested so little in John to begin with; had always known he was temporary. Just a bookshelf with no books. Just a bit part.

He wasn't enraged by the work left unfinished. Disappointed, perhaps. There was still so much he wanted to show the child, so much left to say before the end, but none of that really mattered. There would be other children, other lessons. The individuals didn't matter. All that mattered was the work.

But he was enraged by the fates that had betrayed him, by the stupid turns of circumstance. He deserved better than that. He was doing the gods' work, after all. It was tough, but someone had to. The fates had brought him to this role, and it was capricious of them to turn on him so suddenly. He hated that.

But it had happened. He accepted it. Learned from it. It happened for a reason. It happened to make him stronger.

He still thought himself untouchable. And he still remained untouched.

His next identity would have to be more solid. He had allowed too much uncertainty, left too much to chance. Chance was a fickle mistress. He would not make that mistake again.

And so he fled across the city, away from the venue of his failure. Away from the place he had treated as home for so long without ever making it so. Away from the little terraced house surrounded by police lines and photographers and blazing lights. Away from the crowds of onlookers and the rumours that would soon become legends, away from the wellspring of his immortality. Away, with no regrets, with no backward glance.

Away.

He'd known this moment would come; been aware of the possibility, at least. Had even made arrangements for it, though it was now clear those arrangements had been hopelessly inadequate. He'd made some preparations, but didn't have anything like a new life to slip discreetly into. He'd made some preparations, but would be starting anew, and that would be conspicuous. It was a mistake he would learn from; a mistake he would not make again.

In the meantime, he would have to make do. He flitted westwards across the city to pick up the fragments of his prepared identity. It was a start, something to build on, somewhere to hide out for a while. Somewhere secluded and secure, somewhere he might remain undisturbed as he reinvented himself, as he rebuilt his future.

He put his old self behind him, and embraced this newfound anonymity. He revelled in the impersonality of the city, the disconnection of its people and its modes of transport. Quietly, safely, he lost himself amongst the millions.

He walked among them and they did not know him.

Quietly, safely, he fled to the factory, where he would be safely undisturbed. It was a place no-one ever went, not since the fire.

It was somewhere to hide out for a while. A fortress of solitude.

It was his sanctuary.
Posted by matt at November 28, 2004 01:16 AM