Free Being by Kevin Brooks

thumbed the safety catch on the pistol. I listened hard. The footsteps were still there, but they were moving away from my door now, and when I heard another faint thump, and then another, I put down the pistol and relaxed.
    Newspaper in the morning, Mr Ryan?
    Yes, please.
    Nothing to worry about, it was just the newspaper.
    Why had I asked for a newspaper in the morning? Because that’s what an ordinary young man would have done, and that’s all I was – an ordinary young man.
    Ordinary jacket, ordinary shirt, ordinary newspaper in the morning.
    The first thing I saw when I opened the door and picked up the paper was a photograph of someone who looked like me. Similar face, similar eyes, similar mouth. Then I looked closer… and I realized it was me. I couldn’t believe it. But I had to. It was right there – front page of the Daily Express, bottom left-hand corner. A photograph of me. It was a school photograph. I’d only had it taken about six months ago. In the original photograph I didn’t look too bad, but the graininess of the picture in the newspaper made me look shadowy and gaunt, like something from the underworld.
    ‘Shit,’ I whispered, folding the newspaper and going back into my room. I shut the door and locked it behind me, then opened the paper again.
    The photograph was still there.
    The caption beneath it said:
ROBERT SMITH: FRENZIED ATTACK
    I stared at the words for a while – ROBERT SMITH: FRENZIED ATTACK – then, with a terrible sinking feeling inside me, I forced myself to read the story.

    I sat down on the bed and read through the story again, just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, but I knew I was wasting my time. The words were still there – Professor Ian Casing … multiple stab wounds … Robert Smith … horrendous killing …
    I stared at nothing, trying to think…
    How?
    Why?
    But I knew I didn’t have time to think. I wasn’t an ordinary young man any more, I was a murderer. I was on the front page of the Daily Express . People had seen me – the hotel receptionist, people in the street, people on the train – they’d call the police. The police would call Ryan… he might be here any minute.
    I emptied my head and got moving.
    Shoes on, jacket on, pistol in pocket. I ran round theroom, grabbing a few clothes and throwing them in the rucksack, then I stopped for a moment and took a quick look round at the rest of the stuff – the papers, the photographs, the video, the scalpels – wondering if I should take any of it or not.
    I stuffed the videotape into the rucksack, leaving everything else, and went across to the door. I paused for a moment, listening at the door, then I slowly opened it. The hallway was empty. I put my hand in my pistol pocket, moved out into the hallway, and paused again.
    Which way should I go?
    The lifts were to the left; the stairs were to the right.
    Come on, think .
    Which way?
    Left or right?
    I turned right and headed for the stairs.
    Just as I got to the stairway door, I heard footsteps down below. Hurried steps, coming up the stairs. I let go of the door and stepped back, scanning the hallway for another way out. I glanced down at the lifts, then back at the stairs again.
    The lifts were too risky.
    Maybe I could go up the stairs…?
    Then I saw the door. It was just past the stairway. A glass-panelled door with a sign on it: no admittance - staff only. I didn’t stop to think about it, I just hurried over, glanced quickly through the glass panel, then pushed open the door and stepped through into a cold and gloomy corridor. As the door swung shut, I heard the distant ting of the lift arriving behind me. I turned round, crouched down behind the door, and peered back through the glasspanel. At the end of the hallway, two figures were emerging from the lift. One of them was a sharp-eyed woman in a cream-coloured raincoat. The other one was Ryan. Black coat, hard face, cold silver eyes. As he turned and said something to the woman – who I