Marcus touched his face. He didn’t look like himself. The scar that Gaetano had inflicted was no more. Harvey had made good on his promise and used nanoids to alter his appearance.
He combed his fingers through the light brown hair that used to be black. His eyes were a neutral shade of blue instead of a deep grey. His teeth had been straightened and his jaw given a stronger angle. His body was still his own.
While in the chair in one of Harvey’s treatment rooms, Harvey had told him how his business had dried up when the World Government left.
‘The demand for disguises drops off when the criminals no longer need to hide,’ said Harvey.
Ironic that Marcus sought change in an era that still belonged to the criminals. But they had been too cocky. They should have seen their seven-year reign ending long before it did.
Marcus sat in one of Harvey’s safe houses in Montreal, waiting for Harvey to give him the call-up, to tell him the ship Bill Taggart had sent was here. Harvey had promised him safe passage off Earth, but the longer Marcus waited, the more he doubted Harvey’s help went beyond fixing his face.
His crippling fear of bumping into Gaetano or Enzo kept him housebound. He’d spotted Carl in Montreal city one day and nearly had a heart attack. But Carl had walked on by without paying Marcus any attention. Even his friend from childhood didn’t recognise him.
It didn’t matter. He would always be Marcus, John Murphy’s fucked up son, on Earth. He needed a new start.
Marcus kept the communication device with him day and night. He had stopped checking it when the call came through. He nearly broke the device shoving it into his ear.
‘Yes?’
‘Marcus, it’s Harvey. Pack your bags.’
‘Shit, really?’
‘Yeah, really. Ship’s here. It leaves tomorrow. I need you to come this evening. I’ve got a new identity for you.’
Marcus thought about all the things he would do when he got to Exilon 5. He would get a proper house, have the life he should have had growing up in Hunts Point. He would see proper sunshine for the first time. He could sit out on his back porch and drink beer.
Or he could start his own business and become the next Gaetano.
‘Marcus, you there?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here.’
‘You ready to leave?’
‘Yeah. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
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