by Nikki Owen
‘What just happened?’ Dr Andersson says, her voice like a blade. She grabs the remote and pauses the music. I blink as her face swims into focus. ‘How often has this been going on?’
‘Often.’ I swallow, search for water.
‘And in your head? Are you temporarily unconscious or do you recall things?’
‘Recall.’ My throat is dry. ‘I need a drink.’
She pours me a glass. I drain it and breathe out. I saw him again. I saw Black Eyes. I ask for more water, finish it and try to focus. Why did I see him? Why now? My hands tremble as I return the glass to the table. Dr Andersson watches. I don’t like what is happening to me, how it makes me feel, these moments of confusion fused with episodes of bitter, tainted lucidity.
Dr Andersson picks up her pad and scribbles some notes. ‘I think your memory is more challenged than I had originally thought.’ She holds her pen still. ‘Tell me, what did you see?’
I take in a breath and narrate the memory, and as I do, as I tell her my thoughts, clarity blooms in my head like a flower in spring: someone is after me. It all makes sense now. My father discovered information, linked to files, documents. Even though I do not fully understand what they were exactly, even though I cannot recall it completely yet, I know it happened. And Father Reznik used to make me practice codes, test out harder and harder ones on me, always tasking me with strange projects, projects that would involve deciphering data that led to war-torn countries, to odd scenarios. I wrote it all down in my journal at Mama’s house, and I have written some of it down in my notebook, here. It was all a game, the Father said, just brain training. But what if it wasn’t a game? What if he was using me? Did something happen? Did I discover something without realising? Something big? Is that why he left? I rub my forehead. I would often wake up in the vestry, him telling me I had fallen asleep. But did I? Is Papa the key? Is the memory of Papa, of his voice, of what he told me? And so if I recalled his voice here, in prison, finally, after all this time, after all these years of memory-compromising grief, will I hear it again soon? And what will it say?
My mind races past all the possibilities and I feel giddy with it all, as if I am opening up a sealed box for the first time. I have to get to my notebook. I look at the clock. Ten fifty-five. I am meeting Harry Warren soon. I have to get to Patricia, get to our cell, tell her all about these new thoughts, write them down.
‘I am seeing Harry Warren at eleven hundred hours,’ I say, immediately standing, feverish with fresh hope. ‘I need my notebook. I have to get it from my cell. Now.’
‘Wait! You can’t just—’
‘Now,’ I repeat, running to the door.
‘Maria, I need to know about this memory. Wait!’
But before she can stop me, before she can tell me I am losing my mind, I have opened the door and left, only just managing to suppress the laughter, the sheer joy that wants to erupt from deep inside me.
I arrive at our cell and scan the room. ‘Patricia?’ I wait, chest heaving. Nothing. ‘Patricia, I have something to tell you! I need my writing pad. I think I know what has been happening with—’
I step forward and halt.
Something is swinging at the back of the cell behind the shelf. ‘Patricia, Father Reznik was really…’
And that is when I see her.
Patricia, hanging above the toilet.
With her walking socks roped together around her neck.
Chapter 11
‘Help!’ I scream. ‘Someone help!’
Guards rush into the cell and immediately radio for emergency assistance.
‘The rope, the socks,’ I say, fast, desperate. ‘We have to loosen them, get her out. Quick.’
I hold Patricia’s legs, feel the bones through her flesh as a guard frees her neck, her head flopping to one side, limp, lifeless. My friend. I fight back the tears, concentrate on what I am trained to do.
Once we have her down, I immediately start CPR. The heels of my palms press into her ribcage, pushing air into her. Then I tell the guard to copy me, to take over as I pinch Patricia’s nose, cover her mouth with mine and breathe into her. When the medical team arrives, they order me to stand back. My shoulders are heavy; my hands throb. I watch as they take over the cardiopulmonary resuscitation, wiping my face, not wanting the guards to see how I feel, how important Patricia is to me just so they can laugh.
‘Oi. Robot. Move back,’ says the guard.
‘Does she have a pulse?’ I ask the doctor.
But they all ignore me and, after dragging the trolley in, lay Patricia down, a mobile CPR unit next to it. Heart rate machine. Needles.
‘Get me the adrenaline and atropine,’ says the doctor. ‘And we’re going to need the defib.’
I stay very still. This is not good news, asking for the defib. A tear leaks out, one, sliding down my cheek. My friend. She is my friend. The guard looks at my face. I rub the evidence away.
A nurse attaches the heart monitor to Patricia’s chest while another holds a bag and mask over her face, over Patricia’s lily-white face. I watch, body stiff like steel, yet inside, I am a whirlwind, a rabid dog, diseased, broken.
The doctor presses the heel of his hands down on Patricia’s chest for CPR just as I did. ‘One, two, three, four.’ He looks to Patricia. ‘Breathe!’
The nurse checks the monitor. ‘She’s in VF.’
Another tear breaks out. I slap it back.
The doctor looks up. ‘Let’s shock her.’
The nurse hands him two defibrillator paddles.
‘Charging at two hundred. Clear!’
The medical team stands back as the doctor puts the paddles on Patricia’s chest. Her body rises suddenly at the shock, and then falls.
The nurse consults the monitor. ‘Nothing.’
But the doctor is already pulling up some adrenaline. He flicks the needle and injects it into Patricia’s vein. ‘Ten mils of adrenaline going in. Obs?’
I look at her. Please, I want good news. ‘Still no response,’ says the nurse. ‘She’s asystolic.’
‘Paddles,’ says the doctor. ‘Charge at two sixty. Clear!’
Patricia’s body rises and falls as she is shocked.
The doctor waits. ‘Come on.’
My pulse pounds through my veins and if I could give it, if I could give my life, my blood to Patricia right here, right now, I would.
The nurse checks the monitor. ‘No output.’
‘What happened?’ I look up. Dr Andersson. She is standing in the doorway.
‘She tried to hang herself,’ I say, my voice flat, pale.
The doctor stands back. ‘Still no output.’
Patricia’s chest does not move.
‘Maria,’ Dr Andersson says, ‘do you want me to take you to get another appointment with your barrister? You’ve missed your slot. We can speak to the legal advisor.’
Harry Warren—I had forgotten.
‘Maria,’ she says softly.
There is still no output on the monitor. Patricia. She is my only friend.
‘Maria?’ Dr Andersson says. ‘Do you want me to—’
‘Yes.’
‘Charge at three sixty!’
I spin round. The nurse’s eyes are wide. ‘Doctor, I don’t think we should—’
‘Three sixty, nurse!’ The doctor shouts. ‘Clear!’
‘Maria, let’s go,’ Dr Andersson says, but I ignore her, not able to drag myself away, to be parted again from someone I care about. The doctor shocks Patricia with the defibrillator.
The nurse shakes her head. ‘She’s not responding.’
‘No!’ I rush forward, pleading, wild. ‘Try again. You must try again!’ I attempt to grab the defibrillator then stop. There is a red line running across the monitor screen. That means no output. No response.
No life.
‘Martinez!’ the guard shouts.
The doctor steps back, shakes his head.
‘You have to call it,’ says a nurse.
; The doctor raises his wristwatch.
‘No!’ I scream, and before anyone can stop me, before anyone can realise what I am doing, I grab the defib paddles and thrust them to Patricia’s chest. ‘Clear!’
As the current hits her, she rises and falls once more, sharp, jerking, a bolt of a spark. I hold the paddles in the air, breath heavy, watching the monitor, time standing still. The guard dashes to me, ripping the paddles from my hand, shoving me to the side, my back thudding against the wall, but still I watch, wait. The red line. I count. One—two—three—four—five.
‘Doctor,’ the nurse says quietly, ‘you have to call it.’
A beat appears on the monitor.
‘We have a response!’ says the nurse. She scans the monitor, checks as the red line once again rises and falls. ‘She’s got good femoral output and sinus tachy.’
I hang my head, drained, utterly spent of energy, my body slack, my nerves raw, wounded. She’s not clear yet, I know that, but I can’t lose her. I can’t.
The doctor checks Patricia’s pulse by her neck and nods to Dr Andersson. She walks over to me with a guard next to her. ‘Maria, let the medical team do their job now.’
Patricia is being moved on the trolley, its steel bars, its medical tubes clinking. I pause, then, turning, remember something: my writing pad. I reach up, slide it out from the Bible on the shelf, my eyes on Patricia the entire time.
Without a word, I wipe my eyes and follow Dr Andersson out of the cell. The sound of Patricia’s trolley being rushed to the hospital wing echoes in the heavy, clammy air, inmates gawping, spying on us, on what is happening, as if it is entertainment, popcorn viewing. My hands shaking, I grip my notebook and follow Dr Andersson to the legal office.
I don’t know if Patricia will live or die.
When we arrive, the legal advisor is still there. I stop, write down everything I recalled in Dr Andersson’s office; Dr Andersson explains to the legal advisor that I require another appointment with Harry Warren. But agitation driven by fear, fear at losing my friend, makes me speak up, makes me impatient.
‘I require another appointment as soon as possible.’ The words speed out. ‘My cellmate hung herself.’ I stop. The phrase, uttered aloud, hits me like a smack in the face. I stumble back, dazed a little, suddenly wondering where I am.
‘Maria…’
But I ignore Dr Andersson and look at the legal advisor, eager to explain, to make her—anyone—understand. ‘I am late because my friend attempted suicide. She used her socks. Ha!’ I say, for some reason finding this funny, ‘And they were mountain socks. Winter ones. I should have known—I am not stupid. Not stupid. I should have known you don’t have thick mountain socks in prison. I had seen Patricia with them. I did not realise she would try to kill herself with them. And then I had a therapy session with Dr Andersson. I returned to my cell, because I had forgotten my notes. I do not forget, but I did. It is this prison, this place. I walked in and I…I…’
Dr Andersson steps towards me. ‘Breathe. You couldn’t have known. Breathe.’
I cup my hands in front of my mouth. ‘I am breathing,’ I say, gulping in air, my lungs beginning to slow. ‘If I did not breathe, I would be dead.’
Dr Andersson sighs. The legal advisor raises her hand. ‘Er, can I just say something?’
We both look at her.
She points to the interview room. ‘The barrister your inmate came to see? Harry Warren?’
‘Yes?’ Dr Andersson says.
She glances between the two of us. ‘He’s still here,’ she says. ‘Mr Warren is still in the interview room.’
A tray of sandwiches sits on the table.
Kurt is standing by the window. He has a plate in his hand and on it are two triangle-shape sandwiches, each containing tuna and mayonnaise. I uncross my legs, lean forward and pick through the bread. I select a ham sandwich, discard the tomato and bite. It tastes of sugar and fat.
Kurt turns away from the bars. He dabs his hand with a serviette and returns to his seat. His plate down, he brushes his palms together and, flashing me a smile, picks up his Dictaphone.
‘We are going to recommence our discussion now.’
I swallow the sandwich. ‘Now?’
He says nothing and clicks the record button. ‘I want to talk to you about father figures.’
‘I do not understand.’ I wipe my mouth with my palm and shiver.
‘A father figure is a man who is older and is regarded by someone younger as a person who has paternal qualities—fatherly qualities—and therefore may be a substitute for a father, emotionally. Someone who fills a void.’
This is not a phrase I am familiar with. ‘Is that a dictionary definition?’
He stares at me before speaking again. ‘Maria, do you think the Governor—Balthus Ochoa—may be a father figure?’
‘To whom?’
‘To you, Maria.’
I tap my finger. A whisper tells me I have to tread carefully here. Think. What does he expect me to say? ‘I have a father,’ I say, after a moment.
‘Had.’
I stay still. Had a father. Past tense. How much about Papa and me does Kurt know, does the service he works for know?
The door opens and the woman from earlier—leather jacket, bob, girlfriend, eyes—enters with coffee. She throws Kurt one brief smile then removes the uneaten sandwich tray and replaces it with a pot and cups. One more smile and the woman exits, leaving a vapour of Calvin Klein perfume behind her. Kurt leans forward, pours a coffee and hands it to me.
‘Drink. It will make you feel better. I know there’s a lot to take on board at the moment. And you seem tired.’
Slowly, I take the cup.
‘Good. Now drink.’
Whether it is the sudden flash of steel in his voice or the cold stream of air lingering from the open door, I do as I am told, and swallow some coffee. It tastes good, steam rising to my eyes, stinging them, slapping me awake. I take a few more sips then lower the cup. Kurt is writing some notes; the curtain at the window is floating up and down. All is normal. I move to set down my cup when my eyes spot something on the ceiling. My heart accelerates. I look to Kurt; he is still writing. I glance back to the ceiling and squint.
Without drawing attention to myself, I inch forward. I place the cup on the table and keep very still.
Kurt raises his head. I do not move. He clicks his pen and smiles. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve said it yet, so I will say it now: you are safe here, Maria, with me,’ he says. ‘I just want you to know that. This is a safe place.’
I do not blink.
Kurt is smiling at me.
There are now two spiders on the ceiling.
Chapter 12
‘The DNA evidence is inconclusive.’
I have been sitting in front of Harry Warren QC for fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. He has been recalling all the aspects of my original trial—the evidence, witnesses, timings. I have been jittery and vague. Patricia, her body being shocked with electricity, her head hanging like a limp rag doll, is an image that constantly plays in my mind like a showreel.
Despite my discomfort and confusion, Harry has been very thorough. Four times now he has stated that he is not impressed with the way in which the evidence was portrayed in the original court, so much so, he says, that he cannot believe my counsel were allowed to practise. When yet again I am slow to respond, Harry lifts his eyes from his file. In the flesh, he is stouter than his photos convey. His torso, his arms are fuller, cheeks plump on black skin, skin so shiny, so alive I feel he could last forever, that, as if by sheer force of his rooted, warm-blooded presence, he will always be around, like a house built of timber that never collapses. Safe. A haven.
He smiles at me, revealing large white teeth. ‘Maria,’ he clears his throat, ‘your DNA, it says here, was found in three places, including the priest’s shoe.’
‘They were Crocs.’
‘Crocs?’ He laughs like Father Christmas then sighs. �
�I’m so sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘There is so much these days I don’t know, so many new things, names.’
I hesitate. There is something about him. Something that makes me breathe more easily. A familiarity. ‘Crocs are shoes,’ I say finally.
He nods. ‘Thank you.’
I watch him for a second then continue. ‘I had purchased the footwear when I first arrived in London. I told the prosecution that they were mine, old ones from the operating theatre. They had never fitted me correctly.’
Harry unlaces the pink ribbon from the legal brief on the table. ‘And why did you give them away?’
‘I had a blister,’ I say, ‘from running shoes I had purchased in haste when I arrived in the UK. The Crocs I bought for surgery rubbed at the blister when moving. They hurt at the heel, so I donated them to the convent. They sell items like shoes to raise money. The priest must have kept them for himself; the trace of blood from my blister was left on the Crocs. The DNA…’
I trail off. DNA. I flip open my notebook, fly to the page, to the diagram—one of many I have instinctively drawn without knowing why. When I find it, my fingers hover. There. Deoxyribonucleic acid. The twisted double helix, the ladder of vertical sugar and phosphate modules. Our human blueprint. I dreamt about it, one of the first few days in prison. Thousands of DNA structures were flying around my head. And now Harry is talking about it, about my case, my DNA.
Harry leans forward a little. ‘Is that…?
My eyes fly to him. ‘What?’
He clears his throat, sits back. ‘You keep notes, many, by the look of it.’ He smiles at me; it reaches his eyes. ‘Good idea,’ he says, jabbing a finger at his brow. ‘Keeps the brain busy. Vital, hmm?’ A smile again.
I slam the book shut and say nothing. I cannot determine if he is being kind. Is he?
Harry clears his throat and consults his brief. ‘So, the DNA is certainly weak, but—and it is a big but, I’m afraid—you have no firm alibi.’
‘I have an alibi.’
He sighs. ‘Ah, yes. That you were at the hospital. St James’s, yes? The trouble is, Maria, that there is no CCTV evidence from that night placing you at the hospital. And there is a witness—’ another file consult ‘—a DVD store owner from the shop opposite the convent. He places you at the gates of the convent at the time of the crime.’