Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy)

by Nikki Owen

  Michaela pushes Bobbie to one side. ‘Fuck off, you psycho.’

  ‘And so lovely to see you, too, Michaela,’ says Bobbie, bowing.

  ‘You,’ Michaela says, jabbing a finger at me, ‘I got fucking solitary because of you.’

  Her accent. It is her regular East London accent, but there is something different. I try to place it, but nothing. No memory. No thoughts. I find myself clenching my fists.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Michaela says, taking a step towards me.

  I touch my tongue; no cat on there.

  ‘Leave it, Croft,’ says Bobbie.

  Michaela goes still and looks down; Bobbie has put a hand on her chest. I search for the guards, but they are nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Get your hands off me, psycho.’ Michaela is glaring at Bobbie, but Bobbie simply smiles. Scared, I pick up my knife, but Patricia gives a quick shake of her head. I let go of the metal.

  Slowly, with her eyes on Michaela, Bobbie lowers her hand. And then it happens. Michaela—fast, precise—lunges towards me. Before I can move, before I can roll away, she clutches my blouse, dragging me up, out of my seat. The room erupts.

  I try to move backwards, but Michaela’s grip is solid, so I go for a punch to her head—right side, on her temples, and I must have hit because I can hear yelling, but it is muffled, like being underwater. Michaela has her hands on me now, around my neck and so I slap her, hard on the cheek, but her grip is still tight. So, desperate, I kick, three sharp jabs to her shin with the heel of my shoe, but, even though she cries out, she pulls me back, does not let go. I try to unravel her fingers, but cannot get free. I try to dig her with my elbow, shove her—nothing. But then—pop. Michaela’s grip slackens. Just like that. I drop to the floor and gulp great swells of air. Michaela is gasping for breath beside me, her body writhing on the floor.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bobbie,’ Patricia says, ‘what did you do?’

  I dart my eyes back and forth. The guards are running over now, the room sways, my mind whirring. And that, then, is when I remember: Michaela in the cell. Her accent changed. She was Scottish. Suddenly, like a game of dominoes, all the pieces connect, fall into one another. Bang, bang, bang. She told me to stay put. She knew of Father Reznik. She is Scottish. The medical notes my father found, they were from a hospital in Scotland.

  Which means she is not who she says she is.

  ‘Get up, Doc, quick!’ says Patricia.

  My brain engages. I scramble up to a stand and Patricia brushes me down. ‘Let Bobbie handle this,’ she whispers.

  The guards run over. They know something is happening, but as far as I can tell, they have seen nothing. No detail.

  Bobbie shouts to them. ‘She’s choking! Help us. Quick!’ Then briefly, in the blink of an eye, she turns to me and smiles like someone who has just walked out of an asylum.

  Three guards arrive.

  ‘Help her!’ Bobbie is saying, but she is not looking at the guards, she is looking at me. Bobbie jerks her eyes to Michaela, but I do not understand.

  ‘Tell the guards,’ says Patricia, fast. ‘Doc, tell the guards what is wrong.’

  Now I comprehend. I point to Michaela. ‘She is asphyxiating,’ I say, quickly. The guards hesitate. I crouch to my knees and tug at Michaela’s collar. ‘Her trachea has been restricted. Her airway.’

  ‘She’s a doctor,’ says Bobbie.

  The guard eyes me with suspicion. ‘What was with the raised voices before?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Bobbie says to the guard, ‘high jinx. I think some food might have gone down the wrong way.’

  I tilt my head. That is not true. I open my mouth to say so when there is a tug on my blouse. Patricia is glaring at me, a finger on her lips. ‘Ssssh.’

  The guard looks at us. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘let’s get Croft checked out.’ She twists to face the dining hall. ‘Show’s over,’ she says, addressing the staring audience of inmates. When no one moves, she yells, ‘Bugger off. Now. Or you’ll find your TV privileges revoked.’

  The inmates grumble, shuffling off, and I watch as Michaela is led away, her feet dragging along the tiles, face white, small pink fingermarks on her neck.

  Patricia whistles. ‘Holy Jesus.’ She turns to me. ‘Doc, you okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  I start to follow her when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Bobbie hands me my notebook. ‘Watch out,’ she says.

  ‘For what?’ I snatch the writing pad from her.

  She steps in closer. ‘Don’t trust anyone, you hear me?’ Her eyes dart left and right. ‘You’re not safe in here. They thought you would be, but now that’s changed. Everything has changed. Someone is after you in here, in the prison.’

  ‘You do not make sense.’

  ‘I have instructions to watch you. And I will. But help me. Keep your head down. I’ll watch Croft, make sure she’s kept away from you.’

  The accent. The hospital. Can she help? ‘What is Callidus?’ I say. Bobbie goes quiet. ‘Is it a hospital in Scotland? Is that where Mickie Croft is from? Who is she?’

  ‘MI5.’

  The word hangs in the air like a poisonous gas.

  ‘What?’

  Bobbie checks the area. ‘They will kill you. Do you hear me? Kill you. That’s why I’m here, to keep an eye on you. They thought they could keep you in here to be safe and then it all imploded, all broke up, a scandal.’

  I try to compute what she is saying. ‘What scandal? Who is “they”?’

  She pauses. ‘The Project.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I don’t have the clearance to say any more. But what you need to know is the Project will protect you. MI5 won’t.’

  I connect it, attempt to put it all together, but it is jumbled like a Rubik’s cube split into multiple colours. MI5? And then I feel it: the sharp needle of realisation. I put my fingers to my mouth, sick at the thought. ‘Was Father Reznik part of this?’

  She hesitates then slowly nods. ‘Him, your two previous university professors and your boss at St James’s.’ She pauses. ‘And now? Dr Andersson.’

  ‘What?’ My head spins, stomach lurches. ‘How?’

  ‘They were you handlers, Doctor. They were your handlers,’ she says.

  ‘Handlers? Handlers for what?’ My mind races, pinging from one pinball to another, suddenly frightened. People I thought I could trust, people who were supposed to support me, protect me in some way, were not who they said they were at all. How can Dr Andersson be part of it? None of it makes sense. None of it. I look up to speak to Bobbie, but she is striding away.

  ‘They were handlers for what?’ I shout.

  ‘For you, Maria. They were all working for the Project.’

  ‘What is the Project?’

  She keeps walking. ‘Look in your notebook. The answer is there.’

  I shake my head, dazed. ‘Answer? What answer?’ I say, calling after her. ‘What answer?’

  But she has already gone.

  Kurt crosses his legs and presses record on the Dictaphone.

  When I ask him if I can perhaps get some fresh air later, he simply narrows his eyes and makes some notes. I look at the coffee cup, worry infecting me like a disease.

  A siren wails from outside. He glances up. ‘Tell me, Maria,’ he says, once it has passed, ‘did you ever consider that—’ he consults his notes ‘—Bobbie was make-believing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Make-believing—it means pretending, making up a story. Lying.’

  ‘I…I…’ I halt, inhale. I know she was telling the truth. I have the proof now. I run a finger around my collar. ‘I am warm. Can I have some water?’

  He nods, gesturing to the jug. I pour a glass, stall for time. I have found out so much since Bobbie came to me that day, but what do I tell Kurt? He thinks Bobbie was lying. I study him. His body, now, is relaxed, but there is something there, in his eyes, a glint, a flash of something. What? Suspic
ion? Murkiness? I take another sip, set down the glass. I will see what he has to say first.

  ‘Maria? What do you think about what I said?’

  ‘She was not make-believing.’

  A small head shake. ‘I thought you might say that.’ He sits forward. ‘The way I view it, we are looking at one of two scenarios here. One: you are, again, recalling information incorrectly, your memory compromised; or two: Bobbie Reynolds was lying because she is a psychopath.’

  I grip the seat. The worry creeps higher. ‘It is neither of those. She was telling the truth. I am telling the truth.’

  Kurt supplies a brief smile. One, two, three seconds pass. I stay very still, curtains billowing, scared to move, scared to admit what may be happening here.

  ‘Do you like to be in control, Maria?’ he says suddenly.

  I clear my throat, unsure how to answer, uncertain at what he is trying to do. I decide to answer yes.

  ‘And what does that tell you about yourself?’

  ‘That I like to be in control, of course.’ Stay calm. Stay calm.

  ‘Do you think that your need to be in control has shaped your memory?’

  My eyes hover over the coffee pot. ‘I…I do not know.’ The coffee. Why did it taste odd earlier?

  ‘See, here’s what I think. You have trouble with your thoughts and feelings and speaking about them. For people like you, in your situation, it is not uncommon to experience difficulties in relating to, and communicating with, others—for there to be a certain cessation of verbal reasoning, shall we say? You think that if you tell me about your inner feelings, you will lose control over yourself, over your life. Over your future.’

  ‘No. I have Asperger’s. I feel emotions just like everyone else, I just cannot communicate them. It is nothing to do with control.’ My eyes fix on the coffee cups in front of us.

  Kurt exhales. ‘Okay,’ he says, clapping his hands. I jerk my eyes to his. ‘We are going to use a new room.’

  ‘What?’

  A slice of smile again. ‘The service has a room designated, indeed designed, to help with situations like yours.’

  ‘What do you mean, “like mine”?’

  ‘People who have trouble sharing their thoughts, opening up. Like you.’

  ‘I have opinions about many aspects of society.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ he says, gathering his belongings, ‘but it is not your opinion on society I am after.’

  He stands and walks to the door. ‘I am after your feelings, Maria.’ He opens the door and a waft of stale air sweeps in. ‘I am after your real memories. I want to know, for example, how it makes you feel when you realise people like Bobbie Reynolds are liars. That is what I am interested in hearing.’

  He holds open the door. Cold air sweeps in. I swallow, not wanting to move, frightened, but I don’t know of what. Of Kurt?

  ‘Maria, you signed a document agreeing to our therapy methods,’ he says. ‘You need to come with me.’

  I peer through to the corridor beyond. White, no windows, no people. My heart slamming against my ribcage, slowly, I stand.

  ‘Good. This way.’

  Kurt walks through the door, and I have no choice but to follow him.

  Chapter 15

  Patricia leans against the wall, sheltering her face from the sun.

  We are in the prison yard. It is square in shape, the perimeter hemmed in on all sides by the building walls, the windows of the cells and offices bearing down on us, watching, spying. The ground is gagged with sand and gravel, and in the far corner sits creaking, rusty outdoor gym equipment, old, worn, like a forgotten adult playground.

  The sun is warm on my face; no clouds, no rain. Yet, even when my eyes are open wide, I can only see a small slither of sky, because my mind is replaying Bobbie’s words, computing what they signify. Handlers. It means, my whole life someone was watching me for an organisation I know nothing about. And those people, those handlers—I trusted them. I feel a slap of nausea at the thought. They were figures of authority. So is that what authority means, then? A series of individuals who are not who they say they are? Who deceive? And if they were lying, then who else was? My elementary teachers? My therapists? Were they all with this Project? Is Dr Andersson a fraud, too?

  I swallow hard, dig my fingernails into the wall, feel the stone. Because the thought, the realisation of it all shakes me, makes me feel as if I will stumble and fall, as if the ground beneath me is shuddering from one giant earthquake, reducing everything I once regarded as solid, as real, to specs of rubble, to figments of fiction.

  Patricia folds her arms, brow set to a frown. ‘Tell me again, Doc. What was Bobbie talking about?’

  I draw in a breath. I have told Patricia everything Bobbie said to me in the canteen. She has not reacted well.

  ‘She said she had instructions to protect me. That the answer was in my notebook.’

  ‘But you looked through your notebook and you found nothing?’

  I open my mouth to speak then close it. She is right.

  ‘Doc, the thing that bothers me,’ Patricia says now, her voice reduced to a whisper, ‘is that Bobbie said MI5’s involved. It just doesn’t make any sense.’

  A fight between two inmates breaks out ahead. We look. A guard shouts, runs over and separates them, the battle over before it had even begun.

  Patricia kicks her heel against the wall and stares out onto the yard. ‘You know they call her psycho, Bobbie?’

  ‘Yes. But that does not mean—’

  ‘It means everything. Jesus.’ She rakes a hand over her scalp, inhales. ‘Okay, say she is telling the truth? Then what?’

  ‘Then we put it all together, we uncover everything we can. I will study my notebook again. I have to solve this. Someone, somewhere is lying to me, lying about me.’

  Patricia exhales, long, hard. ‘It just seems crazy. Bobbie seems a little crazy.’

  ‘We are all a little crazy.’

  We stand by the wall and breathe in the one-hour-a-day of fresh air. The sun bobs like a globe in the sky, a soothing glow, a reassuring warmth. It is easy to imagine, to dream that we are not here, in prison, that we are elsewhere, somewhere good. Somewhere better.

  We are about to leave when a figure exits from the door at the far end of the yard. I prop my hand on my brow, squint in the sunshine. The figure moves towards us at speed.

  Patricia notices, too. She dips her head to get a look. ‘Hey, Doc. Is that—’

  ‘Bobbie.’

  Bobbie Reynolds arrives before us and cocks her head. ‘How are my two friends?’

  Patricia blocks her. ‘Look, Reynolds, I don’t know what your game is, but quit telling seven heaps of shite to Maria.’ Bobbie laughs. ‘What?’

  Patricia pokes her. ‘You heard me.’

  Bobbie looks to me. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Doc, no.’

  ‘But not here,’ Bobbie continues. She shoots a glance to Patricia. ‘Not with her here.’

  Patricia glares at Bobbie.

  ‘I will speak to you with Patricia present,’ I say. ‘She knows what you told me.’

  Bobbie hesitates then shrugs. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ She smoothes down her shirt. ‘Has Mickie Croft told you anything…unusual?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, has she said anything out of the ordinary? Something you wouldn’t expect her to say?’

  ‘I told you that she mentioned Callidus.’

  ‘Shit, thought that’s what you’d said.’ She scratches her head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Okay. Here’s the thing. Remember I said everything had changed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, well, the Project used to be part of MI5, but now it’s not. There are others involved, too, but…’ She breathes out. ‘Look, I can’t say who, but I am authorised to say this: Mickie Croft is out to kill you, we have confirmation now, fresh intel. She’s been ordered to do it as soon as
she gets her chance. Dr Andersson will probably assist her.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Patricia says. ‘Total bollocks. Mickie is a nutter who’s already laid seven bells into Maria. You know that. You’re just trying to play up to it and—’

  Without warning, Bobbie flies at Patricia, wraps her fingers round her throat and pins her up against the wall.

  ‘Bobbie!’ I yell.

  ‘This is not a game, do you hear me?’ Bobbie spits, teeth snarling. Patricia manages a small nod. ‘It’s not a fucking game.’

  Bobbie lets go and Patricia drops to the ground, gasping. I run to her.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I say, checking Patricia.

  Bobbie brushes herself down. ‘Because this is serious. The Project put me here to protect you. You are not safe here.’

  I look at her, my mind questioning over and over whether I should believe her. Then a puzzle piece slots into place. ‘Callidus and the Project—they are the same thing.’

  She nods. ‘Project Callidus—that’s the code name.’

  My brain whizzes, computes, calibrates. ‘That’s where they took me.’

  ‘What?

  Patricia stands. ‘Doc?’

  But I ignore her, look to Bobbie, hands shaking, eyes wild. ‘Sometimes I have memories of being in a ward, a hospital. They are doing tests on me, horrible tests. Was it there? Did they do the tests there, at Callidus?’

  Bobbie looks between me and Patricia, her fists clenched, her brow furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she says after a moment, a whisper. ‘They did tests there. Yes.’

  ‘So the handlers, my professors, my boss—they were all with this Project Callidus?’

  A nod.

  I slap my hand to my mouth. ‘My God.’ I stumble back against the wall. And then I realise. ‘Dr Andersson—she takes my blood, does tests on it.’

  ‘Doc, you okay?’

  ‘I have to go,’ Bobbie says, fast. ‘Speak to the Governor, bring your notebook. He has a laptop…you’ll see. It will make sense.’ She turns, starts to leave.

  ‘Wait! You said to look in my notebook for the answer, but it’s not there. There is no answer.’

  But she keeps moving, head down, hands thrust into pockets.

  I go to run after her but Patricia grabs me. ‘Doc, no. Don’t make a scene.’