by Nikki Owen
‘What is Project Callidus?’ I yell. ‘What is Project Callidus?’
Yet still Bobbie strides away, not responding, a ball of dust behind her, and then she is gone. Patricia lets go of my arm, and I glance upwards, squint.
There, standing by one of the office suite windows, is the Governor.
I stay behind Kurt as he weaves past the warren of rooms.
He does not talk to me, does not look my way. He keeps his eyes straight ahead and continues to move. I do not know where we are going. I do not know why. I am nervous. My head feels fuzzy, my tongue strangely thick, rough like cloth.
Kurt comes to a halt. ‘Here we are.’
Ahead of us there is a door. I step forward and read the plaque stuck on the front of it.
‘The Banana Room,’ I say. ‘What is this?’
‘Somewhere to talk.’
Kurt opens a metal box connected to the wall. The door is thick, fluorescent yellow paint daubed in stripes across the middle, and on the top right sits a black smiley emoticon face the size of my hand.
Kurt enters a code. There is a loud click. ‘In you go.’
I hesitate, hands tight against my thighs. The door pops open and Kurt gestures for me to enter.
‘I said in you go.’ He is smiling but it is small, a shard, a sliver.
I shake my head. ‘I do not want to.’
‘You have to.’
I sway a little, the nerves getting the better of me, then freeze. Kurt’s hand is placed on the small of my back. ‘I said, “in”.’
Swallowing, I place my left foot into the room and gasp. Each of the four walls is painted green. But it is not simply household paint. From what I can see in the dim light, each wall appears to move. Taking another step forward, my eyes adjust and I can see that the movement is art. Someone has created head-to-toe murals on each of the four walls, each separate and distinct in design.
Kurt closes the door behind me and switches on a light.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
But I ignore him, instead stepping forward, observing. Now I can see that there is a path on the wall. I barely want to look, fear creeping up my spine, my neck, its fingers round my throat. What is going on? Where am I? I swallow hard, blink. The path runs through a boulevard of trees, their dark green leaves pointing like fingers to the middle. I cock my head. The path leads to a forest that sits in the distance. This forest is darker, as if forbidden to enter, like the Hansel and Gretel story my father used to read to me when I was little. I turn to see Kurt frowning.
I point at the set of painted leaves, finger trembling. ‘The painting. It…it is a version of the Arrival of Spring in Woldgate. It’s taken from David Hockney, inspired by him. The artist who did it must have attended the Royal Academy of Art, just like Hockney.’
Kurt stays very still. ‘Maria, where do you think you are?’
I suddenly bend double. There is a sharp pain in my stomach ‘Where am I?’
‘You are in a different interview room, that’s all, a different, normal interview room. Maria, where do you think we are?’
‘We…we are in some odd art room, aren’t we?’ I point to the wall to our right. ‘That painting there is based on Hockney’s Winter Timber.’
I sidestep Kurt, wipe the emerging sweat from my temples, and peer at the painting. Layers of timber lie strewn on the ground, each a blend of banana yellow and burnt orange. In the corners, sawn tree trunks stand, crooked, worn, each one the colour purple. I touch them. ‘The trees,’ I say, my voice surprising me: distant, dreamlike, ‘they are made of confectionery. All of it is.’ I step back, wobble a little, clutch my middle. The pain shoots now. What is happening to me? When I look round, more painted trees stand towards the rear of the painting, this time winter ones, each bare, stripped of leaves or buds. To the left sits a pink dirt road, stretching to the horizon.
There is a sudden rush of heat to my head. ‘I…I don’t feel well.’
He gestures to one of two chairs positioned by a low table that resembles driftwood. ‘Why don’t you sit?’
I lower myself into the chair then halt. What is this? ‘The chair,’ I say, ‘why is it made of chocolate?’
He pauses. ‘Maria, it is just leather.’
Carefully, I touch the armrest. Leather. I repeat the word, as if saying it will convince my mind what I am seeing. But it is no good: I still feel chocolate under my fingers.
Kurt watches me then opens a file. ‘We call this place the Banana Room because by changing venues, as we have done, we hope to encourage patients to open up without…slipping up, as it were.’
‘Slipping up?’ I scan the room, worried. ‘On what? On the sweets?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘There are no sweets. And “slipping up” is a phrase. It means saying something you wish you hadn’t.’ He pauses. ‘Or shouldn’t. The Banana Room will help you to talk.’
I do a 360-degree turn, utterly bewildered. Why can I see all this confectionery and yet Kurt claims he cannot? Is he lying to me? My eyes sweep the room. Paintings. Sweets. Marshmallow. Chocolate drops. All used as paint or decorations. They are there, I am certain. The wall, I notice, is raised with bumps like tarmac sleepers on the English roads. I stretch out my hand. My fingertips brush over the bumps. They are black, sticky. To the left of them are some red lines. I grip them—they break off into my palms.
‘Strawberry laces,’ I say to myself. I smell them; they remind me of Saturdays at the market with my father. He would buy me a packet of sweets to walk around with. I peer at the contents in my hand, observe the candy. It is long, hanging from my hands like vines from a tropical tree, a sickly scent of strawberry, caramelised sugar, vanilla.
Kurt taps his Dictaphone and places it on the driftwood table. He glances up at me. ‘Maria, are you okay? You look a little pale.’
I say nothing. My head throbs, my stomach growls. I suddenly feel very, very frightened. Am I going mad?
‘Now,’ Kurt says, ‘I thought this would be the best place to discuss what happened next after meeting Bobbie Reynolds in the yard.’
The chair is sticky and uncomfortable, fuelling what seems to be my rising temperature. I scan the room, try to focus on anything but the heat.
‘There are four hundred and two chocolate mice in here,’ I conclude after a few seconds.
‘Pardon?’
‘And one hundred and thirteen strawberry laces, seventy-seven chocolate logs, one chocolate clock, two marshmallow seats and seven orange lollies.’ I stop, drag in some oxygen. My stomach ache is stronger, pulsating. I look at Kurt.
‘Maria,’ he says, after a moment, his body rigid, forward, ‘there are no sweets in here. No strawberry laces, no chocolate logs. Okay?’ He keeps his eyes on me, narrowed. ‘Just calm down, take a few deep breaths. Okay?’
I nod, scared to speak, because Kurt is not seeing what I am—and that worries me, petrifies me, frightens me to death. Open my mouth and I know my voice will betray me, will scream out the thought that is now circling my head like a vulture tracking its prey: I don’t know who I am.
Chapter 16
I stride through the walkways to the senior office suite, notebook in hand. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do or if Bobbie can even be trusted, but I know something is not right, that something is happening. And, despite my nerves, despite the acorn of doubt in my head, I have to find out what is going on.
When I arrive at the suite, I stop, observe. Beyond the entrance is the Governor’s red door and, ahead of me, two guards. One to the left, the other directly outside the office suite entrance.
I look to guard one. ‘I want to see the Governor.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. Why would I be kidding? I want to see the Governor.’
The other guard approaches and thrusts two fists to his hips. ‘Problem?’
‘Martinez wants to see the Governor.’
The second guard laughs. ‘You got an appo
intment?’
‘No,’ I say. I keep my eyes fixed on Balthus’s office. ‘I need to see the Governor.’ Balthus’s office door opens.
‘Hey!’ I shout to him.
‘Martinez, leave,’ the guard says.
Balthus is in the corridor. ‘The Governor is leaving his office,’ I say, fast. ‘Tell him I need to see him. Tell him.’
‘You need to see him, do you?’ the second guard says. ‘Oh, well, in that case, go right on in.’
‘Oh. Okay,’ and I place my hand on the door to enter.
The first guard’s arm blocks the way. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Going right on in, like you said.’
The guard grabs my arm. ‘Okay, time to leave.’
I shake him off.
‘Hey!’ he shouts. He grips both my wrists.
At the feel of his hands on my skin I turn to stone. ‘Get off me.’
‘You’ve crossed the line, Martinez.’
I look through the window. Balthus is there. ‘Governor!’ I have to grip on to this chance, it may be my only one. ‘Governor!’ I shout.
I see Balthus halt; then, squinting at me, he begins to stride towards us. A flicker of hope. A buzzer sounds. The double doors swing open.
‘What is going on?’ Balthus stands, looming large in the doorway.
The guard keeps hold of my wrists. ‘This inmate wanted to see you without an appointment, sir. She was getting agitated.’
‘Let go of her.’
The guard hesitates. ‘Sir…’
‘I said let go of her!’
The guard drops his hands.
I rub my wrists. This is it. This is where I take a gamble on a man I do not know if I can trust, but one that appears to, somehow, be acquainted with my mother, so does that mean he is trustworthy? I look at the Governor and realise that, whatever I conclude, my road has run out. I have nowhere else to go. ‘I need to see you,’ I say finally. ‘It is urgent. It is concerning something called Project Callidus. There are people after me in here. I am not safe.’
Balthus holds my gaze. After two seconds, he narrows his eyes and says, ‘Come through.’ He presses the buzzer. The door swings wide. I finally exhale.
Balthus looks to the guards. ‘As you were.’
Kurt lowers his pen. ‘Maria, you are familiar with the term paranoia, yes?’
We have been here a while now, in this Banana Room, with the doubt and heat and the sickly smells. The scent of the sugar is causing my head to ache, my stomach to churn. I touch my scalp; sweating, hair matted slightly. Kurt has been asking me strange questions in this peculiar room; it is forcing my senses into overdrive.
‘Paranoia,’ he is saying, ‘is a psychological condition. Typical symptoms include delusions of persecution, unnecessary jealousy and inflated self-importance.’
I keep one hand on my head. ‘I am not paranoid.’
‘Really?’
I clench my jaw and try not to breathe in the sweetness, try not to show my panic.
‘From all the notes I have received about you,’ he says, ‘I would say that you have a distinct tendency to be paranoid. Dr Andersson’s notes detail—’
‘She is not who she appears to be.’
Kurt shakes his head. ‘Listen to yourself, Maria. If you want to get better, if you want to learn how to deal with what has happened to you and try to create a better future for yourself, you have to listen to me.’ He links his fingers. ‘You need to stop thinking everyone is against you. They are not. What has happened to you in prison has been very traumatic for you, you more than most because of your Asperger’s. Prison has distressed you.’
I touch my scalp. ‘I…I didn’t realise at first, the impact prison had. I would get upset so easily and that is not like me. I am normally in—’
‘In control?’
I go still. In control. I like to be in control. The phrase smacks me on the cheek, a harsh reality of self.
‘Prison has made you more prone to outbursts of feelings,’ Kurt says. ‘That would be the trauma, the wrench of being confined, the shock of the conviction, the experience. But not only that. Your memory has also been affected by it all—prison, denial, even grief of your father’s distant death, as Dr Andersson highlighted. And as a consequence? Your judgement is impaired. And you agreed to see me. A counsellor with a proven track record of helping people like you.’ He leans forward. ‘So when, for example, you enquire why the yellow note from earlier was blank, all I can say is take a long hard look in the mirror, and ask yourself this: what can I do to get myself better?’
I frown, confused. ‘You said, “I”. Are you referring to me or you?’
Kurt slams his hand on the chair rest. I jump, hold my breath. What happened? Kurt runs a hand through his hair. Then, rolling his shoulders, slips on a smile. ‘I mean you, Maria,’ he says, his voice softer now. ‘What can you do to get better?’
He sits back, picks up the Dictaphone. ‘Okay. You are going to talk now. Clear?’
But I remain very still, scared to move. He was angry. Was he? I think so. And if he was, then that is the first time, the first time he has lost his temper. The first time he has lost control.
The mask is slipping.
Balthus closes the door and turns to me. ‘What’s going on? You’re not supposed to do what you did out there.’
My heart beats fast. Something has happened to put me in here, in prison. So, I have to do something to get myself out. There is a choice to make. I have to decide who to ask for help. And who to avoid.
Balthus stands very still like an oak tree, firm, strong. ‘You said you were not safe. Who has been speaking to you?’
‘Bobbie Reynolds.’
He blinks once, but says nothing, just lets his eyes flicker to the side then back to me, his body solid, unmoving. After two seconds, he steps back, clears his throat. ‘Please sit.’
I lower myself into a chair by his desk, place my notebook in my lap and wait. When he finally sits, he feels less looming, more honey-like, natural. But honey is made by bees, and bees can sting.
Balthus unbuttons his jacket, white shirt against tan skin, and levels his gaze at me. ‘You mentioned something called Callidus, just now, at the main doors.’ His index finger taps the table.
I nod.
‘Did Bobbie Reynolds mention that word, too?’
‘Yes. After I did, but yes.’
Balthus looks at me, but says nothing. The clock on the wall ticks, the shelves stand to attention by the walls.
‘I believe her,’ I say.
‘Believe who? Bobbie? Let me show you something.’ Leaning to the side, he taps his computer. A printer to his left whirrs to life. He reaches over, lifts the ink-warm paper that has emerged and slides it to me.
‘What is this?’
‘Read.’
Slowly, I take it, suddenly unsure, nervous. I scan the paper. It is a psychiatric evaluation on Bobbie. Therapist reports, crime sheet, family background. The words ‘cold’, ‘manipulative’, ‘charming’ repeat like markers, like bumps in the road. And then the final conclusion the report gives: that Bobbie is a psychopath. My head starts to shake. It can’t be true. I refuse to believe it’s true.
‘This means nothing.’ I shove the report aside, not wanting to accept it because if Bobbie is making it all up, if she is unhinged, manipulative, then I will be left with the gaping truth staring me in the face: nobody put me in here. I put myself in prison. Because I killed the priest.
Balthus stares at me, his brown eyes two deep pools. He laces his fingers together. ‘You said Bobbie told you that you aren’t safe?’
‘Yes,’ I say after a moment.
‘And you are certain of this?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes.’
He holds my gaze then breaks away. Pausing first, his hand hovering mid-air, he reaches forward and opens a drawer.
I watch him, suspicious, heart rate rocketing. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Your in
teraction with Bobbie…’ He trails off, drops his hands. ‘What she says concerns me. It concerns me that you believe her.’
‘But the report cannot be…’ I stop, unsure what direction to take, which way to turn. ‘The psychiatric evaluation of her cannot be right.’
‘Maria, what Bobbie said to you is a lie. It’s what she does.’
I close my mouth, press my lips together tight, scared that if I speak, if I articulate what my brain is thinking, it may not make sense. Because the simple truth is: I don’t know. I don’t know what is going on or who is real. Who is good, who is bad. ‘I have to believe her,’ I say after a while, voice weak. ‘Because I didn’t kill the priest.’
Balthus stares, his head dropping then lifting to reveal eyes slit like steel. ‘I didn’t want to have to tell you this quite so soon.’ His voice is low, metallic.
I press my palms into my notebook, try to remain calm. ‘Tell me what?’ I say, almost too frightened to ask.
‘This,’ he says, ‘was taken a long time ago.’
He dips into the drawer and slides across a photograph. Inching forward, I look, holding my breath. It is of two men. The image is grainy, but visible. I touch it. The paper is worn, perhaps several decades old.
‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘It was taken in 1973,’ he says, voice smooth yet coarse.
The photograph pulls my eyes to it. ‘Who are these people?’
‘That one is me.’ He places a manicured fingernail on the face of a young man. His hair is dark, shoulder length. His shirt has a very wide collar, dark sunglasses shrouding his eyes. A knot begins to tighten in my stomach, my brain sparking. I fling the picture at Balthus. ‘Take it away.’
He hesitates then reaches forward, picks up the photograph. He looks at it for a few seconds, his breathing deep, heavy, then sets the image down between us. I sit, stare, not daring to move. I don’t know how much I can trust him. I don’t really know who he is.
‘I hadn’t long started university,’ he says after a while.
I find my voice. ‘What has this got to do with anything? Why are you telling me all this? Is it a game? Some social nuance game I can’t interpret? What? What?’ And I slam my hand to the desk, but he simply continues as if I had never spoken.