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

by Nikki Owen

  ‘We were studying Law at Churchill College, Cambridge.’

  I go still. ‘We?’

  He breathes out. ‘Your father and I.’

  ‘What? My papa? You knew my papa? What?’ I say, over and over. ‘What? But how…? Why…?’ I sit, shake my head. Blood pumps fast into the base of my brain, banging, thrashing.

  ‘Your father, Alarico, had a European scholarship for Cambridge. That’s where I met him.’ He pauses. ‘That is where I met your mother.’

  ‘Why are you…?’ I stop, unable to articulate the thoughts that come flying out from my head. This man knew my papa, my mama. This man, the Governor of the prison I reside in. It is too much. Too much. I smack my head with my palm, my brain overloading, threatening to blow a fuse from the waves of lies, of truths.

  ‘He was concerned for your safety,’ Balthus says, cutting through my panic. ‘That’s why, when you told me about Bobbie, about what she said, I instantly became worried.’

  I pause, lower my hand, try to stave off the tremor. ‘Why are you telling me now?’

  He plants his elbows into the desk. ‘When you were young, Alarico—your father—he spoke to me, told me to keep an eye on you should anything ever happen to you. He had serious…fears. Something is clearly happening to you. That is why I am telling you now.’

  ‘But…but…’ I trail off, the words too spiked, too sharp to speak. If he was keeping an eye on me, what else was he doing? Is he one of them, working for the Project? Is he my handler in here, using me, too? Is no one who they seem? I stand, fast. ‘I have to go. I have to go.’

  ‘No. Maria, stay.’

  But I ignore him, my eyes searching for the door, frantic. I spot it, grab my notebook and run to the exit.

  ‘Maria, stop!’

  I can hear him, but I reach the door, rattling the handle, desperate. ‘Let me out!’

  He is there by my side now, his torso thick, steady, his hands blocking the door. ‘I’m sorry you are finding out like this.’

  I shake my head. ‘Are you with them? With Callidus?’

  ‘What? No.’

  I grip the handle tighter. ‘How can I believe you? They have been watching me all my life. All my life! And now this Bobbie tells me to speak to you and you tell me my papa said to keep an eye on me, so what am I supposed to think?’ My chest heaves. ‘What?’

  ‘Sir?’ A guard shouts from the corridor beyond. We both go still. ‘Is everything okay in there?’

  Balthus stares at me. I force myself to meet his gaze, to make myself stand up to him. ‘Everything is fine,’ he shouts to the guard after a few seconds, his eyes not leaving mine. ‘Everything is fine.’

  He steps away from the door, drops his hands to his side. ‘Maria, I don’t know who or what Callidus is. They have not sent me to watch you. The only thing I know is that your father was my friend and he told me to look out for you.’

  ‘Why?’ I say, my body tense, ready to run. ‘Why did you not tell me when I arrived at Goldmouth that you knew my papa, knew my mama?’

  ‘I am the Governor, Maria. What could I say?’

  ‘You could have told the truth.’

  He nods and I look at him. Everything I thought was right, everything I believed in—my life, who I was, why I was here—all of it is disappearing, evaporating like water droplets into the atmosphere until they will eventually vanish, die.

  A wave of exhaustion surges over me. I begin to loosen my grip on the door when a high-pitched buzzing suddenly invades the air. I slap my hands to my ears. ‘What is that?’

  ‘My bleeper.’

  He slips it from his pocket, turns it off, reads the message. ‘I have to go.’

  I drop my hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘An…emergency.’ He coughs. He shoots to his desk, picks up the phone and dials a number. Done, he sets down the receiver, strides to the door, then stops. He turns, looks at me. ‘You sit, wait here.’

  ‘But I have many questions and—’

  He holds up a hand. ‘Please, just wait for me.’ He presses his lips together. ‘I have more to tell you. I promise.’

  He stares at me but does not move, eyes like two mirrors. I wonder if I looked deep into them, what I would see? Would they tell me that I can trust him?

  ‘You said it was an emergency.’

  He inhales. ‘Yes.’ He presses the exit buzzer, buttons up his jacket as, from outside, an alarm begins to wail. I watch as the door shuts and locks as he leaves.

  Alone, I let my shoulders drop. My mind feels wild, crazed with what I have just been told. I need to sit, rest, think. Turning, I go to walk to the chair when I spy a laptop on the desk. I halt. Bobbie. She mentioned this.

  I grip my notebook and stride round to Balthus’s desk.

  I need to find answers.

  Chapter 17

  ‘I am bending over the priest’s body,’ I say. ‘He is still warm. There is no heartbeat, no pulse. Blood pools everywhere, thick, sticky. It drips down the steps like treacle and trickles towards the altar. Through the priest’s neck there is an entrance wound, one slash, slick, neat. A knife. Clean like butter. The urge to stick my finger in the hole is incredible. I stand up. Fingermarks at a crime scene. Not good.’

  Kurt’s chair creaks. ‘What happens next in the dream?’

  I smack my lips together, mouth coarse, dry. ‘The rope binding the priest’s hands and ankles is taut now; I track its course, woven as it is around his limbs. There—by the altar,’ I say, as if I can see it, touch it, ‘that is where each juncture is secured. I stride over and inspect them. Tight. Immovable. I walk back to the body. There is more blood now, deep red, almost black. I can smell the iron. The blood is oozing from the wound and, when I inspect the arms, there are slashes there, too. He never stood a chance.’

  ‘Then?’

  I shift in my seat, the recollection of the dream uncomfortable. ‘Footsteps. I freeze, listen. There is no time. Whoever it is, they are getting closer. My eyes dart left to right. The knife…It’s nowhere to be seen. I check, but no. Nothing.’

  ‘What do you dream next?’

  I close my eyes, think. ‘The footsteps. They are nearer.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  I inhale. ‘In the end, it is an easy decision. I turn and run. As fast as I can. Something tells me to, I don’t know, a voice in my head? An instinct I don’t recall learning? It urges me to go, to leave an invisible trace. To never be found. As if I don’t exist.’

  Kurt’s mobile phone shrills.

  My eyes fly open and I catch my breath. Kurt has been listening to me explain what I remember of my recurring dream: the priest, his death, his blood. All detail that I know about, yet do not recall being actively part of; instincts that kick-start in me, yet ones that I do not recollect learning.

  Kurt’s eyes are narrowed on me, observing, his mobile phone shrill dying off. A pen dangles from his fingers. ‘Does the dream always end with the footsteps? With you running away? Always has you bending over Father O’Donnell’s body?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’ I touch my scalp. The room feels as if it is spinning slightly.

  Kurt twists the pen in his fingers. ‘It sounds as if it is just that: a dream. Made up, fabricated. Because in the dream, you ran away, but of course, in the real world, you were caught, you were not invisible. And you do exist.’

  ‘But I don’t even recall being there. So why am I dreaming about it?’

  ‘Your mind will conjure up all sorts of scenarios to protect you from the trauma. From the reality.’

  I touch my forehead. My mind. My Asperger’s. This strange, sickly sweet room. Everything that has happened to me recently—it has all affected my mind more than I thought. That must be why here, now, even in this room with Kurt, I sense things that are, perhaps, not even there, my brain moving quicker than normal, just as it does in prison, forcing it, each second of the day, into fight or flight mode. It must be why the colours are brighter, the smells stronger, the noises louder, my finge
rs faster.

  Kurt swings his leg for a moment; then, sitting forward, he picks up his mobile. He checks it then shoots up. ‘I have to make a brief call.’

  A panic surfaces. A rush of heat hits my head, almost knocking me out. I lay a palm on my brow, but my skin is clammy, and it does no good.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I do not want to be alone in here.’

  He sighs. ‘There is nothing to be frightened of. I am a therapist—other people need me, too.’

  Kurt begins to walk towards the door when his shoe gets caught on the chair leg. He shakes it off, mud, debris dropping from the sole. He darts one glance to me. Then, walking to the door, he repeats that I am not to be scared, and then he exits.

  The door shuts. Silence.

  My laboured breathing the only sound in the room, I look around, try to rationalise what is going on. I can see sweets, but Kurt can’t. Why? I must be hallucinating, that is the only medical explanation, but how? I have not taken anything, not popped any pills. At a loss, I roll my head a little when something catches my eye in the faint light. I stop and stare. There is something on the floor, something from Kurt’s shoe. Curious, I stand then sway a little. The sweets, the chocolate paintings, the sickly scent—real or not—they must be taking their toll. Steadying myself, I inch towards the door. When I reach it, I crouch down and pick up whatever has dropped from Kurt’s shoe. I expect it to be a stone.

  But it is not.

  There, on my palm, is small piece of peat with a strand of moss stuck in it.

  I raise it to my nose and sniff. Grass and damp earth, they spark something, a thought in me, a distant recollection. I smell them again, their burnt cinder firing a memory and I start to recall something. Like a radio being tuned, voices scratch like static across my mind, as if trying to broadcast to me, as if trying to communicate. Usually, I get a warning, but this time, nothing. The memory is fast, relentless. Within seconds, my breathing becomes quick and my chest tightens. Until, click! An image appears, a video in my head, and I am watching.

  I am in a hospital ward, on a bed. The sheets are white and the air is damp. There is a cannula inserted into the vein on my hand, and by my side stands an IV drip. There are no doctors. No nurses.

  I hear a voice as the door ahead opens. A cold draught shoots in, razor-sharp. There, stood in the room, is my mother. She is wearing a grey suit, her hair bobbing by her shoulders, her skin smooth, wrinkle-free. A white mask covers her mouth. She strides towards me and halts.

  ‘Read this book, Maria, darling. Read it for Mama.’

  I look at what she has thrust at me. A novel. Hesitating, I take it. For some reason, it seems the safest option, to do as I am told. The book has a hundred and five pages, and my mother instructs me to open it and read. I do as she says. Immediately, she clicks a button on a stopwatch; it begins to tick.

  I read the pages aloud. It does not take me long. When I finish, my mother clicks the watch and a doctor arrives.

  ‘How long?’ he says.

  My mother shows him the stop clock.

  The doctor’s eyes go wide. ‘Quicker. Good, Ines.’

  I say that I am thirsty, but my mother doesn’t hear me. She addresses the doctor. ‘Is her condition developing as expected?’

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor says, ‘but there is more to do. For the meantime, I have secured these for you.’ He hands her something. I see it: two vials of medicine. My mother’s fingers clasp them, and then they both look to me. I do not know why, but I know I must shut my eyes; I must not see.

  The image fades, slowly at first then fast, like liquid down a drain. I watch it, cry out after it, but it disappears like a rush of water. I open my eyes and gasp. I am slumped on the floor, my skin soaked, sweat sliding down my face onto candy and chocolate.

  Swallowing, I manage to drag myself up, try to make sense of what I have just remembered. How could my mother be there? Am I recalling events incorrectly, putting her there because it suits me? Suits me to have someone to blame? She has been nothing but nice to me, yet what have I been to her? Suspicious. Difficult.

  I concentrate on breathing in and out, on remaining calm, on trying to determine what I saw. It did not seem real, as if it were an old silent film where the reel flickers and the images are grainy. But the peat—the peat from Kurt’s shoe—I think of it and I bite down hard on my lip. For some reason, it was a trigger. A trigger to the past.

  I have to find out exactly who Kurt is.

  Before it is too late.

  I sit down and am immediately faced with a barrier: Balthus’s password. I flop back. I don’t know how to bypass this, how to access his computer. I shake my head. What was I thinking? I am just a doctor, not an IT technician, I know nothing about this and…My eyes land on my notebook. I stop, tilt my head, look at it. A wash of something ripples over me, but I cannot place it, cannot pin it down.

  Slowly, I watch as my hand reaches out, slides the notebook to me, opens the cover. Numbers, patterns, codes. All of them are etched into every corner of the pad, none of them familiar to me, and yet, what if? A clatter sounds from the yard outside, making me jerk up. I wait, listen, blood rushing through my veins, heart, ears, but all outside is quiet now, motionless.

  Fast, I return my eyes to my notepad, scanning the pages. For some reason, I flip to the middle section. My pulse shoots up, hands slippy. A dream I had one night—it is all there. A procedure, patterns, method, things that came to me one night like strangers. Moving quickly, I read the words scrawled in front of me: Log into an alternate account.

  I sit up. How did I know to write that down? Swallowing, I glance again to the page, my eyes almost too afraid to look, too scared to see what I know, what I can do. At first, it’s just a series of numbers and letters, each meaningless, seemingly irrelevant, but then I blink and something starts to form in front of my eyes and it scares me. I throw the notebook down, breathing hard. Did I really just spot that? I claw back the writing pad, force myself to examine it again. It is there: a code, a pattern hidden within my scrawl. The method to hack a computer password code.

  My mind races. Why would I know that? Why would I write it down? How did I learn it? I catch sight of the clock and it knocks me temporarily out of my panic. Not much time. Balthus will return soon. If I am going to do this, it has to be now.

  Hesitantly at first, then with speed, my fingers fly across the keyboard. I pause, inhale. I have never done this before, at least, I don’t think so. I work quick, neat. The system prompts me for another password and I stall. How do I bypass this? I scan the notebook, examine the pattern, but then something walks into my head, an answer: press enter. I wait, my finger hovering over the key. Then I press it. One second, two, three. It works. I let out a laugh, amazed at what I can do, scared at why. Shooting a glance at the time, I fly to the user accounts, select Balthus’s main one and immediately change the password and sit back.

  After one second, it flashes up: full system access. I am in.

  I start with this room. If I think it’s made of sweets, then I’d better be sure.

  I look around, swaying slightly, my eyes seeing double. I blink, open them wide; it helps, but only a little. The room still dusted with sugar, I decide to see at least what I can uncover. I take on the picture frames first. They house three paintings, all in a row. Upon first glance, they are made of liquorice and butter icing, and there is a sprinkling of frosting over the top. I inch out my hand. My fingers touch the edge of the first painting and it feels wet, sticky. I begin to investigate it when a stab of pain in my stomach jabs me. I stop, let it pass. Then, inhaling, I continue. Bit by bit, I peel the edge off the first frame. It comes away with ease and I keep tugging when something makes me halt. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my trouser leg, then steer my hand forward until I feel the liquorice in my finger. And even though my logical mind says that my brain is playing tricks, still it feels real, smells real. I pause and listen for any sound of Kurt, but no buzzers vibra
te from the corridor, no footsteps echo on the tiles.

  The liquorice frame is smooth. Each line of it spans the width of the canvas, but there is something on the end, by the edge. A flush of heat races to my face. I pause, wait for it to subside and recommence. Pulling a little, it becomes clear that the liquorice to the left of the frame is loose, as if it has already been torn off. As if something has been placed under it.

  Feeling a kernel of panic, of uncertainty, I pause before investigating further, exhale hard. The frame is bumpy. I glance to the other two pictures and see that they are smooth, untouched. I reach out and, taking the end of the uneven liquorice, one millimetre at a time, begin to peel it away. It is welded down, but eventually it starts to give. I pull back, examine it. At first, it is difficult to detect, but then I see it.

  Black, minute, but definitely there.

  A camera.

  And that is when I realise that I can hear Kurt’s voice.

  The handle is turning. Moving fast, I press the liquorice back into place as much as possible then shoot to my chair.

  But before I can reach it, Kurt is already entering the room.

  Chapter 18

  I can see Kurt’s hand on the door.

  Darting my eyes left and right, I spot a crop of marshmallow flowers and, grabbing a handful, I thrust them into my mouth.

  Kurt stops when he sees me. ‘What are you doing?’ His mobile phone hangs from his hand.

  ‘I am eating marshmallow,’ I say. Liquid dribbles down my chin.

  ‘Maria, there are no marshmallows in here. Is that sick down your chin? Are you okay?’

  I touch my face. He’s right. I have been sick. And I realise with a vicious shock that it’s not marshmallow in my mouth, it is vomit.

  Kurt begins to walk towards me when a voice bellows from his phone. He must still be on a call. He stops, glances to me, then puts the phone to his ear. ‘Yes?’

  Immediately, I wipe my chin, my breath ragged, vision smeared. Sweat trickles from my brow and I dab it with the heel of my hand, but it does no good. A wave of nausea rises from my stomach and the room begins to sway, a gentle rocking motion, like a boat bobbing on the sea.