by Nikki Owen
I turn to Harry. ‘Did you hear that?’
He nods. ‘The NSA scandal? It’s all over the papers.’
‘Do you think it has anything to do with the Project?’
But before Harry can reply, the door opens and the solicitor peers round. ‘It’s time.’
My pulse begins to race. I look at Harry. My father’s friend. I have never been so scared in all my life.
‘You can do this,’ Harry says, standing, giving me one of his creased smiles. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.
‘Mr Warren?’ a guard says from the door.
Harry nods at him, hands me a tissue. ‘For later. Just in case.’
As we walk towards the courtroom, I have to stop, lean against the wall. A memory? A dream? I don’t know, but it is rolling in, fast, slicing into my mind: me, chest heaving, arms, legs smeared in blood, a knife hanging from my fingers, a priest’s collar lying torn on the floor.
‘Maria? Are you all right? Maria?’
I blink, suddenly aware of where I am. I gulp in a breath, cup my hands round my mouth.
‘It’s normal to have a small panic,’ Harry says. ‘That’s it, breathe.’
I do as he says, take air into my lungs. Gradually, the image, the blood in my mind slides away.
‘We have to go,’ Harry says. ‘Okay? It’s starting now. You’ll be fine.’
And I nod to Harry, but, in my head, the flicker of what I just saw slips back again, the reality of it now taking over as I walk to face the court.
I killed him.
Chapter 28
Kurt shoves his face in front of mine. ‘I said, stop.’ There is spit on the corner of his mouth, his teeth snarl like a rabid dog.
‘You are hurting me,’ I croak. My eyes dart round, frantic for an escape.
A police siren races by outside. Kurt freezes, glances to the window. The siren fades away.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, and he releases me, and steps back.
I drop to the floor and gasp for air, rub my neck where he held me, lifting my left hand to push myself up, when something pinches it. Slowly, I open my palm. There, on my skin, is a metal spider, and on it, a tiny spec of a camera lens. I try to hide my shock, try to hide the gasp that slips out of my mouth, but when I look up, Kurt is already staring at me.
I look at the spider then at Kurt. ‘Who are you?’
He stares at me and I think he is about to run at me again, when, instead, he shakes his head, walks over to the table and rests against it. His chest heaves up and down. ‘I’m with the Project,’ he says after a moment. He wipes his forehead. ‘We have been recording everything. With that camera.’
‘Why?’ I shake my head. ‘Why?’ My brain flies. The voicemail message. Dr Carr—Black Eyes. They had enough recording material. And this is how they got the recording. My eyes shoot to the spider, examining every inch. It looks just like a household spider. There are eight legs and, when I turn it over, a tiny battery sits tucked on the underbelly. I pull myself up and stand as straight as I can against the wall, but the room sways, and I feel as if I am in a boat on the sea, the waves choppy, the wind wild, and that with every swell, with every slosh, I am losing my bearings.
I force myself, will myself to remain as still as possible, and wait for Kurt to explain.
The courtroom is heaving with people, the air hot and clammy.
I walk in, eyes betraying me, not being still, but scanning it all, wild at the sights, noises, bustle. My hands move to buffer my ears, but the guard shakes her head and so they remain by my side.
Up in the gallery, people sit, fanning their faces with their hands, the morning heat sweltering, unforgiving. There is no sign of my mother, brother or Balthus. On the ceiling, one fan circulates air around the room, but the sun is indiscriminate, burning anything it can through the high windows, searing the walnut desks, the wooden stands, the oak panelling. On the clock above the judge’s bench, the time reads 09.37.
Concentrating on anything but the memories still floating in my mind, I bend forward and look to my right. A small circular table has been set with a plastic beaker containing water. I have been told the only time I am permitted to stand is when I am instructed to do so.
A door creaks open, loud, in the far left-hand corner of the room, and I jump a little. Footsteps. Firm. Flat.
‘Court rise,’ says the usher towards the front. I stand, focus, but so much is happening, so fast, that I find it hard to control the thoughts that pick me up and carry me away.
The clerk clears her throat, an usher to her right, Harry and the prosecutor stood in front. ‘Her Majesty’s Crown Court for the trial of a criminal case with jury is now open and all persons having anything to do thereat may attend and they shall be heard. His Lordship Mr Justice Marling-Fenton presiding.’
The judge enters, sits, his long white wig hitting the bench, his pale, sunken cheeks sucking in and out. I swallow, try not to think of the power, the life-changing, Godlike control this man in a wig and a robe has in his hands. On the instruction of the usher, everyone in the courtroom returns to their seats. But I am told to remain standing. Why? I cast a glance round the room and my palms start to sweat. Everyone is staring at me.
The clerk begins to empanel the jury. I count as, one by one, a name is read out until twelve men and women are seated in the jury box, men and women I have never met before, people I know nothing about, and who know very little about me. The real me.
Finished with the jury, the clerk picks up a document and faces me. ‘Maria Martinez Villanueva, you are charged with the murder of Father Joseph O’Donnell. Do you understand that?’
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry, mute.
‘You have to speak.’
I swallow back non-existent saliva. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
I hesitate, not knowing what to say, to think. The memory, the knife, the blood smeared over my body. Was it real? Did I do it for the Project? Or was it a hallucination, a figment of my imagination? My eyes land on Harry, his smile, and I think of my papa, warm, safe. And then, like it was always there, somewhere deep inside, a feeling of calm, of pure clarity envelops me, presenting me with the answer I have been searching: I need to do this. I need to do this for Papa. I draw in a breath. ‘Not guilty.’
A low whisper whistles around the courtroom.
The judge looks to me. ‘You may sit, Ms Martinez.’
The fan spins on the ceiling and the people in the public gallery stretch their necks to get a view. Down by the bench, the prosecutor rolls his shoulders and prepares his papers for his opening speech.
As he does so, I make myself sit up as straight as I can.
Once the prosecutor completes his opening statement, below in the counsels’ area, Harry stands. ‘I’d like to call Dr Andrea Gann.’
A murmur ripples around the courtroom. I shift in my seat, agitated, impatient. If this pathologist discredits the original DNA evidence, it could win us the case.
Dr Gann is sworn in by the clerk and sits down. Her hair is short, mouse brown, and her glasses have a thick black frame.
‘Dr Gann,’ Harry says, ‘can you first begin by telling me your credentials.’
She nods, reels off a long list of professorships and institutions.
Harry thanks her and proffers a brief smile. ‘Could I ask you to explain to the jury what state Father O’Donnell’s body was in when you found it?’
‘Yes. The victim was found inside the convent chapel, by the altar. He was on his back and his arms and legs were spread out in a star shape, secured at each juncture.’
‘I’m sorry, “juncture”? Could you explain what you mean by that?’
A vision swims into my consciousness. Tied up ankles, tethered wrists.
‘The victim was secured by rope to each wrist and ankle, so he was splayed in a star shape.’ She holds out her fingers and thumbs. ‘The rope was secured, well, weighed down actually, by four chalic
es.’
‘And the injuries suffered?’
I brace myself to hear it, to hear the sorry truth.
‘Knife wounds were sustained to the hands. The palms were up. Each hand had been pierced all the way through to the other side by a sharp instrument, probably a kitchen knife. The same for his feet—both pierced by a knife all the way through.’
Harry nods. ‘And they were fatal wounds in your opinion?’
‘No. While those wounds would have caused substantial blood loss, there was a further wound—a perforating stab wound to the neck region, just below the trachea.’
‘But is the windpipe not hard to perforate?’
Windpipe—why does that word lodge in my throat? Why does it mean something? Something separate, new?
Dr Gann shakes her head. ‘The area perforated was the soft triangle of skin just below the windpipe.’
My finger glides over my neck. I frown. My memory—the knife, the blood, priest—there were no neck wounds that I recall, just one fatal stab to the femoral artery.
‘And was that the fatal wound?’ Harry says. I set my concentration back on him.
Dr Gann nods. ‘Yes. It perforated from front to back.’
‘All the way through?’
‘Yes,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘All the way through.’
There is a whip of gasps from the public gallery. ‘Would you say, Dr Gann,’ Harry continues, ‘that this wound would have required considerable force to inflict? Considerable muscle power?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Not at all. In fact, that area is soft, like butter.’
I glance to the jury, try to concentrate on the contours of their faces, anything to distract me from my thoughts, but still the same idea dominates my mind. Because a phrase is coming to me now, as if I was taught it, conditioned to think it, one phrase and one alone. It rises up above this expert witness, above the evidence and the facts, a phrase I realise, with revulsion, with a sudden jerk of memory, I have always known: if you want to kill someone, if you truly want to kill someone for a cause, for the greater good, then no matter what your obstacle, no matter how difficult it may appear at first, in truth, it is easy.
The phrase: Killing is easy.
Chapter 29
Kurt holds out his hand. ‘I need the camera back.’
I grip the spider tighter.
‘Jesus Christ.’ He shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know who you are, do you?’
‘I do. I am—’
‘No, you don’t know. You don’t know who you fucking well are at all. You’re a mess.’
I keep my eyes open wide, not even a blink, because, if I close them, if I imagine for a moment that none of this exists, it will all disappear.
‘Who am I?’
Kurt runs a palm across his mouth. ‘You are a highly conditioned intelligence asset and you belong to us. You are part of us—the UK and USA secret services. You are an extreme-priority individual selected, because of your Asperger’s, for a covert conditioning programme called Project Callidus. And you are going to tell me how you managed to fuck it all up!’
‘Why…why are you saying this?’
He sighs. ‘Look at the state of you. To think I had my hopes set on you.’
‘Your brother,’ I say. I look at the spider in my hand, confused. My eyes dart, frantic, around the room. ‘Is this…is this some sort of flashback?’
‘You’ve been conditioned to remember everything you see, you’ve had millions spent on training you, so why don’t you tell me what this is?’ He waits, unmoving, coiled as if ready to pounce.
‘But I don’t remember everything.’ I tap my hand on my leg. ‘Why did you say you were a therapist? Why did you lie?’ I step to the side.
‘We needed to assess you completely unaffected, without your knowledge, so we could see how you were performing. Your memory was starting to malfunction—we needed to know what we were dealing with. The therapy cover was our route in.’
‘Why are you telling me all this? Why now?’
‘Because the service wants you dead.’ His shoulders finally drop. ‘And we want you alive.’
My hands begin to tremble. ‘But…you said you are with the service.’
He exhales. ‘Not any more.’
‘I…I don’t understand.’
He wipes his mouth. ‘Callidus—the Project—used to be part of MI5, part of a wide international programme against terrorism, but not traditional stuff. Callidus uses people, computers to fight the terrorists. Callidus uses intellect, not muscle.’
The report we found on Balthus’s computer that linked to MI5. My name on the list. The test child. I swallow hard. ‘You said, “used to be part of MI5”, past tense.’
‘MI5 want to cull the Project after thirty years.’
‘Why?’
He hesitates, rakes a hand through his hair. ‘The US National Security Agency is just hitting a huge scandal. Surveillance of stuff—internet sites, social media—they may not have been…allowed to watch, shall we say. Anyway, the world has got wind of it and now MI5 are scared the same will happen to them with Callidus, so they want it gone.’ He exhales. ‘Which means they want you gone.’
‘No…’ I clutch my hair, words whipping past my eyes, truth smacking me in the face. ‘Michaela Croft, the inmate. She was—’
‘MI5,’ he says, confirming it all. ‘And the woman you know as Dr Andersson? MI5.’
‘Blood. She was taking my blood.’
‘We needed to monitor you. But she’s not with the Project any more.’
I step back. ‘Why? This is not right. This cannot happen. I am not an experiment to be discarded. I do not belong to you, to Callidus, MI5 or anyone else.’
‘Bullshit,’ Kurt snaps. I go still. ‘We conditioned you—tests, training, code cracking, all of it—we did it to make you think bigger, better, faster than anyone else, than enemies, than the sneaky fucking little jihad terrorists that killed my brother. It’s not about muscle power any more, it’s about intelligence.’ He jabs a finger at his head. ‘High-functioning intelligence. Yes, we trained you to be strong, to fight if you needed to—to kill.’ He stops, draws in a breath. When he speaks, his voice is softer, quieter. ‘But, Maria, it’s all about what’s in your head, what astounding things your brain is capable of. You can save people! So, please, Maria, please: think. Why is the priest dead, hmm? It’s all part of the terrorist fight. It all starts and ends with you, Maria. You.’
I shake my head over and over. Two priests, one bloodied face. They swirl round and round, until I don’t know which is which any more. I look to Kurt. Does he know? Does he know the truth? ‘Did…did I kill him?’ I ask, my voice unstable. ‘Was he an…an assignment?’
Kurt checks his watch. ‘Shit. We have to go.’
I wipe my face. ‘No.’
‘Christ, you really don’t get it, do you? We’re on the same side. MI5 want the Project culled, which means they want you dead.’ He exhales. ‘You and I work solely for the Project. They want you hauled back in now, but, this, right here, is the end of the road. You figured out about the handlers, right?’
I nod, unable to speak.
‘Well, they kept an eye on you then, and I am doing just that now. I am helping you, I have been all along, even though I know you’ll find that hard to believe. And you’re not safe any more. I can’t protect you here; the game has just changed. Now, please, let’s go.’
His mobile bleeps. Neither of us moves. Then, slowly, Kurt slips his hand to his pocket and pulls out the phone. ‘Damn.’
I inch away from the wall. ‘What?’
‘They are sending her in if you don’t move soon.’
‘Who?’ I dart round. ‘They are sending who in? The woman with the coffee?’ The nightmare—that was real. ‘You told Black Eyes that you had put too much of the drug in the coffee. They said I had to be sent back to London.’ I slap my hand back to the wall. ‘It wasn’t a dream. You have been drugging me, all this time in
therapy.’ I gulp in oxygen. It all makes sense: my wild thoughts, hallucinations, swaying, paranoia—all down to the drug.
‘We had to have some way of extracting your thoughts,’ Kurt says. ‘The drug gave us a chance to get the data we needed from you without you realising.’
A slap of nausea hits me, knocks me backwards. ‘You can’t do this.’
Kurt taps his jacket, then halting, pulls something out of his top pocket. It glints in the sun: a syringe.
‘What are you doing?’
Liquid sloshes in the vial. I glance to the broken glass tube, to the door that is still locked.
Kurt steps closer. ‘You have to trust me now, Maria. The coffee lady won’t be as nice as me. We are fighting for the same cause, you and I. We’re good people. Trust me, it’s easier this way. You won’t be out for long. It’s just to get you out safely, unnoticed.’
The needlepoint glistens in the light, loaded, ready to make me forget, tempting me, like a sweet high, to soothe and make all this go away. But it won’t go away, ever, like a cancer spreading to every organ in the body, it won’t respond to treatment.
I push Kurt into the wall and scramble to the door.
The entire jury watches now as Harry taps his chin, looks straight at Dr Gann as she details Father O’Donnell’s death. The urge to cover my ears so I don’t have to hear it is almost unbearable.
‘Dr Gann, to pin the victim down as he was found,’ Harry says, ‘regardless of the ease at which the neck wound could be administered, wouldn’t it have taken force, to keep him still?’
‘Yes,’ she replies after a moment.
Force. Pinning someone down. I sit forward, a wave of heat smacking into me. Because the thought grabs me, shakes me, wakes me up: the Project have trained me, conditioned me to be strong—strong enough to hold a man down flat to the ground. I wrap my hands around my arms, my torso, muscles. I have always assumed my athletic build came naturally. Maybe I was wrong.