The Girl Who Ran

by Nikki Owen

  ‘My age,’ I say, the word tumbling from my mouth, unexpected, rogue. ‘The woman – your wife – she was the same age as I am now.’

  ‘That was just your mind playing tricks, Maria. As I said.’

  ‘No. No, I remember a clock.’

  Black Eyes’ knuckles run white. ‘What clock? In the chamber?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Where?’ he asks, louder.

  I flinch, trip over my words. ‘In Switzerland.’ A heartbeat of recollection. Chris. A computer device. The warm fug of wood and wine. ‘Why is my birthday important?’

  ‘It…’ His teeth clench then releasing. When finally he speaks, there is a glaze in his eyes, a steel tip to his tongue. ‘Maria, enough now. I have explained to you that everything you saw in there was nothing but your brain generating its own show. You have just been under sensory deprivation therapy. You are on Typhernol to help you relax.’ His eyes narrow and when he speaks, his voice slithers like the hiss of a snake from his lips. ‘Stop insisting on asking these questions when there is only one answer. Do you understand?’

  I shiver. Chris. The scent of baked bread and aftershave. Patricia. Her broken, bloodied body – the enemy. A clock ticking loudly in my head. The number thirty-three. They all collide together in my mind in meteorites of thought that want so badly to connect.

  ‘Subject 375! I said do you understand?’

  I jump, grip my seat tight. ‘Yes.’

  His shoulders drop, and from his mouth billows an invisible cloud of stale garlic odour. ‘I shouted,’ he says. ‘Please, forgive me.’

  I look left, right, not knowing what to do, a worrying part of me suddenly very frightened.

  ‘Maria,’ he says, this time softer, slower, ‘do you understand that what you saw in the chamber was a trick of the brain, not real?’

  I swallow. ‘Yes.’

  He nods and presses a yellow button. ‘Good,’ he says, exhaling in the cold air. ‘Good.’ The entrance bell buzzes and the intelligence officer from earlier strides in. He leans to Black Eyes and whispers in his ear. I sit, wait, contemplate the prospect that what I saw in the chamber was not real, and yet, each time I do, my mind struggles, for a split second, to believe it was far from a hallucination and instead was a memory, a real, true memory from the past.

  From my past.

  The intelligence officer moves to the side as Black Eyes now unfurls himself from his seat and raises a finger in the air. ‘Come, Maria, there is a situation – we are needed.’

  Chapter 15

  Unknown village, The Alps, Switzerland.

  Time remaining to Project re-initiation: 21 hours and 01 minutes

  Patricia’s mouth hangs open. ‘Oh my God. What’s Harriet Alexander doing on the bloody screen?’

  Chris is flapping his hands, trying to figure out the situation. ‘It… it. Shit. It connects to a live feed to her office. How the hell did that happen? Shit.’ He panics and tries to shut down the computer tablet, but it remains stubbornly intact. ‘It’s not working. Why’s it not working?’

  I snatch it from him, do what I can, but still the image of the Home Secretary remains on the screen, and even when we clamp the computer shut and re-open it, the picture is still there.

  ‘Oh, fuck. There’s an eye and it’s moving,’ Chris says, voice high, ‘just like the one that sprang up back at my place in Montserrat. Oh fuck, oh fuck.’

  ‘You are panicking,’ I say, tapping the keys, not looking up. ‘You need to lower your voice and take a breath. Cup your hands in front of your mouth and breathe.’

  While Patricia calms Chris, I work quickly and quietly. Chris is right. There is an eye on the screen just like the one in Montserrat, but this one is different. I track it. I follow the groove of the skin that crepes under the socket and, when the lashes flap and the black pin of the retina widens, I lean in, inspect everything I can see. The picture of the Home Secretary appears to connect to a live, real-time feed somehow in her office, yet what we are seeing now is just a still image. Sweat trickles down my spine to the base of my back.

  I look to the camera. ‘Is this on?’ I say, tapping the webcam at the top of the device.

  Chris drops his hands. ‘What? Oh. What? No.’

  ‘Turn it on.’

  ‘So we can… so we can see in her office? Nah.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Yes. There is an eye on the screen similar to the one that linked last time to Black Eyes and the Project. Accessing the Home Secretary’s office, therefore, may be helpful.’

  He tracks the outline of my face, flips his eyes to Patricia and her cell, then looks back to me. ‘Fuck it.’ He sits up, straight and quick. ‘Okay, this,’ he says, grabbing the tablet and tapping the lens, ‘means… Okay so, it means we can see in, but, trouble is, use it and we risk being seen ourselves.’

  ‘Can you ensure we are not detected in the government system?’

  He leans back a little and rubs his head. ‘Hmm, I did devise a program once that can get you into webcam systems undetected. It might work here.’

  ‘Guys, no,’ Patricia says.

  ‘Do it,’ I say, ignoring her, a ripple in my gut.

  Patricia blinks at me. Chris blows out a breath. ‘You sure?’

  ‘We just witnessed the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom appear on your device and the image merge with the same one we saw on the computer at your house in Montserrat. If the Project is in receipt of the knowledge that Harriet Alexander possesses the file that incriminates the entire programme, she could be in danger. Do it.’

  Chris chews on his lip then circles his gaze around the bar. Everything is as it was before. Warm wine, half-finished glasses of beer, licking flames and a now silent band chattering indecipherable small talk over a drink before they play their next song. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Doc,’ Patricia says, whispering just to me, ‘do you really think this is a good idea? I mean, this is the Home Secretary – this is risky.’

  Normally, I would answer immediately what I think, but I am spooked. Is this what it is like for neurotypical people? Second guessing each other’s intent based on words that aren’t spoken, on gestures that are and are not made? Chris says that he has safely readjusted the camera lens via a program to what we can see on the screen. Relieved to not have to speak, I lean in, study it, and when I do it is not the eye or a code or even a series of complex algorithms presented to us, but the plush mahogany and leather office of the UK Home Secretary.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Chris!’ Patricia says. ‘What the fuck have you gone and done? What’s that?’ She points to a small green box to the top right of the screen.

  ‘Huh? Oh, that’s a program that automatically accesses her emails when she logs in.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Sweet Jesus.’

  ‘What? It’s just a small hack.’

  Why did Patricia roll her eyes? What does that mean? Does that mean she is hiding something or does it mean she is… is annoyed?

  ‘Small?’ Patricia is now spluttering at Chris. ‘Small? Fucking hell, you’ve hacked her computer and that’s her bloody office. In. The. Government!’

  Worried what everything signifies, I lean in and look at the well-dressed figure that crosses the screen like a shadow. ‘Can she see us?’

  Chris shakes his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Is the connection secure, undetectable?’

  ‘Yep. Pinged around the world, backed by my program – we’re as good as invisible.’

  I hear Patricia swear. I am concerned that she is angry, unsure as to why she would feel that way, but all the time my eyes remain on the screen. Harriet Alexander is typing on her computer, the activity log of it tracked by a small green light that flashes in the corner of the visual. Her long flame-red hair licks round her shoulders, coiffured, no grey for her fifty-five years, Parisian-smart. She is wearing a cream blouse and a crisp navy blazer with gold buttons and neat
stitching. Her skin, alabaster white, is sprinkled with a crop of freckles that butterfly across her nose and cheeks, and when she scratches her brow, fine crepe paper lines fan out in delicate feathers over a heart-shaped face. She pops on a pair of thick, square glasses with a dark brown frame.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Patricia asks, slinking back in towards the table. Her fingers linger on her cell.

  Chris surveys a program open on the top right of the screen, a scanner that tracks usage. ‘Reading files,’ he says, cross checking something. ‘But I can’t tell what. Hang on…’

  He taps the keys, blows out a puff of air that makes the stray strand billow upwards then remain there, stuck in a one finger salute to the screen. I supress the intense urge to reach forward and dab it back down.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s… No, that can’t be.’

  I lean in. ‘What?’ He looks up, his face drained suddenly of colour. ‘Is your leg hurting?’

  ‘Huh? What? Oh, no. It’s just that…’ He scratches his cheek where the stubble, once shaven for camouflage, is now pushing upwards. ‘She’s been hacked.’

  ‘Uh, yeah – duh,’ Patricia says. ‘By you.’

  ‘No. Well, yeah, but no. There’s…’ He halts, stares at Patricia, flips to me then, swallowing, squints at the screen. ‘All we have to do is… Oh fuck. There’s someone else in her system.’

  I feel the nerves in my spine sprint at speed. Patricia moves in too, asks what’s going on, and I find myself confused, wondering whether the reason she wants to know what is happening may be different to mine. ‘Can you see what they are accessing?’

  Chris shakes his head. ‘I don’t know… I… Wait.’ He reads fast, taps the screen program. ‘Okay, so there’s someone else who’s hacked in and… Jesus…’ He looks up. ‘Whoever it is, they’re reading the email, the one I sent from Madrid airport, you know, the one with all the files from the Project? They’re reading it right now.’

  ‘Stop them,’ I say.

  ‘Doc, no, that’s dangerous. You can’t just—’

  ‘Wait!’ We turn. ‘Her phone’s buzzing.’

  Chris swivels the tablet as, bending in as far as possible, we all watch Harriet Alexander pick up the vibrating phone on her desk.

  ‘This is daft,’ Patricia says. ‘And private. Turn it off.’

  ‘They’re still reading her emails,’ Chris whispers. ‘Whoever has accessed this is still in there.’

  ‘Find out who they are.’

  ‘I’m trying!’

  The Home Secretary clutches the phone to her ear. ‘… No, I haven’t spoken to Ruth Quo yet…’

  Patricia mutters, ‘Jesus, that’s the Head of MI5.’

  Chris’s head whips up. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just now. You said Head of MI5. How do you know that?’

  ‘What? Like I shouldn’t know that? Everyone knows that. How do you know that?’

  The two of them stare at each other for one second, two, Patricia pulling her sleeve over her fingers and fiddling with the thread, Chris just glaring at her, and I am unsure what to do, what to say. I only breathe out when Harriet Alexander’s clipped tones break the silence.

  ‘… They are trying to eliminate her,’ the Home Secretary says now. ‘Her name is Maria Martinez… Yes, yes, that’s what I said in my email to her, that we know her mother’s alive…’

  ‘I’ve got the number of who she’s speaking to,’ Chris says. He taps some keys. ‘It’s… the deputy Prime Minister.’

  Patricia’s fingers cease pulling her sleeve. ‘Are… are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nerves ripple inside me, making stronger and stronger waves. Something is not right – all these people, the tracker. I breathe, count to three, try to centre myself, and as I do, I am surprised to find my sight locking not on Patricia for an anchor, but instead on Chris. ‘Is someone else still hacking the Home Secretary’s files?’

  He nods. I inhale his scent and feel calmer.

  On the screen, the Home Secretary, phone still fixed to her ear, now has a frown cemented to her forehead. I watch her, attempting to determine what her facial expressions may mean, but no matter how hard I try, no matter what learnt aspects I recall, I reach a blank, the human face a code I’ll never be able to crack.

  Ms Alexander’s voice floats back into the air. ‘… We have to investigate this, Geoff. Yes, now… What? No. We keep this between us until we have all the evidence we need, then we involve the Prime Minister’s office. The more removed he is from this right now, the better, but we have to help this girl, she was…’ She falters and presses together her lips. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that she was Balthus’s…’ She pauses, inhales. ‘Look, I feel I owe her, this Maria. I feel I should… help her… But, look, the woman at the Swiss hospital we have the chatter on – Isabella Bidarte – intelligence is saying she’s in trouble. And I don’t know if we can keep her safe. She may be crucial to the investigation.’

  I grip the table. My real mother is in trouble and this woman wants to help me, us. This woman who was married to Balthus, who I have never met, gave me what I wanted all along to hear – that my biological mother is alive, but now she says may not be safe. But I’m unsure. I look again at Harriet Alexander’s face on the screen, her eyes downturned, her brow creased, hair sliding in red ribbons down her shoulders. A face can speak a thousand sentences without ever uttering one word, and yet each, to me, is a foreign language I have not yet been able to learn. On the camera, the Home Secretary is talking on the phone now about the budget deficit and the treasury.

  ‘I’m in,’ Chris suddenly says.

  I glance round. ‘In where?’

  ‘See this?’ He points to the live program square on the tablet. ‘So this? This tracks the entire thing, you know, Harriet Alexander’s emails, who sees them? It’s like a worm – burrowed deep, so far you can’t even tell it’s there, and when it’s in, it grows big and fat. I’ve set up a tracker here so when it finds who’s hacking her stuff, we’ll see them straight away.’

  ‘A tracker,’ I say. Chris fidgets in his seat, eyeing me, eyeing Patricia, but I don’t mention the word again, and I wonder if I have been so burnt by the truth in the past that I’m too scared to face it in the present. I focus on the screen. There is a small blue oblong at the bottom left corner of the screen and next to it a series of numbers. ‘The numbers cast a link directly to the hacker.’

  Chris smiles. ‘Yes. God, how d’you know so much? Yeah, it’s like a fishing line – as soon as they bite, the link pulls them out of the water and we see who it is.’

  Harriet Alexander continues talking on the phone. Her voice is deep, gravelly. I think of fast cars and diesel engines. ‘… No, no I want to lead on that… Yes, I’ll be in touch with MI5 and find out what they know. No, this all has to be kept quiet for the moment while we investigate…’

  ‘Whoa,’ Chris says.

  Patricia looks. ‘What?’

  ‘Maria,’ Chris says. ‘We have a bite.’

  ‘A bite?’ My eyes fall to where he points at the bottom left of the screen. At first, there are simply digits appearing, fast, rolling in a continuous stream within the confines of the box, but then they change, pixelating into lines, then letters.

  Then words. Two solitary words.

  ‘Weisshorn Hospital,’ my voice says into the warmth of the tavern air.

  ‘Doc, isn’t that the one—?’

  ‘Where her mom’s being held,’ Chris says.

  I look to him. ‘That is who’s in the Home Secretary’s system right now – the Weisshorn Hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The blood drains from my face. ‘The Project is there,’ I say, a shake to my voice. ‘They are at the hospital where my mother is.’

  On the screen, the Home Secretary is reading an email, her eyes wide.

  ‘Doc, you definitely can’t go to the hospital now,’ Patricia
says, words whipping out fast. ‘This Alexander woman said she wanted to help you, but if the Project are at the hospital in some way or another, Doc, you can’t go there. Please. Harriet Alexander may know the head of MI5, but the Project are way worse. Go back’— her shoulders drop, thumbnail digging into her forefinger— ‘go back to London. You’ll be… you’ll be safe there.’

  Chris taps his phone. Patricia frowns.

  I look at them both, confused at what their faces and actions signify. I try really hard to interpret it, but it’s all too much. I pick up the photograph from the cellar of me, a baby in arms. ‘Everyone has died,’ I say, my voice detached from me, floating, as if it’s not mine, not a part of me. ‘I… I cannot let her die, too.’

  ‘Doc, you can’t save everyone.’

  ‘I do not want to save everyone.’ I touch the outline of Isabella’s sunlit hair. ‘I want to save my real mother. And you heard what the Home Secretary said – Isabella may be crucial to the investigation, the investigation to cull the Project.’

  ‘Guys?’ Chris says, cutting into my thoughts. ‘Um, look.’ He has the screen turned to us. ‘I know the hacker’s in there, but my program allows me to read emails.’ He wipes his mouth. ‘I can read the email the Home Secretary’s looking at right now.’

  Slowly, the message Harriet Alexander is reading scrolls open on the screen in front of us one line at a time until, finally, the entire script appears.

  Chris glances to me and slowly, we both stare at the message on the screen, then we look to Patricia.

  We look to the woman who says she is my friend.

  Chapter 16

  Unknown village, The Alps, Switzerland.

  Time remaining to Project re-initiation: 20 hours and 47 minutes

  ‘They’re blackmailing her,’ Chris says. ‘The Project are blackmailing the Home Secretary. Holy fuck.’

  ‘This has to be wrong,’ Patricia says. ‘Chris, you’re not supposed to hack like this and find out—’

  ‘Hang on!’ Chris scratches his cheek. ‘Let me see if I can…’