Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘He was right,’ Patricia says.

‘After he died, the workmen tending the estate showed me how to mend things. Father Reznik did, too.’ I stop, frown. ‘I remember he would time me, Father Reznik, time me how long it would take to fix things. He would set me a challenge to get faster and faster. He called it a game and it was fun, but…’ I clutch the torn letter pieces in my fist. ‘I wonder.’

‘What?’

I grab my notebook and stop. An earwig scurries along the floor and disappears under the bed. I watch it, track its course. It is not simply here by chance; the earwig has made a path into Goldmouth for a purpose. I pause. Purpose. Everything has a purpose, has a reason why it occurs. So what was Father Reznik’s purpose?

I rip open my notepad and look to Patricia. ‘What were you convicted of?’

She twiddles the edge of her T-shirt. ‘They said I killed me mam,’ she says, her voice barely audible, so I have to lean in to hear. ‘My ma, she had cancer. It was hard, you know, at the end. I just couldn’t watch her suffer like that any more. It was cancer of the pacrea-’

‘Pancreas,’ I say. ‘Cancer of the pancreas.’

‘Morphine couldn’t touch it.’

‘How did you kill her?’

She hesitates then says, ‘Her pillow.’ A small swallow. ‘She wanted me to. She couldn’t take it any more.’ She wipes her nose with her hand.

There are tears in her eyes. This must mean she is upset. What should I say in this situation? I rack my brain for data to help. ‘The term “euthanasia” originates from the Greek word meaning “good death”. Nine per cent of all deaths in the Netherlands are physician-assisted suicides or euthanasia. In the Netherlands, you could be free.’

She lets out a sudden laugh.

I sit back. ‘What?’

‘It’s just that you…’ She shakes her head, waits a moment. ‘She had a will, me mam. A will. I never knew. It had a big insurance payout. My mam always wanted me to keep studying. She had money, left to her from an aunty. My sister hated me. In court she said Ma wouldn’t have let me do it, wouldn’t have let me end her life. She called me a liar.’ She tugs her T-shirt now. ‘My sister said I killed Ma for the money. I didn’t, but she wasn’t about to believe me.’ She lets out a breath. ‘Still doesn’t. I’m due for parole really soon. Been banged up ten years. But if I get out, who have I got to go back to? Where can I go now no one from my family will talk to me?’

We sit on the bed, silence swinging like a noose in the air above us. If I close my eyes, I can see Father Reznik’s face. ‘I think I’m being watched,’ I say finally.

Patricia turns to me. ‘You what?’

I draw in a breath and tell her about Father Reznik, about the priest discovering he was a retired intelligence officer.

Patricia’s mouth drops open. ‘Whoa. For real?’

‘Yes.’

She whistles. ‘How do you know this?’ she says, just like that, believing me in an instant. I want to cry with joy.

‘You believe me?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

I consider this. I have learnt not to put my faith in anyone, not to trust, because no one, not a man in a priest’s outfit, not a judge in a robe, not a God in the sky can be relied upon. But Patricia seems different, pure, a white sheet of cotton, a dandelion in the wind. She believes me. And I am tired, so, so tired at keeping it all in, to myself, the truth growing like a tumour. Gratitude washes over me, clear, running water, refreshing, energising, and I want to thank her, want to express how grateful I am for her faith in me, but I don’t know how. Instead, I remain rigid on the bed like a plank of wood.

‘I came to London to look for Father Reznik, took the job at St James’s Hospital so I had a base here,’ I say, slowly at first then faster still. ‘When a nun came into the hospital one day on a visit to a patient, she told me about the convent, and when I spoke about how I attended church in Spain, how Father Reznik had taught me how to fix things, she invited me to volunteer, two or three days a week.’

‘Then what?’

‘I met the priest there. He was nice to me. I told him how Father Reznik had just disappeared after all those years, and so the priest said he would help find him.’

‘And he found out this intelligence officer stuff?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

I steady my hands from shaking. ‘He had contacts, asked a few questions. I was not sure at first-it all appeared so unusual, untrue. And then he died.’

‘So you didn’t kill him?’

‘I…’ I drop my head, smothered suddenly by the reality of the situation. How did I let it happen? He died. I witness his blood every night when I sleep. I am testament to that. After a moment, I breathe out, rub my cheeks, my chin.

‘You all right?’

I nod. ‘Father Reznik taught me how to detect patterns, codes. Trained me in fixing things fast.’ My notebook sits under my palm. I run my fingertips over the pages now etched in ink, scratched with numbers, words, odd cryptic codes. My shoulders drop, body, mind, tired. I don’t know how all this just appears in my brain. ‘Why?’ I say after a while.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean why did Father Reznik teach me these things? Even when I was at university, I would come home, visit him and he would give me tests to do, advanced mathematical challenges.’ I shake my head, cross at myself for not realising before. ‘Don’t you see?’ I let out a laugh. ‘He taught them to me for a reason. And if he used to be an intelligence officer, then why? Why did he do those things with me? Why? And my mother, kissing him-did she know who he was? It all connects, you see. It all has a purpose.’ I stab the notebook with my finger. ‘And all this data. What does it mean?’

‘It’s stuff you’ve learnt, isn’t it?’

‘No. That’s the problem. I haven’t learnt it at all. I’ve always recalled data, written it down-facts, details. I had a journal at home in Salamanca when I was growing up and I used it so I could record everything, every event, name, number.’ I pick up the pad, shake it, feeling something- an anger?-surge inside me. ‘How can I remember all this information when I don’t even recall ever studying it?’

Patricia opens her mouth then closes it, exhaling. ‘I don’t know, Doc. I don’t know.’

I throw the notebook down, peer at its pages. I suddenly feel wired, fired up, charged to accelerate. My leg jigs over and over, the prospect of the truth ahead, the quest of it all making me giddy, light-headed. By my feet, another earwig scurries past, silent, stealth. I move my foot and grind its body flat with my heel.

Patricia watches me. I reach forward, slam the writing pad shut. It all makes sense now, all of it. ‘I have to call my mother.’

And, as I stand, the shredded letter remains slip from the bed and float to the floor.

‘We discussed false memories briefly before, do you recall?’ Kurt says. ‘That the mind can play tricks on us.’

Up until now, Kurt has remained silent. This is the first time he has spoken to me since I ceased talking, telling him about Patricia, about her life, her loss. For some reason, I clutch my mug tight in front of my chest as Kurt watches me, a languid smile lounging on his lips.

‘Why are you asking me about my memory?’ I say after a moment.

A heartbeat passes. ‘Why do you think I am asking you?’ He holds my gaze. I look away, scorched. ‘Tell me,’ he says after a few seconds, ‘what would you say memory is?’

I press my palms into my lap, hard, sweaty, unsure where he wants to take this, because he is still smiling and I don’t know what it means.