Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘Drink. It will make you feel better. I know there’s a lot to take on board at the moment. And you seem tired.’

Slowly, I take the cup.

‘Good. Now drink.’

Whether it is the sudden flash of steel in his voice or the cold stream of air lingering from the open door, I do as I am told, and swallow some coffee. It tastes good, steam rising to my eyes, stinging them, slapping me awake. I take a few more sips then lower the cup. Kurt is writing some notes; the curtain at the window is floating up and down. All is normal. I move to set down my cup when my eyes spot something on the ceiling. My heart accelerates. I look to Kurt; he is still writing. I glance back to the ceiling and squint.

Without drawing attention to myself, I inch forward. I place the cup on the table and keep very still.

Kurt raises his head. I do not move. He clicks his pen and smiles. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve said it yet, so I will say it now: you are safe here, Maria, with me,’ he says. ‘I just want you to know that. This is a safe place.’

I do not blink.

Kurt is smiling at me.

There are now two spiders on the ceiling.

‘The DNA evidence is inconclusive.’

I have been sitting in front of Harry Warren QC for fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. He has been recalling all the aspects of my original trial-the evidence, witnesses, timings. I have been jittery and vague. Patricia, her body being shocked with electricity, her head hanging like a limp rag doll, is an image that constantly plays in my mind like a showreel.

Despite my discomfort and confusion, Harry has been very thorough. Four times now he has stated that he is not impressed with the way in which the evidence was portrayed in the original court, so much so, he says, that he cannot believe my counsel were allowed to practise. When yet again I am slow to respond, Harry lifts his eyes from his file. In the flesh, he is stouter than his photos convey. His torso, his arms are fuller, cheeks plump on black skin, skin so shiny, so alive I feel he could last forever, that, as if by sheer force of his rooted, warm-blooded presence, he will always be around, like a house built of timber that never collapses. Safe. A haven.

He smiles at me, revealing large white teeth. ‘Maria,’ he clears his throat, ‘your DNA, it says here, was found in three places, including the priest’s shoe.’

‘They were Crocs.’

‘Crocs?’ He laughs like Father Christmas then sighs. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘There is so much these days I don’t know, so many new things, names.’

I hesitate. There is something about him. Something that makes me breathe more easily. A familiarity. ‘Crocs are shoes,’ I say finally.

He nods. ‘Thank you.’

I watch him for a second then continue. ‘I had purchased the footwear when I first arrived in London. I told the prosecution that they were mine, old ones from the operating theatre. They had never fitted me correctly.’

Harry unlaces the pink ribbon from the legal brief on the table. ‘And why did you give them away?’

‘I had a blister,’ I say, ‘from running shoes I had purchased in haste when I arrived in the UK. The Crocs I bought for surgery rubbed at the blister when moving. They hurt at the heel, so I donated them to the convent. They sell items like shoes to raise money. The priest must have kept them for himself; the trace of blood from my blister was left on the Crocs. The DNA…’

I trail off. DNA. I flip open my notebook, fly to the page, to the diagram-one of many I have instinctively drawn without knowing why. When I find it, my fingers hover. There. Deoxyribonucleic acid. The twisted double helix, the ladder of vertical sugar and phosphate modules. Our human blueprint. I dreamt about it, one of the first few days in prison. Thousands of DNA structures were flying around my head. And now Harry is talking about it, about my case, my DNA.

Harry leans forward a little. ‘Is that…?

My eyes fly to him. ‘What?’

He clears his throat, sits back. ‘You keep notes, many, by the look of it.’ He smiles at me; it reaches his eyes. ‘Good idea,’ he says, jabbing a finger at his brow. ‘Keeps the brain busy. Vital, hmm?’ A smile again.

I slam the book shut and say nothing. I cannot determine if he is being kind. Is he?

Harry clears his throat and consults his brief. ‘So, the DNA is certainly weak, but-and it is a big but, I’m afraid-you have no firm alibi.’

‘I have an alibi.’

He sighs. ‘Ah, yes. That you were at the hospital. St James’s, yes? The trouble is, Maria, that there is no CCTV evidence from that night placing you at the hospital. And there is a witness-’ another file consult ‘-a DVD store owner from the shop opposite the convent. He places you at the gates of the convent at the time of the crime.’

He sits back, removes his glasses. I inspect them and feel something well up, feel something knock on my skull, reminding me.

‘My father wore spectacles like that,’ I say, pointing to them, realising now what I am recalling. My papa reading his daily newspaper, glasses perched on the end of his nose, slipping as they did down the bridge, his sweat increasing as fast as the hot sun did. I breathe in, the brief memory bathing me in a rare, temporary sensation of comfort.

Harry smiles. Eye creases to match. ‘From what I can see, the evidence is weak at best. That is our defence, our route, I think-discredit the forensics.’ He taps the frame of his spectacles. ‘I will want to reanalyse the DNA. That involves revisiting everything-all the pathology analysis, the witnesses. All upturned, back to front and side to side. Are you ready for that?’

‘Yes.’ I hesitate a little, fear slipping into my consciousness. The thought of repeating it all, of dealing with the whole ordeal again, of the murder details, of my apparent, non-deniable guilt. It is an overwhelming feeling. ‘And after that? What happens next?’

‘I will set in motion the Notice of Grounds forms for your appeal.’

‘And that is everything we need to discuss?’ I say, my mind back on Patricia, on finding out any news.

‘Actually, no.’ He touches his file and pauses. ‘Yesterday afternoon, the priest’s parents gave a press conference. They’re unhappy that you’re appealing against your conviction.’

‘How do they know about the appeal?’

He shrugs. ‘These things get to be public information.’

‘Oh.’

‘The parents are denouncing the appeal. And they are insisting that the DNA evidence is strong enough to withstand an appeal process.’

‘Can they do that?’

‘They can and they have. Watch.’

Harry takes out laptop and opens it. He clicks on the web browser and brings up a YouTube video. There is an image of an old man and woman sitting behind a long desk, hair a soup of grey and white, skin liver-marked, pale. A bubble of worry floats up into my head. They both look like the dead priest. I can hardly bring myself to look as Harry presses play. Reporters come alive, ask questions. Bulbs flash from every angle, the man declaring that I am guilty, the woman crying into her hands.

When it comes to an end, Harry turns off the computer and looks up. The light above us flickers, fades, then splutters back to life. ‘So,’ he says, after a second or two, lifting a thick file from his briefcase, placing it between us on the table, ‘what are your thoughts?’

I drag my eyes away from the light. ‘On what?’

‘On the video, on what the parents have said.’

‘Their questioning of the DNA evidence presents a difficulty to my case.’ I blink, shake my head. Their faces won’t leave my mind.

Harry opens the file. ‘I agree.’ He extracts a court paper. ‘Now, their questioning doesn’t mean to say that they are correct, but it does pose a challenge to us.’ He places a paper in front of me. ‘These are the original court documents.’