Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

Shaking my head, I sip some more coffee then stop. Something is not right. I sip again, checking, but yes, I am right. The coffee. It does taste odd. ‘Liquorice,’ I say to myself. I glance to Kurt-his head is still bowed, busy.

I set down the cup and scan the room. All still normal. I tap my head, dislodge my thoughts. My mind is getting carried away, my feelings, my deductions. I am adding two and two together and getting five. I frown, tutting at myself. This has to stop, doesn’t it? Whatever is going on, it all has to stop. As the curtain floats into the room, my eyes drift to the ceiling and-

I go very still.

I squint, lean forward. It cannot be. How? I bang my head with the heel of my hand, look again, but there is no mistaking it.

The cobweb-it is not there.

I look at Kurt. He is still writing his notes; he is not drinking any coffee.

The canteen is quiet.

I have been sitting, writing in my notebook whilst nobody sees-it is a risk, but I need to write, need to count the words, the pages, that way they may last, may be real. Patricia said she believed what I told her about Father Reznik, about him being involved somehow, about it all being connected-my father, his discovery of the documents. She said she would help me. I scan once more through the codes scratched out on the page, the numbers, equations covering every millimetre of space. What do they mean? I think of Patricia, of her faith in me. To have a friend who believes me, who is on my side, accepts me for who I am, for what I am. For the first time ever, it feels good, not bad or defective. Good. Human.

From the far wall, shouting erupts followed by a clatter of trays. The hall is filling up, food smells, body odour, too many flabby bodies.

I set down my pen and slip my notebook behind my plate. I pick up a napkin and dab the corners of my mouth three times, my eyes on the now fast-growing canteen queue. I watch for Patricia. Since her emergency stay in the hospital ward, I ensure she is okay and eating enough at every mealtime.

‘Got yourself a notebook, hey?’

I turn at the sound of the voice.

‘Hi,’ a woman says, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Bobbie Reynolds.’ She grins. Her arm is slim, her shirt blue and crisp. The chinos on her legs are ironed down the crease and her skin is caramel. She is like a walking Gap advert. ‘What’s your name, then?’ she says. When I do not reply, she simply shrugs and withdraws her hand.

The Bobbie woman drags out a chair from the table, sets down a tray and sits.

‘I am waiting for someone,’ I say.

She claps her hands. ‘Ooh, lovely. Who are we waiting for?’ She spears a tube of pasta on the plate in front of her. ‘I just love carbonara.’

I sniff. Her perfume: lemons and oranges. Citrus. Clean. I place my hand on the edge of my notebook and search for Patricia.

This Bobbie woman keeps eating. ‘You don’t say much,’ she says in between mouthfuls.

I spot Patricia in the food queue. Satisfied she is okay, I turn. ‘Bobbie is short for Roberta. Roberta is the female form of Robert, meaning “bright fame”.’ I tilt my head. ‘You are of bright fame.’

She sets down her fork then laughs. ‘Ha! You’re great. I love you already. What’s your name?’

‘My name is Dr Maria Martinez.’ The hall is loud, almost full. The sounds ring in my head, endless vibrations. I cover my ears a little.

‘A doctor?’ She whistles. ‘Good for you.’ She slaps my back and I wince. ‘Very nice to meet you, Dr Martinez. You’ve got yourself a friend here. I’ve got your back.’

‘I have a friend,’ I say. ‘Her name is Patricia.’

She grins and resumes eating.

‘All right, Doc?’

I look up. Patricia stands holding her tray. She sits, smiles and spoons in some pasta, looking to Bobbie. ‘Who’s this, then?’

‘This is Bobbie Reynolds,’ I say. ‘She is very neat and says she loves me already.’

Bobbie spurts out a mouthful of pasta.

Patricia waves. ‘Hi, Bobbie.’

‘What were you convicted of?’ I say to Bobbie.

‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘you’ve got to keep your voice down when you say things like that in here, because-’

‘Murder.’

We look to Bobbie.

‘In answer to your question, Dr Martinez,’ Bobbie says, her elbow perched on the table, ‘it was murder.’

‘Of a man or a woman?’

Patricia drops her fork. ‘Doc! Ssshh.’

‘Man,’ Bobbie says, her eyes on me, not missing a beat. ‘Definitely a man.’ She grins and pierces a mushroom. ‘I was convicted of the murder of a male of the species.’

The canteen is noisy now, so to block the sound from penetrating my ears, I concentrate on this Bobbie character as she studies her speared mushroom.

‘Why do you ask about my conviction?’ she says, mouth full of pasta.

Murder, I think. She has killed someone. I pick up my knife. ‘Would you kill again?’

‘Steady,’ Patricia says, her eyes narrowed.

Bobbie glares at Patricia then smiles at me. ‘In answer to your question-yes. I would kill again.’ She proffers me a toothy grin.

I watch her. She makes me feel uneasy, as if she is hiding something. As Bobbie and Patricia resume eating, I push my plate to one side to retrieve my notebook, but it is gone. Bobbie clears her throat. There, in her hand, is my writing pad.

‘Looking for this?’

‘Yes.’

She holds it out to me. I hesitate then take it. I try to ignore her, but there is a tug on my sleeve.

‘Hey,’ Bobbie says, pointing. ‘She your friend?’

‘Doc,’ whispers Patricia, ‘it’s Michaela.’

I see her. She is striding towards us. I touch my forehead where my right temple still has a shadow of a bruise, mild panic bubbling underneath my skin.

Bobbie throws down her fork and drags back her chair. ‘It’s okay, Doc, like I said, I’ve got your back.’ And with that, she stands and positions herself between Michaela and me.

‘Mickie, isn’t it?’ says Bobbie, smiling. ‘How are you?’

I look to Bobbie. Does she already know Michaela Croft? But how? Bobbie has only just arrived at Goldmouth.

Michaela pushes Bobbie to one side. ‘Fuck off, you psycho.’

‘And so lovely to see you, too, Michaela,’ says Bobbie, bowing.

‘You,’ Michaela says, jabbing a finger at me, ‘I got fucking solitary because of you.’

Her accent. It is her regular East London accent, but there is something different. I try to place it, but nothing. No memory. No thoughts. I find myself clenching my fists.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Michaela says, taking a step towards me.

I touch my tongue; no cat on there.

‘Leave it, Croft,’ says Bobbie.

Michaela goes still and looks down; Bobbie has put a hand on her chest. I search for the guards, but they are nowhere to be seen.

‘Get your hands off me, psycho.’ Michaela is glaring at Bobbie, but Bobbie simply smiles. Scared, I pick up my knife, but Patricia gives a quick shake of her head. I let go of the metal.

Slowly, with her eyes on Michaela, Bobbie lowers her hand. And then it happens. Michaela-fast, precise-lunges towards me. Before I can move, before I can roll away, she clutches my blouse, dragging me up, out of my seat. The room erupts.

I try to move backwards, but Michaela’s grip is solid, so I go for a punch to her head-right side, on her temples, and I must have hit because I can hear yelling, but it is muffled, like being underwater. Michaela has her hands on me now, around my neck and so I slap her, hard on the cheek, but her grip is still tight. So, desperate, I kick, three sharp jabs to her shin with the heel of my shoe, but, even though she cries out, she pulls me back, does not let go. I try to unravel her fingers, but cannot get free. I try to dig her with my elbow, shove her-nothing. But then-pop. Michaela’s grip slackens. Just like that. I drop to the floor and gulp great swells of air. Michaela is gasping for breath beside me, her body writhing on the floor.