Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

Kurt exhales. ‘Okay,’ he says, clapping his hands. I jerk my eyes to his. ‘We are going to use a new room.’

‘What?’

A slice of smile again. ‘The service has a room designated, indeed designed, to help with situations like yours.’

‘What do you mean, “like mine”?’

‘People who have trouble sharing their thoughts, opening up. Like you.’

‘I have opinions about many aspects of society.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he says, gathering his belongings, ‘but it is not your opinion on society I am after.’

He stands and walks to the door. ‘I am after your feelings, Maria.’ He opens the door and a waft of stale air sweeps in. ‘I am after your real memories. I want to know, for example, how it makes you feel when you realise people like Bobbie Reynolds are liars. That is what I am interested in hearing.’

He holds open the door. Cold air sweeps in. I swallow, not wanting to move, frightened, but I don’t know of what. Of Kurt?

‘Maria, you signed a document agreeing to our therapy methods,’ he says. ‘You need to come with me.’

I peer through to the corridor beyond. White, no windows, no people. My heart slamming against my ribcage, slowly, I stand.

‘Good. This way.’

Kurt walks through the door, and I have no choice but to follow him.

Patricia leans against the wall, sheltering her face from the sun.

We are in the prison yard. It is square in shape, the perimeter hemmed in on all sides by the building walls, the windows of the cells and offices bearing down on us, watching, spying. The ground is gagged with sand and gravel, and in the far corner sits creaking, rusty outdoor gym equipment, old, worn, like a forgotten adult playground.

The sun is warm on my face; no clouds, no rain. Yet, even when my eyes are open wide, I can only see a small slither of sky, because my mind is replaying Bobbie’s words, computing what they signify. Handlers. It means, my whole life someone was watching me for an organisation I know nothing about. And those people, those handlers-I trusted them. I feel a slap of nausea at the thought. They were figures of authority. So is that what authority means, then? A series of individuals who are not who they say they are? Who deceive? And if they were lying, then who else was? My elementary teachers? My therapists? Were they all with this Project? Is Dr Andersson a fraud, too?

I swallow hard, dig my fingernails into the wall, feel the stone. Because the thought, the realisation of it all shakes me, makes me feel as if I will stumble and fall, as if the ground beneath me is shuddering from one giant earthquake, reducing everything I once regarded as solid, as real, to specs of rubble, to figments of fiction.

Patricia folds her arms, brow set to a frown. ‘Tell me again, Doc. What was Bobbie talking about?’

I draw in a breath. I have told Patricia everything Bobbie said to me in the canteen. She has not reacted well.

‘She said she had instructions to protect me. That the answer was in my notebook.’

‘But you looked through your notebook and you found nothing?’

I open my mouth to speak then close it. She is right.

‘Doc, the thing that bothers me,’ Patricia says now, her voice reduced to a whisper, ‘is that Bobbie said MI5’s involved. It just doesn’t make any sense.’

A fight between two inmates breaks out ahead. We look. A guard shouts, runs over and separates them, the battle over before it had even begun.

Patricia kicks her heel against the wall and stares out onto the yard. ‘You know they call her psycho, Bobbie?’

‘Yes. But that does not mean-’

‘It means everything. Jesus.’ She rakes a hand over her scalp, inhales. ‘Okay, say she is telling the truth? Then what?’

‘Then we put it all together, we uncover everything we can. I will study my notebook again. I have to solve this. Someone, somewhere is lying to me, lying about me.’

Patricia exhales, long, hard. ‘It just seems crazy. Bobbie seems a little crazy.’

‘We are all a little crazy.’

We stand by the wall and breathe in the one-hour-a-day of fresh air. The sun bobs like a globe in the sky, a soothing glow, a reassuring warmth. It is easy to imagine, to dream that we are not here, in prison, that we are elsewhere, somewhere good. Somewhere better.

We are about to leave when a figure exits from the door at the far end of the yard. I prop my hand on my brow, squint in the sunshine. The figure moves towards us at speed.

Patricia notices, too. She dips her head to get a look. ‘Hey, Doc. Is that-’

‘Bobbie.’

Bobbie Reynolds arrives before us and cocks her head. ‘How are my two friends?’

Patricia blocks her. ‘Look, Reynolds, I don’t know what your game is, but quit telling seven heaps of shite to Maria.’ Bobbie laughs. ‘What?’

Patricia pokes her. ‘You heard me.’

Bobbie looks to me. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Doc, no.’

‘But not here,’ Bobbie continues. She shoots a glance to Patricia. ‘Not with her here.’

Patricia glares at Bobbie.

‘I will speak to you with Patricia present,’ I say. ‘She knows what you told me.’

Bobbie hesitates then shrugs. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ She smoothes down her shirt. ‘Has Mickie Croft told you anything…unusual?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, has she said anything out of the ordinary? Something you wouldn’t expect her to say?’

‘I told you that she mentioned Callidus.’

‘Shit, thought that’s what you’d said.’ She scratches her head.

‘What is it?’

‘Okay. Here’s the thing. Remember I said everything had changed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, well, the Project used to be part of MI5, but now it’s not. There are others involved, too, but…’ She breathes out. ‘Look, I can’t say who, but I am authorised to say this: Mickie Croft is out to kill you, we have confirmation now, fresh intel. She’s been ordered to do it as soon as she gets her chance. Dr Andersson will probably assist her.’

‘Bollocks,’ Patricia says. ‘Total bollocks. Mickie is a nutter who’s already laid seven bells into Maria. You know that. You’re just trying to play up to it and-’

Without warning, Bobbie flies at Patricia, wraps her fingers round her throat and pins her up against the wall.

‘Bobbie!’ I yell.

‘This is not a game, do you hear me?’ Bobbie spits, teeth snarling. Patricia manages a small nod. ‘It’s not a fucking game.’

Bobbie lets go and Patricia drops to the ground, gasping. I run to her.

‘Why did you do that?’ I say, checking Patricia.

Bobbie brushes herself down. ‘Because this is serious. The Project put me here to protect you. You are not safe here.’

I look at her, my mind questioning over and over whether I should believe her. Then a puzzle piece slots into place. ‘Callidus and the Project-they are the same thing.’

She nods. ‘Project Callidus-that’s the code name.’

My brain whizzes, computes, calibrates. ‘That’s where they took me.’

‘What?

Patricia stands. ‘Doc?’

But I ignore her, look to Bobbie, hands shaking, eyes wild. ‘Sometimes I have memories of being in a ward, a hospital. They are doing tests on me, horrible tests. Was it there? Did they do the tests there, at Callidus?’

Bobbie looks between me and Patricia, her fists clenched, her brow furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she says after a moment, a whisper. ‘They did tests there. Yes.’

‘So the handlers, my professors, my boss-they were all with this Project Callidus?’

A nod.

I slap my hand to my mouth. ‘My God.’ I stumble back against the wall. And then I realise. ‘Dr Andersson-she takes my blood, does tests on it.’