Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘Doc, you okay?’

‘I have to go,’ Bobbie says, fast. ‘Speak to the Governor, bring your notebook. He has a laptop…you’ll see. It will make sense.’ She turns, starts to leave.

‘Wait! You said to look in my notebook for the answer, but it’s not there. There is no answer.’

But she keeps moving, head down, hands thrust into pockets.

I go to run after her but Patricia grabs me. ‘Doc, no. Don’t make a scene.’

‘What is Project Callidus?’ I yell. ‘What is Project Callidus?’

Yet still Bobbie strides away, not responding, a ball of dust behind her, and then she is gone. Patricia lets go of my arm, and I glance upwards, squint.

There, standing by one of the office suite windows, is the Governor.

I stay behind Kurt as he weaves past the warren of rooms.

He does not talk to me, does not look my way. He keeps his eyes straight ahead and continues to move. I do not know where we are going. I do not know why. I am nervous. My head feels fuzzy, my tongue strangely thick, rough like cloth.

Kurt comes to a halt. ‘Here we are.’

Ahead of us there is a door. I step forward and read the plaque stuck on the front of it.

‘The Banana Room,’ I say. ‘What is this?’

‘Somewhere to talk.’

Kurt opens a metal box connected to the wall. The door is thick, fluorescent yellow paint daubed in stripes across the middle, and on the top right sits a black smiley emoticon face the size of my hand.

Kurt enters a code. There is a loud click. ‘In you go.’

I hesitate, hands tight against my thighs. The door pops open and Kurt gestures for me to enter.

‘I said in you go.’ He is smiling but it is small, a shard, a sliver.

I shake my head. ‘I do not want to.’

‘You have to.’

I sway a little, the nerves getting the better of me, then freeze. Kurt’s hand is placed on the small of my back. ‘I said, “in”.’

Swallowing, I place my left foot into the room and gasp. Each of the four walls is painted green. But it is not simply household paint. From what I can see in the dim light, each wall appears to move. Taking another step forward, my eyes adjust and I can see that the movement is art. Someone has created head-to-toe murals on each of the four walls, each separate and distinct in design.

Kurt closes the door behind me and switches on a light.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

But I ignore him, instead stepping forward, observing. Now I can see that there is a path on the wall. I barely want to look, fear creeping up my spine, my neck, its fingers round my throat. What is going on? Where am I? I swallow hard, blink. The path runs through a boulevard of trees, their dark green leaves pointing like fingers to the middle. I cock my head. The path leads to a forest that sits in the distance. This forest is darker, as if forbidden to enter, like the Hansel and Gretel story my father used to read to me when I was little. I turn to see Kurt frowning.

I point at the set of painted leaves, finger trembling. ‘The painting. It…it is a version of the Arrival of Spring in Woldgate. It’s taken from David Hockney, inspired by him. The artist who did it must have attended the Royal Academy of Art, just like Hockney.’

Kurt stays very still. ‘Maria, where do you think you are?’

I suddenly bend double. There is a sharp pain in my stomach ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in a different interview room, that’s all, a different, normal interview room. Maria, where do you think we are?’

‘We…we are in some odd art room, aren’t we?’ I point to the wall to our right. ‘That painting there is based on Hockney’s Winter Timber .’

I sidestep Kurt, wipe the emerging sweat from my temples, and peer at the painting. Layers of timber lie strewn on the ground, each a blend of banana yellow and burnt orange. In the corners, sawn tree trunks stand, crooked, worn, each one the colour purple. I touch them. ‘The trees,’ I say, my voice surprising me: distant, dreamlike, ‘they are made of confectionery. All of it is.’ I step back, wobble a little, clutch my middle. The pain shoots now. What is happening to me? When I look round, more painted trees stand towards the rear of the painting, this time winter ones, each bare, stripped of leaves or buds. To the left sits a pink dirt road, stretching to the horizon.

There is a sudden rush of heat to my head. ‘I…I don’t feel well.’

He gestures to one of two chairs positioned by a low table that resembles driftwood. ‘Why don’t you sit?’

I lower myself into the chair then halt. What is this? ‘The chair,’ I say, ‘why is it made of chocolate?’

He pauses. ‘Maria, it is just leather.’

Carefully, I touch the armrest. Leather. I repeat the word, as if saying it will convince my mind what I am seeing. But it is no good: I still feel chocolate under my fingers.

Kurt watches me then opens a file. ‘We call this place the Banana Room because by changing venues, as we have done, we hope to encourage patients to open up without…slipping up, as it were.’

‘Slipping up?’ I scan the room, worried. ‘On what? On the sweets?’

He narrows his eyes. ‘There are no sweets. And “slipping up” is a phrase. It means saying something you wish you hadn’t.’ He pauses. ‘Or shouldn’t. The Banana Room will help you to talk.’

I do a 360-degree turn, utterly bewildered. Why can I see all this confectionery and yet Kurt claims he cannot? Is he lying to me? My eyes sweep the room. Paintings. Sweets. Marshmallow. Chocolate drops. All used as paint or decorations. They are there, I am certain. The wall, I notice, is raised with bumps like tarmac sleepers on the English roads. I stretch out my hand. My fingertips brush over the bumps. They are black, sticky. To the left of them are some red lines. I grip them-they break off into my palms.

‘Strawberry laces,’ I say to myself. I smell them; they remind me of Saturdays at the market with my father. He would buy me a packet of sweets to walk around with. I peer at the contents in my hand, observe the candy. It is long, hanging from my hands like vines from a tropical tree, a sickly scent of strawberry, caramelised sugar, vanilla.

Kurt taps his Dictaphone and places it on the driftwood table. He glances up at me. ‘Maria, are you okay? You look a little pale.’

I say nothing. My head throbs, my stomach growls. I suddenly feel very, very frightened. Am I going mad?

‘Now,’ Kurt says, ‘I thought this would be the best place to discuss what happened next after meeting Bobbie Reynolds in the yard.’

The chair is sticky and uncomfortable, fuelling what seems to be my rising temperature. I scan the room, try to focus on anything but the heat.

‘There are four hundred and two chocolate mice in here,’ I conclude after a few seconds.

‘Pardon?’

‘And one hundred and thirteen strawberry laces, seventy-seven chocolate logs, one chocolate clock, two marshmallow seats and seven orange lollies.’ I stop, drag in some oxygen. My stomach ache is stronger, pulsating. I look at Kurt.

‘Maria,’ he says, after a moment, his body rigid, forward, ‘there are no sweets in here. No strawberry laces, no chocolate logs. Okay?’ He keeps his eyes on me, narrowed. ‘Just calm down, take a few deep breaths. Okay?’

I nod, scared to speak, because Kurt is not seeing what I am-and that worries me, petrifies me, frightens me to death. Open my mouth and I know my voice will betray me, will scream out the thought that is now circling my head like a vulture tracking its prey: I don’t know who I am.

I stride through the walkways to the senior office suite, notebook in hand. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do or if Bobbie can even be trusted, but I know something is not right, that something is happening. And, despite my nerves, despite the acorn of doubt in my head, I have to find out what is going on.