Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

Kurt’s chair creaks. ‘What happens next in the dream?’

I smack my lips together, mouth coarse, dry. ‘The rope binding the priest’s hands and ankles is taut now; I track its course, woven as it is around his limbs. There-by the altar,’ I say, as if I can see it, touch it, ‘that is where each juncture is secured. I stride over and inspect them. Tight. Immovable. I walk back to the body. There is more blood now, deep red, almost black. I can smell the iron. The blood is oozing from the wound and, when I inspect the arms, there are slashes there, too. He never stood a chance.’

‘Then?’

I shift in my seat, the recollection of the dream uncomfortable. ‘Footsteps. I freeze, listen. There is no time. Whoever it is, they are getting closer. My eyes dart left to right. The knife…It’s nowhere to be seen. I check, but no. Nothing.’

‘What do you dream next?’

I close my eyes, think. ‘The footsteps. They are nearer.’

‘And what do you do?’

I inhale. ‘In the end, it is an easy decision. I turn and run. As fast as I can. Something tells me to, I don’t know, a voice in my head? An instinct I don’t recall learning? It urges me to go, to leave an invisible trace. To never be found. As if I don’t exist.’

Kurt’s mobile phone shrills.

My eyes fly open and I catch my breath. Kurt has been listening to me explain what I remember of my recurring dream: the priest, his death, his blood. All detail that I know about, yet do not recall being actively part of; instincts that kick-start in me, yet ones that I do not recollect learning.

Kurt’s eyes are narrowed on me, observing, his mobile phone shrill dying off. A pen dangles from his fingers. ‘Does the dream always end with the footsteps? With you running away? Always has you bending over Father O’Donnell’s body?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’ I touch my scalp. The room feels as if it is spinning slightly.

Kurt twists the pen in his fingers. ‘It sounds as if it is just that: a dream. Made up, fabricated. Because in the dream, you ran away, but of course, in the real world, you were caught, you were not invisible. And you do exist.’

‘But I don’t even recall being there. So why am I dreaming about it?’

‘Your mind will conjure up all sorts of scenarios to protect you from the trauma. From the reality.’

I touch my forehead. My mind. My Asperger’s. This strange, sickly sweet room. Everything that has happened to me recently-it has all affected my mind more than I thought. That must be why here, now, even in this room with Kurt, I sense things that are, perhaps, not even there, my brain moving quicker than normal, just as it does in prison, forcing it, each second of the day, into fight or flight mode. It must be why the colours are brighter, the smells stronger, the noises louder, my fingers faster.

Kurt swings his leg for a moment; then, sitting forward, he picks up his mobile. He checks it then shoots up. ‘I have to make a brief call.’

A panic surfaces. A rush of heat hits my head, almost knocking me out. I lay a palm on my brow, but my skin is clammy, and it does no good.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I do not want to be alone in here.’

He sighs. ‘There is nothing to be frightened of. I am a therapist-other people need me, too.’

Kurt begins to walk towards the door when his shoe gets caught on the chair leg. He shakes it off, mud, debris dropping from the sole. He darts one glance to me. Then, walking to the door, he repeats that I am not to be scared, and then he exits.

The door shuts. Silence.

My laboured breathing the only sound in the room, I look around, try to rationalise what is going on. I can see sweets, but Kurt can’t. Why? I must be hallucinating, that is the only medical explanation, but how? I have not taken anything, not popped any pills. At a loss, I roll my head a little when something catches my eye in the faint light. I stop and stare. There is something on the floor, something from Kurt’s shoe. Curious, I stand then sway a little. The sweets, the chocolate paintings, the sickly scent-real or not-they must be taking their toll. Steadying myself, I inch towards the door. When I reach it, I crouch down and pick up whatever has dropped from Kurt’s shoe. I expect it to be a stone.

But it is not.

There, on my palm, is small piece of peat with a strand of moss stuck in it.

I raise it to my nose and sniff. Grass and damp earth, they spark something, a thought in me, a distant recollection. I smell them again, their burnt cinder firing a memory and I start to recall something. Like a radio being tuned, voices scratch like static across my mind, as if trying to broadcast to me, as if trying to communicate. Usually, I get a warning, but this time, nothing. The memory is fast, relentless. Within seconds, my breathing becomes quick and my chest tightens. Until, click! An image appears, a video in my head, and I am watching.

I am in a hospital ward, on a bed. The sheets are white and the air is damp. There is a cannula inserted into the vein on my hand, and by my side stands an IV drip. There are no doctors. No nurses.

I hear a voice as the door ahead opens. A cold draught shoots in, razor-sharp. There, stood in the room, is my mother. She is wearing a grey suit, her hair bobbing by her shoulders, her skin smooth, wrinkle-free. A white mask covers her mouth. She strides towards me and halts.

‘Read this book, Maria, darling. Read it for Mama.’

I look at what she has thrust at me. A novel. Hesitating, I take it. For some reason, it seems the safest option, to do as I am told. The book has a hundred and five pages, and my mother instructs me to open it and read. I do as she says. Immediately, she clicks a button on a stopwatch; it begins to tick.

I read the pages aloud. It does not take me long. When I finish, my mother clicks the watch and a doctor arrives.

‘How long?’ he says.

My mother shows him the stop clock.

The doctor’s eyes go wide. ‘Quicker. Good, Ines.’

I say that I am thirsty, but my mother doesn’t hear me. She addresses the doctor. ‘Is her condition developing as expected?’

‘Yes,’ the doctor says, ‘but there is more to do. For the meantime, I have secured these for you.’ He hands her something. I see it: two vials of medicine. My mother’s fingers clasp them, and then they both look to me. I do not know why, but I know I must shut my eyes; I must not see.

The image fades, slowly at first then fast, like liquid down a drain. I watch it, cry out after it, but it disappears like a rush of water. I open my eyes and gasp. I am slumped on the floor, my skin soaked, sweat sliding down my face onto candy and chocolate.

Swallowing, I manage to drag myself up, try to make sense of what I have just remembered. How could my mother be there? Am I recalling events incorrectly, putting her there because it suits me? Suits me to have someone to blame? She has been nothing but nice to me, yet what have I been to her? Suspicious. Difficult.

I concentrate on breathing in and out, on remaining calm, on trying to determine what I saw. It did not seem real, as if it were an old silent film where the reel flickers and the images are grainy. But the peat-the peat from Kurt’s shoe-I think of it and I bite down hard on my lip. For some reason, it was a trigger. A trigger to the past.

I have to find out exactly who Kurt is.

Before it is too late.

I sit down and am immediately faced with a barrier: Balthus’s password. I flop back. I don’t know how to bypass this, how to access his computer. I shake my head. What was I thinking? I am just a doctor, not an IT technician, I know nothing about this and…My eyes land on my notebook. I stop, tilt my head, look at it. A wash of something ripples over me, but I cannot place it, cannot pin it down.