Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

Slowly, I watch as my hand reaches out, slides the notebook to me, opens the cover. Numbers, patterns, codes. All of them are etched into every corner of the pad, none of them familiar to me, and yet, what if? A clatter sounds from the yard outside, making me jerk up. I wait, listen, blood rushing through my veins, heart, ears, but all outside is quiet now, motionless.

Fast, I return my eyes to my notepad, scanning the pages. For some reason, I flip to the middle section. My pulse shoots up, hands slippy. A dream I had one night-it is all there. A procedure, patterns, method, things that came to me one night like strangers. Moving quickly, I read the words scrawled in front of me: Log into an alternate account.

I sit up. How did I know to write that down? Swallowing, I glance again to the page, my eyes almost too afraid to look, too scared to see what I know, what I can do. At first, it’s just a series of numbers and letters, each meaningless, seemingly irrelevant, but then I blink and something starts to form in front of my eyes and it scares me. I throw the notebook down, breathing hard. Did I really just spot that? I claw back the writing pad, force myself to examine it again. It is there: a code, a pattern hidden within my scrawl. The method to hack a computer password code.

My mind races. Why would I know that? Why would I write it down? How did I learn it? I catch sight of the clock and it knocks me temporarily out of my panic. Not much time. Balthus will return soon. If I am going to do this, it has to be now.

Hesitantly at first, then with speed, my fingers fly across the keyboard. I pause, inhale. I have never done this before, at least, I don’t think so. I work quick, neat. The system prompts me for another password and I stall. How do I bypass this? I scan the notebook, examine the pattern, but then something walks into my head, an answer: press enter. I wait, my finger hovering over the key. Then I press it. One second, two, three. It works. I let out a laugh, amazed at what I can do, scared at why. Shooting a glance at the time, I fly to the user accounts, select Balthus’s main one and immediately change the password and sit back.

After one second, it flashes up: full system access. I am in.

I start with this room. If I think it’s made of sweets, then I’d better be sure.

I look around, swaying slightly, my eyes seeing double. I blink, open them wide; it helps, but only a little. The room still dusted with sugar, I decide to see at least what I can uncover. I take on the picture frames first. They house three paintings, all in a row. Upon first glance, they are made of liquorice and butter icing, and there is a sprinkling of frosting over the top. I inch out my hand. My fingers touch the edge of the first painting and it feels wet, sticky. I begin to investigate it when a stab of pain in my stomach jabs me. I stop, let it pass. Then, inhaling, I continue. Bit by bit, I peel the edge off the first frame. It comes away with ease and I keep tugging when something makes me halt. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my trouser leg, then steer my hand forward until I feel the liquorice in my finger. And even though my logical mind says that my brain is playing tricks, still it feels real, smells real. I pause and listen for any sound of Kurt, but no buzzers vibrate from the corridor, no footsteps echo on the tiles.

The liquorice frame is smooth. Each line of it spans the width of the canvas, but there is something on the end, by the edge. A flush of heat races to my face. I pause, wait for it to subside and recommence. Pulling a little, it becomes clear that the liquorice to the left of the frame is loose, as if it has already been torn off. As if something has been placed under it.

Feeling a kernel of panic, of uncertainty, I pause before investigating further, exhale hard. The frame is bumpy. I glance to the other two pictures and see that they are smooth, untouched. I reach out and, taking the end of the uneven liquorice, one millimetre at a time, begin to peel it away. It is welded down, but eventually it starts to give. I pull back, examine it. At first, it is difficult to detect, but then I see it.

Black, minute, but definitely there.

A camera.

And that is when I realise that I can hear Kurt’s voice.

The handle is turning. Moving fast, I press the liquorice back into place as much as possible then shoot to my chair.

But before I can reach it, Kurt is already entering the room.

I can see Kurt’s hand on the door.

Darting my eyes left and right, I spot a crop of marshmallow flowers and, grabbing a handful, I thrust them into my mouth.

Kurt stops when he sees me. ‘What are you doing?’ His mobile phone hangs from his hand.

‘I am eating marshmallow,’ I say. Liquid dribbles down my chin.

‘Maria, there are no marshmallows in here. Is that sick down your chin? Are you okay?’

I touch my face. He’s right. I have been sick. And I realise with a vicious shock that it’s not marshmallow in my mouth, it is vomit.

Kurt begins to walk towards me when a voice bellows from his phone. He must still be on a call. He stops, glances to me, then puts the phone to his ear. ‘Yes?’

Immediately, I wipe my chin, my breath ragged, vision smeared. Sweat trickles from my brow and I dab it with the heel of my hand, but it does no good. A wave of nausea rises from my stomach and the room begins to sway, a gentle rocking motion, like a boat bobbing on the sea.

Kurt watches me. ‘It’s happening,’ he says into his phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He slips his cell into his pocket, stands and stares.

‘What is happening to me?’ I stumble. ‘What did you do?’ But the room is spinning and I cannot get the words out. I slap my hand to my chest and force myself to speak. ‘You have to help me.’ Another wave of pain hits. ‘Help me!’

But Kurt does not move, does not call anyone. Instead he just watches and waits.

‘What have I taken?’ I say. And then I understand: this cannot be happening in real life. It must be a flashback of some sort, a dream, a nightmare, perhaps, all of it happening in my head. ‘Wake me up!’ I yell, my voice feral, untamed. ‘Wake me up!’

I try to take my pulse on my neck, but my arms are weak and it is impossible. Heat gushes round my body, and the smell of the sweets and marshmallow and chocolate make the nausea worse. I focus on the room, focus on jolting myself awake. I slap my face, spit on the floor, try to walk, but everything surges, throwing me from side to side, thrashing me against an invisible wave, against a heaving tide of nausea.

I crash into the wall, sliding down it. My arms are limp, my legs are useless. Kurt is nearer now, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘Who are…you?’ I say.

‘I am your therapist.’ His voice is soft, a gentle coo.

‘No,’ I manage to say, shaking my head, his image blurred, distant now. ‘No.’ My eyes dart up. And then I see it: the camera.

But Kurt must trace my line of sight, because he says, ‘Ah, you found it.’ He picks up the tiny camera. ‘I wondered how long it would take you. They have to have some way of watching you from where they are. They need to see exactly what is going on with you.’

My pulse rockets. I do not understand what he is saying, whether this is all a dream. My temperature is rising, sweat popping out all over my limbs, my skin. My blouse is drenched, my hair is damp. ‘Help,’ I plead, and then I slump to the left, my cheek skimming the wall as my head thumps on the floor.

I lie there, blinking, washed up, motionless. My whole body is paralysed, saliva dribbling from my gaping mouth. I can see the room at an angle. The legs of the chairs, the corners of the tables, but only just, like shadows in a dark alley.