Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

I walk with the guard and glance to my left. There are four carved oak doors, all double bolted and taller than two men. Police firearms officers stand by each one. Long, black guns sit diagonally across their bodies.

Once deep inside the bowels of the building, I am placed in a box room and told to sit. The guard unlocks my handcuffs and turns on a radio before she leaves. ‘Some company,’ she says. Classical music immediately drifts in, and for the first time since we arrived here, my shoulders relax.

When Harry finally arrives he is breathless, wigged and sweaty. Greeting me, he dumps his files on the desk and adjusts his wig as it slides forward. He is wearing a barrister’s black robes. I breathe more easily now he is here.

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘You are sweating a lot.’

‘Sorry?’ He looks down at himself. ‘Oh, yes. Big day.’

He lays out his legal briefs, stands and dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘It would be the hottest day of the year for your trial, wouldn’t it? Did you bring the Spanish sun with you?’

‘No. How could I do that?’

Harry opens his mouth to speak then closes it. He drags out a chair from under the table, flicks his cloak behind him and sits. The classical music still plays on the radio.

‘So,’ he says. ‘We are as ready as we can be. Do you have any questions?’

‘How long will the trial take today?’

‘That depends on how long the prosecution cross-examine for. It could last all day, though naturally there will be a break for lunch.’

‘Do you know who has been selected to be on the jury?’

He nods. ‘I’ve seen the names. There’s a good bunch to select from, it seems. Reasonable mix of people. Jobs. Backgrounds-we should be okay there when the clerk picks them out.’

‘You will call me to the witness stand?’

‘Yes. I think it’s best. Are we still agreed you will do that?’

I pause. If I take the stand, what will I say? If they ask me if I did it, if I killed him, then do I tell them the truth? That I don’t know, that I can’t be sure any more because I have been drugged more times than I know? Because when I think of Father Reznik, I find myself now confusing him with Father O’Donnell and his butchered body? ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I say finally.

‘Okay.’ A smile. ‘I understand.’

The door opens. One of the solicitors. ‘They’re running five minutes late, Harry,’ she says. Harry thanks her. The door closes.

Harry gestures to the radio. ‘I love this piece.’

I breathe in, a deliberate, indulgent inhalation. ‘“The Flower Duet”.’

‘By Léo Delibes from his opera, Lakmé .’

Our eyes rest on the radio as the sopranos sing, their voices lapping like waves on a shore. I loosen my shoulders, close my eyes. Violins. Flutes. They dance together across the room, twirling, spinning, entwined.

Harry sighs. ‘I’ve always thought, when I hear this piece of music, that if there were angels, this is what they would sound like. That when I arrived at the gates of heaven, this is what I would hear.’

The voices are in the sky now, high notes gliding through the music. We sit, listen, no words spoken. As the piece comes to a close, the singing hovering in the air like a butterfly, I open my eyes.

Harry smiles at me. We do not speak, simply wait as the singing slowly fades away. I glance to the clock on the wall and my body tenses once more: 09.29 hours. Nearly time.

Harry starts to write some notes. I stare at the radio, try to focus on it to quell my rising nerves. The music has been replaced with a news bulletin, and the announcer is issuing a breaking report about the American National Security Agency-the NSA. There are allegations of espionage and something called Prism. I sit up, pay close attention. The NSA is being accused of illegally accessing personal information via social networking sites and other significant online organisations.

I turn to Harry. ‘Did you hear that?’

He nods. ‘The NSA scandal? It’s all over the papers.’

‘Do you think it has anything to do with the Project?’

But before Harry can reply, the door opens and the solicitor peers round. ‘It’s time.’

My pulse begins to race. I look at Harry. My father’s friend. I have never been so scared in all my life.

‘You can do this,’ Harry says, standing, giving me one of his creased smiles. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

‘Mr Warren?’ a guard says from the door.

Harry nods at him, hands me a tissue. ‘For later. Just in case.’

As we walk towards the courtroom, I have to stop, lean against the wall. A memory? A dream? I don’t know, but it is rolling in, fast, slicing into my mind: me, chest heaving, arms, legs smeared in blood, a knife hanging from my fingers, a priest’s collar lying torn on the floor.

‘Maria? Are you all right? Maria?’

I blink, suddenly aware of where I am. I gulp in a breath, cup my hands round my mouth.

‘It’s normal to have a small panic,’ Harry says. ‘That’s it, breathe.’

I do as he says, take air into my lungs. Gradually, the image, the blood in my mind slides away.

‘We have to go,’ Harry says. ‘Okay? It’s starting now. You’ll be fine.’

And I nod to Harry, but, in my head, the flicker of what I just saw slips back again, the reality of it now taking over as I walk to face the court.

I killed him.

Kurt shoves his face in front of mine. ‘I said, stop.’ There is spit on the corner of his mouth, his teeth snarl like a rabid dog.

‘You are hurting me,’ I croak. My eyes dart round, frantic for an escape.

A police siren races by outside. Kurt freezes, glances to the window. The siren fades away.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, and he releases me, and steps back.

I drop to the floor and gasp for air, rub my neck where he held me, lifting my left hand to push myself up, when something pinches it. Slowly, I open my palm. There, on my skin, is a metal spider, and on it, a tiny spec of a camera lens. I try to hide my shock, try to hide the gasp that slips out of my mouth, but when I look up, Kurt is already staring at me.

I look at the spider then at Kurt. ‘Who are you?’

He stares at me and I think he is about to run at me again, when, instead, he shakes his head, walks over to the table and rests against it. His chest heaves up and down. ‘I’m with the Project,’ he says after a moment. He wipes his forehead. ‘We have been recording everything. With that camera.’

‘Why?’ I shake my head. ‘Why?’ My brain flies. The voicemail message. Dr Carr-Black Eyes. They had enough recording material. And this is how they got the recording. My eyes shoot to the spider, examining every inch. It looks just like a household spider. There are eight legs and, when I turn it over, a tiny battery sits tucked on the underbelly. I pull myself up and stand as straight as I can against the wall, but the room sways, and I feel as if I am in a boat on the sea, the waves choppy, the wind wild, and that with every swell, with every slosh, I am losing my bearings.

I force myself, will myself to remain as still as possible, and wait for Kurt to explain.

The courtroom is heaving with people, the air hot and clammy.

I walk in, eyes betraying me, not being still, but scanning it all, wild at the sights, noises, bustle. My hands move to buffer my ears, but the guard shakes her head and so they remain by my side.

Up in the gallery, people sit, fanning their faces with their hands, the morning heat sweltering, unforgiving. There is no sign of my mother, brother or Balthus. On the ceiling, one fan circulates air around the room, but the sun is indiscriminate, burning anything it can through the high windows, searing the walnut desks, the wooden stands, the oak panelling. On the clock above the judge’s bench, the time reads 09.37.