Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

Concentrating on anything but the memories still floating in my mind, I bend forward and look to my right. A small circular table has been set with a plastic beaker containing water. I have been told the only time I am permitted to stand is when I am instructed to do so.

A door creaks open, loud, in the far left-hand corner of the room, and I jump a little. Footsteps. Firm. Flat.

‘Court rise,’ says the usher towards the front. I stand, focus, but so much is happening, so fast, that I find it hard to control the thoughts that pick me up and carry me away.

The clerk clears her throat, an usher to her right, Harry and the prosecutor stood in front. ‘Her Majesty’s Crown Court for the trial of a criminal case with jury is now open and all persons having anything to do thereat may attend and they shall be heard. His Lordship Mr Justice Marling-Fenton presiding.’

The judge enters, sits, his long white wig hitting the bench, his pale, sunken cheeks sucking in and out. I swallow, try not to think of the power, the life-changing, Godlike control this man in a wig and a robe has in his hands. On the instruction of the usher, everyone in the courtroom returns to their seats. But I am told to remain standing. Why? I cast a glance round the room and my palms start to sweat. Everyone is staring at me.

The clerk begins to empanel the jury. I count as, one by one, a name is read out until twelve men and women are seated in the jury box, men and women I have never met before, people I know nothing about, and who know very little about me. The real me.

Finished with the jury, the clerk picks up a document and faces me. ‘Maria Martinez Villanueva, you are charged with the murder of Father Joseph O’Donnell. Do you understand that?’

I nod, my mouth suddenly dry, mute.

‘You have to speak.’

I swallow back non-existent saliva. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

I hesitate, not knowing what to say, to think. The memory, the knife, the blood smeared over my body. Was it real? Did I do it for the Project? Or was it a hallucination, a figment of my imagination? My eyes land on Harry, his smile, and I think of my papa, warm, safe. And then, like it was always there, somewhere deep inside, a feeling of calm, of pure clarity envelops me, presenting me with the answer I have been searching: I need to do this. I need to do this for Papa. I draw in a breath. ‘Not guilty.’

A low whisper whistles around the courtroom.

The judge looks to me. ‘You may sit, Ms Martinez.’

The fan spins on the ceiling and the people in the public gallery stretch their necks to get a view. Down by the bench, the prosecutor rolls his shoulders and prepares his papers for his opening speech.

As he does so, I make myself sit up as straight as I can.

Once the prosecutor completes his opening statement, below in the counsels’ area, Harry stands. ‘I’d like to call Dr Andrea Gann.’

A murmur ripples around the courtroom. I shift in my seat, agitated, impatient. If this pathologist discredits the original DNA evidence, it could win us the case.

Dr Gann is sworn in by the clerk and sits down. Her hair is short, mouse brown, and her glasses have a thick black frame.

‘Dr Gann,’ Harry says, ‘can you first begin by telling me your credentials.’

She nods, reels off a long list of professorships and institutions.

Harry thanks her and proffers a brief smile. ‘Could I ask you to explain to the jury what state Father O’Donnell’s body was in when you found it?’

‘Yes. The victim was found inside the convent chapel, by the altar. He was on his back and his arms and legs were spread out in a star shape, secured at each juncture.’

‘I’m sorry, “juncture”? Could you explain what you mean by that?’

A vision swims into my consciousness. Tied up ankles, tethered wrists.

‘The victim was secured by rope to each wrist and ankle, so he was splayed in a star shape.’ She holds out her fingers and thumbs. ‘The rope was secured, well, weighed down actually, by four chalices.’

‘And the injuries suffered?’

I brace myself to hear it, to hear the sorry truth.

‘Knife wounds were sustained to the hands. The palms were up. Each hand had been pierced all the way through to the other side by a sharp instrument, probably a kitchen knife. The same for his feet-both pierced by a knife all the way through.’

Harry nods. ‘And they were fatal wounds in your opinion?’

‘No. While those wounds would have caused substantial blood loss, there was a further wound-a perforating stab wound to the neck region, just below the trachea.’

‘But is the windpipe not hard to perforate?’

Windpipe-why does that word lodge in my throat? Why does it mean something? Something separate, new?

Dr Gann shakes her head. ‘The area perforated was the soft triangle of skin just below the windpipe.’

My finger glides over my neck. I frown. My memory-the knife, the blood, priest-there were no neck wounds that I recall, just one fatal stab to the femoral artery.

‘And was that the fatal wound?’ Harry says. I set my concentration back on him.

Dr Gann nods. ‘Yes. It perforated from front to back.’

‘All the way through?’

‘Yes,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘All the way through.’

There is a whip of gasps from the public gallery. ‘Would you say, Dr Gann,’ Harry continues, ‘that this wound would have required considerable force to inflict? Considerable muscle power?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Not at all. In fact, that area is soft, like butter.’

I glance to the jury, try to concentrate on the contours of their faces, anything to distract me from my thoughts, but still the same idea dominates my mind. Because a phrase is coming to me now, as if I was taught it, conditioned to think it, one phrase and one alone. It rises up above this expert witness, above the evidence and the facts, a phrase I realise, with revulsion, with a sudden jerk of memory, I have always known: if you want to kill someone, if you truly want to kill someone for a cause, for the greater good, then no matter what your obstacle, no matter how difficult it may appear at first, in truth, it is easy.

The phrase: Killing is easy.

Kurt holds out his hand. ‘I need the camera back.’

I grip the spider tighter.

‘Jesus Christ.’ He shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know who you are, do you?’

‘I do. I am-’

‘No, you don’t know. You don’t know who you fucking well are at all. You’re a mess.’

I keep my eyes open wide, not even a blink, because, if I close them, if I imagine for a moment that none of this exists, it will all disappear.

‘Who am I?’

Kurt runs a palm across his mouth. ‘You are a highly conditioned intelligence asset and you belong to us. You are part of us-the UK and USA secret services. You are an extreme-priority individual selected, because of your Asperger’s, for a covert conditioning programme called Project Callidus. And you are going to tell me how you managed to fuck it all up!’

‘Why…why are you saying this?’

He sighs. ‘Look at the state of you. To think I had my hopes set on you.’

‘Your brother,’ I say. I look at the spider in my hand, confused. My eyes dart, frantic, around the room. ‘Is this…is this some sort of flashback?’

‘You’ve been conditioned to remember everything you see, you’ve had millions spent on training you, so why don’t you tell me what this is?’ He waits, unmoving, coiled as if ready to pounce.

‘But I don’t remember everything.’ I tap my hand on my leg. ‘Why did you say you were a therapist? Why did you lie?’ I step to the side.