Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘of course. I am under oath.’

A murmur ripples through the onlookers.

‘Did someone see you during these…visits?’

‘The patients saw me.’

‘Who were elderly and medicated, is this correct?’

‘Yes, naturally. They were dying and in pain.’

‘And did anyone else see you on the ward at this time?’

My heart sinks. ‘No.’

‘What?’ he says. ‘No nurses? No fellow doctors?’

When I look up to speak, my body feels heavy, my mind exhausted. ‘I wear a hooded sweat top when I visit. I go in unnoticed and in the evening there is a skeleton reception staff. I do not wish to draw attention to myself. I do not visit sick patients so others can see me. But there is-’

I stop dead. The phrase hits me like a truck, unlocks a recollection. I do not visit sick patients so others can see me. The woman in the hijab-she spoke that phrase to me once! She worked in…in a medical tent on a refugee camp, tended to patients. Which means I knew her, worked with her. Murdered her under the influence of what? Unlicensed drugs? My mouth drops open, a lone shriek flying from it. I look up. The prosecutor is standing, frowning.

‘Ms Martinez,’ the judge says, ‘are you okay?’

I turn, blink at him, but my mind is melting.

‘Ms Martinez…’

From the corner of my eye, I just about see the jurors fold their arms, heads shaking. I swallow hard, wipe the sweat from my brow and force myself to look to the judge. ‘I am sorry.’

He nods to the prosecutor, tells him to continue.

The prosecutor clears his throat. ‘Dr Martinez, is there CCTV evidence of these visits of yours to the elderly ward?’

‘There…’ I stall, try to focus, but it is hard now. ‘There is a CCTV camera there,’ I say, sitting back upright a little, suddenly wondering if he is part of the Project, too. I shoot a glance around the court. Maybe everyone here is with them, all conspiring against me. The judge. The jury. But what would I do if they were? Murder them, too?

‘And is there a recording of your visits, showing you, at the time of the murder, sitting by the bedsides of these elderly patients?’

All eyes are directed at me. ‘There is no recording, no,’ I say, finally.

The gallery erupts.

‘Order,’ says the judge.

From the back of the room, a door bangs open and a man in a wig and cloak, clutching a file scuttles to the defence bench. The whole courtroom watches. The man slides next to Harry, whispers in his ear, then exits, his back to me the entire time. The prosecutor dabs his neck, returns his focus to me.

‘Dr Martinez, I put it to you,’ he says, ‘that you were indeed not in the geriatric ward in St James’s Hospital that night, but in fact at the convent on Draycott Road.’

‘I…I was not,’ I say, unsure, but I am not looking at the prosecutor, my stare, instead, is on the small parcel Harry has just been given.

‘And yet you cannot prove it.’ He shakes his head. ‘You cannot prove your alibi, Dr Martinez.’ The prosecutor looks to the judge. ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

Just as I begin to descend the steps, my head hanging, Harry rises. ‘Your Honour, I have just one or two more questions.’

I halt, grip the rail. What is he doing?

The judge lets out a sigh and eyes Harry. ‘Okay, make it quick, Mr Warren.’

‘Yes, Your Honour. Thank you.’ Harry holds up a CD. ‘The defence would like to submit this CCTV footage as evidence.’

The usher takes the CD and slides it into the PC system to the right of the room.

‘If you could press play, please,’ Harry says. I stay very still, not daring to move, to breath. To my right, a television screen flickers to life with grainy black-and-white footage. The image-I recognise it.

‘What you are seeing here,’ Harry says, ‘is a CD that has been discovered-handed to me today, just now, in fact. It is a CD that contains CCTV footage of the night of the murder of Father O’Donnell.’ He points to the screen. ‘Note the time: 10.35 p.m. If you watch, you will see shortly coming along the corridor…Yes, there she is.’

I squint at the image. Then I see it: me. My whole body goes rigid, scared to admit what my eyes are telling me.

‘Dr Maria Martinez Villanueva,’ Harry says, ‘this is who you are seeing in this recording in the hospital at the time of the murder of Father Joseph O’Donnell. And if we fastforward it…’ The screen blurs, black lines scratching left and right. ‘Yes, here.’ He points at the screen. ‘The time: 11.55 p.m. This camera was stationed by the main rear exit to the hospital.’

I peer at the monitor. It is me, leaving the hospital. My mind scatters, thoughts blown wide open. It exists! Me, on screen. The evidence was there all along. I can feel myself shaking, tiny tremors. The people in the gallery whisper, everyone moving, looking to one another, to the television screen. I make myself peer at it now, too, my face, my evidence, one question forming in my mind until it is too big to ignore: Why? Why was the CCTV kept from my first trial? And why has it now been returned? I ring my hands together, feeling myself on the verge of breaking away, of finding an open window to flap out of.

‘You are seeing now, ladies and gentlemen,’ Harry says, ‘Dr Maria Martinez, visiting, as she has stated in this court, elderly, dying patients,’ Harry says. ‘Leaving at 11.55 p.m. This is after the time the call was placed by Sister Mary to the emergency services.’

Harry nods to the usher, who presses pause. An image of my face half hidden under the shadow of a navy hooded Universidad de Salamanca top-but still clear, still me-flickers on the screen. I had thought the CCTV did not exist. It could not be found. No CCTV evidence-the reason I am in prison.

Harry looks to the judge. ‘No more questions, Your Honour.’

The room erupts. I am led back to the dock, but I don’t hear what else is going on, my mind dreamlike almost. How can an alibi appear just like that? Can it be true? But how? Is it the Project? It is all I can think of as, once the noise has died and the perfunctory processes have passed, the counsels begin their closing statements. Their words, as they speak, whip past me like a snow flurry.

Suddenly, a voice snaps, ‘Stand!’ I blink my eyes into focus and see the guard staring at me, her body leaning towards me. I must have lost track of time, because the closing statements are over and the whole courtroom is looking at me.

Slowly, I rise from my seat as ahead the judge bends forward to speak.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the statements from both counsels. The evidence has been presented and the facts are stated. You now have to consider this case based solely on the information presented in this court today. You have an important task ahead of you. This court will now retire and the jury will consider its verdict.’

I try Balthus’s number once, twice, but nothing. No answer, no voicemail. The air is hot, heavy, sweat dripping down my back, but I hardly notice, so pricked are my ears for any sounds of movement, of running, shouting. Of Kurt.

I examine the area, and, changing direction, ditch down another side street, dark, out of the way. I stop by some bins, steady myself, slowly check around. There is no one here. The whole situation hitting me, I slide against a damp wall and try to defuzz my head, think through my options. I have broken out of the session, which means they’ll be after me, instantly. I wipe my forehead. Kurt, the needle. He wanted to drug me to get me out. To where? To Callidus? And if everything he said was true, if the NSA surveillance has threatened the Project, threatened me, then can I really evade them? Will they always be watching?