Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

I rub my eyes. Callidus, the memory I had in the courtroom of the woman in the hijab. Was she real, the woman? And what of Project Callidus, of their intentions? Are they inherently good? Do they really want me to help them, as Kurt said, to fight terrorism? For the greater good? But how can murdering people-anyone-be good? How? Even the notion of it seems absurd, crazy: me, covert, an asset, trained without knowing, already having possibly completed code-based operations without realising, killing without knowing I was being drugged.

An unexpected wave of exhaustion washes over me. Leaning back against the wall, I give in a little, just for a moment, and, my eyelids heavy, close. The brickwork is cold against my back and it feels good, a relief almost to be here, outside, hiding, out of the way, out of-

My mobile vibrates. I grunt, eyes flying open as I try to get my bearings. I fumble for my phone, slam it to my ear.

‘Maria?’

I freeze. The voice. I recognise it, tense up, self-defence mode on high alert.

‘Maria, it’s me. I missed your calls. Where are you? Are you okay?’

My body drops at the realisation of who it is, relieved I was wrong. ‘Balthus,’ I say, fast, alert now, ‘the therapist, the one your service sent me to: he’s part of the Project.’

‘What? Jesus.’

I stand, scan the area, aware of everything, every sound, colour, smell, as if all my dials have been turned up to maximum, at breaking point.

‘Maria? Are you still there?’

‘I need you to get here.’ I smear sweat from my face, tell Balthus where I am, words forming in my mouth, my mind automatically giving an almost exact GPS location without me knowing how. A clatter of bin lids echoes from two streets back. I sling my bag over my shoulder. ‘Hurry.’ I end the call and start to run.

The jury has returned.

As they take their seats, I am led to the dock by the guard. My head, my thoughts are spiralling out of control now, I can feel it. Sister Mary, the sudden CCTV discovery, the blood, the knife, the killing-it all stinks of the Project, and yet, even now, as the ceiling fan spins and the sun bakes the bodies of those returning to the public gallery, I can’t say for certain the Project is involved, the dreaded thought that I have acted alone, that I have killed alone, threatening to slice me in two. Reality sneaks in through the back door of my brain, whispering one word: Murderer.

The room swells with noise as people take their seats. I am not allowed to put my hands to my ears, so instead I try to quell the sounds by clouding my vision, by attempting to zone out of it all, when someone catches my eye. I hold my breath, not daring to believe it.

At first, it is not clear, but, as the remaining people take their seats, it becomes obvious: my mother is in the courtroom, by her side is Ramon, both of them two seats away from Balthus. Even from this distance, I can see her skin shines with a translucent, pasty sheen, her hair brushed back into an oversized bouffant that sits high and proud upon her gaunt face.

Ramon is holding my mother’s arm by the elbow now, assisting her into her chair, and, as she eases down, she looks straight to me, unexpectedly, and mouths, Hello, my darling. A tear slips out, just one, sliding down her cheek. My mama is ill and yet she is here, for me. I allow myself one last glance; then, rubbing my face, I turn away.

‘All rise,’ declares the usher.

Bile rises to my throat. I swallow it back down.

A door at the far left of the courtroom opens and the jury enter. I count them as they file in. One-two-three-four…Each of them glance at me then at the jury box. Five-six-seven-eight…The jurors begin to sit down, adjust their clothes, fan their faces. The heat, the sun. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve…They are all seated, their foreheads fixed into frowns, their hands laid in their laps.

Once the jury is settled, the clerk stands and the foreman of the jury rises. From the bench, the judge watches.

My hands shake. I hold my breath. This is it. This is the decision. I squeeze my fingers, recite complex equations in a low whisper over and over again. If I had not been in prison, if the Project had never existed, I wouldn’t be here, hunted, marked. Guilty. A dead woman walking.

I try to direct my attention to the court, reroute my brain. The room is steaming with bodies and odour and heat. I remain standing in the dock. Up in the gallery, one by one, people are now falling silent, each of them looking at me. I press my lips together and keep my eyes straight.

Some of the jury members are biting their nails, others are dabbing sweat from their foreheads with their palms. At the counsels’ bench, Harry is peering across at the jury, the prosecutor is reading his notes. I have gone over the words of both closing arguments five separate times in my head. I recall every sentence, every phrase. Guilty. Innocent. Beyond reasonable doubt. They all swirl through my mind now as I think, as I try to determine if, on its own, it is enough.

I raise my fingers to my lips. Enough -Patricia’s message to me.

The judge clears his throat and I fight the sudden urge to curl into a ball.

‘Have you considered a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’ the clerk asks.

The foreman holds out a piece of paper. ‘We have.’

I watch him, his fingers shaking, as across my mind the face of the woman in the hijab, eyes frozen wide in death, flashes past in one last defiant grip on life.

‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

The foreman looks to the clerk.

‘In the case of the Crown versus Dr Maria Martinez Villanueva, we find the defendant not guilty.’

The room detonates into a mushroom cloud of noise. Harry turns to me, smiles. The prosecutor shakes his head. I cannot move, cannot think. The talking is so loud in the court that it vibrates against the walls, rings in my head. I cover my ears to lower the volume, but the guard tells me to place my hands by my sides, and all I want to do is turn around and yell to her that she can’t do that any more. She can’t tell me what to do. No one can. Not any more.

The judge bangs his hammer and a hush descends. I cannot believe what has happened. Like a dream, like a mirage, I feel that if I reached out, if I touched it, it would all evaporate before my eyes and I would be at the starting point again, arrested, a murderer.

I search for my mother, for Ramon, eager to catch a glimpse of their faces, but they are not there. How can that be? I stop, look again, eyes franticly scanning the people as they move, but they are nowhere to be seen. The reality hits: Mama and Ramon have already left. A lump swells in my throat, instant, harsh. They have left me, now of all moments. Why? I suddenly feel lost, abandoned, like a solitary bird in the sky, like a lone fish in the sea.

I swallow, try to refocus, anything to distract from the swell of sadness that rises inside me. I look at the foreman, at the twelve faces of the jurors, at the clerk, the usher, the gallery. At Balthus. At Harry. They all swim into one wash of colour, and yet, as the verdict sinks in, as the smiles of Harry and his team filter my way, I cannot allow myself to join in the elation. Because I have seen it. I have seen death. And I know the hands that have caused it all: mine.

The judge waits until the noise has receded, then he sits forward. ‘Dr Martinez, you are free to go.’

The guard instructs me to walk down the steps and I follow, but I cannot focus. All around me, people stare and talk and point, and yet I feel like a fraud. I am aware there is noise, but it is as if the mute button has been pressed, and I see their mouths move, but I do not hear their voices, hear their shouts. I stare at the guard as she says something to me, but I cannot make out what it is.