Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘If I am safer with you, why did you not take me to this Project before the therapy?’

‘Like I said before, we needed to evaluate your memory, see how ready you really were. It was the only way. I’m sorry we put you through it-believe me when I say that. But right now, we need to go.’

From my periphery, I see Balthus shift a little. I step to my left.

‘You know it was Balthus who called me, don’t you?’ Kurt says now.

I hesitate. ‘He thought he was calling a counselling service. That is the only reason he called you. He didn’t know who it really was.’ To my right, I see a vague shadow of Balthus’s arm.

‘His wife is the Home Secretary,’ Kurt says. ‘She’s in charge of MI5. Are you telling me she doesn’t know about you?’

‘Don’t listen to him, Maria,’ Balthus shouts. I glance to him and breathe faster. Could Balthus have been part of it all, just like everyone else? I shake my head. Not possible. He was my father’s friend.

‘You are lying again,’ I shout to Kurt.

‘I’m not lying, not about the danger you’re in.’

I turn to move then squint. There is a glint in Kurt’s hands. My heart rockets. I recognise it: metal, curved, a barrel. He lifts it, arms outstretched, aiming. ‘No!’ I scream, but Kurt is already moving fast, trained.

My mouth opens to a silent yell.

He points the gun and fires.

Balthus moans, rolling from side to side, clutching his leg.

‘You shot him! Why did you shoot him?’

‘Leave him,’ says Kurt, as I bend down to tend to the injury, tearing Balthus’s trousers. His shinbone is just visible beneath the inky ooze of blood.

I begin to apply pressure on the wound, when I feel cold metal against my right temple.

‘I said, leave him.’

Slowly, I rise, Kurt’s gun firmly pressed against my skull.

‘Move three steps to your right.’

I stay still.

He pushes the gun in harder. ‘Do it.’

I glance at Balthus then move. Balthus groans, blood pooling on the cobbles, the red staining my eyes, burning me; the rats run into a dilapidated, burnt-out building to our left.

‘We cannot leave him like this,’ I say. ‘He’s losing blood.’

‘We do not have time to help him.’

I dart my eyes round. There is no one. No help. ‘What do you want?’

‘You.’

‘Why should I go with you?’ I exhale, muscles loosening, my body reaching a limit, a point where it doesn’t want to go on, yet knows it has to. ‘Why now? I have been conditioned without my knowledge all this time, I know about MI5, the tests, drugs, even the handlers, the assignments, but why the urgency now, after all these years?’

‘Maria, run,’ croaks Balthus.

Kurt kicks him hard. ‘That’s enough out of you.’ Balthus clutches his leg, lets out a long gurgling moan.

Kurt turns to me and grabs my arm. ‘Time for us to go.’

‘No. Why do you need me now? Why now?’

‘Because you’re not safe any more. It’s that simple. MI5 want you dead. And we can handle that, feed them false intel on you, but we can only really protect you if we know where you are. That’s why, right now, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. You’re coming into the Project.’

As we arrive at the court entrance, Harry catches up with us. He is out of breath, sweaty, but I stare at him, watch him, as if looking away will make him disappear, will make me lose him.

Beyond the large oak doors, people are shouting my name, yelling, screaming. I feel my muscles go taut, tense, the thought of seeing it all, of the sheer volume of it all, paralysing me, making my legs freeze, my brain seize up.

‘This will be my first time out of the prison system in a year,’ I say to Balthus. ‘When we are out there how…’ I swallow, clear my throat. ‘How will I find you?’

He smiles, steady, still, a crease reaching his eyes, just like Harry’s. ‘I’ll wait at the back until Harry’s done his bit with the press. You go with Harry to his offices and I’ll meet you there.’

I look at the entrance and flap my hand.

‘I’ll go now,’ Balthus says, his body to full height, casting a shadow across the marble floor. ‘I will see you very soon.’

‘See you there for a large whiskey,’ Harry says. Balthus nods then leaves.

Harry adjusts his jacket and looks at my flapping hand. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Did you get your file?’

‘Sorry? Oh, yes.’ He taps his chest. ‘All set.’

We walk towards the court entrance and pause. ‘Ready?’ Harry says.

My hand goes still. Standing here, the crowd seems louder, like a clatter of thunder. Harry inhales, and, opening the door, heat blasting our faces, we walk out onto the courthouse steps.

Immediately, camera bulbs flash and pop. I gasp, clench my jaw at it all. Dozens of journalists crowd the steps, all of them rushing up towards us, a pack of wolves thrusting their microphones into our faces. In the glare of the sun, I see TV cameras, the photographers. The noise is so loud that my head starts to throb and all I want to do is cover my ears and rock. But instead, I focus on Harry’s large frame stood in front of me.

‘Dr Martinez! Over here!’

‘Maria! Give us a smile.’

‘Dr Martinez, what was it like being locked up in a British prison for so long?’

The journalists bark question after question, relentless, feral. Harry holds up a palm.

‘My client…’ Harry pauses until there is a hush. ‘My client would firstly like to say thank you to all those who have helped her to be here today, a free woman.’ There is a pop of flashbulbs. I squint, shield my eyes with my left hand.

‘Many of you have read stories,’ Harry continues, ‘about my client, her family, her relationships-all of it. But I will remind you that they are just that-stories. Today the truth has come out. Not fiction, but fact. The truth.’

The cameras whizz and pop, fighting for their pictures, but I cannot smile, my body unsteady, my mind overloaded by it all. To dampen the flames of my panic, I stare ahead to the city landscape on the horizon, count the tallest buildings, hoping the numbers will soothe me. I get to eleven when I see something. I stand on my toes, try to get a better view.

‘Our thoughts now go,’ Harry is saying, ‘to the family of Father O’Donnell.’

I squint, but the sun is very bright and it is difficult to see.

‘Father O’Donnell’s family,’ Harry says, ‘walk away today without any answers to the crime that was committed against their son. It is them we must think of. That is all for now. Thank you.’

The flashbulbs pop like fireworks.

We hurry down the steps as journalists and photographers jostle and jump. I catch a glimpse of Balthus on the far edge and I attempt what I think is a smile, but he does not smile back. Everything is so loud. Balthus’s mouth appears to be shaped into an O, but it is hard to decipher. I slow down, try to see him properly, but then it happens.

Balthus is darting towards us.

Harry spots him. ‘Balthus?’

And that is when I see it. A spark in the sunshine. Blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail. The barrel of a gun.

‘Dr Andersson,’ I say, but before I can move, before I can sound the warning, there is a loud crack of a shot being fired.

Then people scream.

Harry pushes himself in front of me as a sea of bodies surges towards us.

‘Harry!’ I shout. ‘She has a-’

Harry opens his mouth to speak, then is cut dead.

‘Harry!’

He wobbles on the steps, clutching his chest. I try to push my way through, but I am against the tide and it is impossible. Harry looks straight at me; then, crumpling, his body topples, thudding onto the stone below.