Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘He’s been shot!’ shouts one of the journalists.

‘Harry!’ I scream. ‘Harry!’

Cameras click, getting their images, indiscriminate of the subject, of the level of decency, of any human feeling. In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens. The people part a little and I finally manage to scramble over to Harry, ready to treat him, but before I make it, there is a tug at my elbow. ‘Move, Maria! Move!’ I look back. Balthus.

‘Harry’s been shot,’ I say, gulping down air. ‘We have to help him! I saw Dr Andersson. She’s here. She has a gun.’

‘There’s nothing we can do. We have to get out of here,’ Balthus says, dragging me up. ‘It’s you she’s after, remember? Move.’

He hauls me up, but, as he does, I stumble, falling, hitting my cheekbone hard on the step. ‘Balthus, I have to help him. The police will be here,’ I say, tears streaking my face as I try to push him off.

‘Maria,’ says Balthus, breathing hard, gripping me, ‘if they shot Harry, they’re after you. The police can’t help us. You have to leave. Now.’

I scan the swell of people. Harry. Harry is there.

Swarms of journalists begin to surround his body, emergency vehicles screeching to a halt at the bottom of the steps. I glance to the far right: Dr Andersson stands at the edge, scanning the crowd where Harry lies.

‘She is there. I see her.’ I look at my hands; there is blood on my fingers, on my palms. Panic rises within me.

‘Let’s go. Lauren’s coming,’ Balthus yells and he yanks my arm.

And as he starts to run, me staggering in his grasp behind him, I steal one last frantic glance at Harry’s misshapen body lying on the steps of the court.

The blood from my hands mixes with the tap water as it runs down the sink. It swirls round and round the ceramic bowl, circling the waste pipe until, eventually, it disappears.

I hunch over, try to scrub my fingernails clean. My blouse is ripped at the hem and my cheek is scraped. I find a towel and pat my hands dry. Sitting on the ledge of the bath, I hang my head. The image of Harry slumped on the steps of the court lingers in my thoughts, and even when I try to imagine something else, it is still there-indelibly etched. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my reflection: my hair is matted to my head, there is a deep scratch on my cheek and the skin on my lower back is red raw.

I raise my hand, touch my face with my fingertips and wince. My whole body throbs. So much has happened. The murder. The conviction. Goldmouth. Dr Andersson. The Project. Handlers. Conditioning. Patricia. Harry. My mother. The veiled woman. The blood. The deaths. They all swirl into one, into a cauldron of memories, a brew of events that, if I blinked, if I closed my eyes right now and fell asleep, I could convince myself they never happened.

I drop my forehead to the glass and exhale, the cool of the mirror lowering my temperature, calming me.

A knock sounds on the door.

‘Maria,’ Balthus says, his voice low, gruff, ‘are you okay?’

I peel my forehead from the mirror, and, slowly, pad to the door and open it. Balthus is standing in the doorway, shirt open, face streaked with sweat.

‘How are you?’ he says.

‘They shot Harry.’ I wipe my eyes.

He eyes my scars, my bruises. ‘You look like you need a soak. There are towels in the top cabinet and soap just there.’ He points to the bath ledge.

I stare at it.

I touch the scar on my cheek.

Balthus follows my eyeline then turns back to me. ‘Look, you have a bath. I’ll make us a sandwich or something. Okay?’ He hesitates then walks towards the kitchen.

I close the door, turn on the taps and, shedding my ripped blouse, I begin the painful process of cleaning myself up.

I emerge from the bathroom in a grey dressing gown and go to the kitchen.

Balthus looks up. He has a white T-shirt on now, and his bare feet peek out from navy sweatpants. ‘Better?’

I nod and glance around. The kitchen is open-plan, spilling directly onto a lounge area, to the right of which sits a glass dining table. The apartment window spans the entire length of the wall. I walk towards it. The view stretches all the way over to the Thames.

‘I set you out one of Harriet’s old blouses. I hope that’s okay.’

I sit on the arm of one of the chairs in the lounge area, flinching at the cuts as they rub against my robe. ‘Have you heard any news about Harry?’

Balthus sets down the bread he is holding. ‘No. Nothing.’

I look over to where the television is. There are pictures on the screen, but no sound. President Obama is talking, and underneath a blue ticker tape reads: Breaking news - NSA Prism scandal. The documents we found, the secret details. My brain whirrs to life.

‘Pass me the remote control.’

Balthus comes over with a plate of sandwiches and sets them down on the low glass table in front of the sofa. ‘Here you go.’ He hands me the remote. I press the volume button. The news anchor’s voice springs into the room.

‘…In a leaked presentation to the press, it has been revealed that the US National Security Agency-the NSA-has been using a surveillance system code-named Prism. The existence of the programme, which allows the NSA to receive emails, video clips, social networking data and other private information held by a range of US internet companies, has been leaked to the British press by an anonymous whistle-blower. In a comment today, the EU Commissioner, Patrice Duree, said that they are concerned that firms complying with Prism-related requests may be handing over data in breach of the privacy rights of European citizens. Activist groups claim that Prism violates the US constitution.’

I lean in closer. The newsreader continues. ‘The revelation of the Prism programme comes at a time when the threat of cyber terrorism has never been greater. But governments around the world are voicing their protests at what the Chinese government is calling, “the warrantless surveillance”, in relation to a recently disclosed US cyber attack. Both the UK Prime Minister and Home Secretary have so far declined to comment-’

I mute the television and turn to Balthus. ‘This is related to the Project.’

‘How?’ He points to the plate of sandwiches. ‘Here, have something to eat.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s all connected. It has to be.’

Balthus picks up a sandwich and glances at the television. It is showing coverage from the scene outside the courtroom. Harry’s body lies on the steps, just as we left him. I close my eyes, unable to watch. Balthus turns off the TV.

‘Maria,’ he says, ‘I am concerned for you.’

I open my eyes.

‘So much has happened,’ Balthus continues. ‘Harry has just been shot in front of you. You have just been acquitted of a crime. The whole Callidus business, prison…These things can get to people.’ He sets down his sandwich. ‘Look, my boss, he has a contact with a counselling service.’

‘No.’

He sits. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘just consider it. It could really help you. Help you with your Asperger’s-everything. And, in the meantime, we can figure out what’s been going on, who these people are who have been after you.’

I stare at the vast window. ‘Harry stepped in front of me as the gun was fired.’

‘Yes.’

I watch the landscape, the rise and fall of the clouds, passing, breezing by, life continuing, normal, regular. My body, my brain-they ache for calm, for clarity. ‘How do you know these counselling people?’ I say after a moment.

‘It’s a perk, let’s say, of the prison service. Sometimes, in this job, we need help. We have access to some really good people. I can make the call, if you like.’