Nikki Owen - The Killing Files

I try to scramble back, tell myself that none of this is real, but still they come, the heads grotesque, twisted out of shape, all images in a fairground mirror, their mouths and eyes huge, each of them laughing over and over like two sick clowns. ‘ Freak! She doesn’t understand,’ they sing. ‘She doesn’t understand, the freak .’ The children run beside them, children I recall from my school days, and they skip and they chant, Weirdo, weirdo, stinky nerdy weirdo . And I ask them what they mean, scream at them to tell me what is happening, but the heads, all of them, family, children, they simply look at me, at each other, and then, just as I think they’re going to disappear, they let out one roar of a laugh and, merging together, morph into a gun as tall as a car and shoot me, point blank, in the head.

My eyes fly open. I choke, claw for air, chest ripping, struggling as I look down at myself, at the black room, shaky, scared at what just happened.

‘Patricia, the drugs …’

‘Sssh. Sssh.’

I stutter, voice cracked and it takes a full minute for my body to settle, for the nightmare of the image of my mama and brother to slowly subside.

‘Doc, I’m here. It’s okay. It’s over. It’s over.’

I hear my friend, cling onto her voice as if I was sinking and she were my life raft in the sea. My brain recalibrates itself, but it is taking time and each movement of my eyes and hands and limbs makes the room sway and soar and whip up a pile of nausea in my stomach.

After a moment, after the heat has subsided, Patricia checks on me then asks me a question.

‘Doc, you know these hallucinations, right?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Well, why’s it only happened now?’

My head throbs, throat runs red raw. Everything in the room still fades into black. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if this needle, yeah, this drug is permanently in your vein, why’s it not causing you to trip all the time?’

I begin to think. What she is saying, what she talks about—my brain finally starts to shrug off the drug effects and engage, calculate.

‘Doc, I guess what I mean is,’ she says now, ‘what’s making the drug only come out in doses?’

And in the dark, in the foul mouldy odour, I sit and I think and I try to understand what is happening.

And how to make it all stop.

Salamancan Mountains, Spain .

34 hours and 11 minutes to confinement

A searing heat instantly explodes in my thigh.

The room begins to sway, the white sun from the window blinding me, mixing with the pain to create a lethal cocktail, slow at first then faster, and when I look at Dr Andersson her smile appears distorted, as if someone has taken an axe to her head and sliced it clean down the middle. Nausea balloons as blood begins to spew from the wound.

I force myself to keep my hands were they are, fixed in the position behind my back, despite the instinctive compulsion to throw my arms forward and tend to the wound.

As the pain rips into me, I focus on the cell phone, still hidden behind me, knowing that Balthus has listened to everything that has happened. Sweat drains down my face. Ahead Dr Andersson proceeds to tear apart my laptop, pocketing my USB sticks, disabling every part of my surveillance system, all that I have been unable to hide now being destroyed, and it hurts me, every smash, every rip and pilfer—what she is doing feels as if it is physically hurting me, the way in which she is creating pure chaos out of my routine and order.

If she is destroying evidence, it will soon come to the point where she will find my notebook.

I have to stall for time. ‘I need to stem the blood flow from my leg,’ I say. ‘I need to press my hands into it. Untie me.’

She throws me a glance, hesitating for a moment, her eyes on my wound, and I think she may come to assist me, but then she checks her watch, shakes her head and returns to pulling apart my data.

My body is getting weaker. The blood from the wound is slowing a little, but still oozing and if I don’t get pressure on it soon, I may bleed out entirely and lose consciousness. My eyes spot the iron bar—it is still on the floor where it fell.

Dr Andersson comes over and crouches by me. ‘Maria? Can you hear me? I need you to tell me something—is the Project still functioning?’

‘You are MI5,’ I say, winching at a stab of pain, ‘you should have the intelligence for that answer.’

She sighs. ‘I’m looking for a file.’

My ears prick up. ‘What file?’

She glances around at the mess. My teeth clench at the chaotic sight. ‘There is a file hidden by a woman, a woman you knew, an asset in the field some time ago when the Project was more … useful. Do you know where the file is?’

Sweat trickles past my eyes. Raven, the dream. Does she know? ‘What is the woman’s name?’

‘Ah, now wouldn’t that be easy, if I had a name?’ She wipes her cheek dry of sweat. ‘I’m afraid that’s what I was rather hoping you could provide.’ I shift, careful not to dislodge the cell phone. ‘Do you know where the file is, Maria?’

‘No.’

She stands. ‘Then I’m sorry, but …’ She administers one swift kick to my injured leg. I cry out in agony.

‘B … B …’ My speech slurs. I must be losing more blood than I thought.

‘Where’s the file, Maria? Please, just tell me.’ She sticks on a quick smile. ‘Let’s just get this done as fast as we can, okay? I really don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to before, well … Just help me out here.’

My eyes narrow as I muster every inch of energy that is left in me, every shard of anger and fear and pain and loss, straight at her. ‘Bitch.’

Her smile and shoulders drop. She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a knife, black handle, solid. My brain fires into red alert mode, desperate to move as she slides off a leather sheath to reveal one small, sharp blade, seven centimetres long, the sleek silver of it shining in the summer sun, a gentle light dancing warm and carefree on the glide of the metal.

‘I’m sorry I have to do this, but you were supposed to die months ago.’ She kicks a piece of computer casing away. ‘You evaded our officers then, even dodged my bullet for you outside the court, but not now. I’m afraid we can’t risk the service being exposed. You understand—it’s this NSA scandal. MI5 don’t want the Project blowing up like NSA’s prism programme did. The Project was good while it lasted, but it has to end. The file I need—we’ll find it. I hear there’s been a run of break-ins and knife crime in this remote area.’ She glances to the upturned room. ‘I’m afraid this will have to look like a burglary that’s ended in a murder.’

I look at my leg, panting in air now. The limb is damaged, but the blood loss is finally halting. I can move my toes, but I don’t know if I can mobilise my body at all, but my hands are still behind my back and, for now, I need to keep them there …

I start to count.

One .

Dr Andersson takes a step forward.

Two .

She grips the knife tight in her fist, her eyes downturned.

Three .

I glance to the iron bar near on the floor.

Four .

Dr Andersson lunges forward. ‘I’m so sorry …’

Five .

I unleash my hands, tethers gone, Balthus having talked me through how to untie them, and, despite the blood loss, despite the odds stacked against me, and the chaos and the fear and the sheer sensory onslaught of the entire situation, I charge forward at Dr Andersson with every single drop of effort I’ve got.

Salamancan Mountains, Spain .