Nikki Owen - The Killing Files

‘Is it a recent recollection?’

‘I don’t know. I …’ He trails off. ‘It’s just, well, something Ines told me when she called me when you were in prison. I don’t know if it even means anything, but it was weird.’

‘The word ‘weird’ means a suggestion of something supernatural.’

‘What? No, no, I didn’t …’

‘Weird can also mean connected to fate, to a person’s destiny.’

‘Okay. Well, anyway, she was specific, Ines, about talking to me, about calling me and telling me what she did.’

‘When exactly was this?’

‘It was before the retrial.’

‘What date?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maria, my memory’s not as accurate as yours. But, look, it was strange. We hadn’t spoken for years—since Alarico’s death, in fact—and then, after her visit to you in Goldmouth, she calls out of the blue talking about … God, what was it …? Something about secrets … Damn it. I can’t remember. I just know she was acting odd.’ He breathes out. ‘It’s probably irrelevant anyway.’

‘How did you know she was acting odd?’

‘What? Oh, I don’t know, her tone of voice, perhaps? It was like she was under pressure or something, as if there was someone there, maybe. In danger? I really couldn’t say for sure.’

I go quiet, not understanding how a simple tone in a voice can lead to so many unconfirmed conclusions.

I pick up a book, one of many on computer coding and language, a routine, orderly subject, and place it on a tower of other research, and turn to my board. The faces containing different expressions, different photographs of people who I know, sketches of those I vaguely recall from hazy, drug-filled dreams. Ines, my mama, sits there, a photo taken from her Spanish parliament file, her face sculptured and clean, coiffured black hair, gold jewellery, shoulder pads and rouge. Next to her my brother, Ramon, thirty-five now, tanned, lean, a slick of tar-black hair on top of defined cheekbones, the black suit he wears to his legal firm tailored in place. And then my papa, an aged, more lined photograph, yet still I can see very visibly his eye creases, his lined skin, his crisp white linen shirt, and by his side is me, my hair long and dark, and Papa’s arm is over my shoulder, holding me, the only person, back then, I would allow to touch me without instantly jumping or yelling. I close my eyes. I can still smell him—the spice cologne, the ink from his quill where he used to write in his study. I open my eyes and look at an image pinned to the right—a fading picture of Balthus, Harry and me taken just after we won the retrial, after I was acquitted. My fingers trace Harry’s face. His skin is plump and black, and when he smiles, he too, like my papa, has eye creases that crinkle outwards, his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his rounded, shiny nose. Next to him is Balthus. Balthazar Ochoa. Name meaning lone wolf. In his picture he is tall, athletic even for his fifty-plus years, his skin washed with the Mediterranean sun, his black hair silver at the tips, his face consumed by two brown pools of eyes. But while Harry and Balthus’s bodies are relaxed and smiling, mine, in contrast, is rigid and tight, flinching at close group contact, my olive skin pale from months of incarceration, hair dark and sawn into a jagged cut that grazes my temple and neck, eyes sunken into razor cheeks. I touch my neck. The Salamancan sun has drenched my skin now into a deep golden hue, my dark pixie cut is bleached blonde and my once-brown eyes are replaced by green contacts. A fake look for a fake world.

‘Maria? Are you still there? Look—I was thinking. The flashback you had, the one with that woman—I think you need to understand where that facility is and get to it—I can help you. If there is information there, it could mean we could put a stop to it all, to all this madness. Maria, it could end the Project.’

Heat rushes to my head accompanied by a clear, frosted image of Black Eyes and his tombstone smile. My eyes go to my villa, safe and hidden. ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I said no. I do not want to understand where the facility is.’

‘But Maria, why track all the NSA stuff in connection to MI5, the explosion of it all, if not to get at the Project?’ He pauses. ‘Look, you’re not on your own. I know you think you are, but you’re not. You have me. You have Patricia. Jesus, you even have your mother and brother. Maybe they can even help? Ines knows a lot of people high up in the Spanish government—she’s Minister for Justice now.’

Black Eyes. Raven. My tortured, sweat-drenched nightmares that keep me awake in the middle of the night when there is no one to soothe me. I glance to their scratched sketches on the wall. ‘No.’

He sighs. ‘Please. Just consider it. Say if you could connect what I can hopefully remember from a conversation with Ines to what you have told me about this woman—Raven? It may help you know where the memory is coming from. If you know the facility, it will lead you to the file.’

I open my mouth to tell him no then hesitate, but I do not understand why.

‘This woman,’ Balthus says now, pressing on, ‘she said the file she loaded up will give you what you need to know, tells you what you’ve done, that it will help you know who you really are. Why note down all the dreams you recall, Maria, want to know how it’s all connected, if you don’t want to find out how to put an end to it all?’

I look down, confused. I thought the answer was obvious. ‘I have my notebook. I like to record information. That is why I require the details. I just record the data, all of it.’ I glance to my coding books, to the structure and the formality of them.

‘But this woman said the files could help you. Don’t you want to know who she is, find the file? Don’t—’ there is a pause and when he speaks again, his voice is oddly lower, more quiet ‘—don’t you want to know who you really are?’

I look at Balthus’s photo on the board, stare at all the unframed images and notes and encryptions and news articles, and, after a second, they all start to blur into one solid image of colour. I switch, glance to the turrets of books in neat, multiple piles, to the solitary seat, the makeshift wooden crates for tables, to the single toothbrush that lies on the shelf. I walk three steps to the worn piano by the wall, gently press my finger down on a key, the smooth ivory cold beneath my skin. E sharp tolls out.

‘I know who I am,’ I say after a moment. ‘I am Dr Maria Martinez, a plastic surgeon, born in Salamanca, Spain. I want to remain hidden. I do not want to go back to the Project or to their files or to anyone from there. It is too chaotic. I will record what memories appear, but no more. I do not want to endanger my family.’ I glance to the image of Harry. ‘I do not want to endanger you and Patricia.’

‘I understand that, I do. I really do,’ he says. ‘But they’ll find you, Maria. You know that, I know you do. I worry about you there on your own with no one. You need answers. I can help you. I have a contact. I sent you an email about him. He’s called Chris. He’s a hacker, used to be in Goldmouth. He can—’

An alarm sounds, high, war-siren sharp. My head jerks up.

‘Maria? Maria, what’s wrong?’

I sprint to the laptop, head dipped at the noise, but my feet are so sweaty, I slip on the tiles, toppling into the crate, knocking the computer clean off the upturned box.

‘Maria?’

I shake myself off, wincing at the scream of the siren, dragging the laptop over to me, scanning it fast.

‘Maria? Shit. Can you hear me? Maria? What’s happening?’

Leaning forward, keeping my fingers strong, steady, I click the icon flashing on the screen.