Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (16 page)

I do not blink.

Kurt is smiling at me.

There are now two spiders on the ceiling.

‘T
he DNA evidence is inconclusive.’

I have been sitting in front of Harry Warren QC for fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. He has been recalling all the aspects of my original trial—the evidence, witnesses, timings. I have been jittery and vague. Patricia, her body being shocked with electricity, her head hanging like a limp rag doll, is an image that constantly plays in my mind like a showreel.

Despite my discomfort and confusion, Harry has been very thorough. Four times now he has stated that he is not impressed with the way in which the evidence was portrayed in the original court, so much so, he says, that he cannot believe my counsel were allowed to practise. When yet again I am slow to respond, Harry lifts his eyes from his file. In the flesh, he is stouter than his photos convey. His torso, his arms are fuller, cheeks plump on black skin, skin so shiny, so alive I feel he could last forever, that, as if by sheer force of his rooted, warm-blooded presence,
he will always be around, like a house built of timber that never collapses. Safe. A haven.

He smiles at me, revealing large white teeth. ‘Maria,’ he clears his throat, ‘your DNA, it says here, was found in three places, including the priest’s shoe.’

‘They were Crocs.’

‘Crocs?’ He laughs like Father Christmas then sighs. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘There is so much these days I don’t know, so many new things, names.’

I hesitate. There is something about him. Something that makes me breathe more easily. A familiarity. ‘Crocs are shoes,’ I say finally.

He nods. ‘Thank you.’

I watch him for a second then continue. ‘I had purchased the footwear when I first arrived in London. I told the prosecution that they were mine, old ones from the operating theatre. They had never fitted me correctly.’

Harry unlaces the pink ribbon from the legal brief on the table. ‘And why did you give them away?’

‘I had a blister,’ I say, ‘from running shoes I had purchased in haste when I arrived in the UK. The Crocs I bought for surgery rubbed at the blister when moving. They hurt at the heel, so I donated them to the convent. They sell items like shoes to raise money. The priest must have kept them for himself; the trace of blood from my blister was left on the Crocs. The DNA…’

I trail off. DNA. I flip open my notebook, fly to the page, to the diagram—one of many I have instinctively drawn without knowing why. When I find it, my fingers hover. There. Deoxyribonucleic acid. The twisted double helix, the ladder of vertical sugar and phosphate modules.
Our human blueprint. I dreamt about it, one of the first few days in prison. Thousands of DNA structures were flying around my head. And now Harry is talking about it, about my case, my DNA.

Harry leans forward a little. ‘Is that…?

My eyes fly to him. ‘What?’

He clears his throat, sits back. ‘You keep notes, many, by the look of it.’ He smiles at me; it reaches his eyes. ‘Good idea,’ he says, jabbing a finger at his brow. ‘Keeps the brain busy. Vital, hmm?’ A smile again.

I slam the book shut and say nothing. I cannot determine if he is being kind. Is he?

Harry clears his throat and consults his brief. ‘So, the DNA is certainly weak, but—and it is a big
but,
I’m afraid—you have no firm alibi.’

‘I have an alibi.’

He sighs. ‘Ah, yes. That you were at the hospital. St James’s, yes? The trouble is, Maria, that there is no CCTV evidence from that night placing you at the hospital. And there is a witness—’ another file consult ‘—a DVD store owner from the shop opposite the convent. He places you at the gates of the convent at the time of the crime.’

He sits back, removes his glasses. I inspect them and feel something well up, feel something knock on my skull, reminding me.

‘My father wore spectacles like that,’ I say, pointing to them, realising now what I am recalling. My papa reading his daily newspaper, glasses perched on the end of his nose, slipping as they did down the bridge, his sweat increasing as fast as the hot sun did. I breathe in, the brief memory bathing me in a rare, temporary sensation of comfort.

Harry smiles. Eye creases to match. ‘From what I can see, the evidence is weak at best. That is our defence, our route, I think—discredit the forensics.’ He taps the frame of his spectacles. ‘I will want to reanalyse the DNA. That involves revisiting everything—all the pathology analysis, the witnesses. All upturned, back to front and side to side. Are you ready for that?’

‘Yes.’ I hesitate a little, fear slipping into my consciousness. The thought of repeating it all, of dealing with the whole ordeal again, of the murder details, of my apparent, non-deniable guilt. It is an overwhelming feeling. ‘And after that? What happens next?’

‘I will set in motion the Notice of Grounds forms for your appeal.’

‘And that is everything we need to discuss?’ I say, my mind back on Patricia, on finding out any news.

‘Actually, no.’ He touches his file and pauses. ‘Yesterday afternoon, the priest’s parents gave a press conference. They’re unhappy that you’re appealing against your conviction.’

‘How do they know about the appeal?’

He shrugs. ‘These things get to be public information.’

‘Oh.’

‘The parents are denouncing the appeal. And they are insisting that the DNA evidence is strong enough to withstand an appeal process.’

‘Can they do that?’

‘They can and they have. Watch.’

Harry takes out laptop and opens it. He clicks on the web browser and brings up a YouTube video. There is an image of an old man and woman sitting behind a long desk, hair
a soup of grey and white, skin liver-marked, pale. A bubble of worry floats up into my head. They both look like the dead priest. I can hardly bring myself to look as Harry presses play. Reporters come alive, ask questions. Bulbs flash from every angle, the man declaring that I am guilty, the woman crying into her hands.

When it comes to an end, Harry turns off the computer and looks up. The light above us flickers, fades, then splutters back to life. ‘So,’ he says, after a second or two, lifting a thick file from his briefcase, placing it between us on the table, ‘what are your thoughts?’

I drag my eyes away from the light. ‘On what?’

‘On the video, on what the parents have said.’

‘Their questioning of the DNA evidence presents a difficulty to my case.’ I blink, shake my head. Their faces won’t leave my mind.

Harry opens the file. ‘I agree.’ He extracts a court paper. ‘Now, their questioning doesn’t mean to say that they are correct, but it does pose a challenge to us.’ He places a paper in front of me. ‘These are the original court documents.’

I lean forward to read, palms clammy, nervous of what I am about to see. The words ‘knife’, ‘fingerprint’ and ‘trace’ instantly appear. I read on, my anxiety growing. There are details of the body, of how it was found—it is all there: perforating stab wound; nails in the hands; torso sprawled out at the altar; bruises inflicted; restraint used.

‘I want to, with your permission, Maria, revisit the legal principles surrounding the nun’s actions upon the discovery of the body.’ Harry looks at me. I smell him now: a warm fug of tobacco, of icing sugar, of freshly baked bread. I inhale
the soothing scent, and my whole body wants to fall into him, to let itself go, let itself be comforted by him, be told by him that everything is going to be okay.

‘So the nun,’ Harry continues, ‘her acting immediately upon finding the priest could have saved his life. It could have broken the chain of causation.’

I snap to, shake off his smell. ‘This chain of causation has never before been discussed.’

‘It should have been.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Please be aware, Maria, that to get this conviction overturned, whatever we have must be bulletproof.’

‘“Bulletproof”? That is a phrase meaning “beyond reasonable doubt”.’

Harry nods. ‘The judge should hear your application for permission to appeal any day now. As soon as we know anything, I will inform you. Okay?’

‘Yes.’

Harry begins to slide away the paperwork. I watch him and feel a sudden rush of something that I cannot identify. A feeling. Gratitude? Think. What would Patricia tell me to do? I place one hand on the table. ‘Thank you,’ I say eventually, slow, measured.

He pauses, smiles, then resumes gathering files. We walk to the door. Harry presses the exit buzzer and waits. ‘I hear you helped your cellmate. She tried to commit suicide.’

I swallow. ‘Yes.’

He pats me on the shoulder. I flinch. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and lowers his hand. After a second, he smiles again, the type of smile that creases at the eyes. ‘You know, you remind me of my own daughter,’ he says. ‘You’re a similar age. She is strong, like you. Beautiful, too. But then, I am
biased.’ He reaches into his pocket and gives me a card. ‘Here. For you.’

I take it. It contains his name, telephone number and address.

‘I will arrange everything for you,’ Harry says. He holds out his hand. I stare at it. ‘I’ll be in touch very soon.’

I wait, then realising that he expects me to shake his hand, I do so. It is large and damp. When I let go, I wipe my palm on the back of my trouser leg.

Harry signals to the guard that he is ready to go.

‘Well,’ Harry says, ‘it was a pleasure to meet you. Take care of yourself, Maria.’

‘Martinez,’ the guard says, as Harry exits, ‘the Governor said you’re to go to the hospital wing immediately.’

Patricia. I hold my breath. ‘Is she alive?’

‘Come on. I’ll take you.’

T
he IV fluid drips into Patricia’s arm as her chest rises and falls. I watch her, my lips parted waiting for words that cannot come, my hands clenched, worried, restless. She seems so fragile, Patricia, so transparent, like I could poke her, pierce my finger right through her and it would come out on the other side, neither of us hurt.

At the end of the bed hangs her chart. I set down my notebook and stretch across and scan it. It is hard reading. Patricia’s airways have been restricted, the trachea temporarily closing, preventing oxygen from travelling to her lungs. She is alive. But only just. I examine her body, eyes resting on her neck. Red welts snake round it, skin open, pink with pressure. She is lucky to have been revived and I am relieved, relieved that she is here, not gone, not dead in the ground, but with me, now, her friend, her ally.

I return the file to its home and search for a medical torch. There are no nurses in the immediate vicinity, no guards by my side. Locating a torch on the bedside table,
I stand then leaning over Patricia, open her lids and check her observations.

‘You took your time.’

I jump at the sound of Patricia’s voice, dropping the torch. It bounces along the floor.

‘Hey, hey,’ she croaks. ‘It’s okay, Doc. It’s okay.’

I touch my cheeks. Damp.

‘It’s okay to cry. You had a shock.’ She is attempting to pull herself upright in bed.

I wipe my face. ‘You must not move yet.’ I link under her arms, heaving her up until her back is resting on the pillow behind. ‘Do you have any signs of dizziness, pain. Nausea?’

She winces. ‘No. I’m fine.’

I sit, shattered.

‘Why did you do it?’ I say, a clock ticking somewhere, the sound of whistling in the far distance.

Patricia looks at her hands. Two, three seconds pass. ‘Ten years,’ she says finally. ‘I’ve been in prison for nearly ten years now.’

‘I know. Why are you telling me this?’

She closes her eyes. ‘I just struggle knowing my family hate me.’

‘They do not hate you.’

‘They do.’

‘I do not hate you.’ She opens her eyes, smiles. My throat feels tight, and I try to swallow, try to feel some moisture, but it does no good. I have nothing left.

‘Hey,’ Patricia says. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

‘You cannot do it again,’ I say, swallowing.

‘I won’t.’

I shake my head. ‘You cannot do it again. You cannot…
You are my only friend.’ I smear the tears from my face. ‘I thought you had…’ I sniff. ‘I thought you had died.’

‘You saved my life.’

I hiccup, gulping down air.

‘Doc? Doc, breathe—’

‘I could not help you,’ I say, an unfamiliar burning need to get the words out. ‘I had no equipment and the medical team seemed to take so long to arrive.’

‘Why don’t you—’

‘Why did I not know you were going to kill yourself?’

Patricia pauses. ‘You couldn’t have known. It was my decision.’

‘No.’ I tap my fingers fast. ‘I should have known. But I cannot know, can I? Not being the way I am. Anyone else would have noticed how you were feeling. But not me.’

She sits forward. ‘No one else would have known. Doc, listen to me. No one else would have known.’

My chest heaves up and down. I blink. Patricia’s face swims into focus. I gulp in oxygen, cup my hands over my mouth, peering at Patricia over my fingers.

‘Ssshh. Breathe. Good.’ She reaches out her hand and places it flat on the bed sheet, spreads out her fingers, all five of them, in a star shape.

‘I won’t do it again,’ she says.

Her hand is on the bed. I hesitate at first, then slowly I lower my palm to hers.

‘I am getting out on parole soon,’ she says. ‘The Governor came and told me just before. So, see? I’m going to be okay.’

‘But if you are out of prison, I will be in here without you. I will be alone again.’

She moves her fingers closer to mine.

Our fingertips lay in two star shapes on the sheet, touching now, and in that moment I know that this is the one person in the world I can truly trust.

So I draw in a deep breath, open my notebook and tell her all about the puzzle I am beginning to unravel.

I pour some more coffee. The dark liquid wobbles in the cup, images of the room reflecting on the surface. There one minute, gone the next.

The room is warm, but I shiver. I pull my blazer tight and clutch the coffee cup, but after one sip, I scrunch up my nose.