Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (17 page)

‘This coffee does not taste normal,’ I say, but Kurt is writing and does not seem to hear me. I repeat the statement, but still he remains silent.

From outside, life continues to drift in through the window; the pictures on the wall sit where they always have; the spiders hunch two by two in the corner, cobwebs forming like icicles in winter. I don’t even know if they are real or not. For some reason, I hold out my coffee cup and study it. It looks normal, ceramic, white. Nothing has changed, everything is just as I remember it. Yet Kurt is convincing me my judgement is impaired. And I am beginning to believe him, but I don’t know why. So much of this puzzle up until now has been solved, yet here I am, wondering what has really happened to me, questioning, again, whether my brain is working properly, and when I say everything aloud, when I put it into concrete words, it all sounds just as everyone has been telling me it does: Like a story. Like a work of fiction. A mis-recollection.

Shaking my head, I sip some more coffee then stop. Something is not right. I sip again, checking, but yes, I am right. The coffee. It
does
taste odd. ‘Liquorice,’ I say to myself. I glance to Kurt—his head is still bowed, busy.

I set down the cup and scan the room. All still normal. I tap my head, dislodge my thoughts. My mind is getting carried away, my feelings, my deductions. I am adding two and two together and getting five. I frown, tutting at myself. This has to stop, doesn’t it? Whatever is going on, it all has to stop. As the curtain floats into the room, my eyes drift to the ceiling and—

I go very still.

I squint, lean forward. It cannot be. How? I bang my head with the heel of my hand, look again, but there is no mistaking it.

The cobweb—it is not there.

I look at Kurt. He is still writing his notes; he is not drinking any coffee.

The canteen is quiet.

I have been sitting, writing in my notebook whilst nobody sees—it is a risk, but I need to write, need to count the words, the pages, that way they may last, may be real. Patricia said she believed what I told her about Father Reznik, about him being involved somehow, about it all being connected—my father, his discovery of the documents. She said she would help me. I scan once more through the codes scratched out on the page, the numbers, equations covering every millimetre of space. What do they mean? I think of Patricia, of her faith in me. To have a friend who believes me, who is on my side, accepts me for who I am,
for what I am. For the first time ever, it feels good, not bad or defective. Good. Human.

From the far wall, shouting erupts followed by a clatter of trays. The hall is filling up, food smells, body odour, too many flabby bodies.

I set down my pen and slip my notebook behind my plate. I pick up a napkin and dab the corners of my mouth three times, my eyes on the now fast-growing canteen queue. I watch for Patricia. Since her emergency stay in the hospital ward, I ensure she is okay and eating enough at every mealtime.

‘Got yourself a notebook, hey?’

I turn at the sound of the voice.

‘Hi,’ a woman says, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Bobbie Reynolds.’ She grins. Her arm is slim, her shirt blue and crisp. The chinos on her legs are ironed down the crease and her skin is caramel. She is like a walking Gap advert. ‘What’s your name, then?’ she says. When I do not reply, she simply shrugs and withdraws her hand.

The Bobbie woman drags out a chair from the table, sets down a tray and sits.

‘I am waiting for someone,’ I say.

She claps her hands. ‘Ooh, lovely. Who are we waiting for?’ She spears a tube of pasta on the plate in front of her. ‘I just love carbonara.’

I sniff. Her perfume: lemons and oranges. Citrus. Clean. I place my hand on the edge of my notebook and search for Patricia.

This Bobbie woman keeps eating. ‘You don’t say much,’ she says in between mouthfuls.

I spot Patricia in the food queue. Satisfied she is okay,
I turn. ‘Bobbie is short for Roberta. Roberta is the female form of Robert, meaning “bright fame”.’ I tilt my head. ‘You are of bright fame.’

She sets down her fork then laughs. ‘Ha! You’re great. I love you already. What’s your name?’

‘My name is Dr Maria Martinez.’ The hall is loud, almost full. The sounds ring in my head, endless vibrations. I cover my ears a little.

‘A doctor?’ She whistles. ‘Good for you.’ She slaps my back and I wince. ‘Very nice to meet you, Dr Martinez. You’ve got yourself a friend here. I’ve got your back.’

‘I have a friend,’ I say. ‘Her name is Patricia.’

She grins and resumes eating.

‘All right, Doc?’

I look up. Patricia stands holding her tray. She sits, smiles and spoons in some pasta, looking to Bobbie. ‘Who’s this, then?’

‘This is Bobbie Reynolds,’ I say. ‘She is very neat and says she loves me already.’

Bobbie spurts out a mouthful of pasta.

Patricia waves. ‘Hi, Bobbie.’

‘What were you convicted of?’ I say to Bobbie.

‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘you’ve got to keep your voice down when you say things like that in here, because—’

‘Murder.’

We look to Bobbie.

‘In answer to your question, Dr Martinez,’ Bobbie says, her elbow perched on the table, ‘it was murder.’

‘Of a man or a woman?’

Patricia drops her fork. ‘Doc! Ssshh.’

‘Man,’ Bobbie says, her eyes on me, not missing a beat. ‘Definitely a man.’ She grins and pierces a mushroom. ‘I was convicted of the murder of a male of the species.’

T
he canteen is noisy now, so to block the sound from penetrating my ears, I concentrate on this Bobbie character as she studies her speared mushroom.

‘Why do you ask about my conviction?’ she says, mouth full of pasta.

Murder, I think. She has killed someone. I pick up my knife. ‘Would you kill again?’

‘Steady,’ Patricia says, her eyes narrowed.

Bobbie glares at Patricia then smiles at me. ‘In answer to your question—yes. I would kill again.’ She proffers me a toothy grin.

I watch her. She makes me feel uneasy, as if she is hiding something. As Bobbie and Patricia resume eating, I push my plate to one side to retrieve my notebook, but it is gone. Bobbie clears her throat. There, in her hand, is my writing pad.

‘Looking for this?’

‘Yes.’

She holds it out to me. I hesitate then take it. I try to ignore her, but there is a tug on my sleeve.

‘Hey,’ Bobbie says, pointing. ‘She your friend?’

‘Doc,’ whispers Patricia, ‘it’s Michaela.’

I see her. She is striding towards us. I touch my forehead where my right temple still has a shadow of a bruise, mild panic bubbling underneath my skin.

Bobbie throws down her fork and drags back her chair. ‘It’s okay, Doc, like I said, I’ve got your back.’ And with that, she stands and positions herself between Michaela and me.

‘Mickie, isn’t it?’ says Bobbie, smiling. ‘How are you?’

I look to Bobbie. Does she already know Michaela Croft? But how? Bobbie has only just arrived at Goldmouth.

Michaela pushes Bobbie to one side. ‘Fuck off, you psycho.’

‘And so lovely to see you, too, Michaela,’ says Bobbie, bowing.

‘You,’ Michaela says, jabbing a finger at me, ‘I got fucking solitary because of you.’

Her accent. It is her regular East London accent, but there is something different. I try to place it, but nothing. No memory. No thoughts. I find myself clenching my fists.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Michaela says, taking a step towards me.

I touch my tongue; no cat on there.

‘Leave it, Croft,’ says Bobbie.

Michaela goes still and looks down; Bobbie has put a hand on her chest. I search for the guards, but they are nowhere to be seen.

‘Get your hands off me, psycho.’ Michaela is glaring at
Bobbie, but Bobbie simply smiles. Scared, I pick up my knife, but Patricia gives a quick shake of her head. I let go of the metal.

Slowly, with her eyes on Michaela, Bobbie lowers her hand. And then it happens. Michaela—fast, precise—lunges towards me. Before I can move, before I can roll away, she clutches my blouse, dragging me up, out of my seat. The room erupts.

I try to move backwards, but Michaela’s grip is solid, so I go for a punch to her head—right side, on her temples, and I must have hit because I can hear yelling, but it is muffled, like being underwater. Michaela has her hands on me now, around my neck and so I slap her, hard on the cheek, but her grip is still tight. So, desperate, I kick, three sharp jabs to her shin with the heel of my shoe, but, even though she cries out, she pulls me back, does not let go. I try to unravel her fingers, but cannot get free. I try to dig her with my elbow, shove her—nothing. But then—pop. Michaela’s grip slackens. Just like that. I drop to the floor and gulp great swells of air. Michaela is gasping for breath beside me, her body writhing on the floor.

‘Bloody hell, Bobbie,’ Patricia says, ‘what did you do?’

I dart my eyes back and forth. The guards are running over now, the room sways, my mind whirring. And that, then, is when I remember: Michaela in the cell. Her accent changed. She was Scottish. Suddenly, like a game of dominoes, all the pieces connect, fall into one another. Bang, bang, bang. She told me to stay put. She knew of Father Reznik. She is Scottish. The medical notes my father found, they were from a hospital in Scotland.

Which means she is not who she says she is.

‘Get up, Doc, quick!’ says Patricia.

My brain engages. I scramble up to a stand and Patricia brushes me down. ‘Let Bobbie handle this,’ she whispers.

The guards run over. They know something is happening, but as far as I can tell, they have seen nothing. No detail.

Bobbie shouts to them. ‘She’s choking! Help us. Quick!’ Then briefly, in the blink of an eye, she turns to me and smiles like someone who has just walked out of an asylum.

Three guards arrive.

‘Help her!’ Bobbie is saying, but she is not looking at the guards, she is looking at me. Bobbie jerks her eyes to Michaela, but I do not understand.

‘Tell the guards,’ says Patricia, fast. ‘Doc, tell the guards what is wrong.’

Now I comprehend. I point to Michaela. ‘She is asphyxiating,’ I say, quickly. The guards hesitate. I crouch to my knees and tug at Michaela’s collar. ‘Her trachea has been restricted. Her airway.’

‘She’s a doctor,’ says Bobbie.

The guard eyes me with suspicion. ‘What was with the raised voices before?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Bobbie says to the guard, ‘high jinx. I think some food might have gone down the wrong way.’

I tilt my head. That is not true. I open my mouth to say so when there is a tug on my blouse. Patricia is glaring at me, a finger on her lips. ‘Ssssh.’

The guard looks at us. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘let’s get Croft checked out.’ She twists to face the dining hall. ‘Show’s over,’ she says, addressing the staring audience of inmates. When no one moves, she yells, ‘Bugger off. Now. Or you’ll find your TV privileges revoked.’

The inmates grumble, shuffling off, and I watch as Michaela is led away, her feet dragging along the tiles, face white, small pink fingermarks on her neck.

Patricia whistles. ‘Holy Jesus.’ She turns to me. ‘Doc, you okay?’

I nod.

‘Then let’s go.’

I start to follow her when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Bobbie hands me my notebook. ‘Watch out,’ she says.

‘For what?’ I snatch the writing pad from her.

She steps in closer. ‘Don’t trust anyone, you hear me?’ Her eyes dart left and right. ‘You’re not safe in here. They thought you would be, but now that’s changed. Everything has changed. Someone is after you in here, in the prison.’

‘You do not make sense.’

‘I have instructions to watch you. And I will. But help me. Keep your head down. I’ll watch Croft, make sure she’s kept away from you.’

The accent. The hospital. Can she help? ‘What is Callidus?’ I say. Bobbie goes quiet. ‘Is it a hospital in Scotland? Is that where Mickie Croft is from? Who is she?’

‘MI5.’

The word hangs in the air like a poisonous gas.

‘What?’

Bobbie checks the area. ‘They will kill you. Do you hear me? Kill you. That’s why I’m here, to keep an eye on you. They thought they could keep you in here to be safe and then it all imploded, all broke up, a scandal.’

I try to compute what she is saying. ‘What scandal? Who is “they”?’

She pauses. ‘The Project.’

‘What is that?’

‘I don’t have the clearance to say any more. But what you need to know is the Project will protect you. MI5 won’t.’

I connect it, attempt to put it all together, but it is jumbled like a Rubik’s cube split into multiple colours. MI5? And then I feel it: the sharp needle of realisation. I put my fingers to my mouth, sick at the thought. ‘Was Father Reznik part of this?’

She hesitates then slowly nods. ‘Him, your two previous university professors and your boss at St James’s.’ She pauses. ‘And now? Dr Andersson.’

‘What?’ My head spins, stomach lurches. ‘How?’

‘They were you handlers, Doctor. They were your handlers,’ she says.

‘Handlers? Handlers for what?’ My mind races, pinging from one pinball to another, suddenly frightened. People I thought I could trust, people who were supposed to support me, protect me in some way, were not who they said they were at all. How can Dr Andersson be part of it? None of it makes sense. None of it. I look up to speak to Bobbie, but she is striding away.

‘They were handlers for what?’ I shout.

‘For you, Maria. They were all working for the Project.’

‘What is the Project?’

She keeps walking. ‘Look in your notebook. The answer is there.’

I shake my head, dazed. ‘Answer? What answer?’ I say, calling after her. ‘What answer?’

But she has already gone.

Kurt crosses his legs and presses record on the Dictaphone.

When I ask him if I can perhaps get some fresh air later, he simply narrows his eyes and makes some notes. I look at the coffee cup, worry infecting me like a disease.

A siren wails from outside. He glances up. ‘Tell me, Maria,’ he says, once it has passed, ‘did you ever consider that—’ he consults his notes ‘—Bobbie was make-believing?’