Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (18 page)

‘What do you mean?’

‘Make-believing—it means pretending, making up a story. Lying.’

‘I…I…’ I halt, inhale. I know she was telling the truth. I have the proof now. I run a finger around my collar. ‘I am warm. Can I have some water?’

He nods, gesturing to the jug. I pour a glass, stall for time. I have found out so much since Bobbie came to me that day, but what do I tell Kurt? He thinks Bobbie was lying. I study him. His body, now, is relaxed, but there is something there, in his eyes, a glint, a flash of something. What? Suspicion? Murkiness? I take another sip, set down the glass. I will see what he has to say first.

‘Maria? What do you think about what I said?’

‘She was not make-believing.’

A small head shake. ‘I thought you might say that.’ He sits forward. ‘The way I view it, we are looking at one of two scenarios here. One: you are, again, recalling information incorrectly, your memory compromised; or two: Bobbie Reynolds was lying because she is a psychopath.’

I grip the seat. The worry creeps higher. ‘It is neither of those. She was telling the truth. I am telling the truth.’

Kurt supplies a brief smile. One, two, three seconds pass. I stay very still, curtains billowing, scared to move, scared to admit what may be happening here.

‘Do you like to be in control, Maria?’ he says suddenly.

I clear my throat, unsure how to answer, uncertain at what he is trying to do. I decide to answer yes.

‘And what does that tell you about yourself?’

‘That I like to be in control, of course.’ Stay calm. Stay calm.

‘Do you think that your need to be in control has shaped your memory?’

My eyes hover over the coffee pot. ‘I…I do not know.’ The coffee. Why did it taste odd earlier?

‘See, here’s what I think. You have trouble with your thoughts and feelings and speaking about them. For people like you, in your situation, it is not uncommon to experience difficulties in relating to, and communicating with, others—for there to be a certain cessation of verbal reasoning, shall we say? You think that if you tell me about your inner feelings, you will lose control over yourself, over your life. Over your future.’

‘No. I have Asperger’s. I feel emotions just like everyone else, I just cannot communicate them. It is nothing to do with control.’ My eyes fix on the coffee cups in front of us.

Kurt exhales. ‘Okay,’ he says, clapping his hands. I jerk my eyes to his. ‘We are going to use a new room.’

‘What?’

A slice of smile again. ‘The service has a room designated, indeed designed, to help with situations like yours.’

‘What do you mean, “like mine”?’

‘People who have trouble sharing their thoughts, opening up. Like you.’

‘I have opinions about many aspects of society.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he says, gathering his belongings, ‘but it is not your opinion on society I am after.’

He stands and walks to the door. ‘I am after your feelings, Maria.’ He opens the door and a waft of stale air sweeps in. ‘I am after your real memories. I want to know, for example, how it makes you feel when you realise people like Bobbie Reynolds are liars. That is what I am interested in hearing.’

He holds open the door. Cold air sweeps in. I swallow, not wanting to move, frightened, but I don’t know of what. Of Kurt?

‘Maria, you signed a document agreeing to our therapy methods,’ he says. ‘You need to come with me.’

I peer through to the corridor beyond. White, no windows, no people. My heart slamming against my ribcage, slowly, I stand.

‘Good. This way.’

Kurt walks through the door, and I have no choice but to follow him.

P
atricia leans against the wall, sheltering her face from the sun.

We are in the prison yard. It is square in shape, the perimeter hemmed in on all sides by the building walls, the windows of the cells and offices bearing down on us, watching, spying. The ground is gagged with sand and gravel, and in the far corner sits creaking, rusty outdoor gym equipment, old, worn, like a forgotten adult playground.

The sun is warm on my face; no clouds, no rain. Yet, even when my eyes are open wide, I can only see a small slither of sky, because my mind is replaying Bobbie’s words, computing what they signify. Handlers. It means, my whole life someone was watching me for an organisation I know nothing about. And those people, those handlers—I trusted them. I feel a slap of nausea at the thought. They were figures of authority. So is that what authority means, then? A series of individuals who are not who they say they are?
Who deceive? And if they were lying, then who else was? My elementary teachers? My therapists? Were they all with this Project? Is Dr Andersson a fraud, too?

I swallow hard, dig my fingernails into the wall, feel the stone. Because the thought, the realisation of it all shakes me, makes me feel as if I will stumble and fall, as if the ground beneath me is shuddering from one giant earthquake, reducing everything I once regarded as solid, as real, to specs of rubble, to figments of fiction.

Patricia folds her arms, brow set to a frown. ‘Tell me again, Doc. What was Bobbie talking about?’

I draw in a breath. I have told Patricia everything Bobbie said to me in the canteen. She has not reacted well.

‘She said she had instructions to protect me. That the answer was in my notebook.’

‘But you looked through your notebook and you found nothing?’

I open my mouth to speak then close it. She is right.

‘Doc, the thing that bothers me,’ Patricia says now, her voice reduced to a whisper, ‘is that Bobbie said MI5’s involved. It just doesn’t make any sense.’

A fight between two inmates breaks out ahead. We look. A guard shouts, runs over and separates them, the battle over before it had even begun.

Patricia kicks her heel against the wall and stares out onto the yard. ‘You know they call her psycho, Bobbie?’

‘Yes. But that does not mean—’

‘It means everything. Jesus.’ She rakes a hand over her scalp, inhales. ‘Okay, say she is telling the truth? Then what?’

‘Then we put it all together, we uncover everything we
can. I will study my notebook again. I have to solve this. Someone, somewhere is lying to me, lying about me.’

Patricia exhales, long, hard. ‘It just seems crazy. Bobbie seems a little crazy.’

‘We are all a little crazy.’

We stand by the wall and breathe in the one-hour-a-day of fresh air. The sun bobs like a globe in the sky, a soothing glow, a reassuring warmth. It is easy to imagine, to dream that we are not here, in prison, that we are elsewhere, somewhere good. Somewhere better.

We are about to leave when a figure exits from the door at the far end of the yard. I prop my hand on my brow, squint in the sunshine. The figure moves towards us at speed.

Patricia notices, too. She dips her head to get a look. ‘Hey, Doc. Is that—’

‘Bobbie.’

Bobbie Reynolds arrives before us and cocks her head. ‘How are my two friends?’

Patricia blocks her. ‘Look, Reynolds, I don’t know what your game is, but quit telling seven heaps of shite to Maria.’ Bobbie laughs. ‘What?’

Patricia pokes her. ‘You heard me.’

Bobbie looks to me. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Doc, no.’

‘But not here,’ Bobbie continues. She shoots a glance to Patricia. ‘Not with her here.’

Patricia glares at Bobbie.

‘I will speak to you with Patricia present,’ I say. ‘She knows what you told me.’

Bobbie hesitates then shrugs. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ She smoothes down her shirt. ‘Has Mickie Croft told you anything…unusual?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, has she said anything out of the ordinary? Something you wouldn’t expect her to say?’

‘I told you that she mentioned Callidus.’

‘Shit, thought that’s what you’d said.’ She scratches her head.

‘What is it?’

‘Okay. Here’s the thing. Remember I said everything had changed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, well, the Project used to be part of MI5, but now it’s not. There are others involved, too, but…’ She breathes out. ‘Look, I can’t say who, but I am authorised to say this: Mickie Croft is out to kill you, we have confirmation now, fresh intel. She’s been ordered to do it as soon as she gets her chance. Dr Andersson will probably assist her.’

‘Bollocks,’ Patricia says. ‘Total bollocks. Mickie is a nutter who’s already laid seven bells into Maria. You know that. You’re just trying to play up to it and—’

Without warning, Bobbie flies at Patricia, wraps her fingers round her throat and pins her up against the wall.

‘Bobbie!’ I yell.

‘This is not a game, do you hear me?’ Bobbie spits, teeth snarling. Patricia manages a small nod. ‘It’s not a fucking game.’

Bobbie lets go and Patricia drops to the ground, gasping. I run to her.

‘Why did you do that?’ I say, checking Patricia.

Bobbie brushes herself down. ‘Because this is serious. The Project put me here to protect you. You are not safe here.’

I look at her, my mind questioning over and over whether I should believe her. Then a puzzle piece slots into place. ‘Callidus and the Project—they are the same thing.’

She nods. ‘Project Callidus—that’s the code name.’

My brain whizzes, computes, calibrates. ‘That’s where they took me.’

‘What?

Patricia stands. ‘Doc?’

But I ignore her, look to Bobbie, hands shaking, eyes wild. ‘Sometimes I have memories of being in a ward, a hospital. They are doing tests on me, horrible tests. Was it there? Did they do the tests there, at Callidus?’

Bobbie looks between me and Patricia, her fists clenched, her brow furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she says after a moment, a whisper. ‘They did tests there. Yes.’

‘So the handlers, my professors, my boss—they were all with this Project Callidus?’

A nod.

I slap my hand to my mouth. ‘My God.’ I stumble back against the wall. And then I realise. ‘Dr Andersson—she takes my blood, does tests on it.’

‘Doc, you okay?’

‘I have to go,’ Bobbie says, fast. ‘Speak to the Governor, bring your notebook. He has a laptop…you’ll see. It will make sense.’ She turns, starts to leave.

‘Wait! You said to look in my notebook for the answer, but it’s not there. There is no answer.’

But she keeps moving, head down, hands thrust into pockets.

I go to run after her but Patricia grabs me. ‘Doc, no. Don’t make a scene.’

‘What is Project Callidus?’ I yell. ‘What is Project Callidus?’

Yet still Bobbie strides away, not responding, a ball of dust behind her, and then she is gone. Patricia lets go of my arm, and I glance upwards, squint.

There, standing by one of the office suite windows, is the Governor.

I stay behind Kurt as he weaves past the warren of rooms.

He does not talk to me, does not look my way. He keeps his eyes straight ahead and continues to move. I do not know where we are going. I do not know why. I am nervous. My head feels fuzzy, my tongue strangely thick, rough like cloth.

Kurt comes to a halt. ‘Here we are.’

Ahead of us there is a door. I step forward and read the plaque stuck on the front of it.

‘The Banana Room,’ I say. ‘What is this?’

‘Somewhere to talk.’

Kurt opens a metal box connected to the wall. The door is thick, fluorescent yellow paint daubed in stripes across the middle, and on the top right sits a black smiley emoticon face the size of my hand.

Kurt enters a code. There is a loud click. ‘In you go.’

I hesitate, hands tight against my thighs. The door pops open and Kurt gestures for me to enter.

‘I said in you go.’ He is smiling but it is small, a shard, a sliver.

I shake my head. ‘I do not want to.’

‘You have to.’

I sway a little, the nerves getting the better of me, then freeze. Kurt’s hand is placed on the small of my back. ‘I said, “in”.’

Swallowing, I place my left foot into the room and gasp. Each of the four walls is painted green. But it is not simply household paint. From what I can see in the dim light, each wall appears to move. Taking another step forward, my eyes adjust and I can see that the movement is art. Someone has created head-to-toe murals on each of the four walls, each separate and distinct in design.

Kurt closes the door behind me and switches on a light.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

But I ignore him, instead stepping forward, observing. Now I can see that there is a path on the wall. I barely want to look, fear creeping up my spine, my neck, its fingers round my throat. What is going on? Where am I? I swallow hard, blink. The path runs through a boulevard of trees, their dark green leaves pointing like fingers to the middle. I cock my head. The path leads to a forest that sits in the distance. This forest is darker, as if forbidden to enter, like the Hansel and Gretel story my father used to read to me when I was little. I turn to see Kurt frowning.

I point at the set of painted leaves, finger trembling. ‘The painting. It…it is a version of the
Arrival of Spring in Woldgate.
It’s taken from David Hockney, inspired by him. The artist who did it must have attended the Royal Academy of Art, just like Hockney.’

Kurt stays very still. ‘Maria, where do you think you are?’

I suddenly bend double. There is a sharp pain in my stomach ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in a different interview room, that’s all, a different, normal interview room. Maria, where do
you
think we are?’

‘We…we are in some odd art room, aren’t we?’ I point to the wall to our right. ‘That painting there is based on Hockney’s
Winter Timber
.’

I sidestep Kurt, wipe the emerging sweat from my temples, and peer at the painting. Layers of timber lie strewn on the ground, each a blend of banana yellow and burnt orange. In the corners, sawn tree trunks stand, crooked, worn, each one the colour purple. I touch them. ‘The trees,’ I say, my voice surprising me: distant, dreamlike, ‘they are made of confectionery. All of it is.’ I step back, wobble a little, clutch my middle. The pain shoots now. What is happening to me? When I look round, more painted trees stand towards the rear of the painting, this time winter ones, each bare, stripped of leaves or buds. To the left sits a pink dirt road, stretching to the horizon.