Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (31 page)

I dart my eyes to the corridor—no sign yet of Kurt. I turn to the fire door, and, pushing it hard, slam it open, my body spilling into the stairwell. Catching my breath, I close the fire door as quietly as possible, and, turning, look straight to the map. I scan it and find the exit location.
I am about to shoot down the stairs when there is the distant slam of a door.

I wait. Listen.

Footsteps. A voice on the phone. Kurt is running towards me.

The woman in the hijab floods my thoughts, confusion wrapping its tentacles around my head. Is it true? Is the memory real? For what greater good would I kill someone with my bare hands? The reality is almost too overwhelming, too crushing for my mind, my body.

I fall into reciting numbers to try to calm my growing fear, whispering them under my breath over and over to myself. So when the nun walks into the witness box, her Catholic robes floating behind her, I freeze. Only when the nun sits do I allow myself to breathe again, telling myself that she is not the same person. She is not wearing a hijab. She is not dead.

‘Thank you for being here today, Sister Mary,’ Harry says.

She smiles, her rotund body shrouded in a cloth of grey, her tubby fingers entwined around her rosary. Seeing her in the flesh dredges up something else inside me, but I don’t know what. Fear? Calm? There is a fine line between the two.

Harry consults a file and looks up. ‘I wonder, Sister, if you could explain to me what happened that night—sixth of November—when you found the victim.’

‘His name was Father O’Donnell,’ Sister Mary says. Her voice is plump, sugary, like a boiled sweet. I glance to the jury; they are all smiling.

‘Thank you,’ Harry says. ‘Can you talk me through the moment you found Father O’Donnell?’

She sighs. ‘It was terrible. He was lying there, strapped up. And the blood…‘ She kisses her crucifix. ‘The blood was on his chest. Bright red like poppies in a field.’

‘And what did you do when you found Father O’Donnell?’

‘Well, I called an ambulance, of course.’

‘How?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The ambulance, Sister—how did you come to call the ambulance?’

‘I returned to the convent,’ she says, after a small hesitation. ‘There is a telephone in the main hallway. That is the one I used.’

I stop, shake my mind away from the image of the hijab and the windpipe, and try to focus. There was no telephone in the hallway, not that I recall. Why would she say this?

‘And did you alert anyone to Father O’Donnell’s…situation?’

The Sister raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, of course I did. Goodness, I shouted as loud as I could. Awful, it was. So awful.’ She shakes her head. The only sound in the courtroom is the whirr of the ceiling fan.

‘Forgive me, Sister Mary,’ Harry says, ‘but I am a little confused and need your help.’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘Yes.’ He coughs. ‘You say you went to the telephone in the hallway upon discovering Father O’Donnell’s body.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘When?’

‘Pardon?’

‘When did you leave to use the phone? Immediately on finding the victim? Thirty seconds later? Two minutes after you discovered the body? When?’

What is Harry doing? Does he know there was no telephone in the hallway?

‘Fifteen minutes afterwards,’ the nun says. ‘I left to telephone for an ambulance fifteen minutes after I found…after I found the blessed Father’s body.’ She crosses her chest. ‘I was in shock.’

The jury leans forwards, shifts in its seat.

‘Okay,’ continues Harry. ‘Sister Mary, can you tell me why you allowed fifteen minutes to pass?’

She lowers her eyes. ‘It was as I said, I was in shock. I couldn’t…I couldn’t move…I…’

Fifteen minutes. I didn’t know this. Sister Mary recruited me to the convent, introduced me to Father O’Donnell. Why would she wait a full fifteen minutes before she went to get help?

Harry picks up a blue clock from his table and clicks a button on the side. ‘Fifteen minutes. Hmmm.’ He pauses. ‘Let us see how one minute feels.’ Pressing a button, Harry allows the clock to commence a one-minute countdown.

I tally the seconds. One-two—three-four. Sister Mary sits very still in the witness box. I scan the room.

Fifteen seconds pass. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen…

The judge frowns, his left elbow resting on the oak bench, his long wig sliding forwards in the heat. The usher taps her pen on the table. The clerk folds her arms.

Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine…

My heart beats. The prosecutor picks up a glass with a
bony hand, sets it down, shifts his legs under the bench, his height and limbs too long to fit.

More seconds tick by. Slowly. Excruciatingly. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two…

I swallow and look at the oak-panelled walls, at the jury box, at the twelve faces of the men and women who will decide my fate. All their eyes are on the blue clock, ticking…

I glance to the gallery. The makeshift fans are flapping in the heat. In the corner, Balthus is sitting very straight, his dark hair slicked forward, his arms crossed over his chest, torso taut, muscles firm…

‘Sixty seconds,’ Harry says, tapping the top of the clock. ‘One whole minute.’

There is an audible sigh in the room. People visibly un-stick themselves from their seats. My shoulders soften.

‘It feels like a long time, doesn’t it?’ Harry says, ‘And yet you, Sister Mary, you waited for a full fifteen minutes before you moved from the scene of the murder to the convent building to call for help. Again, I ask why?’

The Sister touches the crucifix that hangs around her neck. ‘I said that I was in shock.’ A small mew of a sound slips out of her mouth. ‘I had never seen anything like it before. I was frozen. Scared. I was…I was trapped by the sight of the scene.’

The jury sits very still. My foot taps the floor. She is making this up.

‘Let us go then, Sister,’ Harry says, ‘to the moment when you returned to the convent to get help. You say you telephoned from there.’

She nods. ‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Objection!’ says the prosecutor. ‘Counsel clearly likes repeating questions he has already asked.’

The judge waves his hand. ‘Sustained.’

Harry nods to the judge. ‘Yes, Your Honour.’ He adjusts his wig. ‘Sister Mary, how much time elapsed between you arriving in the convent after discovering the body and calling the emergency services?’

‘Well, I called them immediately.’ She looks to the judge who smiles at her.

Harry tugs at the lapels of his robe. ‘There is a logbook at the convent, is that correct?’

Sister Mary looks to him. ‘No.’

I fly forward in my seat. Yes, there is!

‘Oh, wait,’ she says, batting a hand, ‘yes, there is. Sorry, I am flustered. So sorry.’

I lean back. Something is not right. She should know all about the logbook. Has someone talked to her? Has the Project talked to her?

‘The logbook was previously submitted to the court,’ Harry continues, ‘and it shows you entering the building at eight p.m. on the night in question, is that correct?’

‘It is written down, it must be so.’

‘Precisely.’ Harry pauses. ‘Father O’Donnell was killed between nine and ten p.m. that night, Sister. The call logged to emergency services from you, Sister Mary, was only recorded at 11.01 p.m.’

A whisper travels around the room.

‘Can you explain why, Sister Mary, your call was only logged when it was?’

Again, she touches her crucifix. ‘It must be wrong.’

Harry frowns. ‘Wrong? But it is written down, so it must be so.’

‘I said I was in shock,’ she says quietly.

‘In shock?’ Harry tuts. ‘Sister Mary, this court can just about believe that you were in shock upon first discovering the murder scene, but in shock for more than, what? More than fifteen minutes?’

‘I—’

‘Did you like Father O’Donnell?’ Harry asks.

‘Objection.’ The prosecutor stands.

The judge looks at him. ‘Overruled. Continue, Mr Warren, but get to the point.’

Harry nods and repeats the question to the nun. I smooth back my hair to stop the sweat trickling down my face, and notice three court reporters looking at me.

‘Yes,’ Sister Mary says. ‘Of course I liked Father O’Donnell.’ She pauses and dabs her eye. ‘He was a bit difficult at times, but yes, I liked him, God bless his soul.’

‘And yet you allowed him to bleed to death before calling for an ambulance.’

‘Objection!’

The judge nods. ‘Sustained. Enough, Counsel.’

‘But, Your Honour,’ Harry says, ‘I am trying to demonstrate that, by Sister Mary not taking any action for what was potentially up to an hour before finally calling emergency services, she contributed to the victim’s death. Sister Mary’s actions broke the causation of the original crime committed and, I argue, contributed to the victim’s death. Your Honour, if an ambulance had been called immediately, the priest may have survived. Fifteen minutes to one hour later was too long to help him.’

The judge rests his hands under his chin, his brow furrowed. ‘On a point of law, Counsel, I cannot allow this line of questioning. Jury are to disregard Counsel’s last question to the witness.’

Harry’s shoulder’s drop. Pausing, he turns once more to the nun. ‘Sister, one last question, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all, dear.’

‘How do you know the defendant, Dr Maria Martinez?’

She looks towards me. Green eyes, cold. ‘She talked to me at the hospital.’

‘St James’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when you say talk—who approached who?’

‘She approached me.’

Liar! She is lying. I clench my teeth shut, forcing myself to keep quiet. She is not being truthful. She came to me. Me. I watch her and slowly begin to conclude that she must be part of MI5, part of this Project, mustn’t she? That day at the hospital, I know she came to talk to me, I know she did, and that must have been deliberate and…The idea must have been to get me to the convent all along! To lure me there, to put me in a position where I could be called a murderer. I raise my hand to my mouth, suddenly feeling as if I am dropping like a stone to the bottom of the sea without any anchor. I rub my cheek. Are my assumptions getting out of control? Is this, here, today—is it all affecting my cognitive thought?

At the bench, Harry frowns. He knows what I have told him. ‘Are you sure, Sister? You are under oath.’

‘Of course. She seemed…lonely. I guess she latched on to me.’

I didn’t! I didn’t!

Harry throws me a brief glance, but I hardly see him. The memory of my hands around the woman’s throat, of what it means I am—a cold-blooded killer—threatens to engulf me. When I do look back down to Harry, my blood suddenly runs chilly, a shiver, despite the heat.

Resting a hand on the bench, Harry utters the phrase that means we are losing the battle: ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

K
urt’s footsteps echo along the corridor.

Moving fast, I rip the map from the wall and run down two levels of stairs. I stop and listen. More footsteps. I glance around, heart pounding; there is a door to my left. I check the map. There is a fire escape at the back of the building that can be accessed through the exit. Darting to the left, I shove my shoulder into the door, but it does not move. I try again. This time, I shove harder; it pops straight open on to the fire escape.

I am hit by the sound of traffic, buses, people, music. The sounds. The air. It is not prison. Not a therapist’s room. I inhale a large gulp of it, close the door, turn and, without waiting, lower myself to the fire steps, not stopping until my feet touch the tarmac.

I drop to the pavement and look up.

Kurt is staring at me from two floors above. His hair sticks up, blood stains his face and his left eye is half shut. He looks as if he has just climbed out of a grave.

My pulse screams through my veins. We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds; then, securing my bag, I spin round and start to run, hard, fast, the sound of my feet pounding the pavement echoing behind me.

I scan the area as I sprint, head for a building on the opposite side of the road. There is a warren of side streets and, selecting the nearest one, I fly through them until I reach a corner and stop. I gasp for breath and listen. No footsteps. No one following. Spitting to the road, I fish out my phone.

And I call Balthus.

‘Your Honour,’ says Harry. ‘The defence calls Dr Maria Martinez Villanueva.’

I do not move. The court has descended to a low murmur, the air thick. I feel stuck to my seat, paralysed by doubt. Events, so far, have not gone in my favour. Sister Mary, the DVD store owner’s evidence, Mama believing I am schizophrenic. But while they all implicate me, all tell the world I am guilty, crazed, there is so much more: there is me. I am the issue now, because I do not trust myself any more, do not trust my memories to be real or fake. So what do I say if I go on that stand? What message do I give? That I believe in myself, in my innocence? Or that deep down, deep, deep down, I fear I may be a killer.

Slowly, I stand, my eyes on Harry. The gallery above creaks as people crane for a view. Harry is smiling his creased smile. I force myself to keep my gaze on his face, on his soft features. He believes in me. Patricia believes in me. Papa believed in me.

I walk across the courtroom, feet quiet, just a low shuffle from the soles of my loafers brushing the floor. I can
feel everyone’s eyes on me, hear the flap of their makeshift fans as the sun blazes in. I pass Harry and swallow hard, fighting the urge to run to him, to yell that I don’t want to do this, that I cannot trust what I will do or say any more.

The heat saturates the court and sweat springs up on the back of my neck. I reach the witness box, ascend the steps and look down. A Bible. I almost fall when I see it. A priest, a nun and now a Bible: my holy trinity.

‘Repeat after me,’ the usher says. ‘I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

She finishes and looks to me. Everything is quiet. Everything is still.

I grip the edge of the oak panel, the only solid thing, right now, I can hold on to. ‘I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,’ I repeat, yet even when I say it, when I hear my voice echo the phrase around the court, I do not believe it. I don’t know if I can trust, any more, what the word ‘truth’ really means.