Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (33 page)

The room swells with noise as people take their seats. I am not allowed to put my hands to my ears, so instead I try to quell the sounds by clouding my vision, by attempting to zone out of it all, when someone catches my eye. I hold my breath, not daring to believe it.

At first, it is not clear, but, as the remaining people take their seats, it becomes obvious: my mother is in the courtroom, by her side is Ramon, both of them two seats away from Balthus. Even from this distance, I can see her skin shines with a translucent, pasty sheen, her hair brushed back into an oversized bouffant that sits high and proud upon her gaunt face.

Ramon is holding my mother’s arm by the elbow now, assisting her into her chair, and, as she eases down, she looks straight to me, unexpectedly, and mouths,
Hello, my darling.
A tear slips out, just one, sliding down her cheek.
My mama is ill and yet she is here, for me. I allow myself one last glance; then, rubbing my face, I turn away.

‘All rise,’ declares the usher.

Bile rises to my throat. I swallow it back down.

A door at the far left of the courtroom opens and the jury enter. I count them as they file in. One—two—three—four…Each of them glance at me then at the jury box. Five—six—seven—eight…The jurors begin to sit down, adjust their clothes, fan their faces. The heat, the sun. Nine—ten—eleven—twelve…They are all seated, their foreheads fixed into frowns, their hands laid in their laps.

Once the jury is settled, the clerk stands and the foreman of the jury rises. From the bench, the judge watches.

My hands shake. I hold my breath. This is it. This is the decision. I squeeze my fingers, recite complex equations in a low whisper over and over again. If I had not been in prison, if the Project had never existed, I wouldn’t be here, hunted, marked. Guilty. A dead woman walking.

I try to direct my attention to the court, reroute my brain. The room is steaming with bodies and odour and heat. I remain standing in the dock. Up in the gallery, one by one, people are now falling silent, each of them looking at me. I press my lips together and keep my eyes straight.

Some of the jury members are biting their nails, others are dabbing sweat from their foreheads with their palms. At the counsels’ bench, Harry is peering across at the jury, the prosecutor is reading his notes. I have gone over the words of both closing arguments five separate times in my head. I recall every sentence, every phrase. Guilty. Innocent. Beyond reasonable doubt. They all swirl through my
mind now as I think, as I try to determine if, on its own, it is enough.

I raise my fingers to my lips.
Enough
—Patricia’s message to me.

The judge clears his throat and I fight the sudden urge to curl into a ball.

‘Have you considered a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’ the clerk asks.

The foreman holds out a piece of paper. ‘We have.’

I watch him, his fingers shaking, as across my mind the face of the woman in the hijab, eyes frozen wide in death, flashes past in one last defiant grip on life.

‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

T
he foreman looks to the clerk.

‘In the case of the Crown versus Dr Maria Martinez Villanueva, we find the defendant not guilty.’

The room detonates into a mushroom cloud of noise. Harry turns to me, smiles. The prosecutor shakes his head. I cannot move, cannot think. The talking is so loud in the court that it vibrates against the walls, rings in my head. I cover my ears to lower the volume, but the guard tells me to place my hands by my sides, and all I want to do is turn around and yell to her that she can’t do that any more. She can’t tell me what to do. No one can. Not any more.

The judge bangs his hammer and a hush descends. I cannot believe what has happened. Like a dream, like a mirage, I feel that if I reached out, if I touched it, it would all evaporate before my eyes and I would be at the starting point again, arrested, a murderer.

I search for my mother, for Ramon, eager to catch a glimpse of their faces, but they are not there. How can that
be? I stop, look again, eyes franticly scanning the people as they move, but they are nowhere to be seen. The reality hits: Mama and Ramon have already left. A lump swells in my throat, instant, harsh. They have left me, now of all moments. Why? I suddenly feel lost, abandoned, like a solitary bird in the sky, like a lone fish in the sea.

I swallow, try to refocus, anything to distract from the swell of sadness that rises inside me. I look at the foreman, at the twelve faces of the jurors, at the clerk, the usher, the gallery. At Balthus. At Harry. They all swim into one wash of colour, and yet, as the verdict sinks in, as the smiles of Harry and his team filter my way, I cannot allow myself to join in the elation. Because I have seen it. I have seen death. And I know the hands that have caused it all: mine.

The judge waits until the noise has receded, then he sits forward. ‘Dr Martinez, you are free to go.’

The guard instructs me to walk down the steps and I follow, but I cannot focus. All around me, people stare and talk and point, and yet I feel like a fraud. I am aware there is noise, but it is as if the mute button has been pressed, and I see their mouths move, but I do not hear their voices, hear their shouts. I stare at the guard as she says something to me, but I cannot make out what it is.

The volume turns up. ‘…Because if you go this way,’ the guard is instructing, ‘you can be with your barrister before you exit. He wants to see you.’

I tilt my head at the guard, fight the urge to poke her, check if she is real.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ I say, finally, wiggling a finger in my ear. ‘Yes.’

She tuts. ‘This way.’

We walk along a basement corridor where the lights blink and the walls are grey. Passing changing rooms with lockers and police kit and showers, we then halt at a door painted blue, and the guard says, ‘Here you go.’ And, as the door swings open, I see Harry and Balthus.

They immediately stand.

The door shuts. The room is cold. There is a table and three chairs and folders and water. Harry takes a step towards me and holds out his arms. ‘Come here.’

I blink at him. I try to focus, but my eyes are wet and it is hard to see. I let Harry’s arms wrap around me, feel the heat of him, smell the fug of a shirt dried in a machine, as he closes his hands around me and lets me rest my head on his shoulder.

‘It’s over now,’ he says. ‘It’s over.’

I close my eyes. And push all my black thoughts to one side.

After I breathe, begin to focus again, we sit. Harry and I talk, but I do not relay to him my doubts. How can I? He is a good man, a kind man. Would he think so much of me if he knew that, deep down, I was a cold, trained killer? That, in reality, I think I may have killed Father O’Donnell after all?

Balthus leaves and returns with hamburgers ten minutes later, the hot stink of processed meat and fat and salt penetrating the air. He hands one to each of us. Slowly, I take it, inspecting the packaging, picking out the lettuce that wilts inside. It is the first hamburger I have eaten in over a year.

‘What do we do now?’ I say, swallowing a mouthful of
meat. ‘If they were after me in prison, what happens now I am out? I need somewhere to stay.’

Balthus lowers his burger. ‘You can stay with me.’

‘Is that possible?’ Harry says.

He nods. ‘I have a place, an apartment. No one knows about it. I needed some space a few years back when things between me and Harriet were getting difficult.’

‘Is it far?’

‘No. Just ten minutes from here.’

‘Good,’ Harry says. ‘We need Maria out of the way. That CCTV tape just turned up. If the Project has anything to do with this, if they released that tape to us in court, they have done it for a reason. They’ll be looking for her. We need to be quick now.’

Balthus looks at me. ‘What do you think, Maria? You can stay there until everything calms down, then Harry can meet us and we can plan what to do next, who to contact.’

I murmur a response, but keep my eyes down. The CCTV tape. Was it false evidence doctored by the Project? Am I indeed guilty? Slowly, I raise my eyes as Balthus repeats his accommodation offer. It has come to this, staying at other people’s places, my own apartment long gone after my conviction, my assets temporarily frozen. My old life dead, resurrected with a new one I do not recognise yet. I pick up the burger then pause, the meat hovering, dripping with ketchup. I feel scared, unsure of what’s ahead, of why people do and say what they do. But most of all I feel a gaping hole inside me, at a loss, a death, a savage murder, at lives taken.

‘We have to find out what Project Callidus is,’ I say finally.

Harry looks at me, nods. ‘Yes.’

Balthus sits, stares at the table. Harry sighs, leans back, wipes his chin. ‘Okay,’ Harry says after a while, gathering food remnants then closing his files. ‘Best not waste any more time. Let’s go.’

‘Are the reporters all out there?’

He looks at me. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. A full team of press and photographers on the court steps. It will be loud. I can do all the talking, if you like.’

The door opens, warm air whooshing through. Harry’s solicitor enters. He takes Harry’s documents for him then exits, leaving the door open. We all stand.

I look at Harry. ‘Can you…’ I pause, the thought of her, of my friend making everything seem more real, somehow, more urgent. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘I require a pen and a piece of paper. Do you have them?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, yes. Yes. Hang on a tick.’ He fishes out a pad and pen and hands them to me. I scribble down my name and the address of my villa in Spain for Patricia. I add a small note telling her to come and visit me and stay as soon as she can when she gets parole.

Folding the paper, I hand it to Harry. ‘My cellmate, Patricia O’Hanlon, is due to leave Goldmouth soon. Could you pass this note on to her?’

‘Of course,’ he says, and he slips it into his top jacket pocket. ‘I will help in any way I can, my dear.’

‘Ready?’ says Balthus.

The three of us proceed to walk down the corridor, past the police changing area and towards the lift leading to the main exit. I can already hear the low hum of reporters
outside, waiting for me, like Dobermans salivating over a slab of steak. I stop, scared.

Balthus tilts his head to me. ‘You okay?’

But I do not reply, my eyes front, my hands clenched, ready to run.

As we press the lift button, Harry halts. ‘Hang on.’

Balthus looks. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve left something in the room.’

‘Do you want us to wait?’

‘No, no.’ He waves a hand. ‘You two go ahead. I’ll be with you in just a minute.’

‘What?’ I say, suddenly worried, frightened that without Harry, without his safety, I won’t handle it. ‘You can’t leave me.’

‘I won’t be long. Okay?’ He smiles. ‘Okay?’

I inhale. Harry reminds me so much of my papa that I have latched on to him, found myself needing him. But I have coped without Papa for so long, coped on my own for so long. I glance to Balthus then back to Harry. ‘Okay.’ And, as we walk into the lift, I twist round to watch as Harry turns and disappears back up the corridor.

I have been running flat out for two minutes and thirteen seconds. Ahead, in the street, I see Balthus. I slow down then stop, gulping in air.

‘There you are,’ Balthus shouts. He runs over. ‘Are you okay?’

A smash of metal rings out from the adjoining street. I freeze and listen. Footsteps.

‘Move,’ I say, and I grab Balthus by the arm.

We dart down the street, but it’s a dead end. Reversing,
we slip up a side road then stop. Five large delivery vans block our escape.

I scan the area. ‘That way,’ I say, and we swing left, down a side alley. The sun here has suddenly gone, too cold to exist, and with no windows bearing down on us, with no human life near, the atmosphere is suddenly dark, damp. As far as I can tell, the only inhabitants are three rats near two metal bins. It is unsafe. I begin to back out when I see something and halt.

Someone is standing there, blocking the exit.

‘Who’s that?’ Balthus says, shoulders heaving.

‘My counsellor.’

‘What?’

Kurt begins to walk towards us.

‘Stay where you are,’ I shout, muscles automatically tensed, ready.

Kurt stops. ‘You cannot hide, Maria.’

I swallow. ‘Yes, I can.’

‘You brought a friend?’

I glance to Balthus.

Kurt tilts his head. ‘Tut, tut, tut, Governor—what will your wife say?’

‘She would not authorise whatever the hell it is you are doing here,’ he yells. ‘Maria has told me everything.’

Kurt shrugs and takes one step nearer.

‘Stop,’ I say.

He halts. ‘Maria, the Project needs you back. You are out, here, in the street. I told you, you are not safe. I have been honest and open, confessed the truth. But we need you back now. We’ve completed the tests, we know you are ready. You know you are safe with us.’

‘If I am safer with you, why did you not take me to this Project before the therapy?’

‘Like I said before, we needed to evaluate your memory, see how ready you really were. It was the only way. I’m sorry we put you through it—believe me when I say that. But right now, we need to go.’

From my periphery, I see Balthus shift a little. I step to my left.

‘You know it was Balthus who called me, don’t you?’ Kurt says now.

I hesitate. ‘He thought he was calling a counselling service. That is the only reason he called you. He didn’t know who it really was.’ To my right, I see a vague shadow of Balthus’s arm.

‘His wife is the Home Secretary,’ Kurt says. ‘She’s in charge of MI5. Are you telling me she doesn’t know about you?’

‘Don’t listen to him, Maria,’ Balthus shouts. I glance to him and breathe faster. Could Balthus have been part of it all, just like everyone else? I shake my head. Not possible. He was my father’s friend.

‘You are lying again,’ I shout to Kurt.

‘I’m not lying, not about the danger you’re in.’