Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (34 page)

I turn to move then squint. There is a glint in Kurt’s hands. My heart rockets. I recognise it: metal, curved, a barrel. He lifts it, arms outstretched, aiming. ‘No!’ I scream, but Kurt is already moving fast, trained.

My mouth opens to a silent yell.

He points the gun and fires.

B
althus moans, rolling from side to side, clutching his leg.

‘You shot him! Why did you shoot him?’

‘Leave him,’ says Kurt, as I bend down to tend to the injury, tearing Balthus’s trousers. His shinbone is just visible beneath the inky ooze of blood.

I begin to apply pressure on the wound, when I feel cold metal against my right temple.

‘I said, leave him.’

Slowly, I rise, Kurt’s gun firmly pressed against my skull.

‘Move three steps to your right.’

I stay still.

He pushes the gun in harder. ‘Do it.’

I glance at Balthus then move. Balthus groans, blood pooling on the cobbles, the red staining my eyes, burning me; the rats run into a dilapidated, burnt-out building to our left.

‘We cannot leave him like this,’ I say. ‘He’s losing blood.’

‘We do not have time to help him.’

I dart my eyes round. There is no one. No help. ‘What do you want?’

‘You.’

‘Why should I go with you?’ I exhale, muscles loosening, my body reaching a limit, a point where it doesn’t want to go on, yet knows it has to. ‘Why now? I have been conditioned without my knowledge all this time, I know about MI5, the tests, drugs, even the handlers, the assignments, but why the urgency now, after all these years?’

‘Maria, run,’ croaks Balthus.

Kurt kicks him hard. ‘That’s enough out of you.’ Balthus clutches his leg, lets out a long gurgling moan.

Kurt turns to me and grabs my arm. ‘Time for us to go.’

‘No. Why do you need me now? Why now?’

‘Because you’re not safe any more. It’s that simple. MI5 want you dead. And we can handle that, feed them false intel on you, but we can only really protect you if we know where you are. That’s why, right now, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. You’re coming into the Project.’

As we arrive at the court entrance, Harry catches up with us. He is out of breath, sweaty, but I stare at him, watch him, as if looking away will make him disappear, will make me lose him.

Beyond the large oak doors, people are shouting my name, yelling, screaming. I feel my muscles go taut, tense, the thought of seeing it all, of the sheer volume of it all, paralysing me, making my legs freeze, my brain seize up.

‘This will be my first time out of the prison system in
a year,’ I say to Balthus. ‘When we are out there how…’ I swallow, clear my throat. ‘How will I find you?’

He smiles, steady, still, a crease reaching his eyes, just like Harry’s. ‘I’ll wait at the back until Harry’s done his bit with the press. You go with Harry to his offices and I’ll meet you there.’

I look at the entrance and flap my hand.

‘I’ll go now,’ Balthus says, his body to full height, casting a shadow across the marble floor. ‘I will see you very soon.’

‘See you there for a large whiskey,’ Harry says. Balthus nods then leaves.

Harry adjusts his jacket and looks at my flapping hand. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Did you get your file?’

‘Sorry? Oh, yes.’ He taps his chest. ‘All set.’

We walk towards the court entrance and pause. ‘Ready?’ Harry says.

My hand goes still. Standing here, the crowd seems louder, like a clatter of thunder. Harry inhales, and, opening the door, heat blasting our faces, we walk out onto the courthouse steps.

Immediately, camera bulbs flash and pop. I gasp, clench my jaw at it all. Dozens of journalists crowd the steps, all of them rushing up towards us, a pack of wolves thrusting their microphones into our faces. In the glare of the sun, I see TV cameras, the photographers. The noise is so loud that my head starts to throb and all I want to do is cover my ears and rock. But instead, I focus on Harry’s large frame stood in front of me.

‘Dr Martinez! Over here!’

‘Maria! Give us a smile.’

‘Dr Martinez, what was it like being locked up in a British prison for so long?’

The journalists bark question after question, relentless, feral. Harry holds up a palm.

‘My client…’ Harry pauses until there is a hush. ‘My client would firstly like to say thank you to all those who have helped her to be here today, a free woman.’ There is a pop of flashbulbs. I squint, shield my eyes with my left hand.

‘Many of you have read stories,’ Harry continues, ‘about my client, her family, her relationships—all of it. But I will remind you that they are just that—stories. Today the truth has come out. Not fiction, but fact. The truth.’

The cameras whizz and pop, fighting for their pictures, but I cannot smile, my body unsteady, my mind overloaded by it all. To dampen the flames of my panic, I stare ahead to the city landscape on the horizon, count the tallest buildings, hoping the numbers will soothe me. I get to eleven when I see something. I stand on my toes, try to get a better view.

‘Our thoughts now go,’ Harry is saying, ‘to the family of Father O’Donnell.’

I squint, but the sun is very bright and it is difficult to see.

‘Father O’Donnell’s family,’ Harry says, ‘walk away today without any answers to the crime that was committed against their son. It is them we must think of. That is all for now. Thank you.’

The flashbulbs pop like fireworks.

We hurry down the steps as journalists and photographers jostle and jump. I catch a glimpse of Balthus on the far edge and I attempt what I think is a smile, but he does
not smile back. Everything is so loud. Balthus’s mouth appears to be shaped into an O, but it is hard to decipher. I slow down, try to see him properly, but then it happens.

Balthus is darting towards us.

Harry spots him. ‘Balthus?’

And that is when I see it. A spark in the sunshine. Blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail. The barrel of a gun.

‘Dr Andersson,’ I say, but before I can move, before I can sound the warning, there is a loud crack of a shot being fired.

Then people scream.

Harry pushes himself in front of me as a sea of bodies surges towards us.

‘Harry!’ I shout. ‘She has a—’

Harry opens his mouth to speak, then is cut dead.

‘Harry!’

He wobbles on the steps, clutching his chest. I try to push my way through, but I am against the tide and it is impossible. Harry looks straight at me; then, crumpling, his body topples, thudding onto the stone below.

‘He’s been shot!’ shouts one of the journalists.

‘Harry!’ I scream. ‘Harry!’

Cameras click, getting their images, indiscriminate of the subject, of the level of decency, of any human feeling. In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens. The people part a little and I finally manage to scramble over to Harry, ready to treat him, but before I make it, there is a tug at my elbow. ‘Move, Maria! Move!’ I look back. Balthus.

‘Harry’s been shot,’ I say, gulping down air. ‘We have to help him! I saw Dr Andersson. She’s here. She has a gun.’

‘There’s nothing we can do. We have to get out of here,’
Balthus says, dragging me up. ‘It’s you she’s after, remember? Move.’

He hauls me up, but, as he does, I stumble, falling, hitting my cheekbone hard on the step. ‘Balthus, I have to help him. The police will be here,’ I say, tears streaking my face as I try to push him off.

‘Maria,’ says Balthus, breathing hard, gripping me, ‘if they shot Harry, they’re after you. The police can’t help us. You have to leave. Now.’

I scan the swell of people. Harry. Harry is there.

Swarms of journalists begin to surround his body, emergency vehicles screeching to a halt at the bottom of the steps. I glance to the far right: Dr Andersson stands at the edge, scanning the crowd where Harry lies.

‘She is there. I see her.’ I look at my hands; there is blood on my fingers, on my palms. Panic rises within me.

‘Let’s go. Lauren’s coming,’ Balthus yells and he yanks my arm.

And as he starts to run, me staggering in his grasp behind him, I steal one last frantic glance at Harry’s misshapen body lying on the steps of the court.

T
he blood from my hands mixes with the tap water as it runs down the sink. It swirls round and round the ceramic bowl, circling the waste pipe until, eventually, it disappears.

I hunch over, try to scrub my fingernails clean. My blouse is ripped at the hem and my cheek is scraped. I find a towel and pat my hands dry. Sitting on the ledge of the bath, I hang my head. The image of Harry slumped on the steps of the court lingers in my thoughts, and even when I try to imagine something else, it is still there—indelibly etched. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my reflection: my hair is matted to my head, there is a deep scratch on my cheek and the skin on my lower back is red raw.

I raise my hand, touch my face with my fingertips and wince. My whole body throbs. So much has happened. The murder. The conviction. Goldmouth. Dr Andersson. The Project. Handlers. Conditioning. Patricia. Harry. My mother. The veiled woman. The blood. The deaths. They all swirl into one, into a cauldron of memories, a brew of
events that, if I blinked, if I closed my eyes right now and fell asleep, I could convince myself they never happened.

I drop my forehead to the glass and exhale, the cool of the mirror lowering my temperature, calming me.

A knock sounds on the door.

‘Maria,’ Balthus says, his voice low, gruff, ‘are you okay?’

I peel my forehead from the mirror, and, slowly, pad to the door and open it. Balthus is standing in the doorway, shirt open, face streaked with sweat.

‘How are you?’ he says.

‘They shot Harry.’ I wipe my eyes.

He eyes my scars, my bruises. ‘You look like you need a soak. There are towels in the top cabinet and soap just there.’ He points to the bath ledge.

I stare at it.

I touch the scar on my cheek.

Balthus follows my eyeline then turns back to me. ‘Look, you have a bath. I’ll make us a sandwich or something. Okay?’ He hesitates then walks towards the kitchen.

I close the door, turn on the taps and, shedding my ripped blouse, I begin the painful process of cleaning myself up.

I emerge from the bathroom in a grey dressing gown and go to the kitchen.

Balthus looks up. He has a white T-shirt on now, and his bare feet peek out from navy sweatpants. ‘Better?’

I nod and glance around. The kitchen is open-plan, spilling directly onto a lounge area, to the right of which sits a glass dining table. The apartment window spans the entire
length of the wall. I walk towards it. The view stretches all the way over to the Thames.

‘I set you out one of Harriet’s old blouses. I hope that’s okay.’

I sit on the arm of one of the chairs in the lounge area, flinching at the cuts as they rub against my robe. ‘Have you heard any news about Harry?’

Balthus sets down the bread he is holding. ‘No. Nothing.’

I look over to where the television is. There are pictures on the screen, but no sound. President Obama is talking, and underneath a blue ticker tape reads:
Breaking news
—
NSA Prism scandal.
The documents we found, the secret details. My brain whirrs to life.

‘Pass me the remote control.’

Balthus comes over with a plate of sandwiches and sets them down on the low glass table in front of the sofa. ‘Here you go.’ He hands me the remote. I press the volume button. The news anchor’s voice springs into the room.

‘…In a leaked presentation to the press, it has been revealed that the US National Security Agency—the NSA—has been using a surveillance system code-named Prism. The existence of the programme, which allows the NSA to receive emails, video clips, social networking data and other private information held by a range of US internet companies, has been leaked to the British press by an anonymous whistle-blower. In a comment today, the EU Commissioner, Patrice Duree, said that they are concerned that firms complying with Prism-related requests may be handing over data in breach of the privacy rights of European citizens. Activist groups claim that Prism violates the US constitution.’

I lean in closer. The newsreader continues. ‘The revelation of the Prism programme comes at a time when the threat of cyber terrorism has never been greater. But governments around the world are voicing their protests at what the Chinese government is calling, “the warrantless surveillance”, in relation to a recently disclosed US cyber attack. Both the UK Prime Minister and Home Secretary have so far declined to comment—’

I mute the television and turn to Balthus. ‘This is related to the Project.’

‘How?’ He points to the plate of sandwiches. ‘Here, have something to eat.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s all connected. It has to be.’

Balthus picks up a sandwich and glances at the television. It is showing coverage from the scene outside the courtroom. Harry’s body lies on the steps, just as we left him. I close my eyes, unable to watch. Balthus turns off the TV.

‘Maria,’ he says, ‘I am concerned for you.’

I open my eyes.

‘So much has happened,’ Balthus continues. ‘Harry has just been shot in front of you. You have just been acquitted of a crime. The whole Callidus business, prison…These things can get to people.’ He sets down his sandwich. ‘Look, my boss, he has a contact with a counselling service.’

‘No.’

He sits. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘just consider it. It could really help you. Help you with your Asperger’s—everything. And, in the meantime, we can figure out what’s been going on, who these people are who have been after you.’

I stare at the vast window. ‘Harry stepped in front of me as the gun was fired.’

‘Yes.’

I watch the landscape, the rise and fall of the clouds, passing, breezing by, life continuing, normal, regular. My body, my brain—they ache for calm, for clarity. ‘How do you know these counselling people?’ I say after a moment.

‘It’s a perk, let’s say, of the prison service. Sometimes, in this job, we need help. We have access to some really good people. I can make the call, if you like.’