Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) (4 page)

I squeeze my fist, concentrate. ‘What do you mean?’

He hesitates. ‘Are you sure he was your friend?’

A trace of a memory floats in the air, like a drowsiness. I see me, sixteen years old. Father Reznik’s drawn, lined face is swaying in front of me as I try to focus on a paper containing codes. Lots of codes. I smile at him, but when I blink, I realise it’s not Father Reznik I am looking at. It is the dead priest from the convent. I gasp.

‘Maria?’ The man’s voice hovers somewhere. ‘Stay with me. Listen to me.’

I attempt to shake away the confusion. The faces, the blurred, blended shapes swim one more time before me then dive from view. I sit forward, cough. My eyelids flicker.

‘What made him your friend, Maria?’

‘He was kind to me. He…he would spend time with me when I was young, growing up.’ A surge of heat scalds my skin. I swallow a little and loosen my collar, try to push aside the doubt creeping up like ivy inside me.

‘What else?’

‘He would…listen to me after Papa died, would give me things to do, keep me occupied. I grew up with him, with
Father Reznik. Mama knew him. He gave me problems to solve when I got bored with school. “Too easy for you, school, Maria,” he would say. “Too easy.” I would visit him every day; even when I was at university I would go home to see him, he would give me complex problems to solve. And then, one day, he just vanished. But sometimes…sometimes I recall…’

‘Recall what?’

‘Absences,’ I say, after a moment, and even as the word comes out, I know it will seem unusual, because just as Father Reznik vanished, so had my memory.

‘What sort of absences?’

‘Absences of my memory, of what I had done and said.’

‘And when did these occur?’ the man says, writing everything down.

I hesitate. I know now what Father Reznik really was and what he was doing with me. But what do I tell this man? ‘I would often wake up in Father Reznik’s office.’

‘You had fallen asleep?’

‘No, no, I…’ I stop. What will happen if I reveal the truth to him now? I opt to stick to the basic facts. ‘Yes, I could have fallen asleep.’

The man stares at me. My heart knocks against my chest, my brow glistens. Did he believe me?

‘Tell me, Maria,’ he says, pen in his mouth, ‘are you scared of losing people?’

‘Yes,’ I hear myself say. A tear escapes. I touch it, surprised. My papa’s face appears in my mind. His dark, full hair, his warm smile. I didn’t realise all this had affected me so much.

The man’s eyes flicker downwards then finally rest on
my face. ‘Would it help you if I told you I have lost a brother?’

I frown. ‘How? Where did he go? How did…?’ I falter, a familiar slap of realisation. He didn’t lose track of his brother. His brother died.

He hands me a tissue. ‘Here.’

I take it, wipe my eyes.

‘He was killed in the 9/11 bombings,’ the man continues. ‘He was an investment banker, worked on the hundredth floor of the first tower.’ He pauses, his body strangely stiffening, at odds with his so far relaxed poise. ‘Everything changed that day.’ He inhales one long, hard breath. ‘I still search for his face in crowds now.’ He stops, looks down. ‘Sometimes, our desire to see someone again burns so much that we convince ourselves they still exist.’ He locks his eyes now on mine, his body charged. ‘Or we project their personality onto another person.’ He tilts his head. ‘Like with your priest.’

His words hang in the air like a morning mist over a river. We sit, the two of us, in a soup of silence, of faces, of contorted, clouded memories. I think of the murdered priest, of Father Reznik. Sometimes I cannot see where one begins and the other ends.

Like clouds parting in the blue sky, the man’s body softens. He is back to normal, whatever normal is. He clears his throat, and, consulting his notes, tilts his head. ‘Maria, I want you tell me: when were you diagnosed with Asperger’s?’

I do not want to answer him. He is smiling, but it is different this time, and I cannot decipher it. Is he pretending to be nice? Is it because he likes me? Is that why he told me
about his brother? I let out a breath; I have no idea. ‘I was diagnosed at the age of eight,’ I concede finally.

His smile drops. ‘Thank you.’ He immediately writes some notes. The air blows cold and I feel strangely unsteady. Why am I uncomfortable with this man? It’s as if he could be a friend to me one minute, a dangerous foe the next. And then it comes to me.

‘Your name!’ I say, pleased with myself. ‘I do not know your name. What is it?’

His pen hovers mid-air, an unexpected slice of a scowl lingering on his lips. ‘I think you know it, Maria.’

I shake my head. ‘No. The service could not tell me who would be here today as it was a last-minute appointment.’

‘I think you are mistaken, Maria, but I’ll tell you. Again. It’s Kurt. My name is Kurt.’

Kurt. I had not been told. I am certain of this. Certain. I knew the meeting would be with one of their staff, of course. The service issued a date, a time, place. But as it was a late booking, interviewer names were unconfirmed. They said that. They did. My memory is not lying. I did not want to do it at first, to be here, but he said it would do me good. I wanted to believe him. But, after everything that has happened, it is hard to trust anyone any more.

A knock sounds on the door and a woman enters. Leather jacket, bobbed brown head of hair. She glances at Kurt and sets down a tray of coffee.

‘Who are you?’ I demand. When she does not reply, I say, ‘I did not order coffee.’

Continuing to ignore me, the woman nods to Kurt and leaves. He reaches forward and picks up a mug. ‘Smells great.’

‘Who was she?’ But Kurt does not answer. ‘Tell me!’

He inhales the steam, the scent of ground coffee beans circling the room. He takes a sip and sighs. ‘Damn fine coffee.’

My body feels suddenly drained, my legs tired, my head fuzzy, my brain matter congealed like thick, cold stew. Hesitating, I slowly reach for a cup. The warmth of the coffee vapour instantly rises to my face, stroking my skin. I take a small mouthful.

‘Good?’

The hot liquid begins to thaw me, energise me. I drink a little more then lower the cup. ‘Your name. It is Kurt.’

He nods, the cup handle linked like a ring to his finger.

‘Kurt is a German name, no?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I believe it is German.’

‘In German, Kurt means “courageous advice”. In English, it means “bold counsel”.’

‘I read you liked names. Like writing everything in your notebook, the names are an obsession. It’s a common trait on the spectrum. Your memory, your ability to retain information,’ he says, sitting back, ‘is that the Asperger’s or something else?’

I go still. Why would he ask me this? Does he know? ‘What else would it be?’ I say after two seconds.

‘You tell me.’

‘Why would you ask what else it would be?’ I can feel a panic rising. I try taking more coffee and it helps a little, but not much.

‘You know it is normal for me to enquire about your Asperger’s, about how you can do what you do? I am a therapist. It is my job.’

I look at him and my shoulders drop. I’m tired. Maybe I am inventing a non-existent connection here, conjuring thoughts and conclusions like a magician, plucking them from the air. How would he know what we discovered? The answer is he can’t know, so I need to be calm. I drain my coffee and try to concentrate on facts, on solid information to clear my fog.

‘What is your family name?’ I say.

‘You mean surname?’ Kurt shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Maria, I cannot say. Company policy.’

‘You are lying.’ I set the cup down on the table.

He sighs. ‘I do not lie.’

‘Everybody lies.’

‘Except you, correct? Isn’t that what you would say, Maria? I have seen your file, read your details.’ He smiles. ‘I know all about you.’

We both remain very still. Kurt’s eyes are narrowed, but I cannot determine what it means. All I know is that I have a tightening knot in my stomach that will not subside, with a voice in my head telling me again to run.

‘I have it in my notes,’ he says after a moment, ‘that following your blackout in segregation, you received help.’

‘Yes,’ I say quietly, the recollection of that day painful for me to think about. The room feels suddenly warm. I undo two buttons on my blouse, followed by a third; the fabric flaps against my skin in the morning breeze. I exhale, try to relax.

Kurt coughs.

‘What?’ I follow his eyeline. My chest. I can see the cotton of my bra.

‘Nothing.’ Another cough. ‘Maria, can you…can you
tell me what help you received following your blackout in segregation?’

I pause. I know now exactly who tried to help me. And why. ‘A psychiatrist came to the segregation cell.’

He hits record. ‘I want you to tell me about that.’

He stares at me for three seconds. I rebutton my blouse.

Day must now be night because above my head the strobe lights hum, making me blink over and over, like staring straight at the sun.

I fall back, try to think, but my body throbs, my muscles and skin a sinew of stress. The signs. Normally I recognise them, can quell them, control them, but in here I cannot get a handle on myself, on my thoughts. I force my eyes shut and make myself think of my father. My safe place, my hideout. I inhale, try to imagine the soft apples of his cheeks, how his eyes would crinkle into a smile when he saw me, how he would sweep me into his arms, strong, secure. I open my eyes. My pulse is lowered, my breathing steady, but it is not enough. I need to think. If I remain in segregation I may not survive for long. I have to get out. But how?

I lower myself into the chair, my prison suit clinging to my skin, a stench of body odour jeering me. I am a mess. I hate to be in this state, out of control, in disarray. Allowing my body to slacken, I let my arm hang behind me. My fingers trace the cross, etched into the wall. I almost smile, because wherever I go, it is there: religion. All the priests, their rules. All of them controlling my mind, dictating life to me and everyone else, to a people, to a country, a government.
Franco may have long died in Spain, but the Church will always be there.

I shake my head. Whether I want him to be or not, he is not in here now, the priest—he can’t be. So think. I must think if I want to get out of here. This is all just logic. The strip search. The incarceration. The segregation. Isolation. Fear. Panic.

I sit forward. Panic. Could that be it?

I glance at the door. Thick metal. Locked. Only one way out. Standing, I examine the room. Small. Three metres by five metres. One plastic chair: green, no armrest. One bed: mattress, no covers. Floor: rubber, bare. Walls: brick, half plastered in gunmetal grey.

I begin with my breathing; I draw in quick, sharp breaths, forcing myself to hyperventilate. It takes just over one minute, but, finally, it is done. My head swells and I try to ignore the dread in my stomach spreading through my body. I move to the cell door and bang hard, but my effort is lost in a sudden outbreak of shouts from the inmates across the walkway. I wince at the noise, count to ten, make a fist, bang again. This time: success. A guard shouts my name; she is coming over. I estimate it will take her seven seconds to reach my cell. I count. One, two, three, four. At five, I thrust my fingers down my throat. On seven, the window shutter opens above my head and a guard peers through.

‘Oh, shit!’

I vomit. My lunch splatters the floor.

A bolt unlocks. I count to three. One—two—three. I stumble, clutch my chest.

When the guard bursts in, she halts and mutters a swear word under her breath.

‘Martinez? You all right?’

I groan. Another guard enters. ‘Leave her! She’s bloody well fine.’

The guard by my side hesitates.

‘Come on!’ shouts the other.

My chance is slipping away. ‘Help,’ I croak, retching.

‘I’m sorry,’ crouching guard says, ‘but I think you are—’

I vomit. It sprays all over the floor, over the guard.

‘Oh, fuck.’

I mumble some words, but sick is lodged in my throat and it sounds as if I am choking.

‘Get a doctor!’ the guard shouts to her colleague. ‘Now!’

T
he guard props me up against the wall. The brick is cold on my skin.

‘Is this cell five?’

There is a woman blocking the light by the cell door. She wears no uniform, has no baton.

The guard scowls at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’

The woman steps forward. Blonde hair snakes in a ponytail down her back. ‘I’m Dr Andersson,’ she says, her voice clipped, plum, like a newsreader. ‘Lauren Andersson, how do you do.’ She extends a neat little hand; the guard stands, ignores it.

Dropping her arm, Dr Andersson looks at me. ‘She needs to be out of here. Now.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says the guard. ‘Who the hell put you in charge? I only want you to check her over.’

‘I’m responsible for the physical and psychiatric well-being of the inmates here,’ Dr Andersson says, side-stepping the vomit. She points to me. ‘This woman is Maria
Martinez.’ She folds her arms. ‘And she has been assigned to me.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since today.’ She pushes past the guard, crouches down and takes my wrist. She looks to her watch, checks my pulse, releases my arm. ‘This inmate’s pulse is up. Get her out. Now.’ When the guard does nothing, Dr Andersson stands, her neck taut, voice raised. ‘I said, now.’

I am hauled up under the arms by two guards. Dr Andersson informs them that I am, under no circumstances, to be returned to the segregation cell.

‘I have the full backing of the Governor,’ she says. ‘Do you understand?’

The guards nod.

‘Good. Take her to my office.’

‘So, how are you feeling?’

I don’t know how to answer the question. I am in Dr Andersson’s office. She is sitting at her desk, staring at me. The room is cool, the light low. My pulse has dropped, but still my muscles tense, my fists clench. Everything is disorientating me.

Dr Andersson crosses her legs and her hem slips above her knee. Her cheeks are pink and she has eyes shaped like over-sized almonds.