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

by Nikki Owen

  He smiles. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pause. He is still smiling. What does it mean? ‘High-functioning autism cannot occur in a person with an IQ below sixty-five-seventy. Those with Asperger’s have high IQs. That is why you cannot merge Asperger’s with autism.’

  A beat passes. Then, ‘You think you are different?’

  I lower my voice. ‘I know I am.’

  ‘Special?’

  ‘I cannot answer that.’

  ‘Above everyone else?’

  ‘I do not know what that means.’

  He rests his cheek on his fist. ‘So you believe you are high-functioning?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I have a photographic memory. I can fix things, reassemble electronic components at speed. I know numbers, can calculate vast equations, remember dates, decipher codes, detect patterns. I can—’

  He holds up his hand. ‘And you think that is normal?’

  A phone shrills somewhere from outside, one second, two seconds, then stops. ‘My father always said I could be myself.’

  ‘And was he right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how is that working out for you, being yourself?’

  I say nothing, disarmed by his question, by his frozen smile. I don’t feel safe.

  ‘Was being convicted of murder “being yourself”?’ he asks now. Then he suddenly sits forward, sets the Dictaphone on the table. ‘How about this: have you ever considered that your Asperger’s is not simply about nurture, or about how your father helped you, or about how you react to the environment around you?’

  ‘I don’t—’ I halt. Be careful, a voice in my head whispers. Be careful.

  ‘What about nature?’ Kurt is now saying. ‘What about the theory that what we are, what we do, is preprogrammed? That our DNA, ultimately, defines us? Maybe you have ended up where you are because of your genes. Maybe this—’ he gestures to the room ‘—was always going to happen to you.’

  My chest tightens. Be careful. ‘What are you trying to say? What do you know?’

  He remains quiet, still, like ice. I shiver. The clouds outside turn black, a droplet of rain taps the windowpane. ‘Okay,’ Kurt says finally, ‘we are going to move on now.’

  He consults his file. I blink, press my palms together, barely breathe. What just happened? Does he know? Does he know what we found out?

  ‘You had a therapy session,’ Kurt says, voice clipped, businesslike, ‘with Dr Andersson on the twenty-third of May—the day you also met with your barrister for the first time. I want you to tell me about that.’

  My shoulders tense. My friend, that day—I will never forget it, no matter what anyone tries to do to me. ‘That was the day that Pat—’

  ‘Yes, I know. I want you to tell me what happened.’

  I try to remain steady, but even as I begin to speak, my hands shake a little.

  Because all I can think is: why is this man here? And is he really a therapist?

  ‘It seems your face is all over the papers. Again,’ Dr Andersson says.

  She talks sitting with her legs crossed, poised and ready for our therapy appointment. She slips one hand down to her shoe, flicks off the heel and rubs the arch of the foot. It is small, supple; I imagine what it would look like tied up in rope. Sighing, she pops her heel back and reaches forward to touch the pile of newspapers that fan out on the low table in front of her.

  The air is hot and heavy. I don’t want to be here, not wanting to talk, not wanting to ransack my brain, to verbalise my emotions, to be exhausted by the sheer effort it all takes. I dab my forehead and scan the walls, focus on anything concrete to stave off my pulsing agitation.

  ‘You have put up your medical certificate,’ I say, leg jigging. ‘It is on the wall now.’ My eyes survey the floor. ‘And you have unpacked.’

  She studies me. ‘I have.’ Her eyes take in the room. ‘It was a little sparse before, that’s for sure. Nice to have my things in here now. Feels better, less lonely.’ I recoil at the word ‘lonely’. Dr Andersson flicks open a file in front of her.

  ‘I have my first meeting with a new barrister today,’ I say, fixing my thoughts on facts, timings. ‘It is at eleven hundred hours. I cannot be late.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. That won’t be a problem.’ She clears her throat. ‘So, have you seen today’s papers?’

  She is pointing to a low table to her right. I tuck a hair behind my ear and peer at the newspapers. I gasp at what stares back at me in colour, in plain black and white. ‘Mama,’ I say, laying my fingertips on the page, tracing her face, the contour of her slim neck. There are photographs of my mother, with me, old ones from graduation, of Ramon and…I stop, catch my breath, disabled by the image that swims in front of me. It is him. The nice one. The one that helped me. The one that I—

  ‘What is it like, seeing Father O’Donnell like this?’ Dr Andersson says, placing a periodical in my palms.

  I blink. Still now, the sight of him makes me want to break down, to curl up, roll into a ball. ‘What do you mean?’ I manage to say.

  ‘The picture,’ she says, ‘of Father O’Donnell, the priest you killed.’

  ‘Murdered.’

  A pause. ‘Yes. What do you think when you see him?’

  But I can barely look at him, the image choking me.

  ‘Maria,’ she says after a moment, ‘it is normal for convicts to find it difficult to look at images of their victims. But I want you to try.’

  ‘But I didn’t…’ I waver, suddenly uncertain about what to say, do, about what she will believe. I inhale, try again. ‘He looks younger.’

  She takes the newspaper from me and returns it to the table. I frown at my now empty hands.

  ‘We need to start our session,’ she says.

  But instead, I pick up El País, its headline catching my eye, and read it aloud, a tremor trespassing my voice. ‘“Villanueva rushed to UK hospital”.’

  ‘Maria, can you put the paper down, we need to—’

  ‘“Yesterday”,’ I read, translating, ‘“Congresswoman Ines Villanueva Cortes was taken ill during a visit to Goldmouth Prison, London, where her daughter resides following a murder conviction.”’ Vomit shoots up. I swallow it down, glancing at Dr Andersson before continuing. ‘“Señora Villanueva is recovering in an unnamed hospital in London, but a spokesman says that she is suffering from a stomach bug and intends to return to full public office as soon as she is well. Villanueva is a long-time supporter of rightwing justice campaigns, and has acted as a defence lawyer on many high-profile cases involving Basque terrorist cell, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA).”’

  I lower the paper. ‘My mother did not have a stomach bug. And Mama has never worked on ETA cases. Why are they lying?’

  Dr Andersson picks up a pen, rolls her eyes. ‘Newspapers print incorrect details all the time, Maria. Maybe she has just commented on the cases? And someone must have released the illness part to the press.’ She clicks the pen. ‘Your mother probably doesn’t want the world to know her personal problems.’

  I return to El País. Lies printed in black and white. Who told the reporter my mother had a stomach illness. Why? I place the paper on the table as Dr Andersson opens a small notepad. ‘What were you talking to my mother and brother about in the visiting area?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Her hand rests on the open note pages.

  ‘I saw you talking to Ramon as I was leaving the visiting area. What were you saying to him?’

  She taps her pen on her lips then exhales. ‘I was checking on them.’

  ‘You talked to them for over two minutes.’ Then I make the connection. ‘Did you release the stomach bug story to the press?’

  She places her pen in the crease of the notepad. ‘Maria, you cannot make false accusations like that. I simply wanted to ask how they were. It is important for me to understand how things are with the whole family, and…’ She lets out a breath. ‘Look, Maria, I think y
ou are being a little paranoid.’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘I believe you are. You think you see things, but you do not.’

  I tug at my collar. No window in this room, no way out. I feel squashed, pressed against an invisible wall. ‘All I have done is ask you a question and state a fact.’

  ‘You and I both know what you really meant. Let’s not play games.’

  My inner safety alarm starts to beep. ‘I am not playing games.’ I dig my thumbnail into my skin, try to remain composed.

  Dr Andersson leans sideways and opens a cupboard. ‘I have to take some blood. Give me your arm, please.’

  I do not move.

  ‘Maria, your arm.’

  I remain as I am, my body dismembered by the sight of the needle, of what it represents: doubt.

  ‘If you do not give me your arm,’ Dr Andersson says, ‘I will be forced to put you on notice for the segregation unit.’

  I pause, my breathing shallow, the alarm shrilling in my head now, screaming at me to have caution, to be careful. Slowly, I inch out my arm.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Threatening me with segregation; they call that blackmail.’

  Dr Andersson stares at me. Then, shaking her head, she tightens the vein band and lowers the syringe. The needle pierces my skin.

  ‘Why are you so distant from your mother?’ Dr Andersson asks, as she replaces one vial with another. My blood rushes into the tube. I feel the tug of the needle in my vein, a shot of dizziness.

  ‘We live in different countries.’

  ‘No,’ she says, her smile like a splinter on her face. I want to dig it out, throw it away. ‘I meant distance as in a lack of closeness. You don’t seem to like your mother. Ramon told me you shouted at her.’

  I feel wounded. I like my mother. Sometimes I have not understood her, comprehended fully what she has done, but she is my mother, flesh, blood. She is Mama. Mama, Papa—they rhyme for a reason. But how do I explain that?

  ‘I take it by your silence that means yes.’ She withdraws the needle and places a cotton ball on my vein. ‘All done. Hold that.’

  I press down on my arm. Dr Andersson slips the tubes of my blood into a laboratory bag, zip-locks it and places it in her drawer.

  ‘They wouldn’t believe me,’ I say, quietly.

  ‘Believe what?’ She turns, tilts her head, ponytail slipping on to her shoulder. ‘Why do you say that?’

  I sit still, glance at the drawer my blood is in, now zipped up in plastic. My blood, other people’s blood—they merge in my mind. The priest. My father. Jesus Christ himself, nails through his palms, through the flesh in his feet. The violent symbol of the Catholic faith, the stick, the baton used to silently strike us.

  Dr Andersson picks up a remote control and directs it at an iPod dock that sits on a shelf to the right. Erik Satie piano melodies begin to play.

  ‘Gymnopédie number one,’ I say, coming round. I remove the cotton wool, pausing to gaze at the pinprick of blood left behind, then place the white ball on the desk.

  ‘Do you know Satie?’

  ‘How would I know him? He is dead.’

  ‘No.’ She exhales. ‘I mean do you know of him? His music, his life?’

  ‘Composer Erik Satie was French. He was the son of Alfred and Jane Leslie Satie, and was born in Normandy in 1866. He is mostly famous for his three Gymnopédies—short, ethereal pieces written in ¾ time.’

  That’s…well, you know…a lot.’ She clears her throat. ‘So, I’d like to get started today. What can you tell me about the priest at your local church when you were growing up?’

  ‘What?’ I feel as if I have been hit by a Taser. ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘What was his name?”

  The piano melody is low, but it seems to boom in my head. ‘The music is too loud.’

  She turns it down. ‘Better?’

  I nod.

  ‘Can you tell me his name now?’

  My fingers interlock, foot swings over and over.

  ‘Maria, can you—?’

  ‘Father Reznik.’

  She smiles. ‘Thank you.’ She jots it down and I try to clear my head, try not to relive events in the visiting room with my mother, what she said, what she believed. Or didn’t. I let the music wash over me, cleanse me. I don’t think it works.

  ‘Maria, from the notes I received from your therapist at home in Spain, you told him that you sometimes saw other doctors. Is that correct?’

  Black eyes. Why does the phrase Black Eyes appear in my mind? My heart rate shoots up. Alert. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘It is my job. You are a convict, Maria. All your files are accessible.’ She twists her mouth. ‘So, can you tell me?’

  ‘I would rather show you.’

  ‘Show me?’

  I untuck my blouse from my waistband and roll up the fabric. Just above my trouser line is a burn mark. It is 5 centimetres by 0.5 centimetres. It is brown and pink in colour.

  Dr Andersson draws in a sharp breath and puts her hand to her mouth.

  ‘He seared me like cattle,’ I say. The piano melody flows in my ears. ‘This,’ I say, pointing to the scar, ‘was my mark. It was so he could see if I felt any pain.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The doctor, the one with the black eyes, when I was young.’

  She blinks at it for two more seconds, visibly shaking. ‘You…you can do up your blouse now, Maria.’

  I tuck my blouse back into my trousers, not before I force myself to look at the mark, look at it to reassure myself it is there, it exists.

  ‘Maria, do you really think…’ Dr Andersson stops, takes a sip of water and inhales. ‘Maria,’ she tries again, ‘in an old evaluation, you said “someone with black eyes did this”, said he may have been a doctor, but you weren’t certain.’ She pauses, presses her lips together. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask you: did a doctor really do that? Did he really make that mark on you?’

  My heart rate flies sky-high. ‘Yes.’ A small swallow, nerves. ‘That is what I said.’ I place my hand on my chest, feel the blood banging against my ribs. She is questioning my version of events just like the last therapist did, just like they all have done.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Dr Andersson says, ‘that I find your version of events very hard to believe, Maria. When I spoke to your brother in the visiting room, he said you had tendencies to make things up, remember events incorrectly, said that the death of your father affected your memory greatly.’ She presses her lips together. ‘That sort of memory loss, that mis-recollection of events following the death of a loved one is not uncommon. It can last for years—a lifetime, in some cases. The brain in people who are grieving, well, studies show increased activity in the neuron network. These areas link to mood. To memory, to the absence of it.’ She pauses, searches my face. ‘Maria, these grief-initiated neuron patterns are also associated with how we perceive things, with how we rationalise. They are even associated with the function of our organs. Don’t you see, Maria?’

  I remain still, silent, too scared to admit that she may be right.

  ‘Loss, disappointment—grief,’ she continues, ‘they can have a huge impact neurologically. And the more we linger on negative feelings, on thought patterns, the more established these connections, these neurological trails are. The consequences can be chronic worry, anxiety, unending grief, habitual loneliness. So—’ she exhales, pointing to my blouse ‘—is this not simply a childhood scar you have on your stomach? Perhaps some accident you are recalling incorrectly? Your mother, in reports I have read, has said you used to be a little accident prone.’

  ‘No,’ I say after a moment, quiet, lost. ‘I have never been accident prone. Why…why would Mama say that?’

  Dr Andersson slips her left leg over her right. ‘Maria, being accident prone is a common side effect of grief. It is because the mind, in grief, becomes easily distracted. Couple this with your apparent memory loss induced by the death of your father�
��and now the death of the priest, the one you murdered—and well, no wonder you cannot recall every tiny past detail correctly.’ She stops, tilts her head. ‘What do you think?’

  I try to stay calm, try to think it all through but they overwhelm me. Dr Andersson’s words slam hard against my skull, and no matter how hard I try to stall it, my breathing becomes rapid, burning. The urge to feel something, to physically feel something, instantly, now, something tangible, real, rises up within me, because the words people say, I am discovering, they are like bubbles blown in the air: there one minute, gone the next. As if they were never made.

  ‘Maria?’

  I ignore Dr Andersson and place my index finger on the scar beneath my blouse. The mark is bumpy and, when I apply pressure on it, the skin on either side feels tight. I press harder, then harder again, deep into the mark, sharp so I can feel it.

  ‘Maria,’ Dr Andersson says, ‘what are you doing? Stop.’

  But a wave of pain hits me and her voice fades away. My pulse rockets, my brow sweats. Whether it is the throbbing of the scar or the heat of the room, I do not know, but I begin to remember something, like an image on a movie reel it clicks into view, appearing frame after frame, until it is clear, present, as if I were there. I hear it at first: the whoosh of an aeroplane engine. Then I feel it: cold air. We are somewhere mountainous, desolate, and when I scan the area I see that there, in the distance, shooting past, is heather, moorland. And then we are travelling higher. The air is thinner. My chest tighter. And then what I see next is what makes me freeze. A hospital bed. Lights. So many lights. Straight ones, round ones, square ones. They are so bright. Yet only one shape casts a shadow over them all: the figure of a man. A man wearing a mask, his eyes black as coal.

  ‘Maria? Talk to me.’

  I can hear Dr Andersson’s voice, but it seems so far away, like a song in a valley, a whistle in the wind. I focus. The man in the mask is still there. Look at his eyes. His eyes! Look at them.

  ‘Maria?’

  Her voice becomes louder. I can hear Erik Satie’s piano.

  ‘Maria, open your eyes.’

  My heart punches my ribs. I choke as if no oxygen has touched my lungs for a long time. My eyes flicker open, my hands circle my neck, throat drawn, dry.