by Nikki Owen
He sits back, removes his glasses. I inspect them and feel something well up, feel something knock on my skull, reminding me.
‘My father wore spectacles like that,’ I say, pointing to them, realising now what I am recalling. My papa reading his daily newspaper, glasses perched on the end of his nose, slipping as they did down the bridge, his sweat increasing as fast as the hot sun did. I breathe in, the brief memory bathing me in a rare, temporary sensation of comfort.
Harry smiles. Eye creases to match. ‘From what I can see, the evidence is weak at best. That is our defence, our route, I think—discredit the forensics.’ He taps the frame of his spectacles. ‘I will want to reanalyse the DNA. That involves revisiting everything—all the pathology analysis, the witnesses. All upturned, back to front and side to side. Are you ready for that?’
‘Yes.’ I hesitate a little, fear slipping into my consciousness. The thought of repeating it all, of dealing with the whole ordeal again, of the murder details, of my apparent, non-deniable guilt. It is an overwhelming feeling. ‘And after that? What happens next?’
‘I will set in motion the Notice of Grounds forms for your appeal.’
‘And that is everything we need to discuss?’ I say, my mind back on Patricia, on finding out any news.
‘Actually, no.’ He touches his file and pauses. ‘Yesterday afternoon, the priest’s parents gave a press conference. They’re unhappy that you’re appealing against your conviction.’
‘How do they know about the appeal?’
He shrugs. ‘These things get to be public information.’
‘Oh.’
‘The parents are denouncing the appeal. And they are insisting that the DNA evidence is strong enough to withstand an appeal process.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘They can and they have. Watch.’
Harry takes out laptop and opens it. He clicks on the web browser and brings up a YouTube video. There is an image of an old man and woman sitting behind a long desk, hair a soup of grey and white, skin liver-marked, pale. A bubble of worry floats up into my head. They both look like the dead priest. I can hardly bring myself to look as Harry presses play. Reporters come alive, ask questions. Bulbs flash from every angle, the man declaring that I am guilty, the woman crying into her hands.
When it comes to an end, Harry turns off the computer and looks up. The light above us flickers, fades, then splutters back to life. ‘So,’ he says, after a second or two, lifting a thick file from his briefcase, placing it between us on the table, ‘what are your thoughts?’
I drag my eyes away from the light. ‘On what?’
‘On the video, on what the parents have said.’
‘Their questioning of the DNA evidence presents a difficulty to my case.’ I blink, shake my head. Their faces won’t leave my mind.
Harry opens the file. ‘I agree.’ He extracts a court paper. ‘Now, their questioning doesn’t mean to say that they are correct, but it does pose a challenge to us.’ He places a paper in front of me. ‘These are the original court documents.’
I lean forward to read, palms clammy, nervous of what I am about to see. The words ‘knife’, ‘fingerprint’ and ‘trace’ instantly appear. I read on, my anxiety growing. There are details of the body, of how it was found—it is all there: perforating stab wound; nails in the hands; torso sprawled out at the altar; bruises inflicted; restraint used.
‘I want to, with your permission, Maria, revisit the legal principles surrounding the nun’s actions upon the discovery of the body.’ Harry looks at me. I smell him now: a warm fug of tobacco, of icing sugar, of freshly baked bread. I inhale the soothing scent, and my whole body wants to fall into him, to let itself go, let itself be comforted by him, be told by him that everything is going to be okay.
‘So the nun,’ Harry continues, ‘her acting immediately upon finding the priest could have saved his life. It could have broken the chain of causation.’
I snap to, shake off his smell. ‘This chain of causation has never before been discussed.’
‘It should have been.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Please be aware, Maria, that to get this conviction overturned, whatever we have must be bulletproof.’
‘“Bulletproof”? That is a phrase meaning “beyond reasonable doubt”.’
Harry nods. ‘The judge should hear your application for permission to appeal any day now. As soon as we know anything, I will inform you. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
Harry begins to slide away the paperwork. I watch him and feel a sudden rush of something that I cannot identify. A feeling. Gratitude? Think. What would Patricia tell me to do? I place one hand on the table. ‘Thank you,’ I say eventually, slow, measured.
He pauses, smiles, then resumes gathering files. We walk to the door. Harry presses the exit buzzer and waits. ‘I hear you helped your cellmate. She tried to commit suicide.’
I swallow. ‘Yes.’
He pats me on the shoulder. I flinch. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and lowers his hand. After a second, he smiles again, the type of smile that creases at the eyes. ‘You know, you remind me of my own daughter,’ he says. ‘You’re a similar age. She is strong, like you. Beautiful, too. But then, I am biased.’ He reaches into his pocket and gives me a card. ‘Here. For you.’
I take it. It contains his name, telephone number and address.
‘I will arrange everything for you,’ Harry says. He holds out his hand. I stare at it. ‘I’ll be in touch very soon.’
I wait, then realising that he expects me to shake his hand, I do so. It is large and damp. When I let go, I wipe my palm on the back of my trouser leg.
Harry signals to the guard that he is ready to go.
‘Well,’ Harry says, ‘it was a pleasure to meet you. Take care of yourself, Maria.’
‘Martinez,’ the guard says, as Harry exits, ‘the Governor said you’re to go to the hospital wing immediately.’
Patricia. I hold my breath. ‘Is she alive?’
‘Come on. I’ll take you.’
Chapter 13
The IV fluid drips into Patricia’s arm as her chest rises and falls. I watch her, my lips parted waiting for words that cannot come, my hands clenched, worried, restless. She seems so fragile, Patricia, so transparent, like I could poke her, pierce my finger right through her and it would come out on the other side, neither of us hurt.
At the end of the bed hangs her chart. I set down my notebook and stretch across and scan it. It is hard reading. Patricia’s airways have been restricted, the trachea temporarily closing, preventing oxygen from travelling to her lungs. She is alive. But only just. I examine her body, eyes resting on her neck. Red welts snake round it, skin open, pink with pressure. She is lucky to have been revived and I am relieved, relieved that she is here, not gone, not dead in the ground, but with me, now, her friend, her ally.
I return the file to its home and search for a medical torch. There are no nurses in the immediate vicinity, no guards by my side. Locating a torch on the bedside table, I stand then leaning over Patricia, open her lids and check her observations.
‘You took your time.’
I jump at the sound of Patricia’s voice, dropping the torch. It bounces along the floor.
‘Hey, hey,’ she croaks. ‘It’s okay, Doc. It’s okay.’
I touch my cheeks. Damp.
‘It’s okay to cry. You had a shock.’ She is attempting to pull herself upright in bed.
I wipe my face. ‘You must not move yet.’ I link under her arms, heaving her up until her back is resting on the pillow behind. ‘Do you have any signs of dizziness, pain. Nausea?’
She winces. ‘No. I’m fine.’
I sit, shattered.
‘Why did you do it?’ I say, a clock ticking somewhere, the sound of whistling in the far distance.
Patricia looks at her hands. Two, three seconds pass. ‘Ten years,’ she says finally. ‘I’ve been in prison for nearly ten years now.’
‘I know
. Why are you telling me this?’
She closes her eyes. ‘I just struggle knowing my family hate me.’
‘They do not hate you.’
‘They do.’
‘I do not hate you.’ She opens her eyes, smiles. My throat feels tight, and I try to swallow, try to feel some moisture, but it does no good. I have nothing left.
‘Hey,’ Patricia says. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
‘You cannot do it again,’ I say, swallowing.
‘I won’t.’
I shake my head. ‘You cannot do it again. You cannot…You are my only friend.’ I smear the tears from my face. ‘I thought you had…’ I sniff. ‘I thought you had died.’
‘You saved my life.’
I hiccup, gulping down air.
‘Doc? Doc, breathe—’
‘I could not help you,’ I say, an unfamiliar burning need to get the words out. ‘I had no equipment and the medical team seemed to take so long to arrive.’
‘Why don’t you—’
‘Why did I not know you were going to kill yourself?’
Patricia pauses. ‘You couldn’t have known. It was my decision.’
‘No.’ I tap my fingers fast. ‘I should have known. But I cannot know, can I? Not being the way I am. Anyone else would have noticed how you were feeling. But not me.’
She sits forward. ‘No one else would have known. Doc, listen to me. No one else would have known.’
My chest heaves up and down. I blink. Patricia’s face swims into focus. I gulp in oxygen, cup my hands over my mouth, peering at Patricia over my fingers.
‘Ssshh. Breathe. Good.’ She reaches out her hand and places it flat on the bed sheet, spreads out her fingers, all five of them, in a star shape.
‘I won’t do it again,’ she says.
Her hand is on the bed. I hesitate at first, then slowly I lower my palm to hers.
‘I am getting out on parole soon,’ she says. ‘The Governor came and told me just before. So, see? I’m going to be okay.’
‘But if you are out of prison, I will be in here without you. I will be alone again.’
She moves her fingers closer to mine.
Our fingertips lay in two star shapes on the sheet, touching now, and in that moment I know that this is the one person in the world I can truly trust.
So I draw in a deep breath, open my notebook and tell her all about the puzzle I am beginning to unravel.
I pour some more coffee. The dark liquid wobbles in the cup, images of the room reflecting on the surface. There one minute, gone the next.
The room is warm, but I shiver. I pull my blazer tight and clutch the coffee cup, but after one sip, I scrunch up my nose.
‘This coffee does not taste normal,’ I say, but Kurt is writing and does not seem to hear me. I repeat the statement, but still he remains silent.
From outside, life continues to drift in through the window; the pictures on the wall sit where they always have; the spiders hunch two by two in the corner, cobwebs forming like icicles in winter. I don’t even know if they are real or not. For some reason, I hold out my coffee cup and study it. It looks normal, ceramic, white. Nothing has changed, everything is just as I remember it. Yet Kurt is convincing me my judgement is impaired. And I am beginning to believe him, but I don’t know why. So much of this puzzle up until now has been solved, yet here I am, wondering what has really happened to me, questioning, again, whether my brain is working properly, and when I say everything aloud, when I put it into concrete words, it all sounds just as everyone has been telling me it does: Like a story. Like a work of fiction. A mis-recollection.
Shaking my head, I sip some more coffee then stop. Something is not right. I sip again, checking, but yes, I am right. The coffee. It does taste odd. ‘Liquorice,’ I say to myself. I glance to Kurt—his head is still bowed, busy.
I set down the cup and scan the room. All still normal. I tap my head, dislodge my thoughts. My mind is getting carried away, my feelings, my deductions. I am adding two and two together and getting five. I frown, tutting at myself. This has to stop, doesn’t it? Whatever is going on, it all has to stop. As the curtain floats into the room, my eyes drift to the ceiling and—
I go very still.
I squint, lean forward. It cannot be. How? I bang my head with the heel of my hand, look again, but there is no mistaking it.
The cobweb—it is not there.
I look at Kurt. He is still writing his notes; he is not drinking any coffee.
The canteen is quiet.
I have been sitting, writing in my notebook whilst nobody sees—it is a risk, but I need to write, need to count the words, the pages, that way they may last, may be real. Patricia said she believed what I told her about Father Reznik, about him being involved somehow, about it all being connected—my father, his discovery of the documents. She said she would help me. I scan once more through the codes scratched out on the page, the numbers, equations covering every millimetre of space. What do they mean? I think of Patricia, of her faith in me. To have a friend who believes me, who is on my side, accepts me for who I am, for what I am. For the first time ever, it feels good, not bad or defective. Good. Human.
From the far wall, shouting erupts followed by a clatter of trays. The hall is filling up, food smells, body odour, too many flabby bodies.
I set down my pen and slip my notebook behind my plate. I pick up a napkin and dab the corners of my mouth three times, my eyes on the now fast-growing canteen queue. I watch for Patricia. Since her emergency stay in the hospital ward, I ensure she is okay and eating enough at every mealtime.
‘Got yourself a notebook, hey?’
I turn at the sound of the voice.
‘Hi,’ a woman says, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Bobbie Reynolds.’ She grins. Her arm is slim, her shirt blue and crisp. The chinos on her legs are ironed down the crease and her skin is caramel. She is like a walking Gap advert. ‘What’s your name, then?’ she says. When I do not reply, she simply shrugs and withdraws her hand.
The Bobbie woman drags out a chair from the table, sets down a tray and sits.
‘I am waiting for someone,’ I say.
She claps her hands. ‘Ooh, lovely. Who are we waiting for?’ She spears a tube of pasta on the plate in front of her. ‘I just love carbonara.’
I sniff. Her perfume: lemons and oranges. Citrus. Clean. I place my hand on the edge of my notebook and search for Patricia.
This Bobbie woman keeps eating. ‘You don’t say much,’ she says in between mouthfuls.
I spot Patricia in the food queue. Satisfied she is okay, I turn. ‘Bobbie is short for Roberta. Roberta is the female form of Robert, meaning “bright fame”.’ I tilt my head. ‘You are of bright fame.’
She sets down her fork then laughs. ‘Ha! You’re great. I love you already. What’s your name?’
‘My name is Dr Maria Martinez.’ The hall is loud, almost full. The sounds ring in my head, endless vibrations. I cover my ears a little.
‘A doctor?’ She whistles. ‘Good for you.’ She slaps my back and I wince. ‘Very nice to meet you, Dr Martinez. You’ve got yourself a friend here. I’ve got your back.’
‘I have a friend,’ I say. ‘Her name is Patricia.’
She grins and resumes eating.
‘All right, Doc?’
I look up. Patricia stands holding her tray. She sits, smiles and spoons in some pasta, looking to Bobbie. ‘Who’s this, then?’
‘This is Bobbie Reynolds,’ I say. ‘She is very neat and says she loves me already.’
Bobbie spurts out a mouthful of pasta.
Patricia waves. ‘Hi, Bobbie.’
‘What were you convicted of?’ I say to Bobbie.
‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘you’ve got to keep your voice down when you say things like that in here, because—’
‘Murder.’
We look to Bobbie.
‘In answer to your question, Dr Martinez,’ Bobbie says, her elbow perched on the table,
‘it was murder.’
‘Of a man or a woman?’
Patricia drops her fork. ‘Doc! Ssshh.’
‘Man,’ Bobbie says, her eyes on me, not missing a beat. ‘Definitely a man.’ She grins and pierces a mushroom. ‘I was convicted of the murder of a male of the species.’
Chapter 14
The canteen is noisy now, so to block the sound from penetrating my ears, I concentrate on this Bobbie character as she studies her speared mushroom.
‘Why do you ask about my conviction?’ she says, mouth full of pasta.
Murder, I think. She has killed someone. I pick up my knife. ‘Would you kill again?’
‘Steady,’ Patricia says, her eyes narrowed.
Bobbie glares at Patricia then smiles at me. ‘In answer to your question—yes. I would kill again.’ She proffers me a toothy grin.
I watch her. She makes me feel uneasy, as if she is hiding something. As Bobbie and Patricia resume eating, I push my plate to one side to retrieve my notebook, but it is gone. Bobbie clears her throat. There, in her hand, is my writing pad.
‘Looking for this?’
‘Yes.’
She holds it out to me. I hesitate then take it. I try to ignore her, but there is a tug on my sleeve.
‘Hey,’ Bobbie says, pointing. ‘She your friend?’
‘Doc,’ whispers Patricia, ‘it’s Michaela.’
I see her. She is striding towards us. I touch my forehead where my right temple still has a shadow of a bruise, mild panic bubbling underneath my skin.
Bobbie throws down her fork and drags back her chair. ‘It’s okay, Doc, like I said, I’ve got your back.’ And with that, she stands and positions herself between Michaela and me.
‘Mickie, isn’t it?’ says Bobbie, smiling. ‘How are you?’
I look to Bobbie. Does she already know Michaela Croft? But how? Bobbie has only just arrived at Goldmouth.
