by Nikki Owen
‘Can’t bear the smell of vomit. Are you better now?’
‘Why did you do this?’ I croak as I pull myself up and peer again at my arm. The skin around the scrawl is red and raw where the pen nib has torn into it, my body bleeding green ink with my blood.
‘Sometimes, people need the truth just a little bit closer to, well—’ he gestures to my arm ‘—home. We call it shock treatment—it’s very effective. This way, you will always know who you are.’
‘I know who I am.’
‘Really? Do you really, Maria?’
His voice is soft and low and when I look at him, tiny creases fan from his eyes, and I don’t understand. Is he feeling kindness towards me? Raven said I could find out who I really am if I locate the file—what did she mean? Pain throbbing through me, I blink again at my bicep, trying to piece it all together. ‘I cannot be Basque.’
‘Maria, my dear, you’d be surprised what we really can be if we look hard enough. And yes, you are Basque.’
I don’t know how long I sit there. I stare at my arm, ten seconds, twenty seconds. I lose track of time as the words on my arm blur into one and my brain switches off at the overload of it all—at the smells and the sounds and the ink in my arm and even the whiteness of the walls that stare soullessly back at me. I know what it means, biologically, for me to be Basque, but how?
‘The only way in which I can be Basque is if there is Basque lineage in my father’s and/or mother’s family,’ I say after a while.
‘Finally,’ he says, slapping down his hand to his lap, ‘a probing thought. But,’ he says, glancing at his watch, ‘I have to leave you. Momentarily, you understand.’
He rises, clutches his file, inserts his glasses to his top pocket and turns to leave. But my concentration does not focus on that, because something has slipped from his lap and dropped to a pillow of towels that are stacked just to the right of his chair. I dart my sight straight to Black Eyes. I do not want him to notice what I have seen.
‘Tests, Maria,’ he says now, striding to the door, his fingers resting on the handle. ‘We need to carry out some tests on you, small ones, just to ensure you are ready for service. Ready to work for us once more, for Cranes.’ He smiles and my skin shivers. ‘For peace. It’s lovely to have you back in the fold.’
Withdrawing the remote control from his pocket, he directs it to the speaker. The 1930s melody creeps once more into the room and I wince, the woman’s voice warbling again, as Black Eyes dwells on me for three seconds, and my arm by my side screams in pain. I don’t like him looking at me. I divert my sight, keep my eyes low and quietly count the seconds in time to the melody until he leaves. Finally, on sixteen, he intakes a sharp breath, turns and exits the room.
I keep counting. My sight fixed on the closed door, I wait and count five more seconds and when on six the shadow of the guarding officer outside disappears, I make my move.
First, I scan the room for obvious cameras. There are none that can be detected on initial search, no manufactured spiders on the wall, no unusual pictures or points. Yes, they could still be recording me, but the probability is that this is a secure area, a room where people can carry out whatever procedures they need to do—such as tattooing ink messages into someone’s arm—and do it completely undetected and unwatched.
I turn, drop my feet to the cold tiled floor, slipping off the bed. I am unsteady at first, wobbling, almost falling into the chair, but, after a few seconds, I become steady, finding my feet, instructing my limbs to move, and when I do manage to step forward, I peer down and see what I spotted only a minute or so ago. There, on the towels: the fountain pen. Black Eyes’ fountain pen.
I glance to the words tattooed into my arm then, looking back to the pen and taking in a breath, I twist the pen nib loose and tear it from the base flute.
It snaps out with ease. I hold the nib in my palm and, slapping back my matted hair, I close my fist around it and replace the lid back on the pen, and start to gently return the outer case to its original position on the towels, the entire time trying to push aside the music that lurches in and out of my ears.
And then the door sounds.
It is light at first, the noise, but there is an unmistakable click followed by silence.
I move fast. Plunging the lid on the pen so it appears as normal, I drop it to the towels, adjust it to its original position, fly across the room and, shooting a look to the door, clamber to the bed. I swing my legs up and over it, pulling my knees to my chest, the nib locked in my palm. My heart pummels my ribs as I try to recreate the position I was in when Black Eyes left. As I do it, as I draw my knees to my chest, clamp my arms around my legs, I realise something. The nib. It can’t stay in my palm or they will find it when they inevitably search me either here or at the next place. My eyes fly left and right, hunting for a safe hiding space when the door begins to open.
Panic. The 1930s woman warbles, the nib pricks my skin and the door creaks further into the room. A chill sweeps into the air as the cold from the corridor beyond wafts by, leaving me no time to move, and so I do the only thing I can: I slip the nib into my scalp, hidden under my hair. The point pierces my skin, but I cannot shift it.
Because, right now, the door is wide open.
Black Eyes enters, abruptly halts then strides to the far side of the bed and, pausing to stare at me, he looks down at the towels. My heart hammers. I try to act like me, as I normally would, keep my eyes set downwards, no contact made and when his hand brushes the mattress near my leg, I make sure I flinch.
‘Maria, remember to breathe,’ he says, the lines wrinkling out from his eyes again. ‘We’re all on the same side here. I’m not going to hurt you.’
He resumes looking toward the towels, and the music warbles on. My scalp stings from where the nib lies sliced into it and, every other second, I can feel a tiny trickle of blood weeping from the wound. I try not to move. Will he see it? Will he spot what I have done? The writing on my arm sends a sudden stab of pain up to my shoulder, biting and hot, and even though it hurts, I don’t react in case the nib dislodges and I give the whole game away.
Finally, Black Eyes picks up his pen and turns. I press my lips together hard, hoping he does not unclip the lid and find the pen empty, knowing that somehow, here, if they know what I plan to do, I may never get out and then the file I need may as well not exist at all.
Black Eyes cradles the pen in his palm and I watch it and hold my breath. He exhales, and the tobacco from his lungs filters to my nostrils, sending my stomach into a spin.
‘So, Maria, the tests are to begin soon,’ he says now. ‘Someone on the team will take you to where you need to go.’
‘Where?’ The pen nib jabs me.
‘Just somewhere in the facility. It is routine.’ He pauses, smiles. I shiver. ‘Routine. I know you like that word, yes?’
‘Yes.’
The door slides open and an intelligence officer enters. He wears black combats, a white tee, grey sweater and black sneakers. He is one metre and seventy-two centimetres tall and his chest is as wide as an American football player’s, and when he stands in the doorway, he fills the space so much that the cold air from the corridor behind him stops blowing forth. He looks strong. My nerves start to spike.
Black Eyes nods to him and stands to one side. ‘Please take subject number 375 to the conditioning area.’ He directs one more look at me and without uttering another word, he strides out of the room and out of view.
Panic floods me.
The intelligence officer walks fully into the room now. I dart my eyes to the exit. ‘Stay back,’ I say, but he ignores me and keeps moving forwards, each step robotic, his skin in this controlled light glistening with a sheen of gloss.
‘Stay back,’ I repeat, yet still he comes. I iron myself into the bed and try to think quick. The nib hidden in my hair starts to make the blood from my scalp flow faster and I shout at the officer, try one more time to stop him approaching, but still he comes. He halt
s by my side and arranges his face into a frown.
‘Subject 375, you are to come with me for tests.’
His voice is beige, no accent detectable, no dance to his words and when he lifts his arms, his biceps move beneath his sweater. Blood crawls down my neck.
The 1930s music plays on as the man begins to crane his body closer towards me and as he does his eyes scan every fold and curve of my body. It makes me squirm. I shove myself back along the bed as much as I can, but as I do, my gown rides up on my legs, exposing my flesh, and I am shocked to realise that beneath the gown I am naked.
‘You must come with me.’
‘No.’ Alarms scream in my head and I smell the faint odour of metal from my own haemoglobin.
The officer glances to my leg then, without warning, he flicks out a hand and runs his index finger down my thigh.
I immediately recoil. ‘Get off me!’
But he simply drops his hand, slices a smile across his face, then steps forward.
I bolt off the bed, firing myself to the corner of the room, but the officer strides over, blocking nearly all the light. ‘There are no cameras in here.’
‘Go away.’
‘You have to come with me.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No!’ I yell, heart smacking me, pulse scorching my arteries. ‘No!’
And then, without warning, he lunges. He juts out his arm and strikes, but I am ready. I roll to the side, my shoulder smacking into the wall as to the left, the man jerks his torso round and runs at me, forcing me to heave my whole body in the opposite direction. But even then, he is on me, the heat of his frame pressing down on my chest like a vice, squeezing the oxygen from my lungs. I start to choke. I smack my fist hard into his back, desperate for air, but he grabs my arms, straddling me, pinning me down so none of my limbs can move or fight.
He spits to the side. ‘They said you were strong.’
‘Get. Off. Me.’
‘I think we’ll need the cuffs for you.’
He reaches one hand backwards towards his inside jacket pocket, and without thinking, without stopping to risk-assess the situation, I take my chance.
Chapter 27
Deep cover Project facility.
18 hours and 10 minutes to confinement
Fast, with my free arm that the officer has released, I tear the fountain pen nib out of my skull, pain ripping into my skin, and, with one breath, drive the point as hard as I can into the Project officer’s cheek.
Blood spurts everywhere. His eyes dilate and on his forehead, a frown fixes then falls as his mouth drops open into a silent scream. I take my chance. I force my torso upward, heaving my shoulders towards his huge frame, as the officer now slaps a hand to his cheek and begins to sway.
My body slips free. I roll to the side, crashing my head into the leg of the bed, a thump of nausea booting me in the stomach, but I haul myself up, not wanting to be marooned or vulnerable. The man now writhes on the floor, moaning, his body temporarily immobile, but it doesn’t last for long and, within three seconds, he drops his hand from his blood-streaked cheek and runs at me.
This time I dart to the right, smashing into the metal cabinet, the drawer spilling out and clattering to the floor. The man jumps on me, wrenching my arm to the left, sending a searing pain ripping down my body as if the entire limb is being torn off, but the pen nib manages to stay in my hand and, straining to move then forcing a strong push, my fingers fly round and I gash the man’s wrist with the sharp tip.
He yelps, recoils back and I jump up. Slamming by the bed, the man staggers at first then, spinning round, yells at me and begins swinging out punches. One smacks me on the right cheek, splintering my entire face. My legs wobble, feet splay out and I think I am going to fall, believe I will topple when the man flies at me again, hands raised coming but he doesn’t see my foot sticking out and trips clean over it.
His whole body falls like a tree to the ground, and although I am frantic and scared, I don’t give the feelings room to surface and instead move fast out of the way as he timbers down the side of the bed, smacking his skull on the corner of the bedside cabinet, knocking himself unconscious.
My chest heaves, relief and sweat flooding me as I gulp in huge breaths, the 1930s music still playing above my head. I pull myself up, legs wobbling, and take in the sight of the man now. As I do, I glance at my own body. The gown is ripped and my body exposed, but no matter how much I urgently want to cover up, someone will notice we are missing very soon from where we are supposed to be, which means they could be here soon. I have to get out.
I go straight to the door and pause. I need to think through for a moment what my plan is. Balthus mentioned an Ice Room, one Mama told him about with a non-server-linked computer, a description that could possibly match that of Raven, and if I can find that here then contact Chris, I may have a chance at locating the files I need. The woman sings her 1930s melody and I take a moment to think, start to formulate a plan when a hand grips my ankle. I shriek, look down.
‘Fucking bitch!’
The officer. Gripping my ankle like a vice, he drags me, hard and fast across the room, toppling me instantly. Blind-sided, my hands fly out, clawing onto the bed, my fingers digging into the pillow, tearing it off the sheets as I tumble forward. Levering his torso vertical, the officer tries to get up now, lurching, driving his whole body strength at me, and I know that if I don’t act now, if I don’t do something significant, drastic, he will win, take me, transport me to a room of sedatives and conditioning and tests against my will and it will never end, this Project, their hold on me. Its cycle will never stop.
The man forces himself upwards once more, shouting now, in danger of alerting help, and this time, I do not hesitate. Something kicks in inside me, an instinct and whether I have been trained to react in such a way or it is my natural, primal survival response, in a split second I make my decision.
I grab the legs of the metal cabinet, jerking it into the air and with one muscle-wrenching swipe, I bring it down hard on the side of his head. He falls. He slides to the ground and instead of running away, I clamber straight on top of him this time, pinning him down with my legs and knees, and swipe the pillow from the floor that has been thrown off the bed. Clutching the edges of the pillow, I hold my arms locked tight and, eyes narrowed, half-horrified at what I am about to do, yet frighteningly focused, I drive the pillow down onto the man’s face, wedge my knee on top of it and hold it there. His fists smash into my thighs. They hammer at the pillow and at my legs and at the floor, his nails digging into the cotton, into me, but my head stays fixed and when he squirms and thrashes, I press down harder and harder.
And I don’t let go.
Above, the 1930s music still plays.
Undisclosed confinement location—present day
‘Would you like some more popcorn?’
I reply yes and allow Ramon to feed me. Things are calm. My brother has been talking for a while now, over ten minutes in the semi-darkness, and every time he looks at me he smiles a smile that spreads creases across his face and it makes me wonder again why he is here.
Ramon has given me dates. He has given times and events and minute-by-minute breakdowns as he reads my thoughts aloud from my journal. Each time he does, I hope that something will trigger a link to an alibi for Papa, but nothing has yet arisen.
I am, though, recalling more and more, as my brother reads, of what has happened in the run-up to me being here. It has been hard to contemplate, being in that room at the Project, my naked body, the gown, the officer on top of me and the pillow on his face, but even the difficulty of it has been surpassed by the elation I feel that my short-term memory is returning.
Ramon shifts the journal from his lap and sets the torch to the side to give me one more piece of popcorn from the prongs of the fork, and, as he moves forward, his hand brushes my shoulder.
‘Ow.’
‘Sorry, M.’
He has br
ushed the fabric against my skin, irritating it more than it should. ‘It itches,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘On the top of my arm.’
‘Hang on.’ The fork still in his fingers, he sets down the popcorn bag, moves forward, pulls up my sleeve to scratch my skin then gasps. ‘Maria, what the hell is this?’
I crane my head to see then stop. There on the top of my arm are the red, sore, etched-on words that Black Eyes scratched into my skin. It comes back to me then instantly. The fountain pen, Black Eyes holding me down and breathing all over me, the Basque blood detail, the family tree lineage.
‘M, what have you done to yourself?’
‘I did not do it. Black Eyes did. He is from the Project.’
Ramon drops my T-shirt, steps back and shakes his head. His voice drops. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I am not lying. This is what they did.’
He looks again towards my arm. ‘I mean, I knew you needed help, knew you got confused, lied, but self-harming? I mean, why would you carve I am Basque into your arm?’
‘It is not self-harm, it is …’ I stop, taken by a connection that is sparking in my head.
‘Before the popcorn,’ I say, ‘you were reading an extract from my journal where Papa had a meeting with a man from his office in a café in the Plaza Mayor. You read how I sat on the next table eating ice cream with the yellow sauce and red sauce on separate sides.’
‘Maria, I don’t think that, given your arm, we should be—’
‘This helps me.’
He stops. I keep going, hoping it works. ‘Please,’ I say now, fast, eager. ‘I need help.’
The light above swings in a buttered glow that smears across the room and for one small second, it makes the air seem as if the sun itself were here. Ramon rubs his chin and taps his foot and then, finally, picks up my journal and opens it. ‘What page?’
