The Killing Files

by Nikki Owen

  Nearly a whole day. ‘How many others have you held down there?’

  ‘Huh? What? No one.’

  ‘Do not lie. I have seen the other subject numbers etched on the wall. I have found a photograph.’

  ‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. M, please.’

  Ignoring his pleas, I push him through. ‘You first.’

  But Ramon does not move, instead he digs himself in, heels acting as brakes on the ground. I shove him hard, poking my elbow into his back. ‘Move, now.’

  Yet, he still stays. ‘You won’t be able to get out.’ Spit pools on the corner of his mouth. ‘The Project is set on helping you, M.’ He coughs. ‘Let them help you.’

  ‘The Project do not want to help me. They want to help themselves. They want to help governments and presidents and generals to win wars that they themselves have created. They all lie. Everyone lies. No one is allowed to be themselves. No one allowed to simply live in harmony.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I lock my focus on the white door ahead, set on opening it, on getting out, but at the angle we stand, Ramon’s body fills the entire frame and his shoulders, torso, arms are the same width as the door is wide. There is only one option: I have to get him to do it.

  ‘Open the door,’ I say.

  ‘No.’ His heels dig in further now as my arms begin to tire, my hands sweating, the stairwell warm, damp. ‘M, I care for you. Please, let me go. Stop this. You’re only … you’re only hurting yourself.’

  ‘What did the Project make you do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did the Project instruct you to do? How were you trained?’

  He splutters. ‘M, this is insane. The Project didn’t train me to do anything. They just gave me advice on how to help you. M, you came into the house via the balcony shouting out for us. That’s not right. You’re not well.’

  ‘You knew about the subject numbers on the wall.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. The pencil marks were …’

  He stops, seems to stare into space.

  My brain begins to connect. ‘The pencil marks were what?’

  His body drops, limp and wilting. When he speaks again, his voice is low, scratched. ‘I found them a long time ago.’

  ‘When?’

  He swallows. ‘I found them one day when I snuck down there when Mama said I couldn’t. I used to play down there without her knowing, then for a long time, when Papa was away for a long time on trial, it was all locked up and I couldn’t get in, and … and when I returned the padding was there covering the pencil up until you found it just now … Please, M, let me go.’

  I consider what he says, unsure what to think. Mama was in charge of the basement? ‘Move.’

  ‘What? M, please. I’m telling you the truth!’

  ‘How much time do I have until the Project arrive?’

  ‘Erm, erm … three, maybe four hours?’

  I think. That means one hour at the most.

  ‘We need to sort this out,’ Ramon says. ‘M, let me help. I’m not moving.’

  I look at him. ‘Yes, you are.’ And I kick him hard in the calf.

  He immediately buckles, his legs folding as he cries out in pain. I jab my fingers straight into his throat, my training activating, winding him so he stumbles back, unblocking the exit.

  I move quick now, sharp, bolting for the door, but, before I can roll out of the way, Ramon flies at me. It is so quick, so unexpected that at first I do not dive. My fingers jut out and I manage to grip the door handle, but Ramon hooks my legs and the metal slips from my grasp. I feel a twinge, the sharp snap of a punch, and then a bigger hit as Ramon drives his fist into my back. I crumble forward, pain spiking down my spine, stumbling, the confined space giving me no room to swing round, to lever my hands into a combative position.

  I form two fists as I focus on my body, my mind, on what I have been trained to do. Ramon dances near me, yet this time, as he thrusts a punch towards my head, I duck, dropping to my knees. He trips over my body, his entire frame teetering there for a moment, suspended in motion above the drop below to the bottom of the stairs, as if the pause button has been pressed on a television recording.

  His eyes go wide. ‘M! Help!’

  I go to move then, for some reason, I stop and watch him and for a moment find myself contemplating letting him fall, thinking that if he died, it would give me an advantage to get away because he is the Project and the Project are not good. And then I shake my head. This is my brother, he wants to … he wants to help me. He loves me. What am I thinking?

  I thrust out my arm to catch him. ‘Ramon, grab onto me.’ But his mouth shrieks open in silence, his whole body suddenly sinking backwards.

  I lurch forwards, grasping for him. ‘Ramon!’

  He falls. He topples backwards and his head smacks on the stone steps as he plunges to the bottom, coming to a halt in a slump, his body thudding in a crumpled heap in the darkness.

  ‘Ramon!’

  I don’t move, chest gasping for air, eyes locked on the shrouded shadow of my brother’s broken body at the foot of the stairs. What have I done? What have I done? The need to check on him, to ensure he is alive is almost too overwhelming to resist, but I stop myself, because what if he grabs me, hurts me, keeps me here for the Project to come?

  I look to my brother, heart pounding, then look to the door, to the hot, white metal, silver handle. Without turning, without allowing myself one more glance down, I swallow and, pressing down hard on the handle, I slam open the door into Mama’s apartment.

  Chapter 38

  Apartment buildings, Central Madrid.

  Present Day

  I stumble into a side room, out of breath. I slam the door shut behind me and, slapping my back to the wall, try to steady myself as the image of Ramon in a broken ball on the basement floor stalks my head.

  I left him there, my own brother, most probably with internal bleeding. A small moan escapes my lips. I cannot bear to think about what I have done and yet knowing at the same time that my brother was with the Project and with him as part of them, none of us were safe.

  Pulling myself up, I smear the snot and sweat from my face and peer now at the room before me. It is small and, as my eyes adjust, I see a lamp glowing in the corner that casts carved out shadows across the length of the area. There is a feeling of familiarity, of déjà-vu here that I cannot place.

  I brush my fingers along the wall, along the items that stand in the dimly lit darkness. A mahogany cabinet containing wine glasses stands to my right and by it rests one dark wooden side table with a silver tray and coffee pot on top. I look at it, gaze at its curve in the buttered lamplight and get a stab of something, a memory that comes in a wave and crashes into my head. I have been here before. Is it what I thought it may be? I spin round, assess as much as I can, my skull becoming dizzy as the picture emerges, switching on as I remember. I am young, ten, no more, my limbs skinny and bony. I am with Papa and it is the week before he died. I see him. He takes the silver coffee pot and pours coffee into a cup, holding it out to me.

  ‘Here you go, my little bright spark.’

  I take the cup, my thin, small fingers angling into the hot handle.

  ‘Careful now,’ Papa says. Then he smiles, soft at the edges. ‘Your white cup, my baby. I know you can’t drink out of anything else.’

  I have a surge of gratitude towards him, but I am in my emotional cage and I don’t know how to express how I feel.

  Papa sets down the coffee pot now and I watch him. ‘Papa,’ I say, voice a small bird’s, ‘don’t go down there to the basement without me. Let me come this time.’

  He turns, eyes drooped, no smile or creases. He crouches down to me and takes my arms in his hands—the only person I will allow to touch me. ‘I can’t let you come with me, sweetheart.’

  ‘Why?’

  He sighs, heavy, long. ‘There are things there that …’ He pauses then smiles, wide wit
h creases this time. ‘You run along upstairs now to Mama.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maria, please.’ And he stands, walks away and opens the door into the room I am never allowed into.

  The image blows away and my eyelids flicker as I look now to the room in the present day and try to grasp onto the vision. To my surprise, tears streak my face and I lift my fingers to wipe them away. I turn to the wall, skim my hand along it and locate on the far section a small white switch. I flick it on so a low but steady light beams down from the bulb above, as I understand now where I am, my sight taking in the now clearer view and I register where I am.

  Papa’s study.

  Could Ramon have kept anything connected to the Project in here? I trace my palms along every piece of furniture, along every wall and curve, as if each one contains memories of him, of Papa. My feet feel the plush woollen carpet fibres beneath my soles as the thick strands ooze between my toes. I drop to my knees, inhale the scent of the carpet, the familiar comfort of rubber and musk and lavender, just as it was when I was ten and Papa was still with me. I lie there, unmoving, sniffing and breathing, rocking a little and for a moment, for a sweet split second, I pretend that none of this ever happened at all, not Papa dying, not the Project being founded, not Mama ill or Ramon betraying me—none of it. I inhale the fibres and the scent and the whole room entire one more time, then, standing, I lock my sight on Papa’s desk in the corner and, walking over to it, open it up.

  The desk is just as it was from my memory. It is flat and rectangular and the mahogany it is fabricated from contains light scuffs marks on the rounded edges. There is a wooden chair with a curved backrest and a leather seat and when I smell it, it reminds me of Papa and the cigars he used to smoke.

  Pulling the chair out of the way, careful not to knock the wood, I lean in and scan the bureau. There are six small drawers on top of the desk, built in, three each side. I slide open every one, quietly, soft, nothing there, just empty wooden shells, and the wistful scent of sandalwood, but what catches my attention the most is the long drawer that stretches across the middle. It is shallow and when I open it and click on a low lamp that sits on a side cabinet next to a vase of fake lilies, I start to get a better look.

  The drawer still appears empty, until I run my hand on its belly and feel something bumpy underneath. It is a switch. Pausing, checking for any sounds, for any movement from Ramon or the arrival of the Project, I steady my hand and flip the switch. There is a soft click, like a small puff of air, and something drops to my palm. It doesn’t feel like a gun or an alarm, but instead seems crisp, starched, like paper.

  I move rapidly, silently now as, heart racing, I pull out the item, carefully placing it on the desktop, find myself staring at documents, detailed technical documents. I peer in and, opening the top copy, I read the name that sits on the middle of the page: Garcia Building Company S.L. I turn the paper. The next few pages are simply construction notes and calculations for a building project Mama must have commissioned, because her name and signature are at the foot of each page. Not wanting to waste any time, I am about to close the report, search for other information that may be in the bureau that Ramon may have secretly stored, when a number catches my eye. The date on the file: 1976.

  Mildly wary, I flip all the way to the end of the file, check the address of the property the building plans relate to and see that it matches here—it matches this address where I stand now: Mama’s Madrid house. A strange feeling begins to form in my stomach, a knot, a knoll, as, slowly, I reopen the document and look more closely at the pages.

  The technical drawings, at first, detail an extension to the rear of the property, but then, further in, it switches to the basement. I pause, an unease rising, as, cautiously, I read on, the light on the bureau casting a biblical orange glow over my hands and the paper in front of them. There are measurements, calculations, numbers, all in great, accurate detail, all appearing normal, natural, yet, when I analyse them more, they are anything but.

  Because, what I am looking at now are complex plans to widen and strengthen the wall in the basement to create a soundproof room. My pulse quickening, I read further on and learn that later, in 2001 and then in 2010, both the walls and the window in the cellar were replaced and reinforced using some of the most expensive materials available, with one specific item detailed to be included in refurbishment: padded walls. The installation of them was carried out in 2009 with the originals installed in … in 1985.

  They are all the same calendar years that were scratched onto the brickwork by the subject numbers in the basement. The same calendar years and subject numbers that correlated with the data found on the file in the ICE room in Hamburg.

  I grip the table tight and read on as, on the last page, towards the bottom where the builder has signed on behalf of his company, there is another name, another signature on the contract agreeing for the work to be carried out.

  And it is not Papa’s. It is not Ramon’s name or the Project’s or anyone else’s.

  It is Ines. Ines Villanueva.

  My mother.

  ‘Hello, Maria, dear.’

  My eyes dart up.

  Mama is standing in the doorway.

  Chapter 39

  Apartment buildings, Central Madrid.

  Present Day

  My mother leans on the door frame, her wrists gilded with jewellery and her limbs draped in Chanel. She smells of jasmine and orange and caramel dipped in cream, and by her left is a shiny wooden walking stick. I don’t move. She raises a bony hand and touches her scalp, her hair sitting in clumps on her head, tiny islands of frayed follicles fuzzing in small, balled patches.

  She tucks up the heel of her palm to the base of her skull and delivers me a thin smile. ‘My dear, if I knew you were coming I would have put on my wig.’

  I am alarmed at her appearance. Thin, translucent, a pencil drawing of her former self. The cancer must have taken hold. I don’t know what to think. I am so glad she is safe, and yet something is holding me back from any elation, but I cannot place it.

  ‘Mama,’ I say, my hand on the file I have just seen. ‘You look ill.’

  ‘Always direct,’ she sighs and glances to the documents on the bureau. ‘So you found them. Ah, my clever, clever girl. Come,’ she beckons me with a finger, ‘I have things to tell you.’

  I look to the files, confusion turning to fear. ‘What is happening?’

  She gestures forward, out towards the twinkling ceilings of the apartment beyond. ‘Let us go to somewhere … cosier, my dear. I need to sit.’

  She looks at me, waiting, eyes pierced and brown with no creases at the sides, and I am paralysed. This is my mama, yet I feel not myself when she is near me, instead doubtful, withdrawn, and this has always, when I think of it, been so, but I do not know why, her fingernails clacking on the wood of the door frame, her pointed chin held high, her gaze rippling over me, over my attire and my face and my hair.

  ‘My dearest,’ she says now, ‘you do look a fright. Come.’ She leans on her walking stick. ‘Come.’

  I am led to the drawing room adorned with soft, yellow light and embers glowing from a fire that sits at the centre of the room. I instantly recall it straight from my childhood. The fireplace is embroidered with gold leaf, and at the edge of the wall locked cabinets rich in mahogany stand to attention. To their side are ornate, vast window frames that line up from outside, graced with sumptuous, rich woollen drapes that sweep the floor around them. There are bookcases, decanters, crystal-cut chandeliers, thick piled rugs, all of them dripping with the hushed flutter of money. Of wealth and power.

  My mother lowers herself into a high-backed chair, the brown of the leather overpowering her pale, milk skin. Her tan, once bronzed and rich, is now gone and her glorious, crowning hair has disappeared. She is a whisper of her former self.

  ‘Maria, my dear, would you like some water?’

  I shake my head, not daring to speak, completely paralysed by seeing M
ama as my brain connects the dots with what I have found in the drawer and the logical conclusions I have made. She pours a glass of water from a decanter on a table to her side, and, letting out a mew of a sigh, takes a sip.

  ‘Did you know Ramon was holding me here?’ I say.

  ‘Pardon, my dear?’

  ‘He held me in the basement for twenty-three hours. I was tied up and drugged. He said he was keeping me there because he was helping me.’ I stop, realise I am shaking. ‘Did you know I was in the basement?’

  Mama’s knuckles go white where they grip the glass, but she does not say anything. Instead, she dabs her cheek with one hand then sets the glass back down to the table. ‘Yes,’ she says eventually. ‘I knew.’

  Her answer blindsides me. I stumble a little to the side. ‘Why?’ I say after I have regained my footing.

  ‘Oh, Maria,’ my mother says, ‘do you not remember?’

  ‘I … You …’ I halt, suddenly realising that I don’t know what she means.

  ‘You came to us through the balcony of all places.’ Her voice is soft, a warm blanket of words. ‘You were … erratic. Upset. My dearest, we didn’t know what to do. You were, well, a little out of control. I gave the number of the Project to Ramon and he called them.’

  I go quiet as inside, my brain begins to fire and connect, but seeing Mama shakes me, makes me nervous ‘Mama, do you know what the Project is?’

  ‘Well, yes, they’ve helped you for a long while, my dear. They are the clinic people I used to take you to when you were little.’

  ‘So, Ramon is the contact now for the Project?’

  ‘He is. They are there to help, aren’t they? I haven’t dealt with them for a while—it’s all Ramon now. That’s their name—the Project.’

  I go dizzy, not sure what to do think. Nothing is making sense. Ramon knew about the Project, that’s what he said, but now Mama is saying she knows them, too, but that she thinks they are someone else—something else—my old Asperger’s clinic she used to believe she was taking me to. I have to tell her the truth.