Subject 375. Nikki Owen
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I search the shelves some more and when my eyes settle on a criminal law book, it hits me. Just like that: Appeal. I have the right to appeal against my conviction. I should not be here, in this prison, encased like a specimen, gawped at, made to endure, made to face my nightmares every single day, every single night. Never mind that my current barrister deems it futile to try—the right is still mine. And I want it. The freedom. I need my freedom. Because I need to find out what is happening to me. And why.
‘…And of course,’ Dr Andersson is saying as I turn back, ‘I will be here when you need me to help you to adjust your…behaviour, your temperament. I know you are a long way from home, Maria, and—’
‘I would like to appeal.’
She falters then shakes her head. ‘All inmates at some point or another consider appealing. I can tell you now that there is no point. It is not accepted at Goldmouth.’ She stops. ‘Are you thinking you want to get to the truth? Hmmm? That people need to know the truth about you?’
She understands! I sit up, feel an unexpected surge of hope. ‘Yes! Yes.’
‘Well, that is pointless.’ My hope extinguishes. I drop my shoulders. Dr Andersson smiles. ‘You see, Maria, you must learn to live with your circumstances. To accept your guilt. That, Maria, is the real truth. The sooner you realise that the better, and your healing process can begin.’
The Governor sits forward. ‘Dr Andersson is right—to a point.’ He pours some water then leans back, the glass in his hand, thick, bronzed fingers, white, square nails. I look at his face. Is he messing with me, too? Playing mind games I don’t understand? ‘The theory is that the sooner you accept responsibility for your…actions, for your situation, the better it will be for you here at Goldmouth.’ He proffers a glass. ‘Thirsty?’
‘I am appealing,’ I say, ignoring the water, an anger building deep in my stomach.
He lowers the glass. ‘Why?’
‘Because I should not be here.’ My voice is low, a scrape on a barrel. ‘The priest found something out…‘ I falter as his face flickers in my mind. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
The Governor sits back, sets the glass on the desk. He can be no older than my father would be now, were he still alive. A flame of sadness burns inside me for a moment at the thought, then fades to an ember, but I can still feel its heat, its aching scorch.
‘My current counsel do not want me to appeal,’ I say after a moment, sitting up a little, trying to gain some composure, some control. ‘But I disagree with them. I therefore require new counsel.’
The Governor frowns. ‘A new barrister as well as an appeal?’ He exhales. ‘As Dr Andersson said, almost every prisoner who walks through these doors believes they have the right to appeal. Whether it is against their sentence or against their conviction. And now you say you want new counsel?’
‘Yes.’ I hold his gaze. I need to. I have to have this appeal. If I get out, I may find out what happened to him, to Father Reznik.
‘Look, Dr Mart—’ He stops, exhales, one long, heavy breath. Then he slips on a smile. ‘Maria, can I say something?’
‘Yes. You do not need my permission.’
He smiles. It touches his eyes. ‘When I was at Cambridge, I met a group of people who made me feel I could…make a difference. I think you could make a difference, too.’ He pauses. ‘And I can help you to do that.’
Dr Andersson sits up. ‘Balthus, what are you doing?’
‘Helping. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’ He levels her with a stare. ‘That’s why I recruited you, Lauren. To help. So do it.’ He checks his watch and stands, his frame filling the room.
I look to the Governor, unsure what is happening.
‘Tell you what, Maria, if you can get a barrister, we’ll support your appeal. How’s that?’
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. He has just allowed an appeal. I ring my hands together, excitement bubbling underneath. I can appeal!
Dr Andersson sits forward. ‘Balthus, you can’t—’
‘I have another meeting,’ he says over her. ‘Maria, your new cellmate should be joining you tomorrow. Dr Andersson is assigned to work with you. She will be your therapist. Please, keep talking to her. Don’t alienate yourself out there. Socialise with the inmates—if you can. I know it’s hard. I’ve seen your file. I am of course here, as I am for all our inmates, should you require urgent assistance.’ He flashes some teeth. ‘Your profile is high; you have some adjusting to do. So use me, talk to me.’ He rests his palms on the chair. ‘At Goldmouth, we are all about rehabilitation.’
A guard enters and instructs me to stand, and as I do I stumble a little, confused at this man, this Governor. His familiarity, his smile, his help. His…his eyes.
‘My new counsel,’ I manage to say to him. ‘What am I to do next?’
‘I’ll get a legal officer to look into it for you. Are you okay? You seem a little unsteady.’
‘Balthus,’ Dr Andersson says, ‘I don’t think—’
‘Lauren,’ he says, spinning round to her. ‘Drop it.’
We walk to the door in silence. I can smell him, the Governor, the burnt-wood trail of his cologne, the subtle scent of his sweat.
I turn to him. ‘Balthazar…your name. It means “God protect the King”. Balthazar was one of the kings who visited Jesus.’
He nods, slowly, his eyes drawing invisible trails on my face. An image of my father see-saws in front of me. Hot, cold. One man’s face into the other’s. I cannot look away. Dr Andersson clears her throat.
‘Okay, Martinez,’ the guard says, ‘time to go.’
Kurt sits very still and studies his notes.
The room feels hot again. I sip some water, fan my face, try to circulate some air, some breeze. It does not work. Replacing the glass, I scan the room. Everything is the same. Solid, real. The walls are there, the mirror, table, clock, carpet. It all exists just as it did before. All present, tangible.
But when my eyes reach Kurt, I hold my breath. He has moved, I swear he has moved. Instead of holding his notes, his palm now rests on the arm of the chair, and his eyes are directed at me. I stay very still, scared to stir, to draw attention to it. I do not know why, but my pulse is rising. I can sense it. The blood pumping in my neck.
Kurt’s mobile shrills. My lungs start to work again.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, and picks up his phone, puts it to his ear. He glances to me. ‘I have to take this outside. Please remain where you are.’
As he stands and exits the room, I tap my finger. Therapy is confusing. When to speak, when to be silent. Kurt’s control of the situation is so exact that I sometimes find myself wanting to slap his face to see if he will react, to see if he will hurt me, shout at me, to see if he can comprehend who I am or figure out if he can even tolerate me and my ways at all.
Drained, I reach for some more water then stop. My eyes flutter. One blink, two, clearing, focusing. There is something there, by the ceiling, something that wasn’t there before, I am certain. Slowly, I stand, squinting for a better view. There is an object, tiny, in the far corner of the room, by the cornicing. An object that, two minutes ago, did not exist. I close my eyes then open them again, wondering if I had imagined it, wondering if I really am, as I have been told, going mad. Yet, even when I do this, even when I shake my head, there it is.
A cobweb.
A single cobweb.
‘Martinez,’