The Girl Who Ran. Nikki Owen
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nods but keeps her eyes down, and when I look at her other hand, wondering how jittery appears, I see her thumb nail picking at the skin on the cuticles of her forefinger. I spread out my five fingers; Patricia looks at them and gives a thin smile.
I scan the train. I check the people and the families and the smattering of random, vague faces, observing life as it is: normal, regular, each person connected by an invisible thread of relationships. I glance to my two friends, slip my fingers into my bag and stroke, for one second, the spine of my notebook and rub the soft edge of the photographs tucked inside.
Breathing in once, and with the Project’s mantra in my head – prepare, wait, engage – I withdraw my hand, secure my bag and start walking. ‘We have to find a way off this train.’
We negotiate the sway of the carriage and come to a stop by the door that opens up to the outside between the two cabins.
‘Doc?’
I am scanning for the best exit. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m not used to this kind of thing.’
She chews her nails and I search for something appropriate to say. ‘It is highly unusual to be chased by a covert organisation previously unknown to the UK government, who would kill you if they had to in order to capture your friend.’
She lowers her fingers from her mouth and, taking this as a signal that I have delivered an adequate comment, I recommence examining the area.
I observe the eyes and the faces of each and every passenger. Patricia moves close by me now, nail nibbling again, and I use the partial cover her body provides to study the travellers. The old man is asleep in his seat, head hanging, brow tapping the window. The young girl has her face glued to her chewed copy of 1984, music shoved in her ears, while the father and his two boys, it seems, have fallen asleep, each body resting on the pillow of the other, the bread-faced woman opposite watching them, smiling. Nothing jumps out, nothing screams, run. I breathe a little easier.
We move along one metre further to the far door where we are due to alight and consider our options of escape once on the platform. The train is moving a little faster now, not at great speed, but the chugging has increased in its ascent up a steep incline.
‘Have you located any remote device trackers?’ I say to Chris.
‘I don’t know. My phone’s picking up some strange signal, not a virus or anything on the cell, but different.’ He searches the carriage. ‘I don’t know where it’s coming from. And look.’
‘What?’
‘Well, after we realised we were being traced with the Weisshorn virus, I quickly checked those subject numbers, you know, the ones crossed out. There was a link underneath the yellow edge of the countdown square.’
Patricia looks to him. ‘I thought you couldn’t get a Wi-Fi connection.’
‘I can’t. I mean, you don’t need one for this. It’s just embedded code.’ He turns to me. ‘I didn’t see it at first, it was hidden behind a series of encryptions that created the strike-through lines across the numbers, but I did a little digging and, well, it led to a place, just a file name header, but a place all the same.’
‘What place?’
He hesitates, eyes flickering to Patricia then back to me. ‘The Office of the Ministry of Justice. In Spain.’
‘Doc, isn’t that where Ines used to work? Wasn’t she a member of parliament in that department?’
‘She was the Minister.’
‘Well, the subject numbers,’ Chris continues, voice hushed, ‘whoever the people were – they seemed to have been, like, generated from there, from the Justice Ministry. What d’you think it means? Do you think it’s all connected? Or is it just random, because Ines was always involved with the Project anyway?’
I grab his phone, examine the data, but no immediate answer comes.
‘Er, Doc?’
I scan the data again. It seems valid, but how are the subject numbers linked? How can the government Ines used to help run be involved? It may simply be that Ines stored the data at the department. Only facts will tell.
‘Doc?’
‘Yes?’
‘Doc, you need to look up, like, now.’
‘Why?’
‘Who’s she?’
Patricia is pointing to the dough woman, striding down the aisle at a speed that betrays her age.
Chris’s mouth drops. ‘What the..?’
The woman moves quickly, unusually so for her height and build, her sight locked on us as she makes her way up the carriage. My pulse rises. I glance at the boys and the father where they lie asleep: the father’s arm drops to the side, loose, oddly limp.
‘What’s that in her hand?’ Chris whispers. ‘Is that… Oh, shit – is that a gun?’
Prepare, wait, engage.
I instinctively slam my two friends out of the way.
‘That is a Beretta 92-FS pistol with a 9mm silencer.’
Chris rams himself behind me. He is close, but I cannot let the confined space bother me, not now, not with my friends at risk.
‘Doc,’ Patricia says, a wobble to her words, ‘I don’t like it.’
She looks like a harmless grandma, her chest a plumped, padded duvet encased in a lilac gilet, the armholes encircled with delicate flower patterns. She smells of boiled sweets and lavender. Nice, sweet – except for the gun.
‘Do not move,’ the woman says. Her voice is a clipped typewriter of words, harsh, metallic.
I stay walled in front of my friends, arms spread in an iron fence to either side. ‘Who are you?’
‘You know who I am with.’
‘If you’re MI5,’ Patricia says from behind me, ‘you can fuck off!’
‘I am from Project Callidus, not MI5, and there’s no need for such language. There are children present.’
I glance to the father and the boys. Do they know? Do they know who they have been travelling near? My heart races. I feel the bodies of Chris and Patricia behind me, their heat and breath, the shake of Patricia’s arm, the warmth of Chris’s torso. I have put my friends in danger again and at every turn they have found me, so if I run, will this never, ever end? But the email, the email we sent from Madrid airport to the Home Secretary – the Project will be investigated and culled.
‘Who are they?’ I say, gesturing to the father and boys. ‘Are they the Project, too?’
Her green eyes briefly flit behind her. ‘With the Project? Them? Oh, no, no.’ She sighs. ‘They are… collateral.’
My blood chills.
‘What?’ Chris says.
‘Children,’ she says. ‘They can just get far too inquisitive sometimes. It can cause… problems. Sweet little poppets they were, though.’
‘Jesus,’ Chris says. ‘You… you mean you killed them?’
‘No,’ I say, panicking. ‘No, no, no…’ My sight goes straight to the little family. The father’s hand hangs over the edge of the seat rest, the boys’ heads are slipping downwards just a little more than sleep would normally allow. I start to sway, even though the train travels relatively straight. ‘The Project are for the greater good. How… how can this be for the greater good? I have to help them.’
‘No.’ She slams her arm across the walkway, blocking my path. ‘It’s time.’
I stare again at