The Girl Who Ran. Nikki Owen
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Deep cover Project facility.
Present day
The room is strange and yet familiar. I know where I am yet it is all new, and when I arrive at a white door marked Project Callidus – Clearance Grade Two, I know that this, finally, is the right place.
I know I am truly home.
I enter. I return the black security card into a zipped pocket and proceed. Everything is neat and ordered. The walls are white and gleaming, and the door three metres and eleven centimetres ahead of me is brown, neat and straight, a gloss to its surface reflecting the strip of muted, butter-yellow lights above me. There is barely any sound. My black boots brush in clipped, precise patterns on the cream polished tiles and, as they do, I count my steps, pausing at the now familiar notice that sits encased on the wall, a note repeated at careful, measured intervals throughout the clean, frosted walkways of each Project facility in the world.
Order and routine are everything. The Project is our only friend.
I read the words on the wall and a feeling passes over me: I am one of them; finally the rightful place for me in the world is here. For is that not what we are all searching for? Acceptance? I reach the far wall, stop and turn right. In every way now I know where I am going, but there are moments when I wonder who I truly am, when I think it’s hard to find a place in the world when you don’t know who you are supposed to be.
Striding seven more steps in the glow of the bulbs above, I reach a small grey monitor. Ahead, another subject number talks in hushed tones to a fellow colleague, and while we follow protocol and acknowledge the other’s numerical existence, each one of us is careful to make no eye contact at all.
There is a quick crackle from the monitor. ‘State your name and subject number.’
I clear my throat. ‘Dr Maria Martinez. Subject number 375.’
One second passes, two, until a mild buzzer sounds and, as per measured routine, I lean in to allow a soft pink light to scan my retina. The door ahead of me clicks, followed by a familiar whoosh of air and, striding seven more steps, I knock on another door. This one is thick, metal and heavy with silver casing and deep, solid locks with a sensory entrance system designed to withstand the harshest attack.
‘Enter,’ announces a familiar voice from inside.
In my nightmares and memories, the sound of him, of his accent, used to bother me. It would pull me into a downwards spin of fear, but now my mind has learned to find the Scottish lilt comforting, helpful to me and a welcome element in my daily routine. Placing my hand on the steel of the door and, the internal scanner tracing every groove of the unique lines on my skin, I walk in. There is a banging noise from somewhere, a mild moan, but my brain ignores it and my eyes remain facing forwards.
‘Subject 375,’ he says, inhaling through flared nostrils on a thin, pointed nose, ‘you are three seconds late.’
His skeletal fingers drum on a white file that sits on a metal desk, eyes as dark as oil, two round patches of bitumen pressed into deep, bottomless sockets. As he breathes, his head tilts and his tissue paper skin shines translucent, stretched across bones so thin that the blue roots of his veins glisten, criss crossing his face and neck and arms, down to where two spindled wrists hang on hooks from his triangular joints. He wears a white coat and a brown lambswool jumper, his shirt cornflower blue, and on his legs that bend like twigs about to snap hang trousers scratched from polyester and cotton that stop at his ankles where the bones jut out.
I speak. When I do, I am careful to ensure my voice does not shake or flip or fold. ‘Forgive me, Dr Carr.’
He regards me. He taps a single finger on the metal table and looks to the right where a large, rectangular mirrored window rests. I catch my reflection. Hair back to black, cropped neat to the scalp and neck, my green contacts are now gone to reveal birth-brown eyes that match a tan skin which softens to honey in the glow of the light hitting the curve of my elbow. Since I was brought here and recommenced training, much of my body has changed. Where before I was lean, now I am strong, muscular, the definition of my biceps and triceps outlined under the soft cotton white t-shirt and the smooth black brush of my Project-issue combats. My stomach is taut and when, on instruction of Dr Carr, my legs stride to the chair and sit, my quads tighten automatically, flexed, honed.
He installs a smile on his face, no eye creases, and clicks his pen. ‘Time for our daily chat.’
A ripple of nerves passes through my spine down to the soles of my feet. I smell in the air, for the first time since entering, his familiar scent, a scent I have known for almost three decades since the Project took me and began their conditioning programme. Hot garlic, stale tobacco – the odour trail of his presence left long ago in my road map of memories. My immediate instinct is to run, to bang on the door with curled-up fists and yell for them to let me out, yet instead I find a way of breathing through it, of practising mental yoga in my head and moving my mind in a gentle rhythmic flow of reassurance and calm. He has taught me to react this way. When pushed to its limits, the mind can achieve so much, he says. And so I inhale his aroma and ignore the bubble of worry that threatens to burst, and gratefully channel the emerging inner-strength that the Project has helped me cultivate.
Dr Carr crosses one leg over the other and opens a folder. From the mirrored window, the moan from earlier sounds again, low, but audible.
‘Have you received your Typhernol injection today at the allotted time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any reactions, symptoms?’
‘I had a headache at 06:01 hours, followed by a short nosebleed that lasted forty-seven seconds.’
He makes a note. ‘Now, Maria, as we always do in order to reinforce why we are all here, can you state for me your name, subject number, age, status and reason for being at this Project Callidus facility.’
I clock the four corners of the white room, note the laptop on the table and, next to it, one picture frame with a photograph of two people unknown to me, and yet somehow there is a flicker of familiarity at the sight of their faces, a grain of remembrance I cannot place. My eye switches to a second, smaller, clear window that throws a view onto a bank of subject numbers working silently on rows of computers beyond, each with their sight locked in front of them on their tasks. Satisfied all is in order, I begin.
‘I am Dr Maria Martinez. Subject number: 375. I am thirty-three years old—’
‘Soon to be thirty-four.’ He smiles. ‘Soon.’
I nod at this fact and continue as per routine. ‘I am a member of Project Callidus, conditioned with my Asperger’s to assist in the Project’s covert cyber and field operative missions. We protect the UK and global nations against terrorist attacks of all kinds, and, due to the NSA prism programme investigation, we are black sited and are no longer affiliated to MI5.’
He sucks in air. ‘Good. Now – my name, the special one you reserve just for me, what is it, Maria?’
‘Black Eyes,’ I say, delivering the response as per requirement. This is his favourite part of our talks, or so he says. ‘Your name, Dr Carr, the one I have always given you since you trained me from a young child, is Black Eyes.’
He nods and smiles, and I notice tiny crinkles fanning out by his eyes. ‘Thank you.’ He leans back a little in his chair, his stomach concave, and his jumper seems to sink into him.
‘Now, since you arrived here, how do you think you are adjusting?’
‘I have fully memorised