Subject 375. Nikki Owen
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‘Let me take the blood now. I have scheduled another appointment for you with myself and the Governor. All routine.’
The monologue in my head pauses, the engines stall. She said ‘routine’.
‘See?’ Dr Andersson says, nodding.
Slowly, I withdraw my hand from scratching. ‘This…this is a routine here, in prison?’ I say, gesturing to the needles.
‘Of course. And, with your Asperger’s, I have instructed the Governor that, in my professional opinion, you require extra assistance from me, to help with your need for routine.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘He has asked to meet you.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. Is that okay?’
She has no certificates on the walls, no university degrees. As if she is not even certified to practice. It does not seem right, somehow. Yet, nothing seems right any more. Nothing makes sense. I rub my forehead, try to wipe away the confusion.
‘Maria?’
I point again to the needle, attempt to act like a normal person. ‘This is routine, you are certain?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will get me a notebook and pen?’
She opens a drawer, takes out a fresh pad and pen. ‘There you go.’
My eyes go wide at the sight and I snatch them, hungry to hold them. Only when I have the items do I allow myself to exhale, my whole body loosening, limbs, bones tired, worn out, and I realise there, in the room, that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. Maybe routine is what I need. A routine and my writing. Maybe then I can begin to feel some semblance of humanity inside me, rather than some half-wild, chained-up animal. I roll up my sleeve and hold out my arm.
‘Thank you,’ Dr Andersson says.
Sitting forward and with a slash of a smile on her lily-white face, she taps my vein. The needle pierces my skin and I watch, weary, limp, as my blood floods into the vial.
Kurt laces his fingers together. ‘So you are saying you simply took the laptop apart and put it back together?’
I have told Kurt everything, but he won’t move on from this. I can feel my body become rigid, angry. ‘Yes.’ I shift once in my seat. ‘That is what I said.’
He pauses. ‘And that is the truth?’
‘Yes. If I say it, it is true.’ I stay still. Does he not believe me? Why is he asking me all these questions about it?
‘You know our memories can play tricks on us,’ he says after a second. ‘What we think we remember cannot always be what actually happened.’
‘It happened,’ I snap.
He smiles at me, nods, but otherwise does nothing.
I tip back my head. Already, this is too much for me. My muscles ache and my shoulders feel heavy. Why is Kurt questioning what I have told him? Is it a therapist trick? Should I be on guard? Should I talk? I roll my head side to side. The session is tiring for me, the level of concentration, the social interactions—all exhausting. I flip my skull up and glance over to the window. The sun is sprinkled in a sugar-spin of clouds, and from the street below there is a shrill of laughter, the distant clink of glasses. People happy, living regular lives.
‘Maria?’
I turn from the window. ‘What?’
‘This meeting with the Governor, the one Dr Andersson mentioned. You did not know, prior to then, that you were to meet him?’
I pause. ‘No.’
‘Can you expand on that?’
I think for a moment. ‘No.’
He holds my gaze and I feel I want to squirm under the glare, unable to bear it. ‘What sort of things did he talk with you about, the Governor?’
I keep my eyes lowered. ‘The Governor introduced himself,’ I say. I smooth down my trousers twice. ‘He talked to me about why I was there, about the daily prison routine, the earned privilege scheme.’
‘And what else, Maria?’
I look up now. He is too inquisitive; I cannot tell him everything. Not yet. ‘Why do you want to know?’
He sighs. ‘Maria, I am your therapist. I ask questions. It is what I do.’ His eyes flicker to the corner of the room. It is only for a split second, but I see it.
‘Is there something there?’ I say, twisting my torso to look.
‘No. It’s nothing.’
I watch him. His legs are crossed, his back is straight. In control.
‘Maria?’
‘What?’
‘I would like you to tell me about it now.’
‘Tell you about what?’
‘About your meeting with the Governor.’
He reaches for a glass of water and that is when I pinpoint it: he is always in control. So why does his control make me nervous?
‘Maria,’ Kurt says, suddenly leaning in towards me so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face, like the soft bristle of a brush. ‘Time to talk.’
I have a new cell.
It is in the regular section of the prison and it smells of cabbage and faeces. The source of the smell is the metal-rimmed toilet in the corner. There is no door, no screen. I stare at the cistern and the washbasin standing beside it. Dirty, grimy, vomit-inducing. The stench of urine hangs heavy in the air, impregnating it, penetrating every molecule, every tiny atom.
It is too much for me to process, the reality that I will have no privacy, ever, that it is all gone, my freedom vanished, like the pop of a bubble in the air. I close my eyes and try to think of Salamanca, think of the river, of eating long hot churros from the stand just off the main square, the scalding doughnut mixture melting in my mouth, the sugar dusting my lips, chin, cheeks. I remember how, on returning home with frosting around my mouth, my father would laugh—and my mother would march me to the sink and scrub me clean before she took me to church. To Father Reznik.
I open my eyes, and a guard enters. She is long like a rake, hair like tiny thorns. She informs me of my imminent therapy appointment with Dr Andersson and instructs me to follow her straight away. Not tomorrow, not in a minute: now. She repeats the instructions again and so, wondering perhaps if she thinks I don’t understand, I tell her that I know what the word ‘now’ means. She tells me to, ‘Shut the fuck up,’ then orders me to move out. I have to be escorted there, to Dr Andersson’s office. In prison, the guard barks; no one can be trusted.
The walk to Dr Andersson’s office affords me my first real look at Goldmouth Prison. The noise. The loud, loud noise. It is too much, on the cliff edge of unbearable. It is only the guard growling at me to, ‘Shift it,’ that prevents me from moaning over and over with hands on my ears, curled up like a foetus in the corner. I want to turn into a ball and block it all out. I am scared in here, in this place of loud, screeching sounds. The guard strides ahead and I force myself, will myself, to just keep going without doing what I usually do, because in here, I know they won’t understand. Nobody ever does.
I subtly sniff the air, detecting the smells as we walk. Sweat. Faeces. More urine. The scent of cheap perfume. Above me, arms dangle from metal rails, hanging, swinging like monkeys from a tree, around them animals pacing everywhere like lions and tigers, the predators, the purveyors of their territory. Gum is chewed like bark, whistles are called out like the howls of wolves. Faces peer down. Mouths snarl. Teeth and stomachs are all bared. The only similarity between