Spider in the Corner of the Room - [15]

He stands, looms over the table, a shadow casting across it. Up closer, he is taller, older, his skin more tanned. Two strips of grey bookend his ears and, when he smiles, wrinkles fan out from his eyes, soft, worn. And his eyes, they are deep brown, so dark that they take my breath away, remind me of something, of someone, some…I step back, once, twice. My heart shouts, perspiration pricks my palms. Why do I feel unexpectedly nervous, jittery almost?

‘Dr Martinez-Maria-please, there is nothing to be concerned about,’ he says now, his voice a ripple of waves over pebbles. ‘It is…very nice to meet you. Dr Andersson has told me a lot about you.’ He lingers on my face for a beat then clears his throat. ‘So, there are some aspects of Goldmouth I would like to talk to you about today. Will you please sit?’

He gestures to a set of chairs by his desk, smiling again, his teeth white, and I swear I can see them glow in the sunlight. I hesitate at first, unsure about him, but not knowing why, not knowing if I am safe here.

Slowly, I reach for the chair, resting my fingertips on its edge. ‘You were in the corridor on my first day,’ I say. I lower myself into the seat, perching on the edge, fists clenched. Ready. ‘You spoke to me.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I remember.’

Dr Andersson coughs. ‘The Governor is always keen to meet new inmates. It is routine, remember? Didn’t you record it in the notepad I gave you?’ She turns to the Governor. ‘Maria has a thing for writing things down.’

‘Routine,’ I say, as if saying the word aloud, hearing it in my own voice, will make it true.

The Governor glances to Dr Andersson then looks to me. ‘Maria,’ he says, ‘do you understand why you are here?’

‘Of course. This is your office. You arranged with Dr Andersson to meet me.’

‘No.’ He lets out a breath. ‘I mean do you know why you are here-in Goldmouth?’

‘I am in Goldmouth because I was convicted.’

The Governor links his fingers, hands the size of meat slabs. He nods to Dr Andersson.

‘Maria,’ Dr Andersson says, crossing her legs, a millimetre of lace slip showing. The Governor glances at it. ‘It is common practice for us to encourage you to verbalise your conviction, so we know that you understand why you are here.’ She pauses. A smile. ‘Think of it as reassurance. We are reassured you know, and in turn we can reassure you that we are here to support you. So to speak.’

‘Maria,’ the Governor says, ‘can you tell me why you are at Goldmouth, what your conviction is?’

My conviction. I look down at my fingers. How do I talk about something I don’t recall doing? ‘I am here at Goldmouth because…‘ I clear my throat, my nerves creeping up. ‘Because I have been convicted of a category one murder under the Criminal Justice Act 2003. I received life imprisonment.’

‘And who were you convicted of killing?’

My eyes stay on my hands, on the flesh, skin, bones. All real. Above ground. ‘The priest,’ I say to him, after a few seconds. ‘I was convicted of killing the priest. He was stabbed-’ a deep breath ‘-tied up in the convent, his body splayed out by the altar in a star formation.’ A swim of remembrance: blood trickling down altar steps, an upturned crucifix. ‘There was a lot of blood. Mostly his.’ I pause, gulp a little, try to stave off the image. ‘Some mine.’

‘The priest’s name was Father O’Donnell,’ Dr Andersson says.

‘That is what I said. The priest.’ I inhale the whisper of a memory: English tea. The priest used to offer me English tea. What happened to him, I…My throat runs dry. I touch my neck, lower my head, my hands shaking. The priest tried to help me, tried to be my friend. Then he uncovered some information for me, and next he was gone.

‘Can you say his name?’ Dr Andersson asks.

I look up. ‘The priest’s?’

She nods.

Even now I still see his blood, his entrails, see the photographs. Somehow, if I say his name aloud I think I will cry, cry so much, so forcefully that I fear I will never stop, never be calm again. And I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to tell anyone how I feel. So instead I tell her that I cannot say his name.

‘You have to say it, Maria.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it helps the rehabilitation process, the healing.’

But I cannot. I just cannot. Dr Andersson sighs and looks to the Governor, and when I see them, when I spot the exchange of glances, I think: I have seen this look before. My emotional training. Some people have to learn calculus. I have to learn facial expressions.

As she continues to talk, I turn and scan the room. Books. Legal textbooks. They all are housed in shelves by the walls, legions of them lined up, straight, tall, spines of golden lettering and dates and names. Bookshelves of oak, walnut, strong wood built from trees, from Mother Nature, from the very earth we stand on, the same earth that we raid to create the paper that the words in the books are written on, words we use to educate, to provide knowledge. Provide truth. Truth that can be burnt with one lick of a flame.

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.