Spider in the Corner of the Room - [45]

‘You do not make sense.’

‘I have instructions to watch you. And I will. But help me. Keep your head down. I’ll watch Croft, make sure she’s kept away from you.’

The accent. The hospital. Can she help? ‘What is Callidus?’ I say. Bobbie goes quiet. ‘Is it a hospital in Scotland? Is that where Mickie Croft is from? Who is she?’

‘MI5.’

The word hangs in the air like a poisonous gas.

‘What?’

Bobbie checks the area. ‘They will kill you. Do you hear me? Kill you. That’s why I’m here, to keep an eye on you. They thought they could keep you in here to be safe and then it all imploded, all broke up, a scandal.’

I try to compute what she is saying. ‘What scandal? Who is “they”?’

She pauses. ‘The Project.’

‘What is that?’

‘I don’t have the clearance to say any more. But what you need to know is the Project will protect you. MI5 won’t.’

I connect it, attempt to put it all together, but it is jumbled like a Rubik’s cube split into multiple colours. MI5? And then I feel it: the sharp needle of realisation. I put my fingers to my mouth, sick at the thought. ‘Was Father Reznik part of this?’

She hesitates then slowly nods. ‘Him, your two previous university professors and your boss at St James’s.’ She pauses. ‘And now? Dr Andersson.’

‘What?’ My head spins, stomach lurches. ‘How?’

‘They were you handlers, Doctor. They were your handlers,’ she says.

‘Handlers? Handlers for what?’ My mind races, pinging from one pinball to another, suddenly frightened. People I thought I could trust, people who were supposed to support me, protect me in some way, were not who they said they were at all. How can Dr Andersson be part of it? None of it makes sense. None of it. I look up to speak to Bobbie, but she is striding away.

‘They were handlers for what?’ I shout.

‘For you, Maria. They were all working for the Project.’

‘What is the Project?’

She keeps walking. ‘Look in your notebook. The answer is there.’

I shake my head, dazed. ‘Answer? What answer?’ I say, calling after her. ‘What answer?’

But she has already gone.

Kurt crosses his legs and presses record on the Dictaphone.

When I ask him if I can perhaps get some fresh air later, he simply narrows his eyes and makes some notes. I look at the coffee cup, worry infecting me like a disease.

A siren wails from outside. He glances up. ‘Tell me, Maria,’ he says, once it has passed, ‘did you ever consider that-’ he consults his notes ‘-Bobbie was make-believing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Make-believing-it means pretending, making up a story. Lying.’

‘I…I…’ I halt, inhale. I know she was telling the truth. I have the proof now. I run a finger around my collar. ‘I am warm. Can I have some water?’

He nods, gesturing to the jug. I pour a glass, stall for time. I have found out so much since Bobbie came to me that day, but what do I tell Kurt? He thinks Bobbie was lying. I study him. His body, now, is relaxed, but there is something there, in his eyes, a glint, a flash of something. What? Suspicion? Murkiness? I take another sip, set down the glass. I will see what he has to say first.

‘Maria? What do you think about what I said?’

‘She was not make-believing.’

A small head shake. ‘I thought you might say that.’ He sits forward. ‘The way I view it, we are looking at one of two scenarios here. One: you are, again, recalling information incorrectly, your memory compromised; or two: Bobbie Reynolds was lying because she is a psychopath.’

I grip the seat. The worry creeps higher. ‘It is neither of those. She was telling the truth. I am telling the truth.’

Kurt supplies a brief smile. One, two, three seconds pass. I stay very still, curtains billowing, scared to move, scared to admit what may be happening here.

‘Do you like to be in control, Maria?’ he says suddenly.

I clear my throat, unsure how to answer, uncertain at what he is trying to do. I decide to answer yes.

‘And what does that tell you about yourself?’

‘That I like to be in control, of course.’ Stay calm. Stay calm.

‘Do you think that your need to be in control has shaped your memory?’

My eyes hover over the coffee pot. ‘I…I do not know.’ The coffee. Why did it taste odd earlier?

‘See, here’s what I think. You have trouble with your thoughts and feelings and speaking about them. For people like you, in your situation, it is not uncommon to experience difficulties in relating to, and communicating with, others-for there to be a certain cessation of verbal reasoning, shall we say? You think that if you tell me about your inner feelings, you will lose control over yourself, over your life. Over your future.’

‘No. I have Asperger’s. I feel emotions just like everyone else, I just cannot communicate them. It is nothing to do with control.’ My eyes fix on the coffee cups in front of us.

Kurt exhales. ‘Okay,’ he says, clapping his hands. I jerk my eyes to his. ‘We are going to use a new room.’

‘What?’

A slice of smile again. ‘The service has a room designated, indeed designed, to help with situations like yours.’

‘What do you mean, “like mine”?’

‘People who have trouble sharing their thoughts, opening up. Like you.’