Spider in the Corner of the Room - [48]

I suddenly bend double. There is a sharp pain in my stomach ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in a different interview room, that’s all, a different, normal interview room. Maria, where do you think we are?’

‘We…we are in some odd art room, aren’t we?’ I point to the wall to our right. ‘That painting there is based on Hockney’s Winter Timber.’

I sidestep Kurt, wipe the emerging sweat from my temples, and peer at the painting. Layers of timber lie strewn on the ground, each a blend of banana yellow and burnt orange. In the corners, sawn tree trunks stand, crooked, worn, each one the colour purple. I touch them. ‘The trees,’ I say, my voice surprising me: distant, dreamlike, ‘they are made of confectionery. All of it is.’ I step back, wobble a little, clutch my middle. The pain shoots now. What is happening to me? When I look round, more painted trees stand towards the rear of the painting, this time winter ones, each bare, stripped of leaves or buds. To the left sits a pink dirt road, stretching to the horizon.

There is a sudden rush of heat to my head. ‘I…I don’t feel well.’

He gestures to one of two chairs positioned by a low table that resembles driftwood. ‘Why don’t you sit?’

I lower myself into the chair then halt. What is this? ‘The chair,’ I say, ‘why is it made of chocolate?’

He pauses. ‘Maria, it is just leather.’

Carefully, I touch the armrest. Leather. I repeat the word, as if saying it will convince my mind what I am seeing. But it is no good: I still feel chocolate under my fingers.

Kurt watches me then opens a file. ‘We call this place the Banana Room because by changing venues, as we have done, we hope to encourage patients to open up without…slipping up, as it were.’

‘Slipping up?’ I scan the room, worried. ‘On what? On the sweets?’

He narrows his eyes. ‘There are no sweets. And “slipping up” is a phrase. It means saying something you wish you hadn’t.’ He pauses. ‘Or shouldn’t. The Banana Room will help you to talk.’

I do a 360-degree turn, utterly bewildered. Why can I see all this confectionery and yet Kurt claims he cannot? Is he lying to me? My eyes sweep the room. Paintings. Sweets. Marshmallow. Chocolate drops. All used as paint or decorations. They are there, I am certain. The wall, I notice, is raised with bumps like tarmac sleepers on the English roads. I stretch out my hand. My fingertips brush over the bumps. They are black, sticky. To the left of them are some red lines. I grip them-they break off into my palms.

‘Strawberry laces,’ I say to myself. I smell them; they remind me of Saturdays at the market with my father. He would buy me a packet of sweets to walk around with. I peer at the contents in my hand, observe the candy. It is long, hanging from my hands like vines from a tropical tree, a sickly scent of strawberry, caramelised sugar, vanilla.

Kurt taps his Dictaphone and places it on the driftwood table. He glances up at me. ‘Maria, are you okay? You look a little pale.’

I say nothing. My head throbs, my stomach growls. I suddenly feel very, very frightened. Am I going mad?

‘Now,’ Kurt says, ‘I thought this would be the best place to discuss what happened next after meeting Bobbie Reynolds in the yard.’

The chair is sticky and uncomfortable, fuelling what seems to be my rising temperature. I scan the room, try to focus on anything but the heat.

‘There are four hundred and two chocolate mice in here,’ I conclude after a few seconds.

‘Pardon?’

‘And one hundred and thirteen strawberry laces, seventy-seven chocolate logs, one chocolate clock, two marshmallow seats and seven orange lollies.’ I stop, drag in some oxygen. My stomach ache is stronger, pulsating. I look at Kurt.

‘Maria,’ he says, after a moment, his body rigid, forward, ‘there are no sweets in here. No strawberry laces, no chocolate logs. Okay?’ He keeps his eyes on me, narrowed. ‘Just calm down, take a few deep breaths. Okay?’

I nod, scared to speak, because Kurt is not seeing what I am-and that worries me, petrifies me, frightens me to death. Open my mouth and I know my voice will betray me, will scream out the thought that is now circling my head like a vulture tracking its prey: I don’t know who I am.

Chapter 16

I stride through the walkways to the senior office suite, notebook in hand. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do or if Bobbie can even be trusted, but I know something is not right, that something is happening. And, despite my nerves, despite the acorn of doubt in my head, I have to find out what is going on.

When I arrive at the suite, I stop, observe. Beyond the entrance is the Governor’s red door and, ahead of me, two guards. One to the left, the other directly outside the office suite entrance.

I look to guard one. ‘I want to see the Governor.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No. Why would I be kidding? I want to see the Governor.’

The other guard approaches and thrusts two fists to his hips. ‘Problem?’

‘Martinez wants to see the Governor.’

The second guard laughs. ‘You got an appointment?’

‘No,’ I say. I keep my eyes fixed on Balthus’s office. ‘I need to see the Governor.’ Balthus’s office door opens.