Spider in the Corner of the Room - [50]

Balthus stands very still like an oak tree, firm, strong. ‘You said you were not safe. Who has been speaking to you?’

‘Bobbie Reynolds.’

He blinks once, but says nothing, just lets his eyes flicker to the side then back to me, his body solid, unmoving. After two seconds, he steps back, clears his throat. ‘Please sit.’

I lower myself into a chair by his desk, place my notebook in my lap and wait. When he finally sits, he feels less looming, more honey-like, natural. But honey is made by bees, and bees can sting.

Balthus unbuttons his jacket, white shirt against tan skin, and levels his gaze at me. ‘You mentioned something called Callidus, just now, at the main doors.’ His index finger taps the table.

I nod.

‘Did Bobbie Reynolds mention that word, too?’

‘Yes. After I did, but yes.’

Balthus looks at me, but says nothing. The clock on the wall ticks, the shelves stand to attention by the walls.

‘I believe her,’ I say.

‘Believe who? Bobbie? Let me show you something.’ Leaning to the side, he taps his computer. A printer to his left whirrs to life. He reaches over, lifts the ink-warm paper that has emerged and slides it to me.

‘What is this?’

‘Read.’

Slowly, I take it, suddenly unsure, nervous. I scan the paper. It is a psychiatric evaluation on Bobbie. Therapist reports, crime sheet, family background. The words ‘cold’, ‘manipulative’, ‘charming’ repeat like markers, like bumps in the road. And then the final conclusion the report gives: that Bobbie is a psychopath. My head starts to shake. It can’t be true. I refuse to believe it’s true.

‘This means nothing.’ I shove the report aside, not wanting to accept it because if Bobbie is making it all up, if she is unhinged, manipulative, then I will be left with the gaping truth staring me in the face: nobody put me in here. I put myself in prison. Because I killed the priest.

Balthus stares at me, his brown eyes two deep pools. He laces his fingers together. ‘You said Bobbie told you that you aren’t safe?’

‘Yes,’ I say after a moment.

‘And you are certain of this?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

He holds my gaze then breaks away. Pausing first, his hand hovering mid-air, he reaches forward and opens a drawer.

I watch him, suspicious, heart rate rocketing. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Your interaction with Bobbie…’ He trails off, drops his hands. ‘What she says concerns me. It concerns me that you believe her.’

‘But the report cannot be…’ I stop, unsure what direction to take, which way to turn. ‘The psychiatric evaluation of her cannot be right.’

‘Maria, what Bobbie said to you is a lie. It’s what she does.’

I close my mouth, press my lips together tight, scared that if I speak, if I articulate what my brain is thinking, it may not make sense. Because the simple truth is: I don’t know. I don’t know what is going on or who is real. Who is good, who is bad. ‘I have to believe her,’ I say after a while, voice weak. ‘Because I didn’t kill the priest.’

Balthus stares, his head dropping then lifting to reveal eyes slit like steel. ‘I didn’t want to have to tell you this quite so soon.’ His voice is low, metallic.

I press my palms into my notebook, try to remain calm. ‘Tell me what?’ I say, almost too frightened to ask.

‘This,’ he says, ‘was taken a long time ago.’

He dips into the drawer and slides across a photograph. Inching forward, I look, holding my breath. It is of two men. The image is grainy, but visible. I touch it. The paper is worn, perhaps several decades old.

‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘It was taken in 1973,’ he says, voice smooth yet coarse.

The photograph pulls my eyes to it. ‘Who are these people?’

‘That one is me.’ He places a manicured fingernail on the face of a young man. His hair is dark, shoulder length. His shirt has a very wide collar, dark sunglasses shrouding his eyes. A knot begins to tighten in my stomach, my brain sparking. I fling the picture at Balthus. ‘Take it away.’

He hesitates then reaches forward, picks up the photograph. He looks at it for a few seconds, his breathing deep, heavy, then sets the image down between us. I sit, stare, not daring to move. I don’t know how much I can trust him. I don’t really know who he is.

‘I hadn’t long started university,’ he says after a while.

I find my voice. ‘What has this got to do with anything? Why are you telling me all this? Is it a game? Some social nuance game I can’t interpret? What? What?’ And I slam my hand to the desk, but he simply continues as if I had never spoken.

‘We were studying Law at Churchill College, Cambridge.’

I go still. ‘We?’

He breathes out. ‘Your father and I.’

‘What? My papa? You knew my papa? What?’ I say, over and over. ‘What? But how…? Why…?’ I sit, shake my head. Blood pumps fast into the base of my brain, banging, thrashing.

‘Your father, Alarico, had a European scholarship for Cambridge. That’s where I met him.’ He pauses. ‘That is where I met your mother.’

‘Why are you…?’ I stop, unable to articulate the thoughts that come flying out from my head. This man knew my papa, my mama. This man, the Governor of the prison I reside in. It is too much. Too much. I smack my head with my palm, my brain overloading, threatening to blow a fuse from the waves of lies, of truths.