Spider in the Corner of the Room - [51]

‘He was concerned for your safety,’ Balthus says, cutting through my panic. ‘That’s why, when you told me about Bobbie, about what she said, I instantly became worried.’

I pause, lower my hand, try to stave off the tremor. ‘Why are you telling me now?’

He plants his elbows into the desk. ‘When you were young, Alarico-your father-he spoke to me, told me to keep an eye on you should anything ever happen to you. He had serious…fears. Something is clearly happening to you. That is why I am telling you now.’

‘But…but…’ I trail off, the words too spiked, too sharp to speak. If he was keeping an eye on me, what else was he doing? Is he one of them, working for the Project? Is he my handler in here, using me, too? Is no one who they seem? I stand, fast. ‘I have to go. I have to go.’

‘No. Maria, stay.’

But I ignore him, my eyes searching for the door, frantic. I spot it, grab my notebook and run to the exit.

‘Maria, stop!’

I can hear him, but I reach the door, rattling the handle, desperate. ‘Let me out!’

He is there by my side now, his torso thick, steady, his hands blocking the door. ‘I’m sorry you are finding out like this.’

I shake my head. ‘Are you with them? With Callidus?’

‘What? No.’

I grip the handle tighter. ‘How can I believe you? They have been watching me all my life. All my life! And now this Bobbie tells me to speak to you and you tell me my papa said to keep an eye on me, so what am I supposed to think?’ My chest heaves. ‘What?’

‘Sir?’ A guard shouts from the corridor beyond. We both go still. ‘Is everything okay in there?’

Balthus stares at me. I force myself to meet his gaze, to make myself stand up to him. ‘Everything is fine,’ he shouts to the guard after a few seconds, his eyes not leaving mine. ‘Everything is fine.’

He steps away from the door, drops his hands to his side. ‘Maria, I don’t know who or what Callidus is. They have not sent me to watch you. The only thing I know is that your father was my friend and he told me to look out for you.’

‘Why?’ I say, my body tense, ready to run. ‘Why did you not tell me when I arrived at Goldmouth that you knew my papa, knew my mama?’

‘I am the Governor, Maria. What could I say?’

‘You could have told the truth.’

He nods and I look at him. Everything I thought was right, everything I believed in-my life, who I was, why I was here-all of it is disappearing, evaporating like water droplets into the atmosphere until they will eventually vanish, die.

A wave of exhaustion surges over me. I begin to loosen my grip on the door when a high-pitched buzzing suddenly invades the air. I slap my hands to my ears. ‘What is that?’

‘My bleeper.’

He slips it from his pocket, turns it off, reads the message. ‘I have to go.’

I drop my hands. ‘Why?’

‘An…emergency.’ He coughs. He shoots to his desk, picks up the phone and dials a number. Done, he sets down the receiver, strides to the door, then stops. He turns, looks at me. ‘You sit, wait here.’

‘But I have many questions and-’

He holds up a hand. ‘Please, just wait for me.’ He presses his lips together. ‘I have more to tell you. I promise.’

He stares at me but does not move, eyes like two mirrors. I wonder if I looked deep into them, what I would see? Would they tell me that I can trust him?

‘You said it was an emergency.’

He inhales. ‘Yes.’ He presses the exit buzzer, buttons up his jacket as, from outside, an alarm begins to wail. I watch as the door shuts and locks as he leaves.

Alone, I let my shoulders drop. My mind feels wild, crazed with what I have just been told. I need to sit, rest, think. Turning, I go to walk to the chair when I spy a laptop on the desk. I halt. Bobbie. She mentioned this.

I grip my notebook and stride round to Balthus’s desk.

I need to find answers.

Chapter 17

‘I am bending over the priest’s body,’ I say. ‘He is still warm. There is no heartbeat, no pulse. Blood pools everywhere, thick, sticky. It drips down the steps like treacle and trickles towards the altar. Through the priest’s neck there is an entrance wound, one slash, slick, neat. A knife. Clean like butter. The urge to stick my finger in the hole is incredible. I stand up. Fingermarks at a crime scene. Not good.’

Kurt’s chair creaks. ‘What happens next in the dream?’

I smack my lips together, mouth coarse, dry. ‘The rope binding the priest’s hands and ankles is taut now; I track its course, woven as it is around his limbs. There-by the altar,’ I say, as if I can see it, touch it, ‘that is where each juncture is secured. I stride over and inspect them. Tight. Immovable. I walk back to the body. There is more blood now, deep red, almost black. I can smell the iron. The blood is oozing from the wound and, when I inspect the arms, there are slashes there, too. He never stood a chance.’

‘Then?’

I shift in my seat, the recollection of the dream uncomfortable. ‘Footsteps. I freeze, listen. There is no time. Whoever it is, they are getting closer. My eyes dart left to right. The knife…It’s nowhere to be seen. I check, but no. Nothing.’

‘What do you dream next?’

I close my eyes, think. ‘The footsteps. They are nearer.’