Spider in the Corner of the Room - [53]

‘Yes,’ the doctor says, ‘but there is more to do. For the meantime, I have secured these for you.’ He hands her something. I see it: two vials of medicine. My mother’s fingers clasp them, and then they both look to me. I do not know why, but I know I must shut my eyes; I must not see.

The image fades, slowly at first then fast, like liquid down a drain. I watch it, cry out after it, but it disappears like a rush of water. I open my eyes and gasp. I am slumped on the floor, my skin soaked, sweat sliding down my face onto candy and chocolate.

Swallowing, I manage to drag myself up, try to make sense of what I have just remembered. How could my mother be there? Am I recalling events incorrectly, putting her there because it suits me? Suits me to have someone to blame? She has been nothing but nice to me, yet what have I been to her? Suspicious. Difficult.

I concentrate on breathing in and out, on remaining calm, on trying to determine what I saw. It did not seem real, as if it were an old silent film where the reel flickers and the images are grainy. But the peat-the peat from Kurt’s shoe-I think of it and I bite down hard on my lip. For some reason, it was a trigger. A trigger to the past.

I have to find out exactly who Kurt is.

Before it is too late.

I sit down and am immediately faced with a barrier: Balthus’s password. I flop back. I don’t know how to bypass this, how to access his computer. I shake my head. What was I thinking? I am just a doctor, not an IT technician, I know nothing about this and…My eyes land on my notebook. I stop, tilt my head, look at it. A wash of something ripples over me, but I cannot place it, cannot pin it down.

Slowly, I watch as my hand reaches out, slides the notebook to me, opens the cover. Numbers, patterns, codes. All of them are etched into every corner of the pad, none of them familiar to me, and yet, what if? A clatter sounds from the yard outside, making me jerk up. I wait, listen, blood rushing through my veins, heart, ears, but all outside is quiet now, motionless.

Fast, I return my eyes to my notepad, scanning the pages. For some reason, I flip to the middle section. My pulse shoots up, hands slippy. A dream I had one night-it is all there. A procedure, patterns, method, things that came to me one night like strangers. Moving quickly, I read the words scrawled in front of me: Log into an alternate account.

I sit up. How did I know to write that down? Swallowing, I glance again to the page, my eyes almost too afraid to look, too scared to see what I know, what I can do. At first, it’s just a series of numbers and letters, each meaningless, seemingly irrelevant, but then I blink and something starts to form in front of my eyes and it scares me. I throw the notebook down, breathing hard. Did I really just spot that? I claw back the writing pad, force myself to examine it again. It is there: a code, a pattern hidden within my scrawl. The method to hack a computer password code.

My mind races. Why would I know that? Why would I write it down? How did I learn it? I catch sight of the clock and it knocks me temporarily out of my panic. Not much time. Balthus will return soon. If I am going to do this, it has to be now.

Hesitantly at first, then with speed, my fingers fly across the keyboard. I pause, inhale. I have never done this before, at least, I don’t think so. I work quick, neat. The system prompts me for another password and I stall. How do I bypass this? I scan the notebook, examine the pattern, but then something walks into my head, an answer: press enter. I wait, my finger hovering over the key. Then I press it. One second, two, three. It works. I let out a laugh, amazed at what I can do, scared at why. Shooting a glance at the time, I fly to the user accounts, select Balthus’s main one and immediately change the password and sit back.

After one second, it flashes up: full system access. I am in.

I start with this room. If I think it’s made of sweets, then I’d better be sure.

I look around, swaying slightly, my eyes seeing double. I blink, open them wide; it helps, but only a little. The room still dusted with sugar, I decide to see at least what I can uncover. I take on the picture frames first. They house three paintings, all in a row. Upon first glance, they are made of liquorice and butter icing, and there is a sprinkling of frosting over the top. I inch out my hand. My fingers touch the edge of the first painting and it feels wet, sticky. I begin to investigate it when a stab of pain in my stomach jabs me. I stop, let it pass. Then, inhaling, I continue. Bit by bit, I peel the edge off the first frame. It comes away with ease and I keep tugging when something makes me halt. My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my trouser leg, then steer my hand forward until I feel the liquorice in my finger. And even though my logical mind says that my brain is playing tricks, still it feels real, smells real. I pause and listen for any sound of Kurt, but no buzzers vibrate from the corridor, no footsteps echo on the tiles.