Spider in the Corner of the Room - [54]

The liquorice frame is smooth. Each line of it spans the width of the canvas, but there is something on the end, by the edge. A flush of heat races to my face. I pause, wait for it to subside and recommence. Pulling a little, it becomes clear that the liquorice to the left of the frame is loose, as if it has already been torn off. As if something has been placed under it.

Feeling a kernel of panic, of uncertainty, I pause before investigating further, exhale hard. The frame is bumpy. I glance to the other two pictures and see that they are smooth, untouched. I reach out and, taking the end of the uneven liquorice, one millimetre at a time, begin to peel it away. It is welded down, but eventually it starts to give. I pull back, examine it. At first, it is difficult to detect, but then I see it.

Black, minute, but definitely there.

A camera.

And that is when I realise that I can hear Kurt’s voice.

The handle is turning. Moving fast, I press the liquorice back into place as much as possible then shoot to my chair.

But before I can reach it, Kurt is already entering the room.

Chapter 18

I can see Kurt’s hand on the door.

Darting my eyes left and right, I spot a crop of marshmallow flowers and, grabbing a handful, I thrust them into my mouth.

Kurt stops when he sees me. ‘What are you doing?’ His mobile phone hangs from his hand.

‘I am eating marshmallow,’ I say. Liquid dribbles down my chin.

‘Maria, there are no marshmallows in here. Is that sick down your chin? Are you okay?’

I touch my face. He’s right. I have been sick. And I realise with a vicious shock that it’s not marshmallow in my mouth, it is vomit.

Kurt begins to walk towards me when a voice bellows from his phone. He must still be on a call. He stops, glances to me, then puts the phone to his ear. ‘Yes?’

Immediately, I wipe my chin, my breath ragged, vision smeared. Sweat trickles from my brow and I dab it with the heel of my hand, but it does no good. A wave of nausea rises from my stomach and the room begins to sway, a gentle rocking motion, like a boat bobbing on the sea.

Kurt watches me. ‘It’s happening,’ he says into his phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He slips his cell into his pocket, stands and stares.

‘What is happening to me?’ I stumble. ‘What did you do?’ But the room is spinning and I cannot get the words out. I slap my hand to my chest and force myself to speak. ‘You have to help me.’ Another wave of pain hits. ‘Help me!’

But Kurt does not move, does not call anyone. Instead he just watches and waits.

‘What have I taken?’ I say. And then I understand: this cannot be happening in real life. It must be a flashback of some sort, a dream, a nightmare, perhaps, all of it happening in my head. ‘Wake me up!’ I yell, my voice feral, untamed. ‘Wake me up!’

I try to take my pulse on my neck, but my arms are weak and it is impossible. Heat gushes round my body, and the smell of the sweets and marshmallow and chocolate make the nausea worse. I focus on the room, focus on jolting myself awake. I slap my face, spit on the floor, try to walk, but everything surges, throwing me from side to side, thrashing me against an invisible wave, against a heaving tide of nausea.

I crash into the wall, sliding down it. My arms are limp, my legs are useless. Kurt is nearer now, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘Who are…you?’ I say.

‘I am your therapist.’ His voice is soft, a gentle coo.

‘No,’ I manage to say, shaking my head, his image blurred, distant now. ‘No.’ My eyes dart up. And then I see it: the camera.

But Kurt must trace my line of sight, because he says, ‘Ah, you found it.’ He picks up the tiny camera. ‘I wondered how long it would take you. They have to have some way of watching you from where they are. They need to see exactly what is going on with you.’

My pulse rockets. I do not understand what he is saying, whether this is all a dream. My temperature is rising, sweat popping out all over my limbs, my skin. My blouse is drenched, my hair is damp. ‘Help,’ I plead, and then I slump to the left, my cheek skimming the wall as my head thumps on the floor.

I lie there, blinking, washed up, motionless. My whole body is paralysed, saliva dribbling from my gaping mouth. I can see the room at an angle. The legs of the chairs, the corners of the tables, but only just, like shadows in a dark alley.

‘It’s me,’ I hear Kurt say, and I know he must be on his phone. ‘Yes, you better send them in now. Let’s get her up there and tested before the drug wears off.’

My mouth dribbles, but I will myself to talk, speak. ‘You…have to…help me.’

I hear Kurt take a step towards me. ‘I am helping you.’

I want to ask who he is sending, but I am beginning to drift in and out of consciousness. Or is it back to consciousness? Returning to reality? And then, in front of my eyes, I see Kurt’s shoes. ‘Please,’ I try now, desperate. ‘What is happening? I don’t understand.’

He crouches down, his eyes level with mine now. ‘You should know what is happening. You have the answers in there.’ He jabs my forehead with his finger.