the blackness of the room covers us almost totally. My muscles ache. I try to roll my shoulders to move the blood in them, but when I do, each bone creaks and my neck at the back goes rigid.
‘Er, Doc, you there?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I can see something.’
I forget my sore neck and jerk forwards. ‘What?’
‘On your hand, there—some light.’
I look down. She’s right. I can see my hand for the first time, illuminated by a globule of buttered light. Adrenaline shoots through my bloodstream as inch by inch, a rash of light spreads from my hand, to my wrist, shining on the rope tying me down, then it continues up my arm to the well on my inside elbow, until it shows me something that I did not at all register until now.
‘Doc, what is it?’
I blink, check once more, but there is no denying it, because I am a doctor—I have seen thousands of them.
‘Doc! What?’
I start to shake. ‘The drugs are in my cubital vein.’
‘The cubital … Wait, what?’
‘The cubital vein resides in the ante cubital area.’
‘What? Doc, you’ll have to explain in words I can understand, because you—’
The light shines bright. My panic hits a high. ‘There is a needle in my arm!’
Salamancan Mountains, Spain.
34 hours and 20 minutes to confinement
The bag on my head has blacked everything out and all I can see through the pin-prick gaps of fabric are shards of sunlight and shadows of shapes. I try to get a handle on where Dr Andersson is, but the bag is so scratchy on my face that it is becoming distracting, and the urge to yank it off, claw at my face over and over until the heat subsides, is almost overwhelming, but when I reach up one free hand to pull, it is snapped back.
‘Move.’
I gulp in buckets of breath, sucking on the bag as she pushes me forward, my bare feet flopping over the tiles. Then, we stop. For a moment, there is complete quiet. I jerk left and right, disorientated as I try to pinpoint where Dr Andersson is, willing her to utter one more clipped accent of a word, but all I can hear is the sound of my own breath rushing in my ears as if a sea shell were being held to my head. I don’t move. My muscles scream out at me, itching in agony where Dr Andersson pinches my wrists and shoulders. And all the while my cell phone sits hidden in the band of my shorts.
There is a click of a phone, but it is not mine.
‘It’s me,’ Dr Andersson says now, her voice a punnet of plums, a rich slate board of cured meats.
Another voice speaks from what must be her cell. ‘Is it her?’ A male, speaking in pebbled English. Who is he?
‘Yes. It’s her.’ There is a tug on my wrist. ‘Stay still!’ I wince. ‘Her hair’s blonde now, she’s skinnier, but it’s still Martinez.’
‘Good. Good. Well, you know what to do. We have to put an end to the Project. And she’s it.’
My mind races. She’s it. She’s it. Nerves rise in me, immediate, urgent, but the will to survive, to forge something that will get me out of this situation is stronger than even my urge to curl up in a ball, moan and hide.
‘You cannot kill me,’ I say, spitting out fluff and fibres.
She slides a plastic tie around my wrists, pulls it tight then walks away, her boots slapping the tiles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and then there is utter silence as she seems to go into another room. Where? The kitchen? I slam my head left and right to determine where Dr Andersson is, stagger back a little and count in my head, the numbers not only soothing me, but allowing me to analyse the time frame and give me a slice of clarity. I reach thirty, listen. Nothing. Just the starlings on the cypress trees in the fields and the light tidal rush of grass in the wind. My body relaxes a little, shoulders softening—and then I remember: my cell.
‘Balthus,’ I whisper.
There is a scratch of static and then one word. ‘Maria?’
His voice is low, quiet, but hearing it, knowing he is there makes the heat of the bag, the confusing disorientation of it all more easy to bear.
‘Maria, are you okay? My God, she’s going to kill you, you have to get out. Can you?’
‘I do not know.’ I blink, try to gauge any shapes from behind the fabric. I sniff the air. ‘Chanel No. 5.’
‘What?’
‘It is Dr Andersson’s scent and I can smell it. The scent was strong before, but now is less so. Judging by the distance now of the perfume, it means she is not in the room, yet she still remains on the property.’
‘Well get to another room then! Move out of there.’
He is right. It is a risk, but if I can get to the bedroom, I can run.
I begin to raise my arms, slow at first, the plastic ties digging in, then fast, projecting the direction in the dark my body will need to crawl when the scent of perfume suddenly becomes so strong it feels as if my head will explode at the sensory assault.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
She’s here! I go to grab the bag with my tied hands, desperate to run, but Dr Andersson hauls me back, slams my arms down.
‘No!’ I yell.
‘Just stop fighting. God, Maria.’
I kick out, but Dr Andersson’s grip on me is tight and she jerks her elbow into my ribs. My torso folds in like a pack of cards, my eyes watering, lungs burning as I heave the bag so hard into my mouth to claw some oxygen that I begin to suffocate. There is a fierce kick to my shin. It catches me on the bone, ripping a fire up my leg, expelling the fabric momentarily from my mouth allowing air to slip in. I lash out my tied fists, but she knocks my head, pinning me against the wall.
‘How long have you been tracking the NSA?’
‘Let me go.’
She exhales hard and shakes her head. ‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘I’ve come a long way and my family are at home and I’m missing my daughter’s third birthday for you, for this, so just do—’ she shoves me hard against the wall then loosens her grip ‘—as I say, Maria. Jesus.’
I hear her stride away, and I catch short sprints of breath, listening, a wild animal caught in a trap. There is a rustling of paper, tearing.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Finishing what I was supposed to do when you were in Goldmouth.’
The tearing restarts and I realise: she is at my wall where my news articles and images sit, tearing them off
