been trained to do, what I must do to survive.
I twist my torso.
‘No!’ Dr Andersson yells, eyes wide at the sight of the gun. ‘No. No … Her …her name is Briony. She’s three today. Three. I … I can’t let you get away. I can’t let you stop me.’ And then she goes to press down harder on my mouth, squeezing out the air.
And so I grip the gun hard.
And I shoot.
Undisclosed confinement location—present day
Patricia is singing again. The song drifts in and out of my head as if in a dream, the melody and lyrics soothing, rocking me into a state of peace and calm as I think about the drug in my arm, the hallucinations.
The heat in the room appears to have increased. Sweat now drips from my body and while I know I am clothed, for the first time I begin to think about what I am wearing. Can I rip any of it off to cool me down?
‘Can you see me?’ I ask Patricia. ‘I want you to tell me what I am wearing.’
She stops singing and sighs. ‘Doc, you know I can’t see you. You know, really, that that’s impossible.’
‘It is not impossible.’
‘Yep. It is.’
Unsure what she means, I look to my arm and to the needle, to my body, my clothes. I can see nothing. The weak light that was there before has now gone, leaving a dark, dripping heat in its place, and every movement of my muscles is heavy, thick with fatigue.
We remain for a while as we are. Now and then Patricia will talk about how we may have arrived here, where the Project are, if they are watching us, but each time one of us attempts to conjure any significant recollection of our journey here, our minds come up blank.
Four, perhaps five minutes of silence pass when there is a sudden sound, the first we have heard at higher volume since we awoke in this dank, foul place.
‘Hey, Doc, can you hear that?’
‘Yes.’
It is there in the air—a ticking, a soft put, put.
‘That sounds like the stand thing, you know, the drip they had me hooked up to when I was in the hospital ward at Goldmouth.’
I listen to her words. The drip. The one she was hooked up to after she tried to commit suicide in prison. Put, put. Put, put. She is right. My brain begins to tick, firing now at the possibility of the hope of some kind of answer.
‘How close do you calculate you are to the sound?’ I ask, sitting up, alert.
‘Dunno. I’m not as hot on this maths stuff as you are. Say a metre away, something like that?’
‘No. That cannot be correct. That would mean that you are closer to the sound than I am.’
‘Well, yeah. Of course.’
‘That does not make sense.’
‘Doc, nothing makes sense in here.’
Put, put.
‘There!’ Patricia says. ‘I hear it again.’
The clicking sound hovers in the air now, hanging near us.
‘Doc, do you think, like, it’s got something to do with your arm, that sound?’
‘No. It is not …’ I stop, think. She is right—of course she is right. The needle. A drip. I whip my head to the side. ‘Have you got your bracelet on?’
‘Huh? Yeah, my mam’s one. Why?’
‘Twist your wrist.’
‘Uh, okay.’
‘Are you doing it?’
‘Yes. Hold your horses.’
‘Horses?’
Patricia moves her wrist, and at first nothing happens but then, slowly, a tiny shaft of light appears.
‘There must be some small bit of light. It is now reflecting on your bracelet. Keep moving your wrist.’
The bracelet reflection affords a shred of brightness across my body and I begin to look. At first, nothing appears, only a snapshot of my limbs, my knees, legs, but then, as Patricia’s arm moves some more, it happens. Inch by inch, upwards, light slithering towards my arm.
‘Can you see anything yet, Doc?’
There is a glint where the needle pierces my vein then it fades. ‘Move your arm again.’
‘This is hurting now, Doc.’
As the weak light returns, the glint comes again, stronger this time and, gradually, like clouds parting in the sky, what lies underneath is revealed.
I gasp.
‘What, Doc? What is it?’
I shut my eyes, open them, but it is still there.
‘Huh? What? What can you see?’
Sweat slices my head, confusion, deep-rooted fear. ‘There is a drip.’ I narrow my eyes, desperate to see anything I can. ‘It is … It is hooked up to a metal medical stand.’
‘I told you.’
‘There is a tube and it is … it is linked to the drip bag.’
‘That must contain the drugs.’
‘Yes, and …’ I stop, every muscle in my body freezing rigid.
‘Doc?’
Suddenly, everything makes sense. The put, put sound. Why the hallucinations only come in phases. Why I cannot move my arms.
‘There is a timer,’ I say after a moment.
‘What?’
I look back to the device, to the stand and the drug bag. ‘The drugs are being administered through a controlled, preset timer.’
Salamancan Mountains, Spain.
33 hours and 54 minutes to confinement
Dr Andersson’s body drops sideways, falling on top of me.
I push her off and choke, her body thudding to the floor, arms slapping to the tiles, and for some reason I notice for the first time that her fingernails are painted crimson, hanging now in long,
