would you ask what else it would be?’ I can feel a panic rising. I try taking more coffee and it helps a little, but not much.
‘You know it is normal for me to enquire about your Asperger’s, about how you can do what you do? I am a therapist. It is my job.’
I look at him and my shoulders drop. I’m tired. Maybe I am inventing a non-existent connection here, conjuring thoughts and conclusions like a magician, plucking them from the air. How would he know what we discovered? The answer is he can’t know, so I need to be calm. I drain my coffee and try to concentrate on facts, on solid information to clear my fog.
‘What is your family name?’ I say.
‘You mean surname?’ Kurt shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Maria, I cannot say. Company policy.’
‘You are lying.’ I set the cup down on the table.
He sighs. ‘I do not lie.’
‘Everybody lies.’
‘Except you, correct? Isn’t that what you would say, Maria? I have seen your file, read your details.’ He smiles. ‘I know all about you.’
We both remain very still. Kurt’s eyes are narrowed, but I cannot determine what it means. All I know is that I have a tightening knot in my stomach that will not subside, with a voice in my head telling me again to run.
‘I have it in my notes,’ he says after a moment, ‘that following your blackout in segregation, you received help.’
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, the recollection of that day painful for me to think about. The room feels suddenly warm. I undo two buttons on my blouse, followed by a third; the fabric flaps against my skin in the morning breeze. I exhale, try to relax.
Kurt coughs.
‘What?’ I follow his eyeline. My chest. I can see the cotton of my bra.
‘Nothing.’ Another cough. ‘Maria, can you…can you tell me what help you received following your blackout in segregation?’
I pause. I know now exactly who tried to help me. And why. ‘A psychiatrist came to the segregation cell.’
He hits record. ‘I want you to tell me about that.’
He stares at me for three seconds. I rebutton my blouse.
Day must now be night because above my head the strobe lights hum, making me blink over and over, like staring straight at the sun.
I fall back, try to think, but my body throbs, my muscles and skin a sinew of stress. The signs. Normally I recognise them, can quell them, control them, but in here I cannot get a handle on myself, on my thoughts. I force my eyes shut and make myself think of my father. My safe place, my hideout. I inhale, try to imagine the soft apples of his cheeks, how his eyes would crinkle into a smile when he saw me, how he would sweep me into his arms, strong, secure. I open my eyes. My pulse is lowered, my breathing steady, but it is not enough. I need to think. If I remain in segregation I may not survive for long. I have to get out. But how?
I lower myself into the chair, my prison suit clinging to my skin, a stench of body odour jeering me. I am a mess. I hate to be in this state, out of control, in disarray. Allowing my body to slacken, I let my arm hang behind me. My fingers trace the cross, etched into the wall. I almost smile, because wherever I go, it is there: religion. All the priests, their rules. All of them controlling my mind, dictating life to me and everyone else, to a people, to a country, a government. Franco may have long died in Spain, but the Church will always be there.
I shake my head. Whether I want him to be or not, he is not in here now, the priest—he can’t be. So think. I must think if I want to get out of here. This is all just logic. The strip search. The incarceration. The segregation. Isolation. Fear. Panic.
I sit forward. Panic. Could that be it?
I glance at the door. Thick metal. Locked. Only one way out. Standing, I examine the room. Small. Three metres by five metres. One plastic chair: green, no armrest. One bed: mattress, no covers. Floor: rubber, bare. Walls: brick, half plastered in gunmetal grey.
I begin with my breathing; I draw in quick, sharp breaths, forcing myself to hyperventilate. It takes just over one minute, but, finally, it is done. My head swells and I try to ignore the dread in my stomach spreading through my body. I move to the cell door and bang hard, but my effort is lost in a sudden outbreak of shouts from the inmates across the walkway. I wince at the noise, count to ten, make a fist, bang again. This time: success. A guard shouts my name; she is coming over. I estimate it will take her seven seconds to reach my cell. I count. One, two, three, four. At five, I thrust my fingers down my throat. On seven, the window shutter opens above my head and a guard peers through.
‘Oh, shit!’
I vomit. My lunch splatters the floor.
A bolt unlocks. I count to three. One—two—three. I stumble, clutch my chest.
When the guard bursts in, she halts and mutters a swear word under her breath.
‘Martinez? You all right?’
I groan. Another guard enters. ‘Leave her! She’s bloody well fine.’
The guard by my side hesitates.
‘Come on!’ shouts the other.
My chance is slipping away. ‘Help,’ I croak, retching.
‘I’m sorry,’ crouching guard says, ‘but I think you are—’
I vomit. It sprays all over the floor, over the guard.
‘Oh, fuck.’
I mumble some words, but sick is lodged in my throat and it sounds as if I am choking.
‘Get a doctor!’ the guard shouts to her colleague. ‘Now!’
The guard props me up against the wall. The brick is cold on my skin.
‘Is this cell five?’
There is a woman blocking the light by the cell door. She wears no uniform, has no baton.
The guard scowls at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The woman steps forward. Blonde hair snakes in a ponytail down her back. ‘I’m Dr Andersson,’ she says, her voice clipped, plum, like a newsreader. ‘Lauren Andersson, how do you do.’ She extends a neat little hand; the guard stands, ignores it.
Dropping her arm, Dr Andersson looks at me. ‘She needs to be out of here. Now.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ says the guard. ‘Who the hell put you in charge? I only want you to check her over.’
‘I’m responsible for the physical and psychiatric well-being of the inmates here,’ Dr Andersson says, side-stepping the vomit. She points to me. ‘This woman is Maria Martinez.’
