I scan the algorithm, track it, try to understand why I should even think of it, but nothing. No clue. No sign. Which means it’s happened again. Unknown data. Data has come to me, data I do not recall ever learning, yet still it appears, like a familiar face in the window, a footprint in the snow. I have always written the calculations down when they emerge, these numbers, these codes and unusual patterns, have always recorded them obsessively, compulsively. But now what? I have no notepad, have no pen, and without inscribing them, without seeing the data in black and white, will it exist? Will it be real?
More shouting erupts and my eyes fly open. There are so many voices. So loud. Too loud for me, for someone like me. I clamp my hands to my ears. My head throbs. Images swirl around my mind. My mother, father, priests, churches, strangers. They all blur into one. And then, suddenly an illusion, just one, on its own, walks into my mind: my father in the attic. And then I see Papa getting into his Jaguar, waving to me as he accelerates off, my brother, Ramon, by my side, a wrench in his hand. There is no sound, just pictures, images. My breathing becomes quick, shallow. Am I remembering something or is it simply a fleeting dream? I close my eyes, try to will the image back into my brain, but it won’t come, stubborn, callous.
There is more banging—harder and louder this time. I tap my finger against my thigh over and over. Papa, where are you? What happened to you? If only I had stayed in Spain, then none of this would have happened. No murders. No blood.
I clutch my skull. The noise is drowning me, consuming me. The banging. Make the banging stop. Please, someone, make it stop. Papa? I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
My breathing now is so fast that I cannot get enough oxygen. So I try cupping my hands around my mouth to steady the flow, yet the shouting outside rises, a tipping point, making me panic even more. I force myself to stand, to be still, but it does not work. I can hear guards. They are near. Footsteps. They are yelling for calm, but it makes no difference. The shouts still sound. My body still shakes.
And that is when I hear a voice say, ‘Help me,’ and I am shocked to realise it is mine. I scramble back, shoving myself into the wall, but it does no good.
The cell turns black.
When I finish talking, I check the clock by the door: 09.31 hours.
How did time move so quickly? I dab my forehead, shift in my seat. I feel disorientated, out of place like a cat suddenly finding itself in the middle of the ocean. Something must be happening to me again, some change or some type of transition. But what?
The man checks his Dictaphone. He remains silent and places a finger on his earlobe. Sometimes, I have noticed, while I talk, he pulls at his ear. He was doing it just now when I was telling him about the strip search. It is only a small tug, a quick scratch, but still it is there. I have tried to detect a pattern in his actions, perhaps a timed repetition, but no, nothing. I shake my head. Maybe being in this room is affecting my senses. Or maybe I am simply searching for something that is not there. I tap my foot, check my bag is there, my notebook, my pen. I can’t trust my thoughts any more, my deductions, and yet I do not know why, not fully. And it scares me.
‘Maria, before your conviction, you came to the UK on a secondment, correct?’
I clear my throat, sit up straight. ‘Yes. I was seconded to St James’s Hospital, West London, on a one-year consultancy in plastic surgery.’
‘And where did you work in Spain?’
‘At the Hospital Universitario San Augustin in Salamanca. I worked on reconstructive surgery mainly developing…‘ I stop. Why does he remain so calm when I speak, ghost-like almost, an apparition? My throat constricts, jaw locks.
‘And why did you come here, to London?’
‘I told you,’ I say, a steel in my voice that I never intended, ‘I was seconded.’
He smiles, just a little, like a single dash of colour from a paintbrush. ‘I know that, Maria. What I mean is, why, specifically, London? Someone of your talent? You could have gone anywhere. I hear your skills are in demand. But you chose here. So, I ask again: why? Or, shall I say, for who?’
My foot taps faster. Does he know about him? About how he betrayed me? I glance at the door; it is locked.
‘Maria?’
‘I…’ My voice trembles, lets me down. This man, sitting opposite, he said he is here to help me. Can he? Do I risk letting him in?
‘I was looking for someone,’ I say after a short while.
He immediately straightens up. ‘Who? Who were you looking for?’
‘A priest.’
‘The one you were convicted of killing?’
The curtains swell, the morning breeze draughting in a whisper of a memory. Aromas. Incense. Sacred bread, holy wine. The comforting smell of a wood-burning stove, the dim lights of a vestry, a stone corridor, confessional boxes. The inner sanctum of Catholicism.
‘Maria,’ the man says, ‘can you answer my—’
‘It wasn’t the dead priest I came looking for.’
The man holds my gaze. It is unbearable for me, the eye contact, makes my hands grip the seat, makes my throat dry up, but still he stays fixed on me, like a missile locked to its target.
‘Then who?’ he says finally, his eyes, at last, disengaging enough for me to look away.
‘Father Reznik,’ I say, my voice barely audible. ‘I took the London secondment because I was looking for Father Reznik. Mama said he may have moved here, but she wasn’t sure. I needed answers.’ I pause. ‘I needed to find him.’
There is a flipping of a page. ‘And Father Reznik was your family priest, a Slovakian, correct?’
I look up. How does he know all this? ‘Yes.’
‘And your mother knew him?’
Again I answer yes. ‘She is Catholic, attends church twice a week, confession also. She said Father Reznik may have had some family in London.’
He nods, writes something down, glancing at me in between words.
‘He was my friend. Father Reznik was my friend. And then…events happened. I found out that he…‘ I stall, touch my neck. The bloodshot whites of his eyes, the sagging pale skin on his jaw, the slight wheeze when he walked. Even now when I think of him, of what he did, it hurts me. And while I know the man is speaking to me, I barely hear him, barely process what he says, because I can’t comprehend what I think is still happening, what is developing right in front of me, in front of the whole world. And they don’t even know it, don’t even realise what is being done right before their eyes, like they’re all wandering the streets blindfolded.
‘Maria?’ The man lowers his pen. ‘This Father Reznik. Are you sure about him?’
I squeeze my fist, concentrate. ‘What do you mean?’
He hesitates. ‘Are you sure he was your friend?’
A
