The Girl Who Ran. Nikki Owen

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СКАЧАТЬ peer into the room. It stretches towards a larger door three metres beyond. I walk in upon instruction then halt as told, and turn.

      ‘Where we are about to go,’ Black Eyes says, ‘is all part of your therapy, Maria. Do you understand that?’

      I nod, yet inside there is uncertainty building. I have so many questions but am nervous to ask them, and when Black Eyes looks at me, it feels as if he can see into my head, read my thoughts. I press my lips tight together. Nothing in, nothing out.

      ‘Patricia O’Hanlon,’ Black Eyes says now, consulting his file, ‘should no longer be regarded as a friend, colleague or anything else of significance by you. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Good.’ He lets out a sigh. ‘I know this part is difficult. We are accustomed to the trauma individuals feel – the assault of noise and thoughts and smells, so where I am about to take you will shut all that off and allow you to have no intrusions, help you to… come to terms with your situation, yes?’

      ‘Yes.’ The room swims a little. I press my heels hard into the floor as an anchor.

      ‘So, Maria, shall we?’

      Black Eyes gestures to the next door and closes his folder, and as he does I catch sight of the photograph that lies on the main page: Patricia. Her skin is clear, before the cuts and bruises, her neck long and slim, and while the sudden image of her alarms me, what grabs my curiosity the most is the word dangerous stamped in red writing across her face.

      I begin to move forwards, normal, try not to show any eye movement toward the document while I work through the unexpected reaction in my head. I register an emotion – what? Anger? Hurt? For some reason unknown, seeing the word dangerous in relation to Patricia makes me cross, yet it is not directed towards the Project because of what they have done to her – I am cross, instead, at Patricia herself.

      Blindsided by this sudden realisation, I attempt to decipher what the feeling means, and the reason behind the emotion drifts within sight, but then slips away out of reach.

      We halt at the second, larger door and Black Eyes claps his palm on the folder. I jump. ‘In we pop,’ he says, and he opens the door.

      I peer into the room beyond, into a place I have never before been.

      ‘This,’ he says, ‘is the Chamber. In we go.’

      I hesitate then obey. Patricia’s photograph peeks out from the white folder’s edge.

Chapter 7

      Goldenpass railway line, The Alps, Switzerland.

       Time remaining to Project re-initiation: 25 hours and 31 minutes

      As the train slows to the scheduled halt at Brunig-Hasliberg Station, Patricia unfolds herself from her seat and announces she’s getting off.

      Instantly, I panic. ‘Where are you going?’

      She smiles, her back stooping over where her head skims the metal rod of the caged luggage rack above.

      ‘I’ve read about this place,’ she says. ‘It has a little bookstall and everything. The train’ll be here for ten minutes or so, so I fancy a little wander round, stretch my legs.’

      ‘Is that wise?’ Chris says.

      ‘It’s only for a bit. I’ll be careful. I just need to get some air.’

      She yawns and stretches her arms. I peer out. A small station with sloping roofs sugar-coated in snow rolls in front of us and lurches to a stop. It is constructed of brick, metal and wood, and under the low-hanging eaves of the worn tiles are housed creaking oak shelves crammed with dog-eared second-hand paperback books of fiction and fact, a metal honesty box slotted at the end where the shelves fall away and the tall wide station doors yawn open to the ticket office beyond. It is quiet. To the left of the make shift bookshop sits a jumble of bric-a-brac for sale and, feeling the need for stability, I count it all: three old radios, a peeling wooden horse, a stack of board games, twenty-seven ornaments and fifty-two picture frames – items passed on, no longer needed. I count five people waiting on benches by the far right side, heads hanging over smartphones stuck to frozen white fingers.

      ‘Do you have to go?’ I say.

      ‘Oh, Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘I just want to have a nosey around. I’ve never really been anywhere like this or, well, anywhere really. It looks really pretty.’

      ‘You have been to places,’ I say, thinking this through logically. ‘You have been to Ireland, to England and to prison.’

      She bites her lip. ‘It’s not the same, Doc.’

      ‘Not the same as what?’

      She throws a glance to Chris then turns back to me. ‘I’ll be just five minutes, okay?’

      ‘Five minutes?’

      ‘Yep.’

      I click the timer on my watch. She pauses, then breaks into a soft smile.

      Patricia alights the stationary train. A late stab of sunshine rushes through the window, casting a buttercup glow on the tables and metal grey marled walkways of the carriage. I try to quell my worry for the safety of my friend by counting once more the passengers near to our allocated seats. I watch again the two young boys sitting with their father, scan the doughball woman opposite spilling from the edges of her chair. The boys have now shed their duffle coats and are squabbling over who is to have the last biscuit of what seems to be a discarded packet.

      ‘Can’t you just share, poppets?’ the woman says.

      The boys cease momentarily their squabbling and blink at her with four deep brown eyes.

      The father leans in, scoops up the boys, his gaze on dough woman. ‘It’s okay,’ he mutters. ‘They’re okay. Thank you, though.’

      I watch them for two seconds longer, curious at the odd lump in my throat, then switching my attention to my belongings, I lay out the old photograph of Isabella and me. Taking out a pen, I turn to a new blank page in my notebook and, starting from the top and working my way to the bottom, I scratch down the series of events, where, from hacking and investigating, we have discovered key information on the Project.

      Chris leans over. ‘What you doing?’

      ‘This is a timeline of all the points where we have uncovered Project files.’

      ‘Right. Why are you doing it?’

      ‘I am trying to define a pattern to pinpoint if the virus that attached to your laptop from Weisshorn is coincidental or deliberate.’

      Chris goes quiet. He slopes back in his seat, glances to Patricia on the platform. She is flicking through books. I watch her. She slots a novel back to the shelf then, pausing to glance left and right, she takes out her phone.

      ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Chris says.

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