The Killing Files. Nikki Owen

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, sleek shapes.

      I stare at them, cannot pull my eyes away, my hands rubbing at my throat over and over, skin red, sore, every atom in me screaming for oxygen. A moan escapes my lips.

      ‘Maria?’ Balthus yells. ‘What’s happening?’

      I stare at Dr Andersson and her fingernails, and I moan again and again, rocking gently now, back and forth. There is a small round circle one centimetre in diameter in her forehead, a single line of blood trickling from it, same colour as the lacquer.

      ‘She is dead,’ I say to Balthus.

      ‘Oh, Jesus.’

      A damp circle the size of a dinner plate spreads on Dr Andersson’s jacket. It drips to the tiles, painting them red, and at first, paralysed by the sight, I cannot understand why there is a hole in her head while it is her shirt that oozes. Finally, I drag my eyes away from the growing pool on her chest as, slowly, the reality of what I have done begins to sink in.

      ‘I shot her twice.’

      ‘Maria, it’s okay. Maria?’

      I drop the gun, crawl over, quick, and without thinking, roll the body over. There is a deep red stain shrouding the dark T-shirt on her chest where the bullet entered, shattering her rib cage.

      ‘No,’ I say, a whisper at first then louder. ‘No, no, no!’ I shout as my hands grope Dr Andersson’s torso, desperate to stem the blood loss, to close up the gaping hole that has ripped open her skin, bones, heart and head.

      ‘Maria? Maria, talk to me.’

      ‘I killed her.’

      ‘Okay. Okay, I know, I know, but it’s okay.’

      I look at her breathless body, at my hands soaked in her blood. ‘No. It is not. Killing is not okay. It was her daughter’s birthday today. Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God.’

      Then, barely realising what or why I am doing it, I find myself slapping Dr Andersson’s face, rattling her shoulders, frantic for her to open her eyes, wake up.

      ‘Who else has the Project trained?’ I yell at her. ‘Who was Raven? Who was she? Why did you just not refuse to come here? Then you would still be alive! You would still see your daughter! Daughters need their mothers.’ Fat tears fall down my face. ‘They need their mothers.’

      ‘Maria!’ Balthus yells. ‘Stop!’

      But I shake Dr Andersson’s dead body again and again, an anger I don’t understand surging inside me, gripping me tight at the chest, making me pant, making my eyes blur and my head drop. I give her body another shake, her skull flopping to the side, when something falls out of the inside of her jacket.

      I halt, pick it up. It is a piece of paper, pink, confidential, A4 in size. Slumping back, I wipe snot from my face and peel open the paper. What I see shocks me to the core.

      ‘It … it is my family.’

      ‘What?

      I slap the paper to the floor, smoothing it out as what I see sinks in. ‘There is a file containing pictures of you, Mama, Ramon and Patricia.’

      ‘What? Where was it? With Dr Andersson?’

      ‘Yes.’ My hands shake.

      ‘What does it say?’

      My eyes scan it all, not believing what I can see, that they would do this, say this—believe this is right. ‘There is one word next to your name and to Patricia’s name,’ I say after a moment.

      ‘What?’

      My eyes swim, head struggles to accept it. But finally, I say it aloud. ‘Locate.’

      I drop the paper to the floor as my limbs, back, legs begin to shake uncontrollably. ‘They are looking for you. They know you are both my friends. They realise you know about the Project.’

      ‘And MI5 want all connections to the Project eliminated.’ He exhales hard and heavy, and when he next speaks, his words are low and slow. ‘Look … Look, Maria,’ Balthus says. ‘I know this is … this is not a good situation. But … but right now, you have to focus. You heard what Dr Andersson said before—she was looking for a file. It could be the same file you remembered in your flashback.’

      Slowly, I pick up the paper again, eyes glancing to the blood, to the crimson nail-polished fingers. I open it up, the paper. I open it up and force myself to look at it again. ‘They want to monitor you all.’

      ‘Okay. Hang on a second. Let’s look at this one step at a time. First off, we have to get you out of there. The Project will trace you any time soon. And if you go now you could find the file, figure out where it is. Maria, that file, its contents, it could stop it all.’

      He halts now, his breathing only drifting on the phone line. I think about his words, look again at the images of the people I love. My jaw clenches. ‘You are all in danger because of me.’

      ‘No,’ Balthus says, immediately. ‘No. This is because of the Project, because of MI5. But you can help. You can do something.’ He pauses. ‘Maria, you can stop it. You find the file, you end the Project, you end MI5’s involvement in it—you end it all.’