Subject 375. Nikki Owen

      I wince. ‘Heard what?’

      ‘S’all right. I know about that Croft woman. Word gets round.’ She runs a palm over her scalp.

      I step straight back, a flicker of a memory in my head. ‘What do you know? What?’

      ‘Whoa! Calm down a little.’

      I remember something now from the beating, something to do with accents and Father Reznik, but the memory is still smudged, unclear. I shake my head, try to nudge it out.

      ‘You okay?’

      I gulp, focus. My breathing is heavy, my fists tight, cemented to my side. I sense Patricia moving slightly to the side, her head tilted. I make myself look at her and see that she is smiling, eyes crinkled, shoulders soft, hands loose. Will she hurt me, too? I look at her hands again. No fists.

      ‘So,’ she says, ‘you’re a handy woman to have around, Doc. Can I call you Doc?’

      ‘My name is Maria.’

      ‘I know. But would you mind if I call you Doc?’

      I think about this. ‘It is okay.’

      Patricia picks up a small duffel bag and begins to unpack. There is a toothbrush, toothpaste, toilet roll, two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts and six pairs of thick walking socks, too warm for prison. The last item she pulls out is a small family photograph in a cardboard frame. No glass allowed.

      A buzzer sounds. ‘Ah, that’ll be lunch, then,’ Patricia says. She sets down the picture. ‘Come on, you need to eat.’

      I stare, unmoving, still uncertain as to her intentions, still uneasy. ‘You’ll never survive here in one piece if you don’t eat.’

      My eye sockets are beginning to throb and when I lift my arms they feel heavy, dead like two lumps of decaying meat. I ache all over. I want to go home. I want to stop time, or at least roll it back. And the canteen. Lunchtime. All those people, those sounds, smells, colours. I do not know how much of this I can take or for how long.

      Patricia walks over to me. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘It’s all right. You’ll be fine. I’ll stay with you, okay?’

      I glance to my bed. No pictures frame the wall. No family photographs stand on the table.

      ‘Come on, Doc,’ Patricia says. ‘Everything will be great.’

      I am tired of being lonely. Ever since my father died, I have been lonely. The priest saw that in me, but he did what he did and died. Father Reznik left me, too. But, I cannot be on my own forever, can I? My papa had me and I had him. But he is long dead. So now who do I have?

      Patricia holds out her hand. ‘Let me help you up, okay?’

      I hesitate, then nodding, allow her to link her arm under my shoulder without flinching at her touch too much.

      ‘That’s the spirit.’

      She helps me up and leads me through the door.

      And in my brain, in my abnormal, high-functioning, emotionally challenged brain, all I can think of is the word ‘friend.’

      I think I may have found a friend.

      ‘How would you define the word “friend”, Maria?’

      Kurt has been asking non-stop questions. He has not moved. He has not once appeared to even breathe. It is exhausting. I need a break, but none are allowed. All part of the therapy technique, I am told.

      I tap my foot. ‘Why do you ask this question?’

      ‘Because I want to know what you understand.’

      ‘Friend means companion—it is someone with whom you have a non-sexual relationship.’

      Kurt keeps his eyes fixed on my face, my mouth, my cheeks, almost swallowing me like a cool drink. ‘A dictionary definition,’ he says finally. He puts his head straight and writes on his notepad. ‘And she was your first friend, this Patricia?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He looks up. ‘Really?’

      I place my hand on my throat. Talking about Patricia causes my chest to tighten, my eyes pool. She was my friend, Patricia, my friend, and I do not have too many of those.

      ‘You had no other—’ he pauses ‘—companions when you were growing up? When you were at work?’

      ‘No. Other than Father Reznik, no.’

      ‘Why?’

      The reason. The reason is me. I am why I have had no friends. No one wants to be friends with a social freak, the outcast, the pariah. ‘People do not understand me,’ I decide to say.

      ‘People do not understand you?’ He shakes his head. ‘By saying that, you do realise, don’t you, that you are implying it is the fault of others, not yours, that people are not your friends?’

      ‘No. I am not implying—’

      He holds up a hand. ‘Would you say that you are the type of person who does not take responsibility for their own actions?’

      The dread in my stomach is rising again. Kurt seems to be leaning closer to me. Just one or two centimetres, but I sense it.

      ‘Maria? I would like you to answer my question.’

      ‘I take responsibility for my actions. And I do not like your questions.’

      He sits back. ‘Okay.’ He taps his pen. ‘Answer me this: what was it about Patricia that made her your friend?’

      I glance down to my hands. ‘She used to touch me. If I was distressed, Patricia would lay her hands in front of mine so our fingertips touched.’

      I press my palms into my thighs. ‘She understood me,’ I say. ‘She accepted me. I did not have to explain anything. I did not have to speak. She would just lay her hand in front of mine.’

      Kurt coughs. When I raise my head, he is staring. A breeze blows in and lifts the cobwebs in the corner, making them float up and down like a dance, a tease. For the first time, Kurt’s eyes flicker to where they dangle, but I don’t know if he sees them as I do. He does not look at me. Does not speak.

      ‘There are no spiders on the cobwebs,’ I say.

      ‘You think you can see cobwebs?’ He picks up his Dictaphone. ‘Spiders can be dangerous.’

      ‘I can see them,’ I say. ‘I can.’ I glance back to the ceiling, and that is when the thought strikes me: if this room has been freshly painted, why are there cobwebs in the corner?

      Each morning we awake. After I transcribe my dreams to my notepad, record any new codes that have appeared in my head, I use the toilet, then Patricia does the same. We clean our teeth, yawn and splash water on our faces. Patricia brushes her scalp, I comb my hair. Once dressed, Patricia collects the post. It is the nearest I have come here to establishing a routine; the nearest I have come to being myself. I feel better than I have done in weeks, not happy, but altered, say, like a petal in the wind, not attached to the flower it belongs to, but at least able to experience what it is to float in the air.

      Today, Patricia returns dangling a white envelope.

      I look up. ‘I have informed you already I do not want a pen pal.’

      ‘This isn’t a pen pal, Doc.’ She holds out the letter. An unmistakable blue embossment is stamped on the underside.

      Patricia thrusts it to me. ‘It’s from—’

      ‘My mother.’

      I take the envelope and immediately my hands betray me, wobbling, slippery. I steady myself as much as I can and study the paper. Green ink. Mont Blanc fountain pen. Only the best for Mother. My pulse speeds up. It is a long time since I have heard any word from home, since I have spoken to Mama, to my brother,