The Girl Who Ran. Nikki Owen

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.

      I blink once more at Patricia then turn to him. ‘Why are you saying sorry?’

      ‘Because if it’s deliberate, the virus, then that means there’s a high chance they’ve been in my laptop before.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got protection and all, defences and everything, but these guys’ —he blows out a breath— ‘they’re in another league. It means, without realising it, I could’ve led MI5 and the Project to the abbey in Montserrat – to you. And then they turned up and the Project took you away.’

      I watch him as he frowns. Sometimes I wonder if neurotypical people must be as exhausted with all the unfounded assumptions that they make as much as I am exhausted with trying to understand the inferences of their unfound assumptions in the first place. Maybe, when we scratch at the surface, we’re not so different after all.

      ‘If I was not taken away that day,’ I say, ‘I would not have been in the Project facility in Hamburg and we would not have been able to hack into their system and discover the files that revealed how many people like me they have tested on. It means we would not have been in a position to contact the Home Secretary and potentially put an end to the entire Project via what will be an in-depth, governmental investigation.’

      He drops his head for a second. ‘Thank you. You’re…’ He stops, though it’s not clear why. When he speaks again, his voice is low and a bit wobbly. ‘I’ll do all I can to help you find your mom, okay? I… I still miss my mom every day and it’s been years since she died.’

      I feel a strange need to reach out and touch him, hug him, even, but instead, not knowing what the right action is at all, I have a go at arranging my lips into what I think is a sympathetic smile, then, picking up my pen, I channel my feelings into facts.

      We work together on the Project file timeline. The carriage is quiet. Every three seconds or so, one of the small boys whoops at some card game they are playing, and when the father looks at them, I notice crinkles by his eyes. When he ruffles their hair with a gentle hand, the pang that stabs me inside comes on so unexpectedly that I have to stop writing and try hard to prevent my thoughts from wandering to Balthus and Papa.

      ‘Do you remember in my house in Montserrat where we found that kind of countdown thing?’ Chris says after we’ve been working for a few minutes. ‘You know, the one with your age on it, counting it down?’

      My pen hovers in the air as I look over to him and trip off the exact date, location and time of the occasion he is referring to.

      He turns his tablet to me. ‘Well, d’you remember the timer thing? This?’

      I