The Killing Files. Nikki Owen

I look down at my thin, gowned body, the probes sticking out, it is merely crumpled, having barely moved at all. Beside me the heart rate monitor beeps faster.

      My body shifts on the bed. Black Eyes is nodding now to the woman who has appeared in the room and at first, the words they whisper fade into the squashed air, but after two then three seconds, their sentences filter through as, slowly, my ears switch fully on.

      ‘The programme is showing her skills are improving, Dr Carr,’ the woman whispers. ‘Her handler at the church is communicating very positive results.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘He gave her a complex code to crack and she did it within thirteen seconds.’

      ‘Good. Good. What else?’

      She consults her notes. ‘The subject’s IQ is exceptionally high, photographic memory sharp—she is obsessed with classical composers, tracks all their family details, their names, all their pieces—’

      ‘Has she learnt to play the piano yet?’

      ‘Yes. Self-taught, Trinity College London, Grade Eight standard within three weeks. Further information: the way in which she can sense acute sounds and scents is exceptional—I know you were concerned about that.’

      ‘Hmmm.’

      ‘And her dexterous skills, her technical assimilation—it’s getting faster. She can take apart and reassemble a radio clock, for example, within three minutes now, last time it was five. Her handler at the school recorded that.’

      There is a nod from Black Eyes as he turns and provides me with a narrow stare. ‘We have been operating for twenty years now and this is our breakthrough. She’s the only one the conditioning appears to be working on.’

      ‘Yes.’

      He looks to her. ‘MI5 will want to hear about this.’

      The woman hands him a slip of white paper. ‘Done. Here are the results we sent over to our contact there.’

      Black Eyes scans the data, his fingers pinching the page, each a spindled vine of pale flesh. ‘All these people we have conditioned and tested, and none of them are quite like this test child, this Maria Martinez. What is her confirmed subject number?’

      ‘375.’

      ‘Subject 375. Yes.’ He taps the paper. ‘We have some scenarios I would like to use her for, see what she can do. MI5 are pressing us to assist them with unusual security threats—cyber elements, computers etcetera. Let’s see how she can help us.’

      His head dips and, without warning, his skeletal fingers creep forward so that they skim my calf. I instantly flinch, but he doesn’t appear to notice, instead seems in some kind of trance. ‘It’s okay,’ he says to me. ‘It’s okay.’ Then he turns to the woman. ‘She is strong, but not yet old enough to fight, but soon …’ He lifts his hand, knuckles and flesh hovering in the air, and the thought occurs to me that he may hit me. ‘While she is here, we will ask her what she knows.’

      The woman frowns. ‘But won’t that stay in her memory, the covert details are just that—covert. What if she recites them when she is back in her normal environment?’

      He shakes his head. ‘We will give her Versed as we always have, administered before she is dispatched home to Spain. It has worked well so far.’ He looks to me. ‘It will wipe her immediate mind so no secrets are divulged—she will simply believe she has visited the specialist clinic with her mother because of her Asperger’s.’ He hands the woman the paper. ‘The Versed drug means she will be unable to recall fully what she has or has not done, but enough remains in the subconscious for her to be useful until she reaches an age where she can be fully operational. It is important that you learn this.’ He folds his arms. ‘The subject may recall things, facts, but they will be hazy—like dreams. But we need that. We need this data, this training we give her, to remain stored in her brain somewhere so we can use it when the time is right.’

      ‘Maria?’ He is talking straight to me now. A rush of heat prickles my entire body and I don’t know what to do. My eyes search for a way out but there are no exits, here, anywhere. ‘Maria,’ he says, voice unusually soft, low, ‘where are we?’

      But nerves rack me, and instead of speaking, I press my back into the bed, the cold cotton of the gown skimming my knees, goosebumps popping out.

      ‘I want to go home.’

      ‘You will. But first—that’s it, look at me, good—answer me: where are we?’

      I look between the woman and Black Eyes. When I open my mouth, my voice trembles. ‘I am in a Project facility.’

      ‘And who are the Project?’

      ‘It is a covert group linked to MI5.’

      ‘And what do we do?’

      Despite myself, despite my resistance, the words trip from my mouth, as if they are preset, robotic. ‘The Project is a covert programme formed in response to a global threat of terrorism and, specifically, cyber terrorism. It trains people with Asperger’s to use their unique, high IQ skills to combat security alerts. Only MI5 knows the organisation exists.’

      ‘And the UK government?’ he asks. ‘What of them—do they know who we are?’

      ‘Negative. They have no knowledge of the Project’s existence.’

      ‘Good.’ His chest puffs then deflates as his head bobs up and down, a smile snaking in to his face. ‘Good.’

      The woman nods once to Black Eyes then leaves via a door that has no handles or hinges. Black Eyes waits for her to exit then turns to me, perching himself on the end of the bed. I grip the sheets tight. At first he does not speak, but then, after two seconds, he opens his mouth and a precise, metallic voice strides out.

      ‘You will not remember being here, Maria. You won’t recall this conversation, you won’t recollect the details of the tests we carry out on you. But know that we are always watching you, are always … here for you. We are everywhere.’ He leans to the side and, from a metal trolley, picks up a loaded syringe. My heart rate rockets.

      ‘You are at school now, yes?’

      I swallow, confused. ‘No. I am not at school now. Now I am here.’

      He pauses, one second, two, three, his teeth appearing to clench. ‘Your teacher next year,’ he says finally, exhaling, ‘he will be working for us, helping us to watch you. These people you see nearly every day—they are your handlers. Even your family priest. But of course, you won’t—’ a strange mewed laugh emits from his mouth—‘you won’t remember.’ He sighs. ‘I cannot believe I am telling you this now—you’ll only forget. But Father Reznick, your friendly Catholic priest—he’s one of us.’ My eyes go wide. The priest? But I saw him kissing Mama. ‘Oh, the big brown eyes! Maria, I am growing to know you well now. You do remind me of my own daughter …’ He drifts off, momentarily looking downwards, the needle resting in his fingers, and I glance to the door and wish I could run. ‘Anyway,’ he says after a moment, ‘do not worry. When you go on to university and work, we will have our people there, too, Project people like me and you, people who will watch over what you do, even though you won’t, at the time, know they are with us.’ He flicks the needle with a finger. Sweat beads pop out all over my face. ‘Oh, there’s no need to fret,’ he says now, leaning in, studying the sheen on my forehead. ‘We are friends, aren’t we?’

      I recoil. ‘I do not have any friends.’

      He halts, tilting his skull. ‘No. No I don’t suppose you do.’ He drifts off again for a second, then, checking the needle, he handcuffs my wrist with his fingers and pulls my arm towards him. ‘Your mother, Ines—lovely woman, isn’t she?’

      I say nothing, instead watch his eyes narrow as they inspect the vial for air bubbles. Vomit wells in the base of my throat.

      ‘Shame she