Read Online Spider in the Corner of the Room (The Project Trilogy) by Nikki Owen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nikki Owen
Ads: Link
that’s what people sometimes do. A bit of teeth.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I scan my brain. Is she cross? So, I drop the laugh, recall what a concerned face may look like and attempt to replicate that. ‘Women in prison are five times more likely to have mental health issues compared to the general population. In the UK.’
‘What the—’ She wipes spit from her mouth. ‘Are you saying I’m mental?’
‘No, I—’
‘You what? You fucking what?’
She leans forward, then suddenly—before I can move, think, assess—she knocks me to the floor. My notebook flies from my pants and slides out of reach. Panic. Fear. A rocket of blood pressure. My hands reach for the notepad, but Michaela jumps on me with her whole torso. Foul body odour. Clammy skin. Suffocating me. She pins me down, flies fists into my face, raining them down on me like giant hailstones. I try to move my head, tossing it from side to side, try to lift my left arm, legs, feet, hands, but she has me locked, chained by her limbs. Desperate, I feel for my notebook and, to my fleeting relief, manage to grab it as another fist hurtles towards me, but this time, somehow, I roll to the side, knee her hard in the groin. She screams. I scramble, clawing my way across the floor, but then sheseizes me again, flings me to the wall like her battered prey. The notebook spins away and out of sight.
Michaela stops, her shoulders heaving, chest lurching. Thinking she will hit me again, I crouch, gulp in air. Blood trickles down my forehead.
‘You should watch your mouth,’ she says, her breathing hard, heavy.
My ribs throb. I wince. Two, maybe three, are broken.
‘You gone fucking mute? Say something.’
Boots. The sound of guards’ boots on the walkway.
Michaela looks to the door then takes one step forward. Then another.
I raise my hands over my head, fingers trembling.
‘You need to stay where you are, Martinez,’ Michaela says, her voice barely audible. But even in my frightened state, even though I fear she will kill me, I hear it, there, something different about her voice. Her accent. It is Scottish; no longer East London. Scottish.
‘You have to stay in here,’ she says. ‘Stay in Goldmouth. It is vital, understand? We know who you are. You need to stay put. Or Callidus will come knocking. Forget Father Reznik, you hear? Forget he was ever there. You shouldn’t have come looking in the first place. Either of you.’
I spit out some blood. ‘What is Callidus?’ I say through ragged breaths.
She bends down so her face is almost touching mine. ‘Callidus is something that doesn’t exist.’
‘How do you know about Father Reznik?’ But she does not reply. ‘How?’ I yell. ‘What do you mean, “either of us”?’
Inhaling, Michaela steps back and raises her fists. ‘Fucking cunt!’ she yells with one eye on the door. I go rigid.Her accent. The tone of how she now speaks…Her London voice is back. Raw terror explodes inside me, ripping into me, tearing me to pieces. This woman knows we were looking for him, me and the priest. She knows. Yet how? Who is she? I need help. Now, I need…
But Michaela lets out a wild scream, one ear-piercing howl. And before I can respond, before an unfamiliar instinct to launch myself at her can kick in, she punches me clean in the head.
Then: nothing.
‘And did you believe her, this Michaela?’ Kurt says.
Two hours have gone. Lost. How did that happen? I look from the clock to Kurt and realise that I haven’t answered him yet. ‘Yes, I believed her. Why would I not?’
Kurt crosses his legs. ‘You said Michaela mentioned something called Callidus, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I assume you know what it means?’
I scarcely move. My fingers begin to tap furiously on my knee, the phrase,
who is he
, whipping round my head like a tornado, a lethal storm. Can he be aware of what it really is? What it really stands for? ‘What do you know?’ I finally say, and I am surprised
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I scan my brain. Is she cross? So, I drop the laugh, recall what a concerned face may look like and attempt to replicate that. ‘Women in prison are five times more likely to have mental health issues compared to the general population. In the UK.’
‘What the—’ She wipes spit from her mouth. ‘Are you saying I’m mental?’
‘No, I—’
‘You what? You fucking what?’
She leans forward, then suddenly—before I can move, think, assess—she knocks me to the floor. My notebook flies from my pants and slides out of reach. Panic. Fear. A rocket of blood pressure. My hands reach for the notepad, but Michaela jumps on me with her whole torso. Foul body odour. Clammy skin. Suffocating me. She pins me down, flies fists into my face, raining them down on me like giant hailstones. I try to move my head, tossing it from side to side, try to lift my left arm, legs, feet, hands, but she has me locked, chained by her limbs. Desperate, I feel for my notebook and, to my fleeting relief, manage to grab it as another fist hurtles towards me, but this time, somehow, I roll to the side, knee her hard in the groin. She screams. I scramble, clawing my way across the floor, but then sheseizes me again, flings me to the wall like her battered prey. The notebook spins away and out of sight.
Michaela stops, her shoulders heaving, chest lurching. Thinking she will hit me again, I crouch, gulp in air. Blood trickles down my forehead.
‘You should watch your mouth,’ she says, her breathing hard, heavy.
My ribs throb. I wince. Two, maybe three, are broken.
‘You gone fucking mute? Say something.’
Boots. The sound of guards’ boots on the walkway.
Michaela looks to the door then takes one step forward. Then another.
I raise my hands over my head, fingers trembling.
‘You need to stay where you are, Martinez,’ Michaela says, her voice barely audible. But even in my frightened state, even though I fear she will kill me, I hear it, there, something different about her voice. Her accent. It is Scottish; no longer East London. Scottish.
‘You have to stay in here,’ she says. ‘Stay in Goldmouth. It is vital, understand? We know who you are. You need to stay put. Or Callidus will come knocking. Forget Father Reznik, you hear? Forget he was ever there. You shouldn’t have come looking in the first place. Either of you.’
I spit out some blood. ‘What is Callidus?’ I say through ragged breaths.
She bends down so her face is almost touching mine. ‘Callidus is something that doesn’t exist.’
‘How do you know about Father Reznik?’ But she does not reply. ‘How?’ I yell. ‘What do you mean, “either of us”?’
Inhaling, Michaela steps back and raises her fists. ‘Fucking cunt!’ she yells with one eye on the door. I go rigid.Her accent. The tone of how she now speaks…Her London voice is back. Raw terror explodes inside me, ripping into me, tearing me to pieces. This woman knows we were looking for him, me and the priest. She knows. Yet how? Who is she? I need help. Now, I need…
But Michaela lets out a wild scream, one ear-piercing howl. And before I can respond, before an unfamiliar instinct to launch myself at her can kick in, she punches me clean in the head.
Then: nothing.
‘And did you believe her, this Michaela?’ Kurt says.
Two hours have gone. Lost. How did that happen? I look from the clock to Kurt and realise that I haven’t answered him yet. ‘Yes, I believed her. Why would I not?’
Kurt crosses his legs. ‘You said Michaela mentioned something called Callidus, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I assume you know what it means?’
I scarcely move. My fingers begin to tap furiously on my knee, the phrase,
who is he
, whipping round my head like a tornado, a lethal storm. Can he be aware of what it really is? What it really stands for? ‘What do you know?’ I finally say, and I am surprised
Similar Books
