Читать книгу The Girl Who Ran - Nikki Owen - Страница 12

Goldenpass railway line, The Alps, Switzerland.

Time remaining to Project re-initiation: 26 hours and 20 minutes

I am unable to pull my eyes from the palette of watercolour before me. Aching blue lagoons of sky sifting in a mist of citrus and orange peel. Carpets of green grass shoots sprinkled with sugar flakes of snow all scattered among petals of spring painted with brush strokes of yellows and lilacs and multi-coloured confetti. Majestic mountains rise up, backs straight, muscles taut, mountains that, each time I gaze at them, each second I take in their strong, solid presence as they whisk past the window, a lump forms in my throat. When my sight drifts up to the fading turquoise of the sky, my breathing softens, and I think to myself that no matter what happens, no matter what wars are raged, what lives are slain, what untruths are spewed and sewn, the mountains that soar high above us are always there. Solid, present and true.

‘Doc, you okay?’

I peel my forehead from the window. Patricia now wears a wine-red sweat top with a hood and pocket, and on her legs blue jeans the colour of the night sea hug her skin. Her brown wig is still in place, as is Chris’s bottle-blonde mane as he sits by us hunched over his laptop. We are all now casually dressed, but, despite the simple comfort of the clothes, the fresh cardboard cotton of the t-shirt I currently wear itches my skin, irritating me. It’s unbearable, so I go to take it off, but Patricia reaches forward.

‘No, Doc. Not here.’

I stop. ‘Why?’

‘People don’t get changed down to their bras in public places.’

I drop my hand. ‘Oh.’

Scratching my stomach to bat away the clothing annoyance, I glance round the carriage. It is sparse. An old man with white hair wearing a pressed herringbone coat, black tie, cotton-blue shirt sits two seats beyond reading a daily newspaper containing headlines about the NSA and their surveillance of the German Head of State. Near to him is perched a young woman, small bird-like shoulders hunched over a worn-out copy of Animal Farm, the dog ears of the cover touching the tips of ten porcelain fingers as she turns the page, nails bitten, faded black jeans on petite, slim legs.

The only other group in the carriage is a father in his early thirties with two children, both boys under the age of ten, one nestled under each arm. The children are swaddled in navy blue duffle coats sewn with eight toggles apiece and they sit across a wooden table, opposite an elderly woman whose stomach and chin rest in kneaded batches of dough, square metal-framed glasses perched on the tip of a podgy nose as, making conversation with the small family, she points out the various Alpine sights that trundle past.

I observe the father for a moment, watch the way he smiles each time one of his sons whoops or claps at spotting a random cow or a snow-covered mountain top. A father, living, breathing. I hold my gaze on the family scene then, swallowing hard, I touch the picture of my Papa and the photograph of Isabella and her baby.

‘Hey,’ Patricia says, leaning forwards a little, ‘what’ve you done to your thumb?’

‘What?’

‘Your thumb – have you hurt yourself?’

I glance down at the small wound peeking out beneath a pale plaster still partially wet with blood. ‘I cut it.’

‘Where?’

‘In the toilets in Zurich.’

She leans forward. ‘Ooof, that looks sore. Must have been some wallop you gave it.’

I hide my hand out of sight and try to ignore the sting. ‘It is healing.’

The train jostles on and I take out my notebook, careful to avoid contact with my thumb. I check our current location against the brief list I have compiled to help me tackle the journey. Places, times, exact locations, short, sketched scenarios.

Satisfied we are on schedule, I peer through the wide window again and breathe easier. I turn my attention to Chris and his laptop.

‘Have you hacked the Weisshorn database yet?’

He shakes his head. ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense.’

‘What does not make sense?’

Chris sits back, scratches his chin. ‘Well, okay, so I’m in their system, yeah – the hospital’s. I still can’t find Isabella’s name, but, either way, there seems to be some kind of glitch with my computer.’ He swivels his laptop to me and points. ‘See it?’

There are a series of numbers, stretching across the screen and linking to the database Chris is trying to hack. ‘They are codes,’ I say.

He nods. ‘I know, right? And every time I click on them, the screen shakes, just for a second.’ He shows me, and, sure enough, it shakes.

Patricia leans in to see. ‘Why’s it doing that?’

‘No idea. I’ve checked the OS, but it’s all fine.’

‘Can you not tell using a file or something and bypass the shake, or whatever you do?’

‘Nope. My trace files won’t open right now. No idea why.’

Connections firing, I rip open my notebook and cross-reference my written data with the online file then sit back. Nerves prick my spine. Something is not right. I wait for a second, think through the program on the laptop with the details in my notebook from dreams long gone. The motion of the train back and forth, the rhythm and gentle chug of the sound and its predictable pattern soothes my brain, and I flip through my cerebral files, checking, referencing, interweaving the recalled data in my mind as if it were open in a book in front of me. Connections, link, numbers…

‘There’s a thread,’ I say finally, noting that just five seconds have passed.

Chris’s eyes flip wide open. ‘Jesus, that was quick.’ He’s right – even for me that was fast work. The train, the lull of it, the empty white bowl of the mountains and snow – that must be enabling my mind to work at such speed. Patricia watches me closely, frowning.

‘The thread,’ I continue, scanning the laptop, ‘is linked by an algorithm like this one’— I swivel my notebook to him— ‘that attributes a line at the back of this hacking program into the hospital.’

‘What? You serious?’ He peers at the page. ‘You got all that from there? But what does it mean?’

I try to think it through, but the woman with Animal Farm breaks open a baguette of ham and cheese and the scent flicks at my nostrils. Butter, stale bread, sloppy ham with veins of fat, the sugary fug of processed cheese. I pinch my nose shut and, trying to focus on anything but the smell, look to Chris’s laptop and the information from the hospital contained on it. The data merges together in my mind, line after line of it racking up a catalogue of knowledge at such speed and with such force that I have to slam my palm down on the table to steady myself. I am aware of the stares towards me, but I ignore them, focus on the screen as, slowly then faster still, an answer begins to form, until, with fear, I realise what is happening.

‘There is a tracker.’ I swallow. ‘It’s linked to the program, activated when you connected with the hospital database.’ How did I come to that conclusion so fast?

‘What?’ Chris studies the screen, eyes wide. ‘Holy fuck! But if they’ve targeted my actual laptop it means that, whoever’s done that, whoever’s singled this device out must have done it deliberately. They must have known I’d try and get into Weisshorn and as soon as I did, they sent a virus to my computer to locate it. Fuck.’

‘It may not be deliberate. It is common for servers to have an instant defence virus attack sent out when any hacking is detected.’

Chris’s shoulders drop and his features visibly soften. ‘Oh God, d’you think so? God, yeah, shit. I should know that – do know that. Sorry. I’m just… Fuck. This kind of stuff makes me nervous.’ He leans over his laptop, fingers moving fast. ‘I’ll cut all links now to their database and get out of there. I have software that should stop any viruses, but it must have bypassed it.’

Patricia watches us. ‘What if hacking into that database means they know where we are? I mean, they can do that, right? Find locations and stuff?’

We stare at her. Chris swallows. ‘She’s right.’

‘So it would be better,’ Patricia says, ‘if we… if we get off this train?’

Chris smacks the laptop shut, throws his hands up as if the computer were a hot coal, a burning ember. ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’

Panic wells inside me at the prospect of the Project finding us before the investigation can cull them. I steady myself, gaze out at the patches of snowflakes that stick on the window. Outside, deep lakes give way to fields of fir trees and sugar-dusted green pasture. Sometimes I imagine that if I look at nature long enough, it will make everything better and, like the snowflakes melting on the warmth of the window, it will all disappear.

I turn to speak to Chris, when a tannoy announces in French, German then English that Brunig-Hasliberg is the next station up. At the barking sound, my hands slap to my ears while, ahead, the two boys whoop and clap and tell their father that this is the best train trip ever, and can they have some sweets.

Patricia looks to me. ‘Doc?’ She jabs a finger to her ears. ‘The tannoy’s stopped.’

‘We need to get off this train as soon as we can,’ Chris says. He is fidgeting – does that mean he is anxious? ‘I’ll have to leave this laptop on here so they won’t find us – it’ll be full of the virus now.’ He fumbles over a paper map looking for a station.

I lower my hands. ‘Interlaken Station would provide a good place to alight the train as it is located between lakes Thun and Brienz. It will therefore provide more places to hide, and better access to more low-key transport opportunities. It is also a place popular with backpackers.’

Chris nods. ‘Okay, yeah – I see where you’re going with this. If it’s full of backpackers, we can slip right in, unnoticed. Awesome.’

‘It’s not on our routine, Doc,’ Patricia says to me. ‘Will an unscheduled stop be okay with you? I’m not sure if you can cope.’

‘I can… cope.’

Patricia gives me a flicker of a smile. I drink in her face, her soft smile, and feel happiness. Soon the train begins to ascend, lurching and heaving through the white dust of the mountain that yawns steep through the Brunig pass. As I observe the lakes laid out in mirrors of deep blue ice alongside our carriage of glass and gold, I worry about the tracker linked to Chris’s computer, and so to remain calm, I watch Patricia and I tell myself how lucky I am to have finally found, amid this confusing world that changes in a heartbeat of time, someone whom I can truly trust.

Deep cover Project facility.

Present day

We walk along a white corridor with low-level bulbs that do not assault my senses. All is quiet.

Black Eyes strides by my side. In his hand is clutched his folder, and in the light that glows down in calm, controlled pools beneath our boots, his fingernails appear to glisten as they pinch the plastic edges of the documents.

We reach a junction and halt. Having witnessed Patricia behind the glass pane just moments before, I am jittery and my finger taps the side of my thigh where my combats skim my skin, The cold air gives me goose bumps. Black Eyes shifts his vision down. He regards my finger where it flaps and, with a flicker of a frown, he flares his nostrils and returns his chin to its upright position. No one speaks.

I count my breaths while we walk further to within the bowels of the building. I find myself, illogically, searching for Patricia everywhere. I try to stop doing it. I know it is wrong – no longer is she my friend and even though the memory of her skin beaten into blueberry bruises on her neck and arms and legs haunts my mind, I tell myself that the Project alone should be my only focus, that what they do is for the greater good. Yet still, images of her broken body enter my thoughts and I have to push them away, place one foot in front of the other and recite in my head as many birth dates of classical composers as I can.

Black Eyes remains quiet as we halt, and a familiar whoosh sound hisses into the air as, before us, a door bows open into a room that I have never entered before. I pause, suddenly nervous, but unsure why.

‘Maria,’ Black Eyes says, extending a periscope of an arm forwards, ‘please enter.’

I peer into the room. It stretches towards a larger door three metres beyond. I walk in upon instruction then halt as told, and turn.

‘Where we are about to go,’ Black Eyes says, ‘is all part of your therapy, Maria. Do you understand that?’

I nod, yet inside there is uncertainty building. I have so many questions but am nervous to ask them, and when Black Eyes looks at me, it feels as if he can see into my head, read my thoughts. I press my lips tight together. Nothing in, nothing out.

‘Patricia O’Hanlon,’ Black Eyes says now, consulting his file, ‘should no longer be regarded as a friend, colleague or anything else of significance by you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He lets out a sigh. ‘I know this part is difficult. We are accustomed to the trauma individuals feel – the assault of noise and thoughts and smells, so where I am about to take you will shut all that off and allow you to have no intrusions, help you to… come to terms with your situation, yes?’

‘Yes.’ The room swims a little. I press my heels hard into the floor as an anchor.

‘So, Maria, shall we?’

Black Eyes gestures to the next door and closes his folder, and as he does I catch sight of the photograph that lies on the main page: Patricia. Her skin is clear, before the cuts and bruises, her neck long and slim, and while the sudden image of her alarms me, what grabs my curiosity the most is the word dangerous stamped in red writing across her face.

I begin to move forwards, normal, try not to show any eye movement toward the document while I work through the unexpected reaction in my head. I register an emotion – what? Anger? Hurt? For some reason unknown, seeing 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.