Subject 375

‘What is your family name?’ I say.

‘You mean surname?’ Kurt shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Maria, I cannot say. Company policy.’

‘You are lying.’ I set the cup down on the table.

He sighs. ‘I do not lie.’

‘Everybody lies.’

‘Except you, correct? Isn’t that what you would say, Maria? I have seen your file, read your details.’ He smiles. ‘I know all about you.’

We both remain very still. Kurt’s eyes are narrowed, but I cannot determine what it means. All I know is that I have a tightening knot in my stomach that will not subside, with a voice in my head telling me again to run.

‘I have it in my notes,’ he says after a moment, ‘that following your blackout in segregation, you received help.’

‘Yes,’ I say quietly, the recollection of that day painful for me to think about. The room feels suddenly warm. I undo two buttons on my blouse, followed by a third; the fabric flaps against my skin in the morning breeze. I exhale, try to relax.

Kurt coughs.

‘What?’ I follow his eyeline. My chest. I can see the cotton of my bra.

‘Nothing.’ Another cough. ‘Maria, can you…can you tell me what help you received following your blackout in segregation?’

I pause. I know now exactly who tried to help me. And why. ‘A psychiatrist came to the segregation cell.’

He hits record. ‘I want you to tell me about that.’

He stares at me for three seconds. I rebutton my blouse.

Day must now be night because above my head the strobe lights hum, making me blink over and over, like staring straight at the sun.

I fall back, try to think, but my body throbs, my muscles and skin a sinew of stress. The signs. Normally I recognise them, can quell them, control them, but in here I cannot get a handle on myself, on my thoughts. I force my eyes shut and make myself think of my father. My safe place, my hideout. I inhale, try to imagine the soft apples of his cheeks, how his eyes would crinkle into a smile when he saw me, how he would sweep me into his arms, strong, secure. I open my eyes. My pulse is lowered, my breathing steady, but it is not enough. I need to think. If I remain in segregation I may not survive for long. I have to get out. But how?

I lower myself into the chair, my prison suit clinging to my skin, a stench of body odour jeering me. I am a mess. I hate to be in this state, out of control, in disarray. Allowing my body to slacken, I let my arm hang behind me. My fingers trace the cross, etched into the wall. I almost smile, because wherever I go, it is there: religion. All the priests, their rules. All of them controlling my mind, dictating life to me and everyone else, to a people, to a country, a government. Franco may have long died in Spain, but the Church will always be there.

I shake my head. Whether I want him to be or not, he is not in here now, the priest—he can’t be. So think. I must think if I want to get out of here. This is all just logic. The strip search. The incarceration. The segregation. Isolation. Fear. Panic.

I sit forward. Panic. Could that be it?

I glance at the door. Thick metal. Locked. Only one way out. Standing, I examine the room. Small. Three metres by five metres. One plastic chair: green, no armrest. One bed: mattress, no covers. Floor: rubber, bare. Walls: brick, half plastered in gunmetal grey.

I begin with my breathing; I draw in quick, sharp breaths, forcing myself to hyperventilate. It takes just over one minute, but, finally, it is done. My head swells and I try to ignore the dread in my stomach spreading through my body. I move to the cell door and bang hard, but my effort is lost in a sudden outbreak of shouts from the inmates across the walkway. I wince at the noise, count to ten, make a fist, bang again. This time: success. A guard shouts my name; she is coming over. I estimate it will take her seven seconds to reach my cell. I count. One, two, three, four. At five, I thrust my fingers down my throat. On seven, the window shutter opens above my head and a guard peers through.

‘Oh, shit!’

I vomit. My lunch splatters the floor.

A bolt unlocks. I count to three. One—two—three. I stumble, clutch my chest.

When the guard bursts in, she halts and mutters a swear word under her breath.

‘Martinez? You all right?’

I groan. Another guard enters. ‘Leave her! She’s bloody well fine.’

The guard by my side hesitates.

‘Come on!’ shouts the other.

My chance is slipping away. ‘Help,’ I croak, retching.

‘I’m sorry,’ crouching guard says, ‘but I think you are—’

I vomit. It sprays all over the floor, over the guard.

‘Oh, fuck.’

I mumble some words, but sick is lodged in my throat and it sounds as if I am choking.

‘Get a doctor!’ the guard shouts to her colleague. ‘Now!’

Chapter 4

The guard props me up against the wall. The brick is cold on my skin.

‘Is this cell five?’

There is a woman blocking the light by the cell door. She wears no uniform, has no baton.

The guard scowls at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’

The woman steps forward. Blonde hair snakes in a ponytail down her back. ‘I’m Dr Andersson,’ she says, her voice clipped, plum, like a newsreader. ‘Lauren Andersson, how do you do.’ She extends a neat little hand; the guard stands, ignores it.

Dropping her arm, Dr Andersson looks at me. ‘She needs to be out of here. Now.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says the guard. ‘Who the hell put you in charge? I only want you to check her over.’

‘I’m responsible for the physical and psychiatric well-being of the inmates here,’ Dr Andersson says, side-stepping the vomit. She points to me. ‘This woman is Maria Martinez.’ She folds her arms. ‘And she has been assigned to me.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since today.’ She pushes past the guard, crouches down and takes my wrist. She looks to her watch, checks my pulse, releases my arm. ‘This inmate’s pulse is up. Get her out. Now.’ When the guard does nothing, Dr Andersson stands, her neck taut, voice raised. ‘I said, now.’

I am hauled up under the arms by two guards. Dr Andersson informs them that I am, under no circumstances, to be returned to the segregation cell.

‘I have the full backing of the Governor,’ she says. ‘Do you understand?’

The guards nod.

‘Good. Take her to my office.’

‘So, how are you feeling?’

I don’t know how to answer the question. I am in Dr Andersson’s office. She is sitting at her desk, staring at me. The room is cool, the light low. My pulse has dropped, but still my muscles tense, my fists clench. Everything is disorientating me.

Dr Andersson crosses her legs and her hem slips above her knee. Her cheeks are pink and she has eyes shaped like over-sized almonds.

‘My throat is sore,’ I say, touching my neck, avoiding eye contact.

‘That is to be expected, given the vomiting.’ She swivels to her right and picks up a blood pressure monitor. She opens the strap. ‘Can you roll up your sleeve?’

‘Why?’

‘Blood pressure. You know. Routine.’

I hesitate, then slowly pull up the arm of my jumpsuit to find an apple-sized bruise. I gasp.

‘You did that in the cell?’

‘I think so. I do not remember.’

She peers at it, then after slipping the strap around my bicep, begins pumping the pressure valve. The sound of wheezing fills the air.

‘That was a panic attack you had just now,’ she says, watching the valve. ‘Do you have them often?’

‘Yes.’ I watch the dial turn, try to breathe, remain calm. ‘You can stop now.’

Dr Andersson pauses then deflates the pressure valve and unstraps the band. ‘Your blood pressure is slightly high.’

I rub my arm were the strap has been. What is happening to my body?

Dr Andersson folds the monitor kit and sets it on a table to her left. ‘Do you have a headache?’

‘Yes.’

‘Front or b—’

‘Front.’

‘Light-headedness?’

I nod.

She picks up a notepad and pen. ‘Dizziness?’

I swallow. ‘All the symptoms of anxiety. Yes.’

I don’t want to believe it, but it has to be true. My high blood pressure means I am stressed. In here, in this prison. Anxiety. Worry. Trauma. None of them are good for me. But I do not know what to do, don’t know how to handle the feelings, how to curb them from taking over.

As Dr Andersson writes something down, I distract my thoughts by scanning the room. Boxes sit unpacked in the corner, medical books teeter, stacked next to her desk. There are no personal pictures on her table, no certificates on the wall.

‘Maria? Are you okay?’

I look down at myself. I am rocking. I had not even realised.

‘Here. Drink some water.’ She holds out a plastic cup.

I take it and sip. The water cools my throat.

‘So, do you want to tell me what happened in there, in the segregation cell?’

‘You already know. I had a panic attack.’ I put the cup on the desk, my heart rate rising again. Maybe if I change the subject. ‘You said in the cell that you are a psychiatrist.’

‘Oh, right, yes. That’s correct. I studied medicine at the University of Stockholm then specialised in psychiatry at King’s College, London.’

‘In what year did you qualify?’

She breathes out. ‘Look, Maria, I would love to give you details on my entire professional history, but to be frank—’

‘But I need you to tell me,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘It helps me to focus. The details, facts, they—’

‘But to be frank,’ she continues, louder, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘that’s not what we’re here for. We are here to talk about you. To help you. You just had a major panic attack back there. Your blood pressure is up. You are experiencing classic symptoms of anxiety. So why don’t you let me help to calm you down, see how you are and guide you through all this, hmmm?’

‘Are you Swedish?’

She shakes her head. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your name. Andersson. It is Swedish.’

A sigh. ‘Look, Maria, can we—’

‘Lauren is a French name meaning “crowned with laurel”,’ I say at speed, desperate to cling on to any detail I can. ‘It has a Latin root that means “bay” or “laurel plant”. Lauren is the feminine form of the male name Laurence. In 1945, the name Lauren appeared for the first time in the top one thousand baby names in the United States.’

Dr Andersson stares at me. ‘Maria,’ she says after a moment, ‘have you ever talked to anyone about your Asperger’s?’

‘Why do you ask?’

She reaches to her desk and opens a file. My name is on the cover. ‘Your father,’ she says, opening the folder. ‘He died when you were ten. Correct?’

That stops me immediately. I swallow, nod.

‘How?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

She smiles. ‘Because I am your therapist here. And I need to know.’

I dart my eyes around the room. ‘You are new?’

‘Yes.’

My gaze settles on the half-open boxes. I pick out Dr Andersson’s name scrawled in black ink on the side and concentrate on it, so that when I speak about him, when the pain of the memory hits, it won’t be as hard. ‘It was a car accident in Spain,’ I say, eyes dead ahead. ‘Papa died in a car accident. He was returning from work. He was a prosecution lawyer.’

‘Maria, can you look at me?’

‘No.’ I am scared to. If I make eye contact, I may scream.

‘Okay. Okay.’ A quick clear of the throat. ‘Do you miss him, your father?”

I pull at a strand of hair by my ear. ‘Yes. Of course.’

She notes something down. ‘And how are you coping so far in prison with your Asperger’s?’

At this, I divert my attention to Dr Andersson’s watch. It is a TAG Heuer, loud tick. I can hear it in my head louder than I should. ‘My brain is making faster connections here.’ I stop. Everything is faster in this prison, in my head. I feel my arm where the blood pressure monitor squeezed my veins. The anxiety, the trauma—they must be the causes, the reasons why I feel different here. My head and my body are responding, trying to protect me. I think. The speed at which I could read the prison rules, suddenly recalling the algorithm in the segregation cell— it was all quicker, clearer. I have to write it down. Now. ‘I need a notepad and pen.’

‘Why?’

I pause. How do I describe it to her? How do I tell her that codes, numbers, data simply enter my head, procedures on how to complete tasks sauntering into my brain as if they own it. ‘I like to write information down, that is all.’

She suddenly sits forward. ‘Is that your Asperger’s?’ But before I can even reply, she is talking again. ‘You said your brain is making faster connections here.’

I clear my throat. ‘Yes.’

‘And is that normal?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me about it?’ When I do not respond, she says, ‘I can get you that notepad and pen.’

I look at her. Is she sincere? Is she on my side? I need that writing book, need to get this information out, like an itch that needs scratching. What choice, right now, do I have? I scan the room. There is a laptop on her desk. I stand and, leaning forward, pick it up.

‘Do you have something to unscrew this?’

Dr Andersson hesitates then, without speaking, opens a drawer and hands me a screwdriver. I unclip the back of the laptop and dismantle it. When all the insides of the laptop are spread out on the desk, I look up. ‘Time me on your watch.’

‘What?’

I point to her wrist. ‘Your watch. It has a stop clock function. I am going to reassemble this computer. Time me.’

She pauses, then slowly takes off her watch and lays it on the table.

Ignoring the intensity of her stare, I begin to reassemble the laptop. My fingers fly, putting everything back together. It is easy, like adding one to one, or drawing a circle on a piece of paper. Once each item is returned to its position, I pick up the screwdriver, replace the pins and secure the cover. I set down the screwdriver and flip over the laptop so it sits on the desk, right side up.

Dr Andersson clicks her watch and stretches out her hand. Her fingers skim the edge of the laptop.

‘What was my time?’ I ask.

‘Hmmm? Oh, thirty-seven seconds.’ Her eyes are still on the laptop. She looks to me, then drifts her gaze to the shelf above my head. ‘Try this,’ she says and, standing, reaches to the shelf and hands me something.

I take it. A Rubik’s Cube.

‘Can you do it?’

I turn the cube in my hand, study the colours. The red stands out more than the others, so much so that I have to squint.

‘How fast can you solve it?’

I hold up the cube. Its colours are all mixed up. ‘Press your stopwatch.’

She touches the button and I start. Swift. Skilled. I twist the sides, study each move, each turn until, just like that, the colours match. I bang it down on the desk, hardly a ripple in my breath.

Dr Andersson checks her watch but says nothing.

‘What was my time?’

She looks up yet still does not speak.

‘In 2011 at the Melbourne Winter Open Competition,’ I say, ‘the Rubik’s Cube record was set at 5.66 seconds. So that means—’

‘You did it in 4.62.’

I go still. I have never done it so quickly before. Four point six two seconds. My hand-to-eye coordination is accelerating, but why? How? I hold up my hands, study my fingers, blink at them as if they were precious diamonds, sparkling jewels.

Dr Andersson taps her chin. ‘That speed, that really is quite remarkable.’ She picks up a pen. ‘You have a high IQ, correct?’

I continue to stare at my hands. ‘Yes.’

‘Photographic memory?’

‘Yes.’ My hands return to my lap. I need to tap my thumb a little, let out the stress.

‘How are you at spotting patterns?’

‘Very good. A family priest used to help me when I was a little younger.’

‘A priest? Goodness.’ She sets down her pen, slips one leg over the other. ‘Okay, Maria, here’s what I think: it is possible the prison environment is affecting your Asperger’s. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. All the sights, sounds, smells for your brain to process. Asperger’s is thought to be a result of widespread irregularity in the brain, a neurodevelopmental anomaly that could be controlled by environmental influences. There was a recent study in the US on it. Perhaps that is what we are seeing here with you.’

I think about this. ‘Prison is modifying my brain?’

‘In an accelerated fashion, yes. Maybe. But not modifying per se—that implies curtailing you. Let’s just say affecting your mind, hmm?’

I touch my head where my brain sits, my modified, neurodevelopmentally affected brain. There are times when I detest it, being me, my head, my neuro issues. Hate it. Locked into myself. Jailed by my own white and grey matter.

Dr Andersson swings her chair towards a cupboard behind her and opens the door. I rake my hands through my hair, scratching my scalp deliberately—my penance.

‘Maria, I just need to take some blood samples now.’

I drop my hands. My internal alarm bells ring. ‘Why do you require bloods?’

She hangs her head to the side. ‘Oh, just routine.’

‘But you are a psychiatrist…not a medic.’

She shuts the cupboard and faces the table. ‘I have a remit to monitor patients.’ She sets out five tubes and a blood-work bag already labelled with my name and prison number.

‘But I am an inmate, not a patient.’ I start to feel uneasy, agitated. I scratch the desk with my nail. ‘What tests are you sending to pathology?’

She unpeels the syringe wrapping. ‘I am sending a full blood count.’ She unwraps the additional four vials and picks up the one already loaded with the needle. ‘Okay?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, scratch harder. ‘No. My blood work is normal. And a full blood count request does not require five tubes of blood.’ I scrape the wood of the desk again and again. This is not routine. Over and over in my head, I repeat: This is not routine.

Dr Andersson lets out a sigh. ‘Look, Maria, I’m sure your blood work is normal. I’m sure it will come back fine. You are a doctor. A medical doctor.’ She says the word ‘medical’ slowly. ‘But you are here now. In Goldmouth. In prison. And in prison, there are different rules. And the rule, right now, is that I have to take blood. From you. Today.’ She pauses, softens. ‘I know it is a change for you, not routine, shall we say, being here. I understand your brain functions differently. And I know that is a struggle for you at times. But this is the way it has to be.’

I say nothing. The phrase, This is not routine, laps around my mind like a motorcycle with the accelerator permanently down, engine screeching, rubber tyres burning. I can’t stop it.

Dr Andersson bites her lip. ‘Maria, it’s okay. Trust me.’

This is not routine. This is not routine.

‘You’ve been through a lot,’ she continues. ‘Let me take the blood now. I have scheduled another appointment for you with myself and the Governor. All routine.’

The monologue in my head pauses, the engines stall. She said ‘routine’.

‘See?’ Dr Andersson says, nodding.

Slowly, I withdraw my hand from scratching. ‘This…this is a routine here, in prison?’ I say, gesturing to the needles.

‘Of course. And, with your Asperger’s, I have instructed the Governor that, in my professional opinion, you require extra assistance from me, to help with your need for routine.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘He has asked to meet you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Is that okay?’

She has no certificates on the walls, no university degrees. As if she is not even certified to practice. It does not seem right, somehow. Yet, nothing seems right any more. Nothing makes sense. I rub my forehead, try to wipe away the confusion.

‘Maria?’

I point again to the needle, attempt to act like a normal person. ‘This is routine, you are certain?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you will get me a notebook and pen?’

She opens a drawer, takes out a fresh pad and pen. ‘There you go.’

My eyes go wide at the sight and I snatch them, hungry to hold them. Only when I have the items do I allow myself to exhale, my whole body loosening, limbs, bones tired, worn out, and I realise there, in the room, that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. Maybe routine is what I need. A routine and my writing. Maybe then I can begin to feel some semblance of humanity inside me, rather than some half-wild, chained-up animal. I roll up my sleeve and hold out my arm.

‘Thank you,’ Dr Andersson says.

Sitting forward and with a slash of a smile on her lily-white face, she taps my vein. The needle pierces my skin and I watch, weary, limp, as my blood floods into the vial.

Chapter 5

Kurt laces his fingers together. ‘So you are saying you simply took the laptop apart and put it back together?’

I have told Kurt everything, but he won’t move on from this. I can feel my body become rigid, angry. ‘Yes.’ I shift once in my seat. ‘That is what I said.’

He pauses. ‘And that is the truth?’

‘Yes. If I say it, it is true.’ I stay still. Does he not believe me? Why is he asking me all these questions about it?

‘You know our memories can play tricks on us,’ he says after a second. ‘What we think we remember cannot always be what actually happened.’

‘It happened,’ I snap.

He smiles at me, nods, but otherwise does nothing.

I tip back my head. Already, this is too much for me. My muscles ache and my shoulders feel heavy. Why is Kurt questioning what I have told him? Is it a therapist trick? Should I be on guard? Should I talk? I roll my head side to side. The session is tiring for me, the level of concentration, the social interactions—all exhausting. I flip my skull up and glance over to the window. The sun is sprinkled in a sugar-spin of clouds, and from the street below there is a shrill of laughter, the distant clink of glasses. People happy, living regular lives.

‘Maria?’

I turn from the window. ‘What?’

‘This meeting with the Governor, the one Dr Andersson mentioned. You did not know, prior to then, that you were to meet him?’

I pause. ‘No.’

‘Can you expand on that?’

I think for a moment. ‘No.’

He holds my gaze and I feel I want to squirm under the glare, unable to bear it. ‘What sort of things did he talk with you about, the Governor?’

I keep my eyes lowered. ‘The Governor introduced himself,’ I say. I smooth down my trousers twice. ‘He talked to me about why I was there, about the daily prison routine, the earned privilege scheme.’

‘And what else, Maria?’

I look up now. He is too inquisitive; I cannot tell him everything. Not yet. ‘Why do you want to know?’

He sighs. ‘Maria, I am your therapist. I ask questions. It is what I do.’ His eyes flicker to the corner of the room. It is only for a split second, but I see it.

‘Is there something there?’ I say, twisting my torso to look.

‘No. It’s nothing.’

I watch him. His legs are crossed, his back is straight. In control.

‘Maria?’

‘What?’

‘I would like you to tell me about it now.’

‘Tell you about what?’

‘About your meeting with the Governor.’

He reaches for a glass of water and that is when I pinpoint it: he is always in control. So why does his control make me nervous?

‘Maria,’ Kurt says, suddenly leaning in towards me so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face, like the soft bristle of a brush. ‘Time to talk.’

I have a new cell.

It is in the regular section of the prison and it smells of cabbage and faeces. The source of the smell is the metal-rimmed toilet in the corner. There is no door, no screen. I stare at the cistern and the washbasin standing beside it. Dirty, grimy, vomit-inducing. The stench of urine hangs heavy in the air, impregnating it, penetrating every molecule, every tiny atom.