A Spider In The Eye

by Mark Hayes

  To say then that I was restrained, was in truth, putting it mildly. That I was trussed up like a Soho harlot at the Rear Admiral’s Ball would be a better description.

  The water hit me hard in the face in the way that only water can be hard. It was also as I mentioned cold and salty. No more than a few degrees above freezing. The rushing shock of it burned away that last vestige of my grogginess, I was suddenly and fully, awake.

  That shock gave way to a relentless cold drip of moisture as the water ran down my bare chest. I tried to look down but thanks to the restraints I could only see my knees. I was, at least, relieved to find I was still wearing trousers. Though it was a relief so small as to barely register beyond the shock and naked terror I felt at that precise moment.

  I became vaguely aware of a warm patch in the soaking wetness of my trousers, and shame hit me. A shame I last felt as a schoolboy in my first term at Rudgley. Waking to a wet bed and abusive laughter from my dorm mates. It felt no less shameful to me at that moment sat in that pool of light. Fear returns us to the small child in all of us.

  “Good morning again, Mr Smyth. Glad you’re back with us. I was afraid you were going to sleep through the whole day, and that would not do at all. I am interminably busy with affairs of state after all. The crown is always moving, Mr Smyth. Always moving, if only to stand still.”

  I recognised the voice as that belonged to the insidious M. But then who else but that horrible little rodent of a man?

  I couldn’t see him, however. He must have stood ahead of me, beyond the light.

  I tried to venture a reply; perhaps I even tried to put out some brave defiance to make myself feel better if nothing else. But the straps holding my head still were also clamping my jaw tight shut. Making it impossible for me to express my joy at making his acquaintance again. Or more likely comparing him to a rutting man of ill determined parentage.

  Another wave of panic hit me. I thrashed at the restraints, achieving nothing but aching muscles fighting against the hold upon them. I still felt nauseous, and a little on the groggy side. Whatever the Sleep Men had pumped into my arm was still in my system. My coherence would’ve been minimal at best even if I could talk. But whatever mumbled noise I made, the architect of my restraint took it upon himself to interpret my replies.

  “Yes, yes, I am sure you are quite angry to find yourself tied up by the business of the crown, and I am sure you wish to complain loudly about it, at great length. Unfortunately for you I do not have the time to spare, so I am afraid I must deny myself the pleasure of your insights,” he said with a dismissive tone. Then laughed to himself. Had I been more with it, I’d perhaps have appreciated whatever subtle joke amused him. Though I suspect it was less humour and more the special kind of vindictive sadism that the public school system beats into its pupils.

  “Mmmehuh.”

  “Yes my dear fellow, quite right, indeed we should get on. Time waits for no one, and the sun may never set upon the Empire, but it moves past the yardarm. I would offer you a gin and tonic but we must restrain ourselves while business is at hand, must we not?” he said, laughing that nasty snivel of a laugh once more.

  “MMmehhshhh,” I replied with feeling. The more coherent my thoughts became, the angrier I was. I raged against my own jaw, until it was aching from the pointless effort to speak, which says something of my state of mind.

  I saw M’s hand appear in the pool of light just long enough to wave someone from the side. More panic ensued as I noticed a figure in my peripheral vision. One of the Sleep Men, I was sure, moving with slow malevolence to my left. I wished I could turn my head to see what the figure was doing. Then I considered that it might be a blessing I couldn’t. There is some benefit at times to not knowing.

  No one quite knows who, or for that matter what, the Sleep Men are. Well, no one I’ve ever spoken to anyway, but everyone knows a dozen or more rumours, each one worse than the last. I guessed M could have told me, had he been willing, or I in a position to ask. But I was far from sure I wanted to know. The rumours always claimed they belonged to some ministry or other, and worked only on ministry business. No one ever said which ministry. I guess now I knew the answer to that particular riddle. What was I just saying about the benefits of not knowing…

  The revelation that this mysterious ministry spoken of in hushed tones, that employed Sleep Men to further its aims, was the one M hailed from did nothing to settle my disquiet. A shadowy ministry, they said, one that didn’t have official documents published in the press or report to the house. A ministry that did things that the others could not and reported only to the palace. The kind of rumours spoken of in the back rooms of the pub by men with skittish eyes and one too many pints in their bellies.

  Personally, until now I’d always put it down as so much hogwash. Like most conspiracy theories. As close to the truth of things as that crazy story about Old Queen Vic visiting a hush-hush pool in darkest Africa every few years and coming back younger than she left. Or that the French had a surreptitious craft that sailed under water and committed acts of piracy with impunity. Or any of the other crazy stories that people told with one too many in them.

  If I’d time to reflect, I’d have probably been hoping right then that most of the rumours I’d heard about The Ministry were overblown codswallop. Later, much later, I came to think of them as the tip of a very dark iceberg. But I get ahead of myself again, so I’ll say no more on the subject for now.

  In short, then, I’d found myself restrained, and was still in somewhat of a panic about it when M finally stepped forward into the pool of light. His face was emotionless and cold, even with the vague smile on his lips. He peered at me, as one might peer at an insect pinned to a display in the Natural History Museum, if you are inclined to entomology. I was quite certain at the time that this was exactly how he perceived me to be.

  “Now Mr Smyth, I am going to present you with an opportunity, one which if we are honest with each other you do not deserve at all. But the empire has found itself to have a need for you, and you are a man of some talent, even if those talents are mostly for fraudulent activities and criminal acts. You do, it seems, have an uncanny ability to lie with a certain convincing quality to everyone, including yourself. The Empire always has a use or two for good liars and thieves even if we do not choose to admit such publicly. Luckily we seldom find ourselves to have a shortage of them.”

  “Mmmemmhh,” I replied with bitter anger.

  “Come now, a man should admit his talents, even when they lean to the petty and larcenous.”

  “Mehhh.”

  “Quite, Mr Smyth, quite. Nevertheless you also have at least one quality which is unique in your case. One which is of certain use to the crown in a delicate endeavour. So I have found myself empowered to offer you an opportunity to avoid the noose and redeem yourself.”

  He leant closer to me. Close enough that I could smell the small man’s cologne, a hint of cigar and a good single malt. I wanted to turn away. I didn’t understand what M was getting at. Don’t mistake me, I’ve a gift for manipulation, of people, of situations, of truths. But that hardly made me unique. In my experience, everyone lies a little about who they are. Both to others and to themselves. I’d no idea what unique quality I possessed which could make me of use to this man. Who for all his protestations showed little inclination to get to the point.

  M pulled back from my field of vision for a few moments, before returning, holding an intricate little wooden box. Cedar or some other hardwood inlaid with brass etching. It reminded me of nothing other than an overlarge snuff box. Something I’d never evolved a taste for myself, even when they started adding cocaine to the mix. Mainly in truth, this was because it remains a preserve of the rich due to the prices of the best mixes. I have never quite been in a position to afford my own supply. Give me a pipe of good tobacco or a cigar any day.

  Besides which, it always seems a waste of good cocaine to mix it with the rest of the stuff they put in snuff. />
  Despite my aversion to the snuffing up of copious amounts of the noxious powder that was such a fad these days, I could recognise quality workmanship in such boxes. A by-product of having a certain avarice for small portable things that are easy to pass off to less honest pawnbrokers. M’s snuff box, for example, would have caught my eye if left on a saloon bar table unattended. It was of particularly fine quality. Though at that moment I was more concerned with the brass etching on the top of the box than thoughts of avarice. It bore the same crossed syringe crest as that which was emblazoned on the Sleep Men’s sleeves.

  “Now Mr Smyth, personally I feel we should be able to trust you. You are I am sure a loyal subject of her Britannic Majesty after all.”

  “Meheehhhh,” I replied, which in truth was an attempt to affirm. Mainly because I felt it was required of me and that now wasn’t the time to remonstrate. There was something particularly threatening about that otherwise unassuming little box and what it might hold within it.

  Maybe it was residual effects of whatever they had gassed me with, maybe not, but that box seemed the most terrifying thing in the room. Given the circumstances I found myself in, that says rather a lot.

  “Yes… Yes… Of course. You’re as loyal as the next Englishman, I am sure. But as I am sure you are aware, these are dark days, Mr Smyth, dark days indeed. Dark days for Britain, for the Empire, why for the Queen herself. Don’t you agree…?”

  “Mehhhehhh.”

  “Yes, of course you do, and I am sure as a loyal subject of the Queen you can no doubt understand the need for a little caution on my part, a little insurance as it were. We, by which I mean Her Imperial Majesty’s government, are about to send you on a delicate and important mission. In such circumstances, it would be remiss of us not to hold to some guarantee of your loyalty. Beyond that is, your ‘honest’ word. Dark days Mr Smyth. Dark days, when an Englishman’s word is not enough, I know. All the same, one is obligated to live in the modern age. Victoria’s reign is as strong as it ever was but the word of Englishmen has proved somewhat weaker of late than we would care to admit. It is in the here and now of it that we must dwell, not the forgone days when a man’s word was all that was ever required. I am sure you understand.”

  “Mehhhhhh,” I replied, with an edge of panic once more, though it was panic on top of panic it should be said. Also a measure of exasperation. M, however, seemed to warm to a captive audience, and I was very much that.

  “Allow me then to introduce you to a little friend of the crown, a wonderful little device designed by a Mr Gates to whom we had the great pleasure to offer asylum. An American, you understand, a tad eccentric and colonial for my tastes, but a dashed clever chap all the same. Unlucky for him, he was born in the former United States. But one man’s excrement is another man’s manure, and he is working wonders for us, a real boffin you might say, as long as we keep him away from the windows. He has proved himself to be a boon to the Empire with his clever little devices. Like this one…”

  As he spoke, M pushed open the lid of the box and held it up for me to see. Inside there seemed to be nothing but a tiny spider. I almost wanted to laugh.

  ‘Was this it?’ I wondered. Some elaborate overdone version of an age-old schoolboy prank. A spider in a box. Did they think I was an acrophobe or something? It struck me as so ridiculous, for a moment, just the slightest of moments, I felt the grip of panic releasing me.

  For a fleeting few seconds I even thought that the spider was dead. Just a curled up dead spider in a box. I could’ve laughed. If I wasn’t tied to a chair and gagged, that is…

  That was until it started to move slowly around in its little cell. It was only then, when the light struck it, I realised it wasn’t truly a spider at all, but a thing made of some strange metal. With that realisation, relief was replaced once more with fear.

  I wasn’t unused to the oddities of technology. I was an airship man, after all. But this oddity seemed wrong in some way, uncanny even. A child’s toy made into a fearful apparition, as its tiny mechanical legs snapped around. It could move with frightening swiftness.

  “This is what Mr Gates calls an Arachno-Oculus. Dash clever name, wouldn’t you say? From the Latin. Arachno for spider and Oculus for the eye. It really is a very clever bit of machinery as well. It is powered by body heat, though dashed if I know how, leave that kind of thing to the boffins. But clever, is it not? Indeed, it’s the vicinity of our bodies which has woken our little friend up just now.”

  “Mmmehhhh.”

  “What’s that? You wish to see it up close? Why of course, dear chap. Here let me bring it up to your eye so you can see it clearly,” the vile M said.

  The last thing I wanted was to see it close up, but M raised the box all the same. I became more aware of M’s pet Sleep Men to either side of me as their hands clamped down on my shoulders. Holding me firmly down, as if the restraints that rendered me immobile weren’t enough. I can attest from my struggles that they were.

  The closer the spider came, the more I wanted desperately to escape. The more in turn the Sleep Men tightened their grip, as if they could sense the building fear in me.

  The box was raised until it filled my field of vision, and I watched, unable to do anything else, as the first of the spider’s legs came over the brim. The body, tiny though it was, followed.

  For a moment it seemed to sit on the lip of the box, staring at me with tiny multifaceted eyes. The repulsion I felt was palatable. Panic consumed me. It remained there, staring, its foremost legs moving like feelers as it rocked back and forth slightly.

  Then suddenly it leapt forward. Straight towards my left eye.

  The world turned white. A blinding painful white that was accompanied with a pain the like of which I’d never experienced before and never wished to again. It seemed to consume my world, till everything within it was pain. Pain which seemed to last an eternity.

  Slowly, so very slowly, the pain faded until I was aware only of an itching scratching sensation on the surface of my eye which made me desperate to rub at it. Colours looked wrong somehow out of my left. A little darker, yet sharper at the same time. The focus was all wrong. It was like being drunk in just one eye. Everything was slightly clouded for a moment, then it would become clear, then clouded again. As if a lens I was looking through was moving independently of my eyeball.

  Which of course is exactly what was happening.

  I felt a surge of vomit in my throat and thrashed against the restraints. Desperate, not so much to escape, but to get the spider thing out of my eye. I lost all control of myself but had no time for schoolboy shame now. Instead, I was consumed with a revulsion that was overwhelming me.

  “Time to sleep again, Mr Smyth,” the voice of M said, barely penetrating the pain. Then I felt needles jabbing into my exposed forearms, and the world spun and plunged into darkness once more.

  CHAPTER THE FOURTH

  Vibrations In The Air

  I woke to the comforting sensations of an air-ship in flight. Airmen like myself are much like sailors on water-bound ships; we are adjusted to the pitch, yaw and updraft of our craft. They have sea legs, we have air legs, for want of a better phrase. Modern airship compensators make for smoother flying, but we can still feel the craft moving in the air through the deck plates. Likewise, we can feel the vibrations of the engines and hear the subtle subsonic pitch of the propellers. Once you’ve spent enough time aboard airships, you get a feel for all this. It seeps into your blood like salt in the veins of a sailor, so much so that you barely register any of it. Yet in its absence, you feel uncomfortable for a while when you first return to solid ground.

  So when I woke to feel all those little signs, I was granted a few moments of comfort, of feeling everything was right in the world, that I was safe, that I was where I should be.

  First Ensign Hannibal Smyth of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Navy. A trusted and loyal gunnery officer with one eye on promotion and the other on a profitable sideline in the blac
k market munitions trade. An officer and a gentleman who, for all the world knew, was beyond reproach. True, there was the occasional bit of fencing of stolen goods to the Empire’s more remote outposts for some of the most nefarious criminals in old London town. But as long as that greedy bastard Hardacre kept up his side of the bargain while I cheerfully turned a blind eye for half the profits, where was the harm in that…?

  Yes, life was good, for that fleeting moment of ignorance when I woke…

  Then of course, as it always does, reality flooded back. Hardacre was dead by my hands after the debacle at the Heathrow masts. I’d been tried, convicted, stripped of rank and honour, and condemned to die by the noose. Then I remembered one more thing… a cadaverous civil servant from a shadowy ministry who had placed a mechanical spider in my eye…

  An eye which suddenly itched like an air-man’s crotch after a night’s ground-leave in Amsterdam.

  A wave of vertigo hit me, which had nothing to do with heights. A trembling started in my hands that spread to my arms, and I lay my head back down on the hard pillow, closing my eyes, waiting for it to fade. I tried to focus on my breathing and nothing else, fighting back the urge to panic, until I felt myself starting to calm a little and the shaking stopped. My eye still itched like hell, but at least I was fighting the urge to scratch it.

  “Okay, Hannibal old boy, let’s just take stock for a moment shall we?” I whispered to myself. Then became aware I was talking aloud. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Harry,’ I thought, angry with myself as no one else was about to be angry at. It’s an old habit that, I may be Hannibal to the outside world, but to myself, I was still just plain Harry, the orphan. The lost little boy, seeking his way in a big bad world and terrified of it.

  We can change what the world sees in us, but it’s a whole lot harder to change what you see in yourself.

  ‘Get a grip on yourself, Harry,’ I thought to myself once more, taking a breath, trying to take stock of where I was. ‘Okay, you’re on an airship in flight, and the last thing you remember is being strapped to a chair and having this thing put in your eye, so they must have put you on the airship. Okay, that’s a good start, nice and logical, you’re on an airship, and you were put here by The Ministry. Makes sense, doesn’t it? And because airships go to places, they must be sending you somewhere, and you have a spider in your eye. No need to panic now, is there…? Airships are fine, we are good with airships. So let’s see what else? Okay, you have just been out for a few hours or so if they got you to an airfield. Well okay, probably more than a few hours or so. But no more than a day anyway. So you’re on an airship, been sent somewhere for the government. Fine, nothing to worry about here, everything is just fine, and there’s a spider in your eye.’