Day of the Spiders

  “Spider…..a spider,” she said, her voice cracking and cutting out. “I feel so silly….I tried to kill a spider and I fell.”

  She tried to sit up but Wilson carefully placed her hands on Katie’s shoulders, holding her down on the bed.

  “Be careful, you have to keep as still as you can. You’ve had surgery on your leg,” said Wilson.

  Katie swallowed hard and wrinkled her face up again. “….thirsty,” she croaked.

  Wilson poured water into a plastic cup and pushed the lid on. She poked a straw through the lid and guided it to Katie’s mouth. She took a few long sucks on the straw and then began to cough sending water spraying out of her mouth and dribbling out of her nose. Wilson took the cup away and wiped Katie’s mouth as her coughing fit came to an end.

  “That’ll teach you. Take it slowly,” said Wilson.

  Katie shifted over a little, her face contorting into a look of pain. She settled again and let out a long sigh.

  “So, tell me about this spider,” said Wilson, trying to start up the conversation again.

  “Spider….yes. It was on the shower head. It….fell into the bath, I was trying to get away from it. I tried to kill it, but I fell. My leg….my leg…”

  “You broke your leg, yes you did. We fixed it up. It’s got a nice little metal stabiliser holding it all together,” said Wilson.

  Katie gently reached down to her leg and she felt the metal sticking out of her leg. Wilson carefully moved her hand away.

  “It has a drain in it at the moment, so try not to touch it,” said Wilson.

  “Where’s Perry?” said Katie.

  “He has gone back home to get your things. You’re going to be here for a little while, until you can get about again. He was the one that found you,” said Wilson.

  Katie closed her eyes and smiled. “My hero,” she said.

  Wilson laughed, the first genuine laugh she had done since those policemen had visited her. She took that light-hearted moment to address the elephant in the room.

  “You have something on your finger, I’m not sure what it is, but I think it might be infected. I need to take care of it.”

  Katie raised the hand and looked at her finger. She pulled a disgusted face and lowered the hand again. “That’s fine,” she mumbled.

  Wilson stood up ready to go and pull her trolley over so she could start on the bite. She wheeled it over to the side of Katie and pulled a chair up so that she could get comfortable. The dribbling finger was now hanging off the side of the bed. Katie coughed again, loud and abruptly. As she did so, the infected finger fell right off her hand and slopped to the floor below. It sat on the floor, looking like a pink slug sitting in its own slimy trail. Wilson sucked in a breath. If Katie had heard her, or felt the finger go, she wasn’t letting on. Wilson was interrupted by a tapping on the glass behind her. She turned around and saw Renfrew beckoning her over. She told Katie she would be back in a moment and she made her way through the doors to where Renfrew was waiting.

  “What is it?”

  Renfrew pulled down his mask. “There’s another one coming in,” he said.

  Wilson was mystified, “Another one?”

  “Another bite victim. He’s on his way in now.”

  Wilson felt her stomach drop, “Oh shit, that’s all we need. You need to contact the CR and tell him we need more staff here, got it?”

  Renfrew nodded and headed for the door, but he was cut off by the arrival of their new patient, banging through the main doors. Wilson looked down at the man on the trolley and her mouth fell open. It was the man from the police, the one she had treated for the bite. She saw with increasing horror that one of his arms was missing. It had a mucky looking dressing on it, but nothing in the way of a tourniquet, which she would have expected with a missing limb. She looked down at the remaining hand and saw that it was clean. It had no bite and no dressing that she had applied earlier. Her mind flashed to the finger of Katie Underwood dropping off like an old scab, and she put two and two together to make the most horrendous four of her life. The bites were highly infectious.

  The next few hours were going to be the most challenging of her career so far, of that she had no doubt.

  20.

  P.C Gardner was contemplating what he was going to do once the backup team and forensics had arrived. His primary concern was getting something to eat. It seemed like a long time since he had been eating his breakfast, and the events of the day had meant that he had missed his lunch. Even though he was supposed to have been relieved from duty five hours ago, it hadn’t happened. He had asked and asked for a replacement time and time again but nothing had happened, and now nobody at the station was even answering him. Perhaps he would phone in sick tomorrow and see how they would deal with that. The reality of it would be that he would have to subject himself to a return to work meeting and have to justify his absence to someone who he really had no time for. The bottom line was, he would show up, he knew he would. Days like today were in the minority. It wasn’t often he had been involved with such a high-profile case, one that had attracted the press. At the start of the day the press had been buzzing around like wasps around a bowl of sugar. Now there was only one news crew left. They were hanging around at the top of the road near their van. The mostly sunny day had given them the opportunity to get out a few folding chairs and sit out on the pavement. Their journalist had been sitting there in his shirt and tie, smoking cigarette after cigarette and keeping an eye on what was going on. He hadn’t tried to approach Gardner since Weston had sent him packing from the door that he had been guarding. Weston was still outside the door of Lottie Richmond, still waiting for an update and a relief officer just as he was.

  Gardner lifted himself up on his toes and felt his ankles pop. His legs were as stiff as boards. He almost envied the journalist and his comfy chair, almost. His personal opinion of journalists wasn’t favourable at all. Take this one for instance. He was trying to make a living out of the death of a baby. The more primeval part of him wanted to go right over that road to him and punch him right in his stupid, grinning face. He would steal his fucking chair too, just for good measure.

  But he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be allowed, he would get into trouble and he would be disciplined. He couldn’t, however, get into trouble for fantasising about it, and it helped him to pass the time.

  He looked up the road at Weston, saw that he was looking in his direction and flipped him off. Weston turned around and wiggled his arse at him. The reporter across the road straightened up in his chair, probably wanting to catch some footage of them goofing around at a crime scene. Gardner resisted the urge to carry on the banter and put his hands behind his back again. The reporter relaxed in his chair again and lit another cigarette. Gardner decided to keep an eye on him to see if he would pitch his cigarette end into the gutter just on the off-chance that he decided to go and book him for littering. Anything to break up the monotony.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye and he turned his head towards the top of the street. The forensics van was on its way towards them along with two more police cars. Gardner almost felt his feet breathing a sigh of relief inside his polished black shoes, just knowing that very soon they were going to be comfortably tucked under the table of the café less than half a mile from here. He could taste that first sip of coffee and that wonderful first bite of the sausage and egg bap that was in his near future. His mouth began to water at the prospect of it. He glanced up at Weston again and gave him the thumbs up. Weston returned the gesture, and Gardner knew he wouldn’t be in that café alone.

  The van pulled up right in front of Gardner and the police cars stopped behind it. The uniforms got out first. Two of them came over to Gardner and two went over to Weston. Gardner recognised the faces immediately. W.P.C. Louise Booth and P.C. Harry Turner. They were usually on the opposite shift to him and Weston.

  “Where in the blue hell have you been?” said Gardner.

  “Sorry Gardy, We
have had three shoplifters and a pretty lively domestic to deal with. They would have sent you, but the Chief said that you would be better served standing here doing absolutely nothing because that’s what you do best,” said Booth. She had an excellent line in sarcasm, but her delivery of it was priceless.

  Gardner clutched at his sides comically. “Ooh, ooooh, Jesus, my sides have just split,” he crowed, probably a little too loud.

  “So, you got a body?” said Turner.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty nasty in there. The guy was one of those hoarders, never threw anything away. The smell is horrendous,” said Gardner flapping his hand under his nose to accentuate the point.

  “Well, we’re here now, so you and your boyfriend can get out of here,” said Booth.

  “Fantastic, I can take him home and grease him up,” said Gardner. He left them laughing and made his way up the road. Weston met him halfway.

  “What’s the deal with that place?” said Gardner pointing at the Richmond place.

  “It’s forensics job now. But the death was anaphylaxis, open and shut. Christ knows what they are looking for.” said Weston.

  “Shall we go and eat?” said Gardner. His stomach mumbled, as if it knew it was about to be nurtured.

  “I thought you would never ask,” said Weston. They headed off to their patrol car, glad to be leaving the events of Corsica Road behind.

  The forensic team were unloading their kit from the van, including the marquee that they were going to set up at the front door to stop any prying eyes from seeing what was going on.

  “Shall we take a look?” said Turner. The expression on his face told Booth that he was less than keen to do so.

  “I’ll do it, unless you want your first corpse to be something prettier,” said Booth.

  Turner shrugged. “I suppose I have to do it sometime,” he said, still with a look of apprehension on his face.

  Booth gave him a nod. She felt a little bad for him, but she knew very well that if he didn’t pop his dead body cherry here then it could possibly happen with something far worse. Her own first experience with a body that wasn’t on a photograph had been a road traffic accident out on the M6 that cut around the edge of Hemmington. Two cars had clipped each other, trying to race. One of the cars, a Ford Focus had been thrown to the left, sending it off the hard shoulder and into a tree. It had been pretty obvious when she had arrived on the scene with her then partner Sergeant Pearson, that the driver of the Focus was young, stoned out of his mind and hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. The smell of cannabis had hung around the wreckage in a pungent fog. The driver of the car had gone through the windscreen and collided headfirst into the trunk of the unfortunate tree that happened to have been growing in the wrong place at the wrong time. The collision between the wood and the cranium of the young driver, who was projected out of the car at nearly eighty miles-per-hour had been a no contest. Gore, chunks of broken skull and soft meaty pieces of brain were spread all around the trunk of the tree and the grass behind it. The spine of the driver had been snapped clean in half, and the remains of the body were folded up like a cheap accordion on the twisted and bent metal of the car bonnet. Booth had taken one look at the carnage and thrown her pasta salad that she had for lunch up onto the surface of the hard shoulder. The other car, a very ancient looking Honda Civic was two hundred yards up the road and facing the wrong way. The driver of that car managed to get out without a mark on him, although he would be later be up in court for causing death by dangerous driving.

  Booth wondered to herself if Turner was going to throw up. She had apologised to Pearson at the time for having such a weak constitution, but he had waved it off, telling her that everyone throws up at the sight of their first body. She had asked him if he had thrown up, to which he replied that he never threw up, ever.

  “Ready?” said Booth, placing her hand on the broken door.

  Turner gritted his teeth and offered her a nod. The reality was that he was never going to be ready, even if he waited until his retirement day.

  Booth gave the door a push. It grinded across the rubbish that seemed to be ingrained into the floor below it. The smell from inside the place was a wall of festering stink. Turner tried his best to supress a retch. Booth wrapped her sleeve across her nose and turned away from it for a moment.

  “Christ almighty. That’s rank,” she said.

  She fumbled in her top pocket and brought out a small torch. She clicked it on with her thumb and waved it around the hallway in front of her. She took a step forward and waved the torch all around the floor. Turner followed, expecting Booth to keep moving, but she stopped just inside the doorway and he bumped into her.

  “Shit,” said Booth.

  “What is it?” mumbled Turner from behind her.

  “I thought this body was supposed to be fresh,” she said and shone the torch at the floor again.

  Turner came out from behind her and took a look for himself. Under the spotlight he could see a man’s clothing spread out over the floor, but there was no flesh and skin there, only yellowing bones and a pool of something that looked like link sausages.

  “Someone is shitting us Booth,” said Turner.

  Booth didn’t hear him, she was moving forwards towards the body. There was no way in her mind that it could have been anything other than an old corpse, one that had been in here undiscovered for months. Perhaps they had just misunderstood what they had been told. Perhaps they had got it wrong. Her hand went to her radio to call it in and double check.

  “Booth, let’s get out of here, I don’t like this,” said Turner.

  “Alright, but I’m going to find out who….” She broke off. There was movement out of the corner of her eye. As she turned around to leave the torch light waved across the filthy room. Something moved, she was certain of it. She moved the torch again, scanning the hallway and the doorway to the living room.

  Nothing.

  She moved the beam upwards towards the ceiling. Her heart felt like it stopped dead in her chest, and then it gave a huge lurching beat as the adrenaline began to course through her entire body.

  “Fuck me,” she croaked from her tightening throat.

  Turner looked up at the beam. He was barely able to register what he was seeing. It looked to him as if the whole ceiling and the top sections of the wall were alive, a black seething mass of movement. Booth began to back away.

  “Out Turner, get out….” She was saying, but he couldn’t move. He was transfixed on the rustling hoard of darkness that was above their heads. As he looked on a large clump of them came loose and fell to the floor. Booth’s torch followed them and they both saw with increasing horror as the chunk of blackness untangled itself.

  “Spiders,” said Booth. “Spiders…get out of here now,” she shrieked.

  Turner staggered backwards. His feet hit the step and he stumbled backwards into the street. Booth came storming out after him. She crashed into Turner and nearly knocked him right off his feet.

  Tooms, the reporter across the road saw the two police officers come barging out of the house. He was already out of his chair the moment he heard shouting from inside.

  “Bobbo, get the camera rolling,” he shouted. He began to cross the road towards the two officers.

  “Close the door,” bellowed Turner.

  Booth took a step inside to try and grab the splintered and ragged door. But the movement, and the darkness that was on the ceiling was now raining down onto the floor. The spiders untangled themselves from each other and came down the hallway with incredible speed.

  “….too late, get away,” she shrieked.

  They both took off for the other side of the road, almost wiping out Tooms and his cameraman. “Stay back,” she yelled at him.

  They made it to the other side of the road and turned back to look at the house. The spiders were starting to emerge. The walls surrounding the door were already turning dark. They headed upwards and sideways, covering the ruined house with their sma
ll black bodies.

  “What the fuck,” said Tooms. “Bobbo, are you getting this?” he shouted.

  “I’m getting it boss, I’m getting it,” said Bobbo in a strangled voice.

  Booth was already on her radio calling it in. She knew the protocol, just like anybody else.

  Unusual Activity.

  She yelled down her radio, trying to get somebody to get off their backside and answer her. She was too busy to see Tooms making his way across the road again.

  “Come on Bobbo, let’s get a closer look. This is news my friend,” he said, a smile breaking out over his face.

  Tooms jogged across the road and veered off to the left of the spider encrusted house. Bobbo came with him, making sure that he was behind Tooms every step of the way.

  “Are you getting this?” said Tooms.

  Bobbo nodded. He focused the lens on the mass of tiny bodies crawling all over the bricks.

  “On me, on me,” said Tooms. He rolled his finger to tell Bobbo that he was going to record a report.

  “Hang on, let me pick one of them up,” he said. He put his cupped hand into the mass of spiders. “Y’see, they don’t bite…” he said, a big shit-eating grin breaking out over his face.

  A moment later the grin was gone. Tooms drew his hand out of the spiders and began to shake it as if he had touched something hot. Bobbo could see the spiders running up the arm of his sports coat, crawling across his chest. Tooms began to curse and yell. He whirled around beating at his own skin. His curses began to disintegrate into yells of pain and anguish. He fell to the floor in the middle of the road and began to roll. His screams became illegible, high and gobbling. Bobbo felt something beginning to needle his ankles, as if he was being given half a dozen blood tests all at the same time. He began to involuntarily stamp his feet, to try and get the pains to stop. He abandoned his viewfinder for a moment to look down and see what was causing the problem, and he saw dozens of spiders crawling over his shoes, up his ankles and disappearing under the material of his trouser leg. He dropped the camera which struck the pavement like a bomb. Pieces of broken glass and plastic flew in all directions. The spiders swarmed over it, covering it in a myriad of scuttling legs and black hairy bodies. Bobbo ran for the other side of the road, jumping up and down as he tried to run. The skin on his legs began to burn, a deep intolerable pain that felt as if his flesh had been set on fire. He fell down, roaring at the police officers for help. But they were busy. They were busy running in the other direction.