Ace of Spiders

by Stefan Mohamed

  I had been waiting for this. ‘It was huge,’ Sharon said. ‘Fat. And so long I couldn’t see its tail. Not that I was looking that way, all I was thinking about was its face.’ She shuddered. ‘Massive and flat, all mouth, with a million teeth. Have you ever seen a picture of a lamprey’s mouth?’

  ‘Yes.’ Like the black things in Smiley Joe’s head.

  Maybe they’re related.

  ‘Like that,’ said Sharon. ‘Just the most horrible . . . and there was blood on its teeth. I think that was what gave me courage, weirdly. I remember feeling anger, beneath the fear. Enough to grab hold of, turn into action. And then it came at me.’ She was getting into the swing of the story now, gesticulating as she spun the yarn. ‘I managed to flatten myself against the wall so it went past me and then I just stopped thinking, and I grabbed one of its horrible slimy scales and pulled myself up onto its back. Don’t even know how, it’s not like I was strong . . . I’ve often wondered if maybe I was subconsciously channelling my telekinesis, using it to make myself stronger. I think that’s what Eddie and Connor do. Anyway, I was about an inch from the ceiling, and it was rocketing along, like being on top of a living train. I didn’t have a plan, so I started to crawl along towards the head. I just kept thinking no more blood for you, no more blood for you.’ She stopped for breath. ‘So I got to its head and found its eyes. Small and black and glassy . . . they were nearly the scariest feature. And that was when I knew that there was nothing in this thing’s mind that I could understand, it was just a monster. That . . . made me hate it even more.’ She looked almost regretful now. ‘Not a particularly healthy thought process. But useful if you’re going to kill something.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Jammed both thumbs into its eye sockets,’ said Sharon. She turned slightly pale at the memory, and I tried to get my head round it. It was virtually impossible to reconcile this ethereal, gentle person with the image I had of a telepathic Buffy riding on the back of a giant worm. ‘It was so disgusting,’ she continued, ‘you can’t even imagine, there was purple gunk pouring everywhere, and it went all over me, but I held on and I shut my eyes and I . . . I kind of entered it with my mind. Maybe instinct kicked in, but . . . I just tried to shut out all of the fear and noise and become one with it. I don’t know how long it took, I just remember suddenly feeling like I knew every molecule of its body, and that gave me an advantage. I could see its heart, and I used my telekinesis to burst it. Just . . . pop it open.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Anyway, the thing stopped dead and I flew off it and landed in the sewage, which really did make me throw up, and when I turned around it was just lying there, dead. Goop pouring out of its mouth. So I vomited until there was nothing left, like you would, then got out of the sewers and ran. And then vomited some more. Needed to wash every square inch of my body for a good few hours. And I burned my clothes.’ She sat back, looking slightly dazed. ‘And that’s it.’

  ‘Crikey.’ My respect for Sharon, which was already pretty stratospheric, shot up into another galaxy. ‘And Freeman?’

  ‘Didn’t see him again until that night at the Kulich.’

  I nodded. ‘Sorry about the walk down memory sewer. I’m a sucker for monsters and ultraviolence.’

  ‘That’s fine. It felt good to talk about it, actually.’ She smiled, but there was something in her eyes, something I couldn’t place. Something like disappointment. ‘Speaking of showers, I’m going to head for one now,’ she said. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I was going to stay in the house. Followed by a bit of light staying in the house, then maybe stay in the house for a bit, just as a little change of pace, before plunging headlong into some serious house staying-in.’

  ‘How did we survive around here before you and your wit.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Sharon was halfway down the corridor when I called after her. ‘Sharon?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know you said that you once used your powers at the hospital?’

  She looked at the floor. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you ever want to . . . do more of that? Use them to help people?’

  Sharon looked as though she was struggling with the response. Finally, she nodded. ‘I do. Often. But . . . it’s not as simple as that.’

  Isn’t it? ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I was thinking about it the other day, though, actually,’ said Sharon. ‘About what it might be like if powers were out in the open. If there were more of us, if it was common knowledge.’

  ‘What do you think it would be like?’

  ‘Absolute bloody chaos,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Although it could be incredible for things like medical science . . . actually, weirdly, I ended up thinking more about the media response. How 24-hour news and the blogosphere and the think-piece mafia would react. Which also led me towards absolute bloody chaos . . . and then I ended up thinking about an article I might write.’

  ‘Really?’ I had no idea that Sharon was the article-writing type. ‘What about?’

  ‘The psychological implications of people’s powers,’ said Sharon. ‘Specifically what individual powers say about their owners. Which might touch on the internalisation of gender roles, for example.’

  Um . . . ‘Hamnu?’

  ‘I assume that means you don’t understand what I’m on about.’

  ‘Yarp.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sharon, ‘take what I said about Eddie and Connor. They’re clearly empowered, but they don’t have telekinesis, do they? Not like you and me. They’re both abnormally tough. Strong, fast, massively increased endurance. Traditionally masculine traits. I certainly don’t have super-strength. Neither do you, do you?’

  ‘No. I can take a punch, but . . .’ But what? You thought you were some sort of hard nut? Like, naturally?

  Well . . . yeah, kinda . . .

  This makes a lot more sense, to be fair.

  Wow. Took a while for that penny to drop.

  Better late than never, I suppose.

  ‘So why is that?’ said Sharon. ‘Why don’t we have super-strength? And why do we have the powers we have? Maybe my . . . empathy thing, or whatever it is, is the result of internalising what society thinks a woman should be. Compassionate, empathetic. Passive.’

  ‘But what about telekinesis?’ I said. ‘That’s kind of the opposite of passive, isn’t it, in a way? Maybe that’s you pushing against internalised roles of whatever.’

  Sharon laughed. ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s a manifestation of . . . healing? Creation? That’s quite feminine, isn’t it? I suppose men are the ones who build stuff, traditionally . . . but you’re also traditionally the ones who blow stuff up . . . maybe it’s to do with control? Men are generally in control, in terms of society and power structures . . . so it could be me pushing against my perceived role, wanting to be more in control, have agency . . .’ She shook her head. ‘As you can see, I haven’t got very far through my sociology book.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘compared to me, you’re a professor of it. So . . . you think we choose our powers, then? Based on who we are? How we think?’

  ‘Not exactly. Not consciously. But I’ve often thought about why we’re all different. And I wonder if maybe, subconsciously, there is a part of us that chooses.’

  ‘Like you said, though, I’m not super-strong. Or super-empathetic. So what does my telekinesis mean?’

  ‘That you’re in touch with your feminine side?’ Sharon smiled. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘And flying?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know. Although you seem to be the only one who can do it.’ She shrugged. ‘Could all be nonsense. Probably is.’

  ‘Maybe we’re busting free of the stereotypes that society has forced us into,’ I said. ‘And Eddie and Connor are still . . . shackled. Or something.’

  ‘Shackle
d, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know gender studies.’

  ‘Me neither. Ask me about it again when I write the article.’ She winked and went upstairs, and I stayed at the table. Intriguing thoughts about powers turned pretty swiftly to brooding thoughts about powers, and how to waste them, and once again I found myself wishing that Daryl was there. I hadn’t seen him in over a year.

  Good, said an unnecessarily spiteful voice somewhere in my head.

  It wasn’t good, though. Not at all.

  The weekend dragged on with no news. Eddie went AWOL, as he often did, and Connor was reluctant to discuss anything, and although I managed to distract myself with a few documentaries – one, about black bears, was particularly interesting - by the time Monday rolled around I was really starting to get to grips with the phrase ‘stir crazy’.

  At least I had something to do that day, even if it was somewhat bittersweet.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Jackie, it’s Stanly. How are you?’

  ‘Oh hello, Stanly! I’m very well thank you, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Not too bad. I was wondering if I could speak to Tara?’

  ‘Of course. Just a moment.’

  Crackling, voices, and then Tara: ‘Hi Stanly!’

  ‘Happy birthday, you gigantic eleven-year-old. How’s things?’ Even though I had what I supposed was a pretty good reason, I felt guilty because I hadn’t got her a present. Not even a card. I’m a lousy not-yet-dad.

  Extenuating circumstances, she’ll understand.

  Don’t you dare tell her about Morter Smith, dickhead.

  What do you think I am? A dickhead?

  ‘Great! I got some new clothes and a bag and some jewellery and some music, and I have to go to school today, but I’m having some friends around after school.’

  ‘That sounds wicked. What music did you get?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have heard of it.’

  ‘Ouch. I’m that old already? Try me.’

  She giggled and said some names. I hadn’t heard of any of them. ‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Those guys. I was into them for a while but then they got popular and now I don’t like them.’

  She giggled again. It was a good sound. ‘When are you coming over?’

  I hung my head a little. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I . . .’ Don’t lie. ‘I have some very important things to deal with. Really important. You know I’m not exaggerating when I say important stuff.’

  ‘Are you in trouble again?’ Astute kid. Also, she sounds reproachful, rather than worried. Got to love that.

  ‘No. Well . . . a little. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m so sorry I can’t come and see you. I will as soon as I can.’

  ‘Am I in trouble again?’

  ‘No! No. You’re the birthday girl, and you’re going to have a fantastic day and everyone’s going to spoil you absolutely rotten, and you’re going to become this horrible pampered big-headed heinous—’

  ‘I am not—’

  ‘—heinous preening princess, and then as soon as I’m done with all my rubbish I’m going to come round with a massive present and make things even worse. OK?’

  ‘That was a pretty long sentence.’

  ‘Good, eh? Nine out of ten?’

  ‘Seven out of ten.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’

  Another giggle. ‘You’re welcome.’

  She made me laugh as well, which was good. I was glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of an eleven-year-old’s guilt trip. I remembered laying those on my parents when I was younger. Not that Tara had any clue about the real nature of our relationship. ‘OK buddy. I’ve—’

  ‘Don’t call me buddy, it sounds weird.’

  ‘OK pal.’

  ‘Ugh, not pal, either.’

  ‘OK sport. I—’

  ‘Stop calling me things!’

  ‘OK . . . OK. I’ve got to go now. You have an unreasonably wicked day, and if anyone doesn’t treat you like you’re the centre of the universe, you let me know and I’ll give ‘em a good going over.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. Take care of yourself.’ She said it so solemnly that I almost pissed myself laughing. ‘You too, kiddo—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, no more names. See ya soon. Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks. Bye.’

  Click.

  I spent the rest of the week under house arrest, and it was the longest week of my entire life. Connor brought back various care packages from the shop courtesy of Skank, containing the new trade paperbacks for Ms. Marvel, Rat Queens and the like, but I devoured them too fast and kept ending up with what felt like more free time than before.

  So I tried to be productive, practising with my powers as much as possible, attempting to meditate while levitating (although it’s kind of tricky to meditate when your brain is screaming THIS LOOKS SO COOL RIGHT NOW) and lifting as many objects as possible, but even with superpowers I was still limited by what was in the house. All I could think about was being out there, using my powers in the real world. I’d gone from feeling woefully underprepared and un-practised last week to feeling pretty much unstoppable now, and while part of me knew that I should be cautious, and that this fearless feeling was no better an indication of my actual preparedness than drunken bravado would have been, the rest of me ended up dragging that part off to the toilets and flushing its head in the bowl until it shut up.

  Finally, on Friday night, I cornered Eddie before he could even step through the front door. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘I can’t stay in this house any longer.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘No, no but, if you make me stay I’m going to just fly out the window.’

  ‘Stanly!’ said Eddie. I could see that he was trying to keep cool, but I was not in the mood for it. ‘How about letting me in the house before giving me the Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘Inquisitions ask things,’ I said. ‘I’m telling you things.’ But I stepped aside anyway, and we went into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry about keeping you cooped up,’ said Eddie. ‘I know how frustrating it must have been.’

  ‘Not sure you do, to be honest.’

  ‘Fair enough. But we’ve still not been able to find anything. Skank’s got some much dodgier connections than us, and he’s heard nothing, although he says he’s trying some new leads. We can’t exactly go to the police . . .’

  ‘And I can’t exactly stay in this house forever.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Connor, a little more emphatically than I felt was necessary.

  ‘Connor,’ said Sharon.

  ‘He’s got a point, though,’ said Connor. ‘Don’t get me wrong Stanly, obviously you’re . . . this is your home, for now, and having you is a pleasure. But some space really wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said, although I already knew that the forthcoming sentence should probably remain unsaid. ‘Really sorry that the threat of my assassination has been such an inconvenience for you.’

  ‘OK, now you can keep that tone to yourself—’

  ‘Guys,’ said Eddie. He had this way sometimes, a certain inflection, that positively compelled you to shut up. It worked on me, but more importantly it worked on Connor, and a part of me, I’m ashamed to say, felt gleeful. Yeah, shut up, it said. My cousin’s talking.

  How about you shut up, brain? Put yourself in Connor’s shoes. You wouldn’t want you hanging around all day every day.

  ‘I know that this is trying for everyone,’ said Eddie. ‘I really do. And Connor, Sharon, I know that when I first asked if Stanly could stay, you did me a favour.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with favours,’ said Sharon. ‘Stanly needed help. And
we all need to stick together.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Connor. He was having trouble sounding like he meant it, though. I said nothing.

  ‘There is something going on,’ said Eddie. ‘Something bad. Stanly is in danger, and it is a more real, more present danger than any of the theoretical danger I was babbling on about when he first arrived in London. So until we know something, he needs to stay here, inside. Safe. And we need to keep trying to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘How, though?’ said Connor. ‘Like you said, you and I have exhausted our connections.’

  ‘Skank’s still looking into it,’ said Eddie. ‘You know him and rabbit holes.’

  ‘Rabbit holes don’t necessarily lead anywhere useful.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Eddie, doing his voice again. ‘Like I said. I appreciate that it’s hard. So tonight I am getting the beers in, we are ordering a take-away, and we are going to have a nice evening like normal people who don’t have mysterious figures trying to kill their friend. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Sharon. ‘Excellent. I wasn’t feeling particularly enthusiastic about cooking anyway. Connor?’

  Connor nodded. ‘Sounds good.’ This time he actually sounded pretty genuine.

  ‘Stanly?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Awesome,’ I said. Now that’s how you pretend to be genuinely enthusiastic about something, Connor.

  Shut up, brain. Stop being a dick.

  YOU’RE a dick.

  ‘So,’ I said, sitting back, full of Thai food and beer. ‘How’s Hannah?’