Ace of Spiders

by Stefan Mohamed

  They might have come anyway, I thought. It didn’t seem like a thought worth vocalising, though.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Connor. ‘I had a pretty wild youth. I spent a lot of years pissing a lot of people off, going my own way because I felt like I had to. But if I’d ever thought, for a minute, that I was putting people in danger, or dragging them into any kind of trouble, I’d have got the hell out. And I would respect the wishes, and the rules, of the people who were kind enough to take me in.’

  The words stung. Actually, they burned. But I stood up and I looked him in the eye, and I spoke quietly, and as firmly as I could manage. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. And I’m grateful, so grateful, for everything you guys have done for me. I’ll leave. I’ll go now.’

  ‘Stanly,’ said Sharon. ‘We’re not . . . it’s not that . . .’

  ‘I think it is,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it, Connor?’

  His sudden talkativeness seemed to have abated. He just breathed deeply and turned away, crossing his arms.

  ‘Things are happening,’ I said. ‘Bad things. I feel like it’s going to get a lot worse. And I’m going to be involved, whether I like it or not.’ Bit disingenuous.

  Shut up.

  ‘So I’ll go,’ I said. ‘And you guys won’t have to be anywhere near it.’

  ‘Why do you have to be involved?’ asked Connor, his back still turned. ‘Why do you have to?’

  Because my school careers adviser basically told me to be a superhero? ‘Because I do,’ I said, rubbishly. ‘Because I’ve got these powers, and I’m in this world.’

  Connor threw up his hands and stalked off to the kitchen. I looked at Sharon. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Sharon. ‘Just . . . wait here. Don’t you dare go anywhere.’ She got up and followed Connor through to the kitchen, and I sat on the sofa next to Daryl.

  ‘Wow,’ said the dog. ‘Next time, we should just let the giant monster dog eat us. I think that would have been more fun.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  I’d not expected to hear Connor and Sharon’s conversation, but somehow I’d underestimated how pissed-off Connor was, because seconds later I heard him yelling. ‘I can’t believe I’m bloody hearing this!’

  Oh God.

  ‘Connor,’ said Sharon. ‘I know this is not what you want to hear. But if things really are about to get bad, we can’t just let him—’

  ‘We talked about this,’ said Connor. ‘We swore that after all that shit, we would never get involved with the Angel Group, with monsters, with fighting, with any of it. You know what happens when we get involved with this stuff? I come home and I find you bleeding on the floor.’

  ‘I remember what happened, Connor!’

  ‘So why the hell would you want to get back into that?’

  ‘Because if bad things are going to happen, maybe we do have a responsibility to help! We’re stronger, Connor, stronger than other people! We have powers, and we’ve seen things, and we’ve done things! Maybe—’

  ‘What, just because that little idiot has a superhero complex, suddenly we’re all contractually obliged to follow him into battle? We don’t have a responsibility, Sharon! Just because we randomly ended up with these powers, and just because we’re still babysitting that kid long after he should have struck out on his own, it does not mean—’

  ‘Look,’ muttered Daryl, ‘I enjoy a massive domestic blow-out and an apocalyptic rain of burning home truths as much as the next beagle, but I reckon I should probably be out trying to find Freeman. If he really is alive . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, trying not to show quite how much Connor’s words were cutting me. ‘Cool. Go. I’ll . . . I don’t know what I’ll do. Wait here, I guess. If you find anything, just look for me in the usual places.’

  Daryl nodded. ‘Rightio, chief. Good luck.’

  ‘You too. And thanks. For rescuing me. And stuff.’

  ‘Any time. Laters.’

  He left, and I’d never felt so lonely. I’d also never heard Connor and Sharon row before, not properly, although I don’t think they’d had much practice as the ferocity was mercifully short-lived. Connor eventually stomped off upstairs – he didn’t return to the living room, which suited me fine – and Sharon came back in, her cheeks red. I sat awkwardly, wondering what the proper etiquette was. A sympathetic look? A hug? More apologies?

  Waiting in silence is probably your best bet.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Sharon, after a minute. ‘Some things that needed to be said, I suppose. Or shouted.’ She looked over at the living room door. It lifted up from its lean, and she started to repair it with her brain.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ I said. ‘I do. I’m . . . I really am sorry.’

  ‘I know you are.’ The door swung quietly closed, good as new, and Sharon looked at me. The frost had thawed. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ she said. ‘But I’m not letting you run off into the night. For now, this is still your home and you’ll sleep here.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Hopefully we can at least discuss things tomorrow. Rather than, you know. Shouting and smashing doors.’

  ‘That was pretty . . . major,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen him like that.’

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  It seemed like the right moment, if there was such a thing, to voice a thought I’d been trying to ignore. ‘Sharon . . . have you been reading me lately?’

  ‘No,’ she said, immediately. Too immediately.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ said Sharon. ‘I don’t like to read people I trust. Even if I’m suspicious of something.’ She stood up. ‘And if I had been reading you lately, I’d have known that you’d been lying to us, and doing things behind our backs. But I’ve not said anything about it. Which would suggest very complicated feelings about who’s right and who’s wrong . . . if either of those things even mean anything. So no. I think it would be easier if I hadn’t read you. Or . . . less complicated, anyway. Goodnight. Love you, you infuriating boy.’

  ‘You too. ’Night.’ I sat up in the living room for a long time, trying to process everything that had happened. It didn’t work, so I brushed my teeth, headed to bed and braced myself for some supremely messed-up dreams. No such dreams materialised, though.

  Mostly because I didn’t really sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  I HEARD CONNOR LEAVE early in the morning. I wondered if he was going to see Eddie. God, did I ever not have the energy for a confrontation with Eddie.

  S’gonna happen, though.

  A little while later Sharon knocked on my door, and came and sat on the edge of my bed. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

  She laughed tiredly. ‘Not brilliant.’

  ‘Where’s Connor?’

  ‘He just said he needed to go out.’ She rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Have you told Eddie? About yesterday?’

  ‘Connor tried to call him this morning but he didn’t answer.’

  I sat up, frowning. ‘Should we be worried?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sharon. ‘He does vanish off the map from time to time. And even if something did happen, you know he can handle himself.’

  ‘And he’d come straight here.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘Where . . . what next? I mean . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sharon. ‘Connor is angry, obviously. He wants nothing to do with any of this. But I really don’t see how we can just bury our heads in the sand and ignore whatever’s coming, and it definitely seems as though something is coming. So I think questions about your long-term accommodation plans are best left until later. We need to find out what’s happening, and deal with it if we have to. Then we can discuss things
.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’

  She sighed. ‘Of course I don’t want you to leave, you idiot. Apart from anything, even with Connor working two jobs, paying the rent isn’t getting any easier.’ She smiled slyly, and I felt immeasurably better. ‘So that’s it,’ I said. ‘You just want me around to make up the rent. I should have known.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Sharon. ‘Just because I’m joking around doesn’t mean you can. I’m still angry, and when I say that we’ll discuss things we are definitely going to discuss things.’

  ‘Sorry. And . . . honestly? Connor wants me gone, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to see. This is my home too.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I need to get ready and go to the hospital. What are you going to do today?’

  ‘Daryl went to see if he can track down Freeman,’ I said. ‘If he is alive, I’m willing to bet that he knows what’s going on, and I have a few questions for him.’

  ‘You should tell Eddie.’

  ‘If we hear from him. But if not, I’m going.’

  ‘I know you are,’ said Sharon. ‘But please be careful. And let me know what’s happening.’

  ‘I will.’

  It was another long day. Connor didn’t return. There was no word from Eddie. I dozed a little in the afternoon, waking up feeling groggy and discombobulated, and checked the news every now and then. No further developments surrounding my battle with the giant dog, although speculation was rife that there was more to the story than the authorities were letting on. I was surprised that there was no footage of the battle whatsoever: no CCTV, not even phone footage. Something about that smelled dodgy.

  I heard nothing from Nailah either. Darkness arrived, and I was about ready to spontaneously combust from stir craziness when my phone rang.

  ‘Found him,’ said Daryl. ‘He is alive.’

  ‘Sonofabitch. Where?’

  Daryl told me he was calling from a phone box about a mile from where we’d fought the monster dog, and that Freeman was nearby. I noted the address, deciding not to bother asking exactly how the hell Daryl was managing to operate a payphone, and ordered him to wait for me.

  I was going to enjoy this.

  Eddie tried to phone me a couple of times on my way, and I made myself ignore him. I was relieved that he’d resurfaced, but now was not the time for a bollocking that would probably register on the Richter scale. I’d meet Daryl, go and interrogate Freeman, and then call my cousin back with actual news. Maybe it would soften him up.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, squirt.

  I found Daryl and he led me off towards a decrepit-looking block of flats, where our newly reincarnated friend was reportedly hanging his hat. ‘How’d you find him?’ I asked.

  ‘Still have the odd source kicking around,’ said Daryl.

  ‘Is it like the Twilight Barking?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘From 101 Dalmatians. Do you have, like, a network of dogs who pass information back and forth around the country?’

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘You think I talk to dogs? Normal dogs?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ To be honest, I’d never actually thought about it. ‘Do you not speak dog?’

  ‘Dogs don’t speak,’ said the dog. ‘They don’t have language.’

  ‘But if you barked at a dog . . . it would know what you were on about?’

  ‘If I barked aggressively at another dog,’ said Daryl, in the manner of a tired supply teacher fielding deliberately stupid questions from uncooperative pupils, ‘it would know I was being aggressive. If I barked vaguely neutrally and then started running, it would probably be able to work out that I wanted it to follow me. And if I wandered up and sniffed its arse, unsolicited, in the middle of a crowded park, then it would know that it was business time. But a) I wouldn’t do any of those things, and b) no, I don’t “speak dog”.’

  ‘Jesus. Touchy. So when you said sources . . .’

  ‘I meant humans,’ said Daryl. ‘People who talk. Plus good ol’ fashioned nose work, of course.’ He sniffed demonstratively.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me how you got so good at tracking some time. And fighting.’

  ‘Long story, sport.’

  ‘I love stories.’

  ‘I know.’

  We stole round the back of the flats and Daryl nosed open a rotten-looking door. He trotted on ahead and I followed, thinking about the hundreds of things I wanted to say to Mr Freeman, to do to him. We were in a dim, grimy corridor, the floor so filthy that it was impossible to tell where the dirt and chewing gum ended and the carpet fibre began. My phone buzzed again and I could almost see Eddie’s furious face looming out of the screen. I flicked it on to silent.

  ‘He’s in Number 19,’ said Daryl. ‘Two floors up.’

  The lift was one of those old-style ones with a concertina grate that you had to swing back, completing the film-noir atmosphere. Daryl jumped up on his hind legs to press one of the buttons, and with a moaning, slightly off-putting crunch of mistreated gears, the lift started to pull itself agonisingly up towards our destination. ‘Shoulda taken the goddamn stairs,’ said Daryl, affecting a gumshoe accent.

  ‘Word.’

  After about five years the lift ground to a halt and I swung the grate aside with my mind. Number 19 was right at the end of another musty corridor, by an open window through which I could hear sirens. London was on high alert; the people we’d passed had seemed extra nervy, there were police cars everywhere, and helicopters were chugging menacingly above.

  I stood outside Freeman’s door for a second, breathing deeply. This is going to be weird.

  Weirder than clandestine meetings with supernatural bloggers?

  Weirder than an assassin coming after you in broad daylight?

  Weirder than nearly being eaten by a giant blue dog?

  Weird in a slightly different way, then.

  I knocked. Silence . . . then quiet movement from inside, and a voice. ‘Who’s there?’ I knew that oily voice so well, but there was a note of panic in it now that was entirely foreign, and not a little disconcerting.

  ‘Here to appraise your furniture,’ piped up Daryl. ‘Also, have you accepted our Lord Jesus Christ as your personal saviour?’ I stifled a snigger.

  There was a pregnant pause before Mr Freeman spoke again. ‘Ah. I was wondering how long it would take for you to track me down. Are you alone?’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  A low, hissing laugh and the sound of a bolt sliding back, and I was face to face with Mr Freeman, dead man un-deaded. His expression was so priceless that I stupidly wished I had a camera with me. ‘Stanly . . .’

  ‘Evening Freeman,’ I said, grinning in a slightly unstable way, just to freak him out a bit more. ‘How’s tricks?’ I moved to come in and he stumbled backwards down his hall, nearly falling to the ground. Anxiety – and possibly gin – rolled off the man in waves. ‘Please,’ he said, as I advanced. ‘Don’t—’

  ‘Shh.’ I flexed my mind and held him where he was as Daryl closed the door behind us. I felt in control for the first time in God knows how long, and it felt good. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how you’re back on the mortal coil and I’m not particularly bothered right at the moment. I want to know stuff. If you don’t tell me the stuff I want to know, I’m going to hurt you.’ I let that sink in. ‘A lot,’ I added.

  Hmm. Maybe that last bit was unnecessary.

  ‘You’re not going to hurt me,’ Mr Freeman said, uncertainly. ‘You’re–’ He stopped, unable to speak, because I was psychically constricting his windpipe, just enough to stop him from talking, although he could still breathe. I raised a hand, levitating him a few feet above the ground, and stared into his eyes, which were wide and full of the re
alisation that I was no longer a naïve sixteen-year-old who would do what he was told and jump through hoops. I relaxed the pressure on his windpipe and regarded him. He looked different. The guy had always been pale, but now he was almost ghostly, and much skinnier, with none of the presence that he’d had when I’d known him before. His eyes were forests of shadows and his grey suit was crumpled, the shirt creased, the tie loose. ‘You’ve let yourself go.’ I moved him through a doorway on my left, into a sad little living room with a small TV, a coffee table and two armchairs, and held him in the middle of the room. ‘Right. First things first. How are you alive? I’ve decided I actually am bothered about that.’

  ‘I have,’ he choked, ‘a slight advantage over most people when it comes to dying.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Nine lives?’

  ‘Four, actually,’ he said. ‘This is my third, hence my rather less than healthy appearance. I was actually quite strapping when I was first alive.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I’m not going to go into the explanation,’ said Mr Freeman. ‘It’s rather a twisted origin story, and one best saved for a later date. If both of us survive the coming madness, I’d be happy to relate it to you over a cup of coffee or a stiff Scotch—’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘Now tell me how you’re actually alive, because I’m not a retard, OK?’

  ‘Stanly,’ said Daryl. ‘Not very PC.’

  ‘I’ve definitely heard you use that word in that way before.’

  ‘Yeah, and I don’t anymore because it’s not OK. It’s called learning and growing.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll never say it again.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Freeman choked out a laugh. ‘Oh, you two are priceless . . .’