Ace of Spiders

by Stefan Mohamed

If anything happens to Mum, or to anyone else, it’s on you.

  No it isn’t. It’s on them. I’m doing everything I can.

  And surely I wouldn’t have let myself put Mum in danger? If she needed to be kept safe as well, I’d have told myself.

  I would have.

  The boy sitting sulking in his adopted room, desperate for action, seemed very far away. I spent at least an hour torturing myself over what would happen if anybody hurt my mother, my daughter or my girlfriend. I imagined my fiery revenge, the apocalyptic violence I would visit upon anyone who so much as thought about harming them, and I thought about monsters, and how long it would be before they all got out. Whether we could stop it. I tried not to imagine creatures worse than Smiley Joe, mightier and more furious than the blue dog, although of course the more I tried not to think about them the more they stampeded through my mind, and eventually I spiralled into a series of messy, twisted dreams, all black and white and bloodied, familiar faces crying in pain, the suggestion, the promise, of awful beings, giant and merciless . . .

  And, for some reason, Daryl asking me over and over again where he left his trilby.

  Stupid brain.

  I woke up confused and scrunch-faced. Why was I in the spare room? Why was I not in my bed? It couldn’t possibly be time for school. Too early. Not even light yet. I looked at the clock. Seven. Crap. Nearly time to get up. Why am I in the spare room? And why is it my job to keep track of Daryl’s stupid hat?

  Then of course it all came back, droplets of bright truth infiltrating the cracks in a dusty window pane. I was immediately wide awake and lay there for a while, working out my schedule. Make Mum a cup of tea. Shower. Breakfast. Sort myself out. Wake Tara, get her breakfasted and ready. Then off to get Kloe. I couldn’t fly and get her.

  Ah. Now will Mum let me borrow her car?

  I’d noticed a new car outside when we’d arrived, a silver Ford Fiesta. She’d always wanted a little silver car. Her previous car was in London, parked near Eddie’s, right where I’d left it. I’d borrowed . . . well, commandeered . . . no, I’d pretty much stolen it when I’d left, long ago, and unbelievably it had never cropped up in any of the conversations I’d had with my parents in the meantime. I half-remembered them saying something about getting a new one back before I’d pilfered it, although that might have been wishful thinking. I suppose that once they knew I was safe and well, they were willing to forgive and forget. Something told me the forgiving and forgetting came more from my mum than my dad.

  Although he was never a huge fan of the Polo, to be fair.

  At least they had another car.

  Shut up. FOCUS.

  Ford Focus?

  Ford Prefect . . .

  SHUT. UP.

  I considered punching myself in the face for flying all the way to Wales when there was a perfectly serviceable vehicle available to me, but thought better of it, ‘cos what are ya gonna do? Plus, there was a more important question afoot, namely: would Mum let me borrow her car, when I’d neglected to return the old one? She knew how important my mission was, she had at least some inkling of what was at stake. She was sensible, she knew I couldn’t just fly myself, my girlfriend and an eleven-year-old around in broad daylight. I wondered for a second if she’d seen anything on the news about a flying boy in London, but figured she would have mentioned it if she had. And the likelihood of her coming across it online was slim; as far as I knew, she still thought the internet was something that happened to other people.

  Will she let me borrow the car?

  Maybe if I promise to bring it back this time?

  It was nearly eight by the time I’d assembled my plan, and I made my mum a cup of tea before getting ready. She came down to the kitchen after I’d showered, and I broached the subject of the car. There was obvious reluctance, and a few pointed hints about the green Polo, even a mention of insurance that was so incongruous that I almost laughed. Eventually, after ruthlessly deploying my best pleading eyes and my fiercest wheedling, with a subtle but healthy undercurrent of implied guilt, she acquiesced, and we even managed to chat about normal things for ten minutes before a blonde girl in red pyjamas wandered into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Morning,’ she smiled.

  ‘Tara,’ I said, ‘this is my mum, Mary. Mum, this is Tara.’

  My mum stood up and gave Tara a hug, and immediately the two of them loved each other. I wondered when Mum would first hold Tara as a baby, when she would bake her her first birthday cake. Or if. For almost a second I wanted to cry, seeing my mother and my daughter connect on such a basic, amazing level, but I bottled it fiercely and asked Mum to sort Tara some breakfast and explain what was going on while I acquainted myself with the new car.

  Turns out that it’s not like riding a bike. I stalled several times before I managed to actually start the damn thing properly, then the gears were different and the buttons were in the wrong places, and my clutch control was all over the shop. I spent a good half an hour driving very slowly up and down the road willing myself to re-learn everything. Jesus, it’s a miracle you managed to drive to London. You’re rubbish, mate.

  As I pulled back into the driveway, switched off and locked the car and headed inside, it suddenly occurred to me that Kloe was going to be at Sixth Form. I couldn’t just turn up there, could I? It would freak everybody out, it would mess Kloe about . . . I tried to call her but she’d switched off her phone. Typical. Chicks, amiriiiiite?

  That wasn’t funny, brain. You are hereby sacked from funny with immediate effect.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Mum. Tara was getting her things from upstairs. ‘Just turn up at Sixth Form and grab her? What will everyone say?’

  ‘I’m going to have to not worry about that,’ I said. ‘Kloe’s too important.’

  Tara came back in, smiling, chipper, innocent. So adaptable. It was incredible. ‘Ready!’ she said.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Now—’ I was interrupted by a tinny rendition of ‘Seven Nation Army’ by The White Stripes, and got my phone out eagerly, thinking it would be Kloe . . . but the name that came up on the little screen was Connor. Balls. I stared at it, half of me desperately wanting to answer, half of me convinced I shouldn’t.

  Answer.

  Don’t answer.

  I answered. ‘Connor,’ I said, ‘I can’t talk right now. I’m safe, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You know what you’re doing, do you?’ asked Sharon. ‘Wow. And there I thought you were making it all up as you went along.’

  Oh God. ‘Sharon. I . . . I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘I managed to wrestle the phone out of Connor’s hands,’ said Sharon. ‘He was planning on giving you an earful, but I thought it might be more productive to find out exactly what the hell you think you’re doing.’

  ‘I can explain,’ I said. ‘I will. But right now I need to take Kloe and Tara to safety. Have you met up with Freeman?’

  ‘Yes, which is a whole different kettle of what the hell. Stanly, people came to our house. Again.’

  ‘Shit. Are you OK? You were ready for them, presumably?’

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘Well if I hadn’t sneaked out, got into trouble and warned you, we’d have been completely unprepared . . .’

  ‘Seriously? That’s your defence?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Fair enough. Sorry. Look, by all means bollock me later, but I’m doing the best I can with what little I’ve got. I will call you as soon as I can. Just stay safe.’

  I heard a voice, probably Freeman’s, suggesting that we didn’t stay on the line much longer in case people were listening in, and Sharon said a few choice words that sounded pretty shocking coming out of her mouth. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Talk later. Be careful, you idiot.’

  ‘You too,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know. Eddie sends a mixtur
e of love and incandescent rage.’

  ‘OK. Tell him I’m doing that smile I do when I know I’m in trouble but am hoping everyone will just forget about it.’

  ‘Will do.’ She hung up, and without missing a beat I turned to my mum and did the smile I do when I know I’m in trouble but am hoping that everyone will just forget about it. ‘Right. Well. We’d best be off, then.’

  It was a weird moment. I hugged Mum, saying I’d bring the car back as soon as possible, and Mum hugged Tara, and the two of us got in the car and drove off. ‘Stanly,’ said Tara. ‘What’s going on?’

  I owed her something. ‘Some evil people are operating in London,’ I said, ‘and some dangerous creatures. Something big and bad is going to go down, and you and Kloe need to be as far away from it as possible.’

  ‘What about Oliver and Jacqueline? Will they be all right?’

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘They’re getting out of London too. Could you look through Mum’s CDs and see if there’s anything good?’

  A rummage. ‘Um. Beatles. Radiohead.’

  Radiohead? That’s a bit up-to-date for Mum. She must have discovered them herself as well, because I hadn’t been into them when I’d lived at home. ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Which album?’

  ‘The Bends. That’s the one with ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ on, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’d been very impressed when I’d introduced Tara to Radiohead and she’d immediately liked them – I’d only recently got my head round them, and it had taken me a while.

  ‘That’s my favourite,’ said Tara. ‘Some of the songs are too loud and angry, but that one’s so good, can we have it?’

  ‘Um,’ I said again. ‘Sorry . . . I love it as well . . . but I don’t know if I can quite handle it right now.’ I felt bad for refusing her request, but she understood.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You do have to kind of be in the mood for it. Like ‘Hallelujah’.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Which Beatles albums?’

  ‘Abbey Road.’ We looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘Abbey Road,’ I said. Tara put the CD on and we drove and sang, cheerful and tuneful, about toejam football and walrus gumboot and monkey finger. Neither of us had a clue what John Lennon had been on about, but we both knew all the words.

  She’s definitely my daughter.

  I pulled in to a parking space opposite my high school, a little involuntary shiver passing through me as I took in the familiar grubby corners and old glass. The place looked an awful lot smaller, but it still brought a rush of jumbled memories: years of horrendous PE lessons, doodle-filled exercise books and confrontations in musty corridors, with Bunsen burners and board rubbers marching up and down in the background, singing the school song, which . . . why exactly could I remember that appalling dirge?

  This just keeps getting weirder.

  ‘OK.’ I switched off the engine. ‘I’ll just be a minute. I’m going to lock you in.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tara. ‘Can you leave the keys in so I can keep listening to the music?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Lock yourself in, then.’ She nodded, and I got out and headed towards the Sixth Form, a small converted greenhouse attached to the school, thinking of the word purpose. No stopping, I couldn’t afford to let my guts burst the way they were threatening to. It was going to be in and out. Talk to as few people as possible, answer no questions. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, or something to that effect.

  I entered the common room, feeling more like a new student who was late for their first day than a superhero here to dramatically rescue his girlfriend. There were sofas and chairs and a pool table and a small hi-fi system and a kettle, all incredibly cheap-looking, and several people hanging about, many of whom I recognised. Multiple jaws dropped when they saw me, and my eyes zeroed in on the people playing pool, specifically Ben King, who caught my eye, mis-cued and tore the green. I felt like somebody should have abruptly stopped playing a honky-tonk piano. Nobody seemed to have anything to say for a few seconds and I stood there like a complete lemon, all purpose forgotten. ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hi guys!’ “Hi guys”? Who the hell even are you?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ hissed Ben. He dropped his cue and walked towards me, his body language full of fight. He obviously still bore a grudge. That wasn’t terribly surprising, but as I watched him stride towards me, burdened with glorious purpose – hey, I’m the one with the glorious purpose, dickwad – I realised that I couldn’t just not be arsed with him, I couldn’t even be arsed to not be arsed with him. He wasn’t going to feature in anything that was about to happen. He was barely an obstacle, a meaningless object taking up the space between me and what I’d come for, a deleted scene left to rot on the cutting room floor. I didn’t even bother to answer him, I just punched him in the face and continued through the room, trying not to wince at the pain in my fist, leaving him to fall to the floor moaning. Nobody else came near me. Someone actually said, ‘That was sick.’

  I checked all the other rooms in the Sixth Form, ignoring all questions, and finally found Kloe in the little library at the back of the building. Our eyes locked and she squealed, jumped up and ran at me, leaping into a hug. ‘What are you doing here, you massive freak?’ she said, delightedly. ‘Best surprise ever!’

  ‘Hey darlin’,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve got to come with me.’

  The smile fell, at least partly because darlin’ was what I called her when I was saying something I knew she wouldn’t like. ‘Where?’ she said.

  Don’t say ‘back to the future’. Inappropriate. ‘I’ll explain on the way,’ I said. ‘There’s no time right now. You just have to come with me. It’s not safe for you.’

  ‘But . . . why? Stanly, I can’t just—’

  ‘Kloe,’ I said, fixing her with my gaze and holding her shoulders, ‘you know I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t absolutely completely one hundred per cent kosher and important. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘So please come with me.’ I took her hand and led her out, back down the hall and into the common room, where someone I didn’t know was tending to a bloody-nosed Ben. When he saw me leading Kloe out he launched himself at me, but I blocked him psychically and he tripped over, banging his head on the door. He tumbled back to the floor, cursing, and a couple of people laughed.

  ‘You should probably just stop, Ben,’ said one kid whose face I recognised, although I couldn’t remember his name. Someone else yelled after Kloe, asking what the hell she was doing. She didn’t know what the hell she was doing, or what the hell I was doing, and she didn’t answer. I led her across the playground to the car, where Tara had climbed into the back, and we got in.

  Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, indeed.

  ‘Tara?’ Kloe said. ‘Um, hi. What are you . . . Stanly, what is she doing here? What are you both doing here? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll explain on the way,’ I said.

  ‘On the way where? Give me something, a bloody sentence at least!’

  ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Road trip?’

  And we were gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT TOOK ABOUT two minutes for Kloe to decide that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with my explanation. ‘Stanly,’ she said, ‘what the hell is going on? And why did you punch Ben?’

  ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Kind of felt like it. Unfinished business?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he is sort of the reason I had to run away in the first place.’

  Kloe nodded. ‘OK, yeah, fair enough.’

  ‘Plus he went for me. And I didn’t really have time to talk him down from his angry ledge.’

  ‘All right, fine. Now, where are we going?’

  I explained as much as I could in as un-worrisome a manner as possible, and she seemed to take it quite well, alth
ough she got a bit quiet and reached for my hand. I held hers for a minute, but then I had to change gear and she didn’t take my hand again. We drove for a while in silence, listening to Abbey Road for the second time, and I wondered what the atmosphere was like for Tara. It was certainly tense in the front. I was pretty sure that Kloe had accepted my reasons, but she was still palpably unhappy about them. I found myself flashing back to uncomfortable car journeys with my own parents, as we drove around getting more and more lost on non-descript ring roads, their voices steadily rising as I tried to bury my head in a Goosebumps Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book.

  Time really is a flat circle.

  Eventually we pulled into a service station. Kloe got out without saying anything and headed towards a sign marked TOILETS, disappearing around a corner. I turned to Tara and smiled unconvincingly. ‘Sorry, I should go and talk to her. Will you be OK here?’

  Tara nodded. ‘Lock yourself in again,’ I said. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Do you want anything from the shop?’ She shook her head.

  I put some petrol in the car and got a few provisions. Kloe hadn’t come back, so I walked around the side of the petrol station to the toilets. She was leaning against a wall with her arms folded, looking up at the sky. Her cheeks were scarlet. I didn’t quite know what to say. Things had never been this tense between us before. ‘Um,’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ She looked at me, then down at the floor. ‘Yeah.’ Then she unfolded her arms and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘No, Stanly, I’m not bloody OK! You just turn up out of the blue, drag me out of sixth form, punch Ben in front of everybody! What the hell are they going to think? What are they going to say when I get back? What are my teachers going to think? My mum and dad? They’re going to think you’ve kidnapped me or something! You talk about bad people, and monsters, and danger, and assassins trying to kill you, and what the hell does it all mean? It’s your world! It’s not mine! It’s nothing to do with me!’ I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there uselessly. She was staring at me, though, inviting a response, so I moved forwards to hug her, to run my hands up and down her arms and kiss her forehead like I always did, but she pulled away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t try to fob me off with a cuddle. Obviously I’m going to come with you. Obviously I trust you. But you owe me an explanation. A proper one. You owe me that.’