Ace of Spiders

by Stefan Mohamed

  I smile apologetically. ‘Oh. Sorry. I must have got the wrong end of the stick, I thought that was why I was here. Obviously someone ballsed up the booking. How embarrassing. I can get going if you want—’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ he says. ‘I can do anything to you that I want. Anything. And not “within reason”. I’m not governed by any kind of procedural law. I am not a policeman, nor am I a government agent. I don’t report to anyone. I can take you apart piece by piece until you tell me what I want to know, and nobody is going to come in here and tell me to stop. There is no-one behind a two-way mirror with one eye on your vital signs and the other on a list of dos and don’ts. This place, to all intents and purposes, does not exist.’

  He’s telling the truth, I know he is, and now I’m really scared. I hear Freeman’s words echoing in head. In all my time with the Group, few ever worried me. Smith frightened me. He is a ruthless, back-stabbing, self-serving psychopath. I look down at myself. I feel so much skinnier than usual in these ill-fitting pyjamas. Completely helpless. No powers. No friends.

  No hope.

  ‘Where is Tara?’ he says, and a hot flush of relief steams through the fear. They’re safe.

  He doesn’t know where she is.

  They don’t have her.

  I want to grin, cackle with laughter, spit in his face, but I don’t. Instead, I make a decision. I’ve read about torture. I’ve seen it on TV and in films, and it’s obviously going to be exactly the same in real life, hopefully, I think. I know that even the most hard-ass Navy SEAL has been known to give up everything to make it stop. Thinking about the fights I’ve been in, with Pandora and with Smith’s pet monster, I think – I hope – that I have a relatively high pain threshold . . . although that’s pretty much definitely because of my powers . . .

  And now they’re gone . . .

  Either way, I have no idea what this guy is going to dish out. All I know is that he’s going to use everything at his disposal to get the information out of me. And I can’t give it to him. Whatever he chucks at me, I’m not going to tell him where Tara is. I’m never going to tell him. Never.

  I tell myself that, but I know I can’t be sure, and for a second I entertain a plan B. I remember Scott Masters, remember his sudden amnesia. Maybe I can do the same if I feel myself giving up, I can just wipe my own mind somehow . . .

  Except, no. Because my powers are gone.

  Well. This is a pretty shitty state of affairs, eh old boy?

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘“Tara”? Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid. Have you tried Directory Enquiries? You’ll probably need a surname, though.’

  Smith doesn’t bat an eyelid. He hits me in the stomach, driving all the breath out of me, and I choke on nothing, heaving. When I get my breath back I look up at him and smile. ‘So,’ I manage to say. ‘While we’re chatting . . . this is one of those black sites I’ve heard so much about, presumably? Experimental torture techniques? Gitmo reimagined by Lovecraft?’

  ‘Lovewho?’ says Smith.

  ‘Jesus. Philistine.’

  ‘I don’t get much time to watch films.’

  ‘He was an author, you jeb end.’

  Smith frowns. ‘“Jeb end”?’

  ‘Something they say back home. I haven’t got a clue what it means.’

  ‘Oh.’ Smith hits me again. He follows it up with a sigh, as if he’s not entirely sure he can be bothered to spend the rest of his day doing this. I sympathise. ‘In answer to your question,’ he says, ‘no, this is not one of those black sites you’ve heard about. This is the White Room.’

  I frown. ‘“The White Room”? Like in Angel?’

  ‘Angel?’

  ‘Buffy spinoff? Set in LA? Best series finale ever? I guess you don’t watch much TV either.’

  As expected, he hits me again. ‘Those sites are just rumours. Rumours we allow to spread.’

  ‘Rumours you allow to spread?’ I spit on the floor. ‘Why?’

  ‘To scare any conspiracy-minded idiots who might think of investigating,’ says Smith. ‘And to further discredit said conspiracy-minded idiots in the eyes of anybody else who may come across their horseshit online.’ He leans in. ‘Trust me – White Rooms are much worse than anything you might have heard about.’

  ‘Oh, goody.’

  ‘Where is Tara?’

  ‘Where are my friends?’

  ‘I’ll find her eventually, you know. So you might as well tell me.’

  ‘I’ll find my friends eventually, so you might as well tell me.’

  ‘Your friends.’ Smith snorts. ‘Your cohorts in the century’s most pathetic terrorist attack. I’m afraid they won’t be bursting in here to rescue you. Thomas Maguire is dead, as you know. David Silver should be by now, he was certainly shot enough times.’

  ‘David who?’

  ‘I believe you know him as “Box”.’ Smith doesn’t seem impressed by the nickname. My stomach sinks.

  No. No time for grief. ‘Where are the others?’ I ask. ‘Lauren?’

  ‘The pretty ginger one?’ This time there is amusement in his smile, but it’s a twisted amusement, like thorns that have learned to laugh. Dread drops through me like an anvil, all the way to the bottom of my stomach.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ I say. ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘Far too valuable. We hooked her up to one of our machines. She’s proving to be a great boost to the power supply.’

  I lose it for a minute, thrashing against my straps and shouting with rage, spitting the foulest profanities that I can muster. Smith just watches me, utterly unimpressed. ‘As for your spy,’ he says, ‘your mole . . .’

  Who?

  Nailah’s contact?

  Smith looks interested now. ‘Did you even know him?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Did you even know his name?’

  Again I say nothing, staring defiantly at him. Smith laughs. It’s the sort of laugh whose owner you’d kick out of your house if they tried it at a dinner party. ‘Well, if you’re interested, his name was Stephen Lee. And your friend Nailah, along with your extremely impressive cousin Edward, did manage to reach him, even after “Box” took the aforementioned bullets. They found Mr Lee just in time for one of our soldiers to shoot him in the back of the head.’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘Did you really think we wouldn’t see this coming?’ asks Smith. ‘You think someone can betray our organisation, passing on secrets and information, without our knowledge? And what did you think the punishment would be? Suspension? Docked wages? We’re fighting for the world.’

  ‘So are we.’

  He snorts. ‘You have no idea what’s happening. And you’re lucky we caught you and your pathetic crew before you could do any real damage.’

  Whatever mate.

  ‘All this,’ says Smith, ‘all this risk, to yourselves, to the world, and for what? To steal some data? Rescue a single empowered? An empowered who is here by choice, might I add. A willing participant.’

  Who is he on about? ‘Willing? Yeah, pull the other one, it’s got—’

  ‘Shut up,’ he says, irritably. ‘Let me state this very clearly – your incessant quipping is in no way charming. It does not disarm me. In fact, it actually makes me want to hurt you more.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘OK. Would you prefer it if I was the gritty reboot version of myself?’ I adopt an over-the-top frown and a strained Christian Bale growl. ‘Willing? Yeah, pull the other one, it’s not wearing hockey pads.’ I blow a raspberry, and although Smith responds with a particularly hefty punch, I like to think that I won that exchange.

  ‘I will admit,’ Smith continues, ‘that some needed to be coerced. It’s a shame, but it’s a necessary evil. The one you came here to rescue, however? Sally Daniels? One hundred per ce
nt willing. Terrified of her power. Your friend Nailah was convinced otherwise.’

  Sally Daniels? Who . . .

  Nailah . . .

  Lauren’s friend? Is that who . . .

  A whole shower of pennies drop, although I take great pains not to show it.

  He doesn’t know why we were really here.

  He doesn’t know we know.

  I decide to play along by saying nothing. ‘She must be special,’ says Smith, ‘to go to all this trouble.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Love Sally. She’s great.’

  ‘Well, she won’t be going anywhere any time soon,’ says Smith. ‘Neither will Lauren. And neither will you. And the rest of your allies will suffer. Just wait and see what we do to that traitor Freeman.’ He smiles that ghastly smile again. ‘I’m a big believer in zero-tolerance policies.’

  You have never met a liar like Smith. That’s what Freeman said. Don’t trust a word he says, not a single word.

  I’m actually thinking quite fondly of Freeman at this point.

  Wow. Things must be bad.

  I say nothing. I have to take this. Absorb it, file it away. Not think about Lauren hooked up to one of those awful machines, not think about Nailah watching her friend die.

  I just have to think that some of them made it out. They must have. Eddie, Nailah, Daryl, Sharon . . . they must have escaped, because if they hadn’t he would be telling me about it. He’d enjoy crushing me with it.

  Smith must think that that’s enough for now, because he nods to some invisible eye and there is that flash again, that retina-slashing blast. I don’t know whether I black out or what, my brain is too scrambled, but when my vision returns Smith is standing in the corner of the room and the floor in front of me is covered with spiders. All different types: fat hairy-legged sods, translucent spindly buggers, the sneaky sly bastards that like to appear without warning from underneath sofas, beds and piles of paper when you’re not expecting them, all moving towards me, little aliens.

  Oh God.

  My skin is erupting in goosebumps, crawling. Words cannot express how much I hate spiders. I always have. They’re the single most freakish thing ever to evolve on this planet. Give me a giant blue hellhound any day.

  God. No.

  ‘Where is she?’ Smith asks again.

  This isn’t pain.

  What he’s giving me isn’t pain.

  This is fear.

  It’s psychological.

  All in the brain.

  And I’m king of my brain.

  They’re harmless.

  Apart from the poisonous ones.

  But surely he wouldn’t be introducing poison this early? He doesn’t want me dead. He wants Tara’s location, he’s going to keep me alive for as long as humanly possible. Ergo, none of these spiders are poisonous.

  But that’s not the point, is it?

  The first ones are at my feet. ‘Where is Tara?’ he asks again.

  I look at him, and say nothing. ‘I can get rid of them easily,’ says Smith.

  ‘I adore the natural world,’ I say. ‘And all of God’s beautiful creatures.’

  Close your eyes, Stanly.

  Close your eyes and think of Kloe.

  I keep my outer eyes closed, and my inner eyes fixed on Tara and Kloe’s faces, happily playing a game in the cabin, eating together. I picture taking Tara to the fair, to the cinema, something normal. Buying her popcorn. I try to feel Kloe’s touch on my skin, rather than . . .

  Rather than nothing, all right? There is literally nothing to feel right now.

  I can hear Smith’s voice still, somewhere far away. ‘Where is Tara?’

  That’s a good question. Where is Tara? Let’s see, shall we? I picture the three of us, out walking by the dams about twenty miles from Tref-y-Celwyn, on the most impossibly perfect sunny day, drinking in the lushness, the breathtaking views. I see Tara skimming stones. I kiss Kloe’s neck and she nestles against me as we watch our daughter.

  ‘Where is she, Stanly?’

  His voice is really muffled, for some reason.

  Why?

  Because of the water. Lovely water from the dams, cascading. Really loud.

  Definitely not because I’m screaming.

  Surely he’s got to realise that this isn’t working. It isn’t working. It isn’t.

  It isn’t.

  The flash comes again and I am hanging from the wall. Smith is standing front of me. There is a brief pain in my head; it lasts for about ten seconds before subsiding, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before. How many times can they keep blasting me unconscious?

  Never mind that.

  They’re gone.

  Everything is awesome!

  Everything is cool when you’re not covered in spiders!

  ‘Right,’ says Smith. ‘Well. Worth a try.’ He stares at me. ‘Trust me, though, that’s not half as bad as it gets.’

  My voice is shaky when I speak, but I manage to level it out. ‘Can I have a sandwich?’

  His eyebrows twitch. ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Well, fear obviously isn’t working. Fear on its own, anyway. I imagine you’ve seen quite a lot that frightened you. It’s not enough.’

  ‘Do you know what would be enough? A sandwich. Like . . . a fresh white baguette, bit crusty, real Welsh salted butter . . .’

  ‘What about pain?’ says Smith. ‘Good old-fashioned blunt pain?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say, ‘that’d be crap in a sandwich. Good old-fashioned Welsh salted butter, and fresh iceberg lettuce, and then crispy bacon and chicken breast with a hint of garlic. Don’t worry if you haven’t got any actual garlic, though. Garlic salt is fine. Or garlic butter, even. Maybe instead of the real butter . . . actually no, that’d be weird . . .’

  Smith puts his head on one side, reaches into his jacket and pulls out a revolver, keeping his eyes locked on mine. ‘Where is the girl?’ he asks, yet again.

  ‘Why did you send that assassin after me?’

  ‘I didn’t send an assassin after you.’

  Liar. ‘What about the blue dog?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  Liar liar PANTS ON FIRE. ‘Oh? Really? Never mind, then. I’ll be heading off . . .’

  The smile is gone and he is pressing the barrel of the gun against my right kneecap. Oh God, no. Please . . .

  Is this karma?

  I didn’t even shoot anyone in any knees . . .

  ‘Where is the girl?’

  I look him straight in the face, unblinking, and he shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’

  BLAM!

  This time I lose consciousness all by myself.

  There is more. More pain, more of the same question. Smith thoughtfully bandages up my knee, and I try to think about getting my powers back. I’ll be able to repair it just like that. It’ll be easy. Or after I rescue Lauren, maybe she can do it for me. Then I can slowly break all of Smith’s bones. Maybe even remove some.

  Yeah, that’ll be nice.

  Smith seems to decide that I deserve a brief break, so he leaves me for a bit. I want to pass out again but can’t.

  This is really very unpleasant indeed.

  A memory flickers through the red, a forgotten afternoon. Falling down a hill when I was thirteen, seriously hurting my arm and jarring my back. Nothing broken, but it hurt so much to move that I didn’t think I was going to be able to get up and walk home. Me being me, I’d forced myself to get up by constantly repeating I am Federal Agent Jack Bauer and this is the longest day of my life in my head, and walked all the way home in severe pain with those words echoing through my mind. It was a technique I adopted for such situations for a while afterwards, whether it was an injury, bullying or whatever, and it worked surprisingly well.

  I wonder if it will work today. Somehow I
doubt it, but it’s worth a try.

  What would Kiefer Sutherland do if he were in my position?

  Probably be in a lot of pain. He isn’t really Jack Bauer, you know.

  Lies. Lies. I have detected your lies.

  This banter with myself is almost helping to avoid the pain.

  It really isn’t.

  Close your eyes and think of Kiefer Sutherland.

  I bet he’s just as tough as Jack Bauer. If not tougher. I mean, have you seen that video where he jumps on the Christmas tree? What a nutter.

  Yeah, says Daryl’s voice. Proper mentalist.

  Ah. Missed you, pal.

  Don’t think of Lauren. Don’t think of your friends. Don’t think of Kl- I SAID DON’T THINK OF HER THAT MEANS HER NAME AS WELL, OK?

  Smith is back, regarding me clinically. ‘You’ve been shot before, haven’t you?’

  I speak through gritted teeth. ‘Yep. Turns out it’s more fun the second time. Who knew?’

  He allows me another one of those quarter smiles. ‘Well you’re in luck. We’ve taken your powers, but they leave a . . . residue. An extra toughness, better pain resistance. This is good for me, because it means I can shoot you at least twice more if you don’t tell me what I want to know. And then I’m going to move on to some slightly less humane methods.’

  ‘What, send Morrissey in to give me a lecture on vegetarianism?’ I’m slurring a bit. ‘You monster.’

  That actually seems to inspire a genuine smile. It’s kind of worse than his other smile. ‘The funny thing is,’ Smith says, ‘that I could probably have him here within an hour. But then I’d have to kill him to keep him quiet.’

  ‘Do us all a favour. Bring Bono as well. We’ll have ourselves a party.’ Smith swims briefly in my vision, and I blink hard to focus. ‘Do you do a lot of this?’ I ask. ‘Torturing people? Is it a hobby? Or are you just one of those really committed ends-means-justified types?’

  ‘I do what is necessary.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what I expected you to say.’

  ‘Don’t presume to judge me,’ says Smith. ‘You have no idea what I’ve seen in my time with the Angel Group. What I’ve had to do. What has been necessary.’