Spiders

by Tom Hoyle

  They all sat together at lunch. Adam was full of excitement about the little triumphs of the morning, and he and Naresh were at the centre of one big conversation.

  As the pizza was eaten and shared, Asa laughed because Rachel had been hit twice, making it look like she was wearing a bikini top. Asa’s observations on the scene were interrupted by mild violence.

  The last game of the afternoon, based around the capture of a London bus, was the most exciting. Everyone agreed this would be the decider.

  Naresh was the VIP they had to capture or kill. He strolled off towards the bus, surrounded by his five friends, and Adam gathered his team together. ‘Look – you pin them down from this side, and I’ll run round and creep up on them from behind.’

  Adam’s first cover was a tree. He was unseen. Then, after running six paces, he dived behind a log. Lying flat, he peered over and saw the bus, its occupants distracted by the onslaught from the other side.

  A few more steps and his back was against a wooden shield. It was working – he was much closer.

  Then he was behind a telephone box, gasping with exertion and excitement.

  A few seconds later, behind a London Underground sign, partially hidden and just a few feet from the bus.

  Edging forward, gun rising, behind his opponents’ backs . . .

  Nearly there. Targets in sight.

  He raised his gun and took aim.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, prisoner.’ Adam slowly moved his head to the left. Naresh’s gun was a few inches away.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Adam was marched into the bus, his arm holding the gun limp by his side, his mind racing about how his team could still win the game.

  Naresh shouted over the sound of splattering paint: ‘We have a prisoner!’ Six guns pointed at Adam. ‘We have a prisoner!’ they chorused.

  ‘Keep on firing!’ shrieked Adam, loving the game, his capture a source of frustration and excitement in equal measure, but his words were lost inside his helmet and covered by a flurry of pellets exploding against the bus.

  Those in the bus returned fire, and Megan and Leo – and then Asa – were hit.

  Suddenly there was a blur of movement and a figure vaulted in through one of the bus windows. Oliver’s left hand was needed to make the jump, but his right fired a yellow splodge into the upper chest of one of the older boys and then into the stomach of the boy next to him. Oliver fell behind one of the seats, but his gun rose above it: one shot hit a boy over the heart, and the next two impacted into the backs of the fourth and fifth boys, who were rapidly trying to find cover at the front of the bus.

  Naresh grabbed Adam, holding him in front as a shield, his gun on his neck at point-blank range.

  Oliver stood up. Everyone was astonished at what had happened.

  ‘Well done, Oliver! That’s a draw. Let’s call a truce,’ said Adam.

  Naresh saw Oliver’s stare and hesitated for a second, still holding on to Adam. But being outdone by Oliver was a little too much for him to bear – so Naresh turned his gun on Adam again.

  Then:

  Phut!

  Phut!

  Two shots.

  Naresh’s world turned yellow. A shot from Oliver had hit him in the visor – otherwise it would have gone straight in his left eye. And as he put his left hand up to clear the egg-like mess, he saw that his right hand, the one holding his gun, had also been hit. ‘OK, OK, game over,’ he said, irritation creeping into his voice.

  Adam was amazed that not a drip of yellow paint was on him. He turned to Naresh, who was still struggling with his soaked visor. ‘Thanks, mate. That was great,’ Adam said.

  Naresh wanted to complain that the rules had been broken, but relaxed and slapped his hand down on Adam’s helmet. ‘Yeah, good one.’ He glared at Oliver.

  Oliver smiled and gave the tiniest of shrugs.

  CHAPTER 7

  ABBIE’S DISCOVERY (SATURDAY 1ST NOVEMBER 2014)

  History wasn’t a strong subject for Abbie. And it made her angry about how people, usually men , behaved.

  ‘Why don’t you copy out that page?’ her father had vaguely suggested without properly looking at the book. It was on Winston Churchill. He might have won the war, but he wasn’t in favour of giving women the vote or India its independence. Pig.

  ‘I need a pen!’ But her father had gone out. She wasn’t sure where – they both came and went without explanation. ‘How can I do this without a pen?’ she shouted at the front door.

  She opened her father’s study door. It was meant to be out of bounds. As she leaned across his desk Abbie saw a piece of A4 with strange shapes on it and a diagram showing phases of the moon. What a mind-numbing job. No wonder he’s distant. Underneath, only half an inch showing, there was a photograph. Frowning, Abbie slid it out: at first she couldn’t work it out, but then she realized it was of a bruised arm. And there were other pictures as well: a strange-looking castle next to a lake, a blurred photo of a man taken from a distance, a sheet of paper titled Cult – Type B , with the Metropolitan Police logo at the top.

  At the top of the final sheet it said: Undercover Placement into Low Risk Group .

  Abbie heard the front door close. She quickly pushed the papers back into their order and went back, without a pen.

  Abbie’s father was as vague as usual when, as they ate in front of the television that evening, Abbie steered the conversation around to what exactly he did. ‘You know that I’m a police officer and investigate groups and gangs,’ he said in a monotone. ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Nothing was often Abbie’s response, so the conversation jolted into silence.

  They finished at the same time as The Simpsons . ‘I have to go out. I’ve some work to do,’ her father said, taking his own plate to the kitchen.

  Abbie wasn’t sure where the impulse came from to follow her father that evening. She was meant to see some friends, but she wasn’t in the mood. Boys were always hassling her, seeming to think that blonde hair and blue eyes and a short skirt meant she was an easy target. But she also had a desire to avoid copying out a timeline on the Nuremberg Trials.

  It proved easy to follow her father into town, but she was astonished when he went to a taxi rank and sat in the back of a cab. They had their own car – a fairly new Mercedes. Unable to stop herself, she ran to the one behind and delivered the cliché: ‘Follow that cab.’

  Abbie was conscious that she only had £15 on her and watched the meter anxiously as they drove out of the town. Then her father’s cab stopped outside an ordinary-looking detached house.

  Abbie swore under her breath. It must be a girlfriend’s house: her father was protecting her in the stupid way that adults think they should. She actually wanted him to get a new life; her mother wouldn’t have wanted him to rot.

  But why not use the car?

  Abbie had never hidden behind anything in her life, but now she ducked behind a hedge.

  ‘Hello, Mark.’ Abbie could just about make out male voices, then a woman’s voice and the distant clunk of a closing door.

  Maybe this woman was a prostitute. That would be beyond sad.

  As Abbie nosed out from behind the hedge, another couple went up the path. He was in a tie and she was dressed like an old-fashioned housewife.

  She heard banging on the window to her right. An old woman was shooing her away as if she was a cat: ‘Move on, whoever you are,’ came through the glass. ‘Clear off.’

  Abbie mouthed back, ‘Keep your hair on, you stupid cow.’ She flicked up her middle finger.

  She decided to walk past the house – just once. A quick look. It was getting dark and the light was on in the sitting room, so she would have a good view.

  It didn’t look like anything too weird, just a group of people sitting around a table chatting, but at exactly the wrong moment her father looked into the gloom outside, their eyes met and Abbie stopped walking.

  Three people came to the window. Abbie waved. She could see her father
say my daughter and some other words. The door opened and Abbie was beckoned in. He was saying, ‘My daughter is so excited about everything I’ve told her.’ And to Abbie: ‘But when I said you couldn’t come, I meant it.’ He put his hand around her shoulder – the first time that that had happened in a long time. He hadn’t even done it at the funeral. ‘It’s good to see you, Annie darling.’

  Annie? Darling?

  Abbie looked around the room.

  The old-fashioned housewife spoke. ‘Perhaps you will join your father in the Castle? Great work is going to be done there and in our secret London temple.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Abbie, with no idea what she was agreeing to. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, that’s decided then.’ This voice was lower. A man with a brooding sense of ownership over the proceedings came forward from the corner of the room. ‘There’s little time to waste. I’m sure that everyone will want you to come along.’

  Back home, Abbie’s father was angry. ‘Even you must understand that there are some things kids shouldn’t be involved in,’ he seethed as he shook baked beans into a saucepan.

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ Abbie drawled in her usual way, letting her body sag.

  Her father snorted.

  Abbie was furious. ‘I’m sixteen!’

  ‘This is a more important job than you realize,’ her father moaned. ‘Now I have a serious problem: I’m expected to do a couple of months of residential work, and they think you’re coming too. You’ve put the entire operation at risk. It was never part of the plan to take you along.’ The beans were beginning to sizzle and burn.

  Abbie understood that men like her father could be installed undercover into organizations possibly damaging to the state – religious fanatics, political extremists, environmental activists, anyone who looked dangerous. This group was suspicious because they had past links with troublemakers. His investigation was a secret to everyone outside a small unit in the Metropolitan Police and Thames House, the headquarters of the security services in London.

  ‘I’ll just come with you,’ Abbie said with a shrug. ‘It means we won’t have to bother Uncle Brian and Aunt Anne. You said that this is just religious nuts in a big house in the middle of Scotland.’

  Abbie’s father explained again, very slowly, as if Abbie was five, that there would be no phones and no contact at all with the outside world, except through his coded messages, and that he had to retain his cover at all times – even when they were alone. Abbie would probably get very bored.

  But Abbie thought it sounded like an adventure, something to liven up her dull life at last . Something to help her get over her mum’s death. To get her away from this place where she was surrounded by memories.

  Forty-eight hours later permission had come for Abbie to go undercover with her dad, but only because she was sixteen. She had to sign the Official Secrets Act, which meant that she would go to prison if she told anyone what her father was doing. It was Annie and Dad , a family involved in the group because they were searching for meaning in their lives after a recent bereavement. Cover stories, her dad explained, were always as near to the truth as possible.

  ‘Minor stuff,’ the man in a grey suit had said when she went in to sign the papers agreeing to keep everything a secret. ‘It’s a group funded by rich grannies and run by middle-aged oddballs. It’s just a formality because of the past connections of some members of the group. Nothing can go wrong.’

  Abbie had nodded at him and smiled.

  ‘The most important thing is that you stay detached. Remember that it’s work. Isn’t that right, Mark?’

  ‘Absolutely, yes,’ said her father. ‘We’re just there to observe and report.’

  That night Abbie’s father returned to the man with the runes and received more messages from his dead wife. Mark Hopkins was excited about finding out more at Castle Dreich. This had become more than a job to him – the line between work and actual interest, even belief, was already getting blurred.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE VICTIM (SATURDAY 1ST NOVEMBER 2014)

  The evening after paintballing amounted to no more than pizza, crisps, cakes (all as usual) and a film. There had been considerable disagreement about which movie to watch: the boys wanted something violent or funny (preferably both, with zombies); the girls wanted a romcom, but would compromise depending on who the male lead was. The boys argued that good-looking actors always made bad films. So in the end they watched Hot Fuzz again.

  Things went well until about halfway through the film. Adam was on the sofa with his arm around Megan. This was no longer done secretly: everyone knew that they were an item. Leo was on the far side of Megan, and Asa and Rachel were sitting on the floor in front of him, resting against one another, shoulder to shoulder, as if this was an accident of the seating arrangements.

  Everyone agreed that Oliver was now fully part of their gang, especially after his exploits at the end of the paintballing. He was sitting with them, captivated by the film. ‘I wonder if any of this actually happened,’ he said, just as the front door bell rang, its chime going on longer than usual.

  Asa leaped up but hesitated when the bell rang again – this time for even longer – and was accompanied by thumping on the glass and wood of the door.

  ‘Better see who it is,’ said Adam. ‘Maybe your parents have forgotten something. I’ll come with you,’ he added, trying to reassure Asa.

  It was clear that there were kids outside. Asa muttered about ten different swear words in succession as he took a deep breath and warily opened the door.

  Jake stood on the doorstep. He burped aggressively in Adam’s face. ‘We’ve come to join the party,’ he slurred, spurred on by his three grinning mates. ‘If it’s on Facebook it must be for everyone.’

  ‘Just go away, Jake,’ said Adam. ‘You’re not wanted here.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he said too loudly. ‘Call the police? That hasn’t helped you in the past.’

  Megan arrived behind Adam’s shoulder and Oliver also forced his way forward, apparently emboldened by his earlier heroics.

  Jake, his breath strong with the smell of lager, looked down on Oliver. ‘What’s the pretty boy doing here? He’s like that fish we looked at in biology – not boy or girl.’ He turned to Megan. ‘I really fancy you. Let’s see your tits.’

  Megan snarled.

  Adam stepped forward. ‘If you don’t leave,’ he said, searching for words that captured his anger, ‘I’m going to mess you up.’

  Jake made an act of speaking slowly and rather wearily to Adam, as if it was all too much trouble. ‘You don’t impress me. You don’t impress anyone. You’re nothing.’

  Then an unexpected voice made everyone pause:

  ‘You should leave now.’

  Confident, balanced, accompanied by a step forward: it was Oliver.

  At that moment Rachel came forward waving her mobile. ‘I’ve called my parents and they’re on their way over. If there’s trouble they’ll call the police.’

  ‘Huh.’ Jake shrugged and swore, looking at Oliver. Then, mimicking the Terminator: ‘I’ll be back.’ And slowly, very slowly, he and his friends sauntered off.

  The party reached an uneasy and slightly early conclusion: the spell that had hung over the day had been broken by the interruption. Oliver left first, and then Adam and Megan walked home together. It was a misty but mild night and they soon relaxed and started laughing about how birthday parties still consisted of paintballing and pizza and a movie. As their houses neared, Megan said, ‘Maybe birthdays will never change. What have you got your mum for tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh no! I completely forgot – and dad gave me a tenner for a card and chocolates.’ He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. ‘I’ll have to run back to the twenty-four-hour shop. You go on.’

  They kissed goodbye and then Adam ran off, calling, ‘See you in the morning.’

  When he turned the corner, he saw the body.

 
It was in the gutter behind a parked car. Adam spun around but there was no one to help. He edged closer, frightened, but aware that the person was in no state to harm him. He could see a pool of dark red glistening slightly under the street lights.

  Then he noticed the familiar leather jacket, and as he pulled the body over, his hands now red with blood, he recognized the skull T-shirt.

  Jake.

  The body moaned. ‘Make him stop.’ He was alive.

  As he tried to move Jake on to his side, Adam looked at the misshapen nose, bent to the right and pressed against his cheek, and the bright red bruises on the forehead. Smudges of blood soon covered Adam’s clothes.

  There was a cord tight around Jake’s neck.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ll get this off you,’ Adam said, compassion outweighing knowledge of who the victim was. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  The cord had cut into Jake’s skin, and there was more blood as Adam peeled it away. He stood up, cord in hand, as two men walked along the pavement towards them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said one.

  ‘Please help,’ said Adam. ‘My friend has been hurt.’

  When the police arrived slightly after the ambulance, Adam was still holding the cord.

  I’m going to mess you up.

  Everyone had heard him say it.

  CHAPTER 9

  HARMLESS? (DAYS FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY 5TH NOVEMBER 2014)

  Abbie pulled her door shut and wandered down to the old chapel where there was going to be a talk. Her father had saved her a place. She thought of all the things she’d like to say to him. This had been a bad idea after all.

  This was her third talk. There seemed to be little connection between them, but she assumed everyone else understood a lot more of them than she did. The first one was all about symbols, some of which were a bit disturbing, such as ugly faces with twisted horns, but others were just random squiggles. The most important shape was a circle speckled with gold and with jagged lines coming out of it. This, the presenter said, represented the ‘Golden Planet’ – the place where all ‘Loyal Servants’ would be taken one day. Abbie drifted off a bit in the middle. Nutters , she thought. These people are mental.