by Bali Rai
Like that girl you told me about?
Yes – just like her.
For ever?
Yes – for ever.
I think I’m ready, she tells him.
You must be sure. You must do it right.
I know.
He tells her how to set up. To make sure that she posts the video blog first.
I can help, of course, he adds.
Would you?
I said that I would.
Seriously – will it hurt?
Forget about that, he replies. Right now, they don’t see you. They think you’re a nobody. They ignore you. After this, though, they’ll never forget who you are. This is a new world – you’ll live for ever on the Web . . .
I’ll be a somebody?
A celebrity. A face on T-shirts and Internet blogs. A sensation . . .
When can we meet?
I’ll be on again, same time tomorrow. We’ll arrange it then.
Promise?
I won’t let you down, he replies. I am not like the others.
Later, the Spider reminisces . . . It is a cold, wet November afternoon, in Balham, South London, years ago. He has skipped uni and decided to go home. The house he shares with five others sits on a side street, off Bedford Hill. The others are at lectures. Or so he thinks . . .
He enters through the rear kitchen door. The sink is overflowing with used dishes and the cooker covered in a thick layer of grime. He ignores the mess and walks into the living room, the stench of cigarettes and weed assaulting his senses. He takes the stairs and is halted by a muffled sound. It is a girl’s scream. It comes from upstairs . . .
Excitement rises in his chest. He goes to investigate.
One of his housemates, his hair long, his chest bare, stands in front of a bedroom door. ‘What are you doing here?’ He is surprised.
The Spider, a few years older, can smell the boy’s fear, and see it in his youthful face. ‘Who’s in your room,’ he asks.
‘No one!’ the boy lies. ‘Just some girl I met.’
More sounds come from his bedroom. Thuds, followed by a loud crash.
The Spider smiles. ‘I think she’s trying to escape,’ he says.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replies the boy, yet his face betrays him again.
When the girl screams once more, he drops his pretence. He crashes through the door and the Spider follows. Inside, a young girl, perhaps fourteen, wriggles in his grip. She is blonde, waif-like and half-naked. Her dirty clothes, lying across the room, suggest she lives on the streets.
‘Please!’ the boy pleads. ‘It’s not what it looks like. She told me she was eighteen!’
The Spider notices the camcorder lying on the floor. He grins.
The girl’s expression changes. No longer does she think she’ll be rescued.
‘Keep her quiet,’ he tells the younger man, as he closes the door behind him.
As the boy’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open, the Spider picks up the camera. ‘Would you like me to film?’ the Spider asks. ‘You seem to have your hands full already.’
The girl screams again. Her name is Emma Wallace.
4
When I checked Facebook a day later, I had three more private messages from Benedict. I read each of them, and smiled:
Holla back then, babe?
Great pic of you in that blue dress!
You got some seriously pretty eyes, girl!
I was sitting in Mum’s car at Sainsbury’s. She’d gone back to collect the debit card she’d forgotten at the till, which was unusually scatty for her. But she’d had a long day so I didn’t wind her up about it. A green BMW pulled in next to Mum’s red VW Golf. It seemed a bit close and I gave the driver a glare before realizing it was the IT technician from school. I half smiled but he ignored me, locking his car and walking off, phone in hand. Most of our teachers lived around the school, so we saw them all the time.
I looked at my iPhone again, wondering how to respond to Benedict. I wanted to seem interested but not too keen. I didn’t want to get all Molly Cooper on him. In the end, I decided to play cool. I doubted he’d be around anyway, and I didn’t know the exact time difference between Leicester and New York.
I looked at his picture and smiled again. He was so gorgeous. Part of me began to wonder if he was even real. Like, was someone winding me up maybe?
Hey Benedict! Thanks for the friend request. I’m a bit confused though. How come you picked me?
I closed the app, thinking any reply might take a while, but my FB alert went off almost immediately.
Hey – she lives!!!?
I shook my head. The boy was eager.
Wow – that was quick – LOL!
Again, it took only seconds for him to get back to me.
Bored, you know? Just chillin’ – surfing the Net. You’ve cheered me up! You OK?
Cool – just shopping with my mum.
Mum as pretty as you?
Prettier – she’s hot!
This was true. I looked like her – only she was skinnier than me, and prettier. She had long dark hair, big chocolate eyes and a smile that always made you feel better. When we went shopping together, I often caught men eyeing her up. She was a babe.
Doubt that – you’re gorgeous! And we’ve got loads in common.
How’d you know that?
I saw your ‘likes’ lists. Read most of your favourite books and I love Bob Marley too!
We exchanged more little messages until my mum turned up. I told Benedict to contact me later. But when I got in, he’d already sent three more messages.
‘You’re always on that phone,’ said Mum as we unpacked.
I looked at her. The worry lines around her eyes were growing deeper, and she looked tired. She taught at a different school to mine, and her work got her down.
‘If my PC wasn’t so rubbish, maybe I wouldn’t be on the phone,’ I told her.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she replied. ‘Try the real world for a change.’
‘Mum!’
I’d wanted a laptop for ages – something that worked and didn’t crowd my desk like an ancient monument. My PC was so old that Tilly laughed whenever she came over. She called it the ‘abacus’.
‘I’ll get you a laptop when I decide to,’ said Mum. ‘Now put the chilled stuff in the fridge.’
Ten minutes later, I was at my desk. I kept my PC on constantly, and never signed out of Facebook or anything else, otherwise getting back in took for ever. It did mean that Tilly often hijacked my Facebook page when she came over – but only to leave messages about how much she loved me, and other, more random stuff.
On Facebook, one of Benedict’s messages in particular made me grin.
Got three things I love. Baseball, burgers and beautiful ladies. If you came at me with a quarter-pounder and Red Sox tickets, I’d just die.
I didn’t know who the Red Sox were so I searched the name before replying.
How come a New York boy loves a Boston baseball team?
My mom is Boston all the way. She never gave me no choice.
What about your dad?
He died when I was a kid. Never really knew him.
I felt bad instantly.
You still there?
Yeah – sorry about your dad. Mine died when I was young too. I feel horrible.
Don’t. You weren’t to know – how could you?
But I just assumed.
What happened to your dad?
I wondered what to say. I missed my dad all the time, but as each year passed, I started to forget stuff about him. That made me feel really guilty and I’d only ever talked to Mum and Tilly about it. But something about Benedict’s interest made me feel warm inside. I liked that he cared enough to ask.
It’s hard to think about. Dad just never came back from work one day. He was driving home and there was accident and he died.
That’s cruel, Lily. Life can be awful sometimes. Mine died from a
heart attack, so my mum says – sudden too. I never really knew him much.
Do you miss him?
Every day.
His reply rattled me a bit – but not in a bad way. I had always believed I was odd for not letting my dad’s memory go, but Benedict was just like me – and that felt lovely.
It’s weird. Some days I think about him a lot, others he’s hardly there. Makes me feel guilty.
He wouldn’t want that, Lily. I don’t think any father would. You shouldn’t feel bad about that. It’s natural, I guess. Besides, there’s always something positive that comes from a negative.
I wondered what he meant.
How so?
We’ve got losing our fathers in common. Like, we understand how that feels. Instant connection sorta thing.
Later, when he’d signed off, I thought about our messages. I’d had two boyfriends, ever. Both of those were stupid little girl crushes – and neither lasted more than a few days. The first had been Will Baker, who bought me a white chocolate muffin and wanted to hold my hand in school as a reward. After him, Tilly paired me up with Faisal Mulla. That lasted for about a week until I went off him. He had bad breath and was really immature. He got upset when I dumped him, and I felt awful for ages.
What I’d never had was that spark you were supposed to get with a proper boyfriend. The chemistry I’d read about in books, or in the movies Tilly and I liked watching together. Often I’d see couples on the street, so caught up in each other that they ignored the world around them. Couples who seemed to be attracted to each other like magnets. I’d never had that connection with anyone.
There was Kane, who had been my dream boy for ages now but who would never want someone as plain as me. He didn’t even know I liked him. The atmosphere didn’t exactly crackle with desire when we spoke, either. But chatting online with Benedict seemed easy. It seemed so natural. And he understood about my dad too, and cared enough to ask. That felt like it meant something.
Then Tilly’s voice popped into my head.
I thought you couldn’t chat to people online, you pedantic cow? it said.
Eyeing Benedict’s photo again, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.
Downstairs, Mum was marking coursework and having a glass of red wine. She smiled, and asked if I was OK.
‘Yeah,’ I told her, as I remembered that I’d seen her ex-boyfriend today at school. He was an ex-teacher who’d gone on to become a governor there. ‘By the way – I saw Dave earlier.’
Mum raised an eyebrow at the mention of him. ‘Oh?’ she replied. ‘How was he?’
‘We didn’t really chat,’ I told her. ‘I just waved at him.’
‘And you’re telling me this because . . .?’
‘I dunno,’ I replied, smiling. ‘Playing Cupid?’
My mum’s relationship with Dave had lasted three years. He’d even moved in with us. After a dodgy start, I grew to really like him – he was cool and funny and listened to great music. When he left two years ago, I’d cried. And my mum had been unhappy ever since – at least that’s how I saw it. She had never explained why they’d split up, even though I’d asked, but I guess it was her business. Which is what she thought too.
‘Mind your own, miss,’ she said. ‘I do need to speak to him, though.’
‘You know you still love him,’ I told her.
‘Lily . . .’
Her tone was a warning. A sign that I’d overstepped the line. I told her I was going to read a book.
‘Hallelujah,’ she replied. ‘Time away from that stupid phone.’
The Spider’s virtual life is a busy one. Each thread he weaves links to every other. A lesser man might get confused and make a mistake, but not the Spider.
He crosses to a different laptop, signs into the account of yet another false persona – a thirty-year-old female executive called Charlotte – and sends a message to Boy #1.
Can’t stop thinking about you. We need to meet.
The boy is waiting, as though he’s anticipated the message – longed for it to arrive.
I wanna meet you too. When?
Soon, baby, soon. I have to be careful – stupid laws.
I know – I’m nearly 16 – this country is ridiculous.
Anyone suspicious?
No, Charlotte – I haven’t told anyone. Just you and me.
Be careful babe. I can’t get caught.
You won’t. So when do we get together?
I’ve got a few things to sort out, but after that. A week – maybe two?
Really?
Yes, really.
Excited now . . .
Look – I’ve got to go. I’ll message you later – on your phone.
OK.
Maybe you can show me more? I like when you do that.
I like it too, but I want to SEE you. Is your webcam still broken?
Yes and I’ve been too busy with work to get it fixed. I’ll sort it out soon, I promise. And you’ll like what you see.
I can’t wait.
Nor can I.
The Spider sits back, as his mobile phone lights up. It’s the OTHER – his fellow traveller on the Dark Side of the Web. Do I have some plans for you, the Spider thinks. He smiles and answers the phone . . .
5
That weekend, I went into town with Tilly. I wanted to talk about Benedict and the messages we’d been sending each other, but didn’t know where to begin. I’d meant to speak to Tilly earlier but hadn’t found the right moment yet. Part of me wanted to keep him all to myself, just for a while, and then there was my fatal flaw too – embarrassment.
I wasn’t getting much chance anyway because Tilly was on about the summer holidays, still five months away. We had our GCSEs to deal with first.
‘We’re not going away,’ said Tilly. ‘Mum can’t afford it.’
‘So we’ll spend summer together,’ I said. ‘Just you and me. Celebrating our great results and planning the future.’
‘In bikinis, sipping cocktails in the garden?’
‘Er . . . no,’ I said, almost shuddering at the thought of people seeing me in a bikini. ‘Besides – it’ll probably rain the whole time.’
‘Bloody hate this country sometimes,’ said Tilly.
We got off the bus, to a couple of harsh glares. Tilly was often loud in public, so I was used to the dirty looks. I didn’t like it exactly, but I loved Tilly too much to say anything. Town was packed with shoppers, and a street market was on. Food, jewellery and exotic ingredients. As we walked past a hog-roast stall, my stomach started to grumble. I saw the stallholder pass across two rolls crammed with pork and onions. I wanted to grab them and run.
‘Do you think I’m fat?’ I asked my best friend, still thinking about bikinis. ‘Like, all joking aside?’
I was wearing leggings with black boots and a navy floral print dress over the top. It was one of the five combinations I usually wore for school so that the bitchy girls wouldn’t call me a tramp. Being a girl at our ‘no uniform required’ upper school was hard work. So many expectations to live up to. And no matter how much I pretended not to care, I couldn’t help it. No one wanted to stand out. No one wanted to be like Amy.
‘No,’ said Tilly. ‘Why even ask that again? You know I think you’re gorgeous.’
I shrugged. Tilly annoyed me sometimes by being so loud, but I must have annoyed her too with my weight paranoia. I guess we were evens.
‘Just wondered,’ I replied. ‘I was thinking about Amy and all the crap people give her.’
Tilly stopped to look at some rings. ‘Amy?’ she asked, as she picked through the stock.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I just don’t think she’s that fat,’ I added. ‘Like, do those people who bully her think I’m fat too?’
Tilly gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why would they think that?’
‘Because I’m not that much smaller than Amy,’ I pointed out. It was true. I was a size twelve at least – what were people saying about my thighs and arse?
Til
ly smiled. ‘And why should you be?’ she asked. ‘I mean – look at me. My ass is so bony my knickers don’t stay up!’
‘Yeah, well mine is so big I can’t find any knickers to wear!’ I replied.
‘No it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘You are a babe – a voluptuous, pretty, lovely babe. Any boy would be lucky to have you.’
‘My bum is huge!’ I protested.
‘Don’t be such a drama queen,’ said Tilly. ‘Besides, all that perfect body stuff is crap anyway. When I’m rich and famous, it’ll be for my brains, not plastic tits and anorexia.’
Later, as we ate Wagamama’s for lunch, Tilly asked why my body shape bothered me so much.
‘You shouldn’t care,’ she added. ‘Your body isn’t the only thing that makes you a person.’
I shook my head. ‘I know I shouldn’t be bothered,’ I said, pushing some udon noodles around with chopsticks. ‘I just can’t help it.’
‘This have anything to do with Benedict?’ she asked, a sly grin breaking on her face.
‘No!’
Tilly giggled. ‘That means yes!’ she squealed. ‘Has he been in touch again?’
I nodded. ‘Every day,’ I revealed. ‘He’s really nice.’
Tilly ate some of her chilli-beef ramen. ‘Nice?’ she asked after swallowing her mouthful. ‘What the hell does nice even mean?’
‘As in he’s not a dickhead?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but nice? Cardigans are nice. Grandmas are nice.’ She grinned again. ‘What did Benedict say?’
I found a prawn, and put it in my mouth. It was delicious – hot and fiery. I only replied when I’d eaten it all. ‘Just that he likes me,’ I said. ‘Calls me pretty and stuff.’
Benedict seemed to have a much higher opinion of my looks than I did.
‘OOH LA LA!!!’ said Tilly. ‘You lucky cow!’
I shook my head. ‘He’s in New York, remember?’ I reminded her.
‘So?’
‘So,’ I continued, ‘even if he does like me, we can’t go and watch a film or something.’
Even as I spoke, in my head I saw us strolling through town, hand in hand, laughing and joking. It was a fairy tale, though – a scene from Hollywood – it was never going to happen.
‘What if he came to England one day?’ asked Tilly.