Songs From Spider Street (16 page)

Steve exhaled
in exasperation. “Look, mind your own business. Life’s not a soap opera and it’s
not a spectator sport. Leave them in peace.”

“But – if it’s
them – and I’m certain it is, right, then we should do something to help,
shouldn’t we?” pleaded Owen.

“Who is it
going to help? Tell me that, eh? These poor sods – if it IS them, and we don’t
know if it is – they probably think their problems are over … then along you
come, trotting down merrily from your moral high ground, and fuck things up for
them royally! For God’s sake, give someone a break, eh?”

Owen picked
up his pint and sipped it thoughtfully, eyes sliding towards where the couple
sat. “But it’s wrong. That’s all.”

“Who says? I
mean, what does the law know about real people’s lives, eh? You should know
that.”

“But that
still doesn’t make it right, does it?”

“Who’s to say
what’s right or wrong, eh?”

“Well, it
doesn’t feel right.”

Steve let
Owen’s words dissolve into the song thumping out of the jukebox. He sipped a
few more mouthfuls of his beer and looked around the room. The barmaid, obviously
bored with the slow trade, had disconnected from the events around her and was
texting someone. The crowd in the far corner were stuck in the same rut they’d
been in all evening. The couple by the door were sunk in their troublesome
dialogue.

The clock
behind the bar said that closing time was coming. “C’mon. I’d better get you
out of here before you do some damage,” said Steve.

As they left,
Owen couldn’t help staring at the couple by the door. The girl met his gaze and
he shuffled out quickly, followed by Steve.

The drizzle
had become rain, falling heavily from the black sky. It met them full in the
face as they left the pub. Turning back towards the doorway, they hunched their
heads into their shoulders to protect themselves.

“Right,” said
Owen.

“Right what?”

“I’m going to
tell the police what we found. I’ve got to.”

Steve looked
at him with uncertainty and disappointment on his face. “Well, you go, then. I
don’t want that sort of thing on my conscience. The poor buggers have probably
got enough troubles as it is.”

“No, well, I
don’t want that on mine,” he said, nodding his head back towards the patch of
ground by the tracks.

Steve shook
his head. “Well. OK. If you can live with that.” He half turned and looked back
at Owen. “I’m going to find a taxi. You know that I think you’re wrong.”

Owen nodded,
then watched Steve’s back as he disappeared through the rain, silhouetted by
the headlights of passing cars.

The telephone was still ringing when Steve finally managed to get his
front door open. Swearing as he kicked a magazine rack out of the way, he
reached across the sofa to pick up the handset.

“Hello?”

“Steve, love,
thank God! I’ve been ringing and ringing.”

He was
surprised to hear his mother’s voice. “What? Why?”

“Susan’s mum’s
been tryin’ to reach you all evening. We didn’t know where you’d gone or
anything. Listen, love, there’s been an accident. Susan’s in the hospital. She
fell.”

Steve’s face
suddenly felt cold. His head filled with small nonsenses; the memory of Susan
sneezing just after she’d smiled at him for the first time, the way she always
licked her lips just before opening her eyes in the morning, his mother’s cat
purring happily and loudly in her lap.

“Wha … is …?”

“No, no. She’s
OK. But … oh, I’m so sorry, love, it’s a shock and I’m sorry but … she’s lost
the baby.”

The phone
suddenly felt like a bar of lead in his hands. But then it became as light as a
feather and he couldn’t understand why it made such a noise as it hit the
floor.

Michel’s mind struggled back to the surface, the grey light that shut him
off from consciousness fading as he came closer and closer. Then he was back in
the street, standing in the morning cold.

He was
sweating now, despite the chill. The quality of the light hadn’t seemed to
alter at all since he’d stepped outside, as if no time had passed by. He hugged
himself as he shivered, then looked about him.

Mrs Wilson no
longer stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder. The spiders had lost
their weird glow and there was nothing but a long, cold silence that seemed to
fill up the morning. Suddenly Michel felt lonely.

He didn’t
think he’d been standing there long, but decided all the same that he’d better
gather up his things and get back home; his father would have other errands for
him to run.

Retracing his
steps, he saw that both the gate and the door to the apartment house had been
left open. He stepped inside and pushed open the door to Mrs. Wilson’s
apartment.

It seemed
dustier and dirtier than he remembered. The table was covered with a thin layer
of dust, he noticed. Maybe it had blown in from outside, he thought. But it
seemed like it had been left for days, or even months. He called hello but got
no answer.

Then he saw
the figure sitting in the armchair near the window, facing the half-closed
curtains. He began to explain that he had better go but, as he drew near to Mrs
Wilson, he realised that she couldn’t hear him.

The woman sat
facing the window, the soft light falling on her face, which was white and webbed
over completely. Her whole body had been covered in a soft silky cocoon. But
there wasn’t a spider anywhere near her.

Michel gasped
and stepped back. He couldn’t see if she was breathing. He dared to lean
forward to listen for her breath but daren’t get too close. He could hear
nothing though he could see her mouth was open wide. Was it a scream, or a
final gulp of air before her gauzy prison enclosed her forever.

“They’re
saving her for later,” he thought, and shuddered. Or maybe it
was
a
cocoon and she was changing, growing into something else inside a chrysalis of
her own making. Michel was sure he didn’t want to know what that something
might be. Picking up his rucksack, he shook the dust from it and headed for the
door.

He passed the
glass-fronted cabinet and noticed that the spider ‘city’ had grown even more
enormous, pressing against the glass and threatening to break it, ready to
spill out onto the floor. Dark shapes moved swiftly and ominously within it.

In the
half-light inside the apartment he could see several points behind the glass
begin to glow softly; a high sweet sound began to itch inside his head. Michel
bolted for the door before he became ensnared by the spiders’ song.

Once in the
street, Michel clutched his rucksack to him and stayed well away from the
complex web puzzles on either side of the street. Finally, through the milky
light, he saw the street that crossed Rue d’Araignee. His heart lifted. The
spiders can have their street, he thought, and quickened his pace. They can
have the whole damned city.

As he headed
towards the river, and home, a thousand-legged army followed him silently,
leaving their white gossamer webs behind them to find a new home with their new
master.

Mark Howard Jones was born in Mountain Ash, south Wales, in 1963 and has
had dozens of stories published on both sides of the Atlantic.

His novella
The Garden Of Doubt On The Island Of Shadows
was
published in 2006. His eBook
Against The Wall
is available to download
free from screamingdreams.com.