In the Spider's House

by Sarah Diamond

  ‘Oh, I suppose that’s not everything,’ said Jim, but his former expression of avid interest had instantly turned to disappointment. ‘What sort of books do you write, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘My first was a sort of thriller called A Deeper Darkness. I’m working on another thriller right now.’ I felt guarded and wary at the prospect of revealing my idea to these virtual strangers—it meant too much to me, inspired a kind of fierce, protective love. ‘It’s about…well, it’s loosely based on Rebecca Fisher. You know. From the sixties.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ said Tina, frowning.

  ‘Oh, you must have heard of her,’ said Jim. ‘Little kid who killed her mate. What was she, eight years old?’

  ‘Ten,’ I said.

  ‘How awful,’ said Tina. ‘What can you write about someone like that?’

  ‘Sounds like pretty gruesome stuff,’ said Jim, laughing. ‘Pure evil, that kid was.’

  The infinite intricacies of personality and circumstance suddenly bewildered me more than ever, and I felt Rebecca’s character slipping through my fingers like mist. ‘You really think so?’ I asked.

  Jim just laughed. I was very aware of the night beyond this bright, warm kitchen, the things outside that rustled in the dark.

  ‘No, really,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Anna. What else can you call a kid like that?’ He was all well-tanned, good-natured certainty, tucking into his meal with gusto. ‘I thought my brother’s kids were little horrors. Compared to that one, they’re saints.’

  The casual conviction that murder belonged nowhere but a television screen, some slick Sunday night drama—it was in his eyes, and Tina’s, and even Carl’s. Only I seemed to understand Rebecca’s reality. It occurred to me again that she might have eaten in this very kitchen, and my initial inspiration flared more brightly than ever—out of nowhere, I wanted them to see its potential as I did.

  ‘After she was released, you could have known her,’ I said urgently. ‘You could have worked with her, and you’d have thought she was just like anyone else. You wouldn’t have thought she was pure evil, or any of that newspaper bullshit. Just an ordinary, middle-aged woman doing her best. And, what’s fascinating—after all that time, how do you know she wasn’t?’

  Silence fell like a lead weight from a tenth-floor window. I could see in their eyes that I’d sounded too passionate—that normal, sane, well-balanced people weren’t supposed to care that deeply about anything that didn’t directly affect their family’s well-being or their bank balance. I felt Carl’s embarrassment at the same time as I felt my own. ‘Well, that’s what I’m writing about, anyway,’ I finished lamely. ‘Anyone want some more potatoes?’

  I said very little for the rest of that evening, aware of a new and dubious mistrust emanating from their direction. It couldn’t help reminding me a little of Carl’s parents, how awkward I’d felt around them since he’d told them things I’d told him in confidence. As soon as we’d waved Jim and Tina off at the door and closed it behind us, I turned to him with some irritation.

  ‘Carl, you know I hate talking about my writing. Why did you have to go and mention it?’

  ‘Jesus, why does it always have to be such a secret? I thought it was something to be proud of.’ His expression suddenly matched mine for annoyance, bordering on exasperation. ‘What have you got against them, anyway?’

  ‘I haven’t got anything against them, it’s not about them. I haven’t even told Liz next door yet—you know that.’

  ‘Well, it seemed like it was about them. You hardly said a word to either Jim or Tina after dinner.’

  Something both patronising and critical in his voice infuriated me, and I spoke hotly. ‘That’s because they kept looking at me like I had two bloody heads! Ever since I talked about Rebecca Fisher.’

  ‘Do you blame them?’ I stared at him, hurt, shocked. ‘I mean, think about it rationally, Anna—it’s pretty morbid. It’s not that I mind you doing it, but—’

  ‘Oh, thank you. You don’t mind me doing it. That makes all the difference. I’d never have dreamed of doing it without your permission.’

  Turning away from him, I walked into the living room, anger hammering at my temples. Only the Tiffany-style lamp was on, and its thin glow turned the furniture in the corners of the room into dark, indistinct shapes, throwing a corona of multicoloured fairground light over the sofa and armchairs. Sitting down on one, I looked fixedly at the opposite wall as he came in. Heavy silence pressed in on us before he spoke again, his voice conciliatory.

  ‘Come on, Annie, let’s not argue about it. It seems like we’re spending half our time bickering about this research of yours, lately.’ I saw his face change suddenly, become both practical and impulsive. ‘Tell you what. Let’s get away from it all somewhere, next weekend. How about going to Paris? We can book the hotel and everything tomorrow, get the Eurostar from Waterloo on Saturday morning, and—’

  ‘Oh, God.’ From feeling completely in the right, I went straight to feeling completely in the wrong. I’d meant to tell him about my plans earlier that day, had kept thinking a more convenient time would present itself. ‘I’m really sorry, I meant to tell you yesterday but I completely forgot. I’m going to Teasford next Saturday. I’ll have to leave at about seven in the morning. I’m interviewing someone who knew Rebecca.’

  He looked at me for some time, disappointment and confusion fighting for supremacy in his expression. ‘Can’t you interview them over the phone, instead?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly, I was as defensive as though he could forcibly stop me from going, and I spoke with the urgency of a woman fighting her own defence from the dock. ‘Carl, I’ve got to go. It won’t be the same otherwise, it won’t be any good. I just have to see Teasford for myself.’

  ‘So why not go during the week? I mean Jesus, Saturdays and Sundays are the only time we really have to do things together.’

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But I’ve arranged it now—it’s all set. It’s no big deal, is it? There’s always the weekend after.’

  ‘There isn’t.’ He sounded hurt, and almost childishly sullen. ‘The weekend after, Petra’s coming down.’

  ‘Well, the weekend after that, then. What’s the problem?’ I felt guilt rapidly draining away around annoyance; he was backing me into a corner. ‘You don’t have to act like such a bloody martyr, Carl. I’m going for a day, not a month.’

  It wasn’t what I’d said, but how I’d said it. The atmosphere was suddenly electric with implications: his apparent indifference to something toweringly important in my life, and the fact that Rebecca meant infinitely more to me than a romantic weekend together. There was a long silence, subtly and mutually damning.

  ‘Well, we’d better get to bed, anyway,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll turn everything off down here.’

  I went up to the bathroom, flicking the light on and closing the door behind me before leaning back against it, exhaling deeply. On one hand, I knew I should have told Carl about Teasford sooner; on the other, I was aware that he’d overreacted in grand style. It was one Saturday in our lives, and I’d known about the impending trip only yesterday. But our argument hadn’t really been about that at all. If I’d arranged to go anywhere else on earth that day, it wouldn’t have mattered so much, even if he’d already made other plans for us, and I’d left it to the very last minute to tell him I’d be otherwise occupied.

  That was the worst thing—knowing that he was worried as much as angry, that most of his apparent irritation had acted as a smokescreen to conceal that. It cast me in a clear-cut role, an inconsiderate wife with a silly interest, a straightforward sitcom situation that was annoying rather than disturbing. I could sense him trying not to think about other things, things that frightened him because he couldn’t relate them to anything he’d ever known at first-hand. For a long time, I’d understood his inability to find a satisfactory place for them in his neat mental filing cabinet, and knew that,
by now, he’d uneasily stuffed them away in a seldom-used drawer marked Oddities.

  He was, I realised, distrustful of my research and everything relating to it because it came so hot on the heels of our move here. I imagined him drawing parallels between my past and my present: then, as now, I’d been uprooted from what I knew, was living in an entirely alien environment. Imagined him thinking that a similar situation could only too easily lead to similar consequences. The idea brought a rise of incoherent frustration close to fury. He knew nothing about that time beyond what I’d told him, and it had been impossible to describe its true taste and texture out loud—then and now had nothing in common whatsoever.

  A million light-years away from a home that had never really felt like home, and more afraid than I’d ever been in my life—as if every possible link with familiarity had been slashed straight through, leaving me adrift. In place of the colourful new life I’d longed for since childhood, an empty grey ocean extending to the horizon on all sides. Closing my eyes, the small, impersonal room I’d lived in then came back to me in dense and paranoiac detail; I remembered the way it had been as the evenings came down there, and how the tiniest noise could set my heart hammering at breakneck speed, and what it meant to be alone in a world far bigger than you’d imagined, feeling your mind beginning to buckle.

  But Carl would never understand all that. I knew it perfectly well. In an odd sort of way, it was why I loved him.

  When I woke up the following morning, the clock by the bed told me it had just gone half-seven. I could hear Carl having a shower. As I yawned and stretched, I was aware of nothing but a vague sense of wrongness, then it contracted to ultra-sharp focus as I remembered the row we’d had last night. It hadn’t really ended at all, I realised. We’d exchanged brief, formal, carefully polite goodnights before I’d drifted into troubled sleep.

  There was something terrible about serious arguments that carried over into the following morning, as if there was no knowing when, or even if they would end. I prayed he’d be as keen to make up as I was, and waited for him to return from the bathroom with some trepidation. As he stepped in, it was as if strong hands had been holding my heart down and suddenly let go—his slightly sheepish expression told me he felt exactly the same as I did. Let’s just forget it ever happened, his eyes said. Put it down to too much wine, or whatever…

  ‘Listen, I was thinking,’ he said as he got dressed. ‘How about going to Poole Tower Park next Sunday—I hear there’s a ten-screen cinema there. We can go and see a film in the afternoon then drive somewhere for dinner. Even if you are going to Teasford next weekend, it doesn’t have to be a complete write-off.’

  ‘That sounds great. Good idea.’ I went over and kissed him with a mixture of relief and heartfelt gratitude. ‘There’s bound to be something decent on. I can’t wait.’

  A buoyant and inviolate good humour lingered even after he’d gone to work, a feeling of reprieve that made the world a brighter place; last night’s row had seemed the kind that was far deeper and more serious than it looked, but had been the exact opposite. Even my research took on a more reassuring edge; no Byzantine labyrinth but a practical timetable of necessary activities. Later on that day, I’d pick up my copy of Miss Watson’s photograph, and send the original back to her with a thank-you note. Then, when I came home, I’d give serious thought to ringing Agnes Og. I would, I told myself, simply have to grit my teeth and dial her number—it seemed the kind of thing that it was only too easy to put off and off and off till you’d forgotten all about it.

  Downstairs, I was putting the kettle on and gazing out when something caught my eye. Opening the window, I leant out into the chilly morning air to look more closely. There was something lying on our garden path, maybe four metres away from the back door. My first thought was that a top or something had blown off the line; a second later, as my eyes caught patterns of light and shade and defined the texture of dew-damp fur, I realised it must be a dead fox cub. It was only when I’d opened the door and taken my first uncertain step towards it that I realised I was looking at Socks.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS A LONG TIME before Liz answered my knock at her back door. I’d obviously got her out of bed. In her quilted pink dressing gown, she looked smaller and younger and somehow different—her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail with random wisps escaping, her face shiny from recent sleep, her eyes confused. The kitchen behind her seemed designed for the Liz I knew, that unflappable Women’s Institute stalwart. Now she looked out of place in front of the shelves of cookery books, the crowded spice racks, the myriad small details that made up a scene of domesticity.

  ‘Anna? You look as white as a sheet! What’s the matter, dear?’

  A long pause, in which I realised there was no nice or gentle way to break the news. ‘I’m sorry, Liz,’ I said. ‘It’s Socks. He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ She took a step back. ‘Are you sure?’

  I was as certain of it as I’d ever been of anything, but could only nod. ‘He’s in my garden,’ I said. ‘I saw him as soon as I opened the door.’

  Then she was hurrying down her own garden path, crossing to mine. I followed her, unsure what else to do.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  But I didn’t need to say anything—she’d just seen him. She approached, bent down, reached out to touch him.

  ‘Socks?’ she said, shaking him as if to wake him up. ‘Socks?’

  ‘Liz,’ I began, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

  A few seconds passed in virtual silence, and a flock of birds took off from the roof. Liz stood up again. ‘You’re right,’ she said haltingly. ‘He’s…dead—’

  As I watched, her face crumpled into noisy, unselfconscious tears. Aghast, I tried to comfort her, having no idea what I was supposed to do in this situation. ‘Liz. Come on, Liz.’ I put an arm round her shoulder gingerly, even now feeling intrusive, potentially unwanted. ‘Look, come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  In her current state, I could have led her off a cliff and she wouldn’t have noticed. I took her arm, guided her into the kitchen and over to the table like a sleepwalker. She sat wordlessly, and I went to the kettle at the counter, filled it from the tap, plugged it in. With my back to her, I thought she’d stopped crying, but when I turned, there were silent tears running down her face, squeezing out from between her closed eyelids. In her dressing gown, she looked desolate, virtually unrecognisable.

  ‘He was an old cat, of course.’ She spoke quietly at last, in a tear-clogged voice. I put a cup of tea down in front of her, but she didn’t seem to notice it. ‘Nearly thirteen. I got him from the rescue centre when he was all of seven years old; it seemed such a shame nobody else wanted him. Everyone else just wanted the kittens. Poor little Socks.’ She took a convulsive breath. ‘Still, even though he was old, it’s such an awful thing to happen. He seemed so healthy. In all the time I had him, all he ever had wrong with him was that funny eye…and even that was starting to get better…’

  Picking the cup of tea up, she took a sip. When she spoke again, she sounded a little more like her old self. ‘I suppose it had to happen sometime. At least it looks like he didn’t suffer. After I put him out last night, his heart must just have given out, or something…’

  Silence again. I watched Liz sip at her tea. The morning had taken on the feel of an ominous dream that could turn into a nightmare at any second.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d help me bury him, would you, dear?’ she asked. ‘I can manage the digging on my own. To be honest, I could just do with the company.’

  So at quarter past eight, we buried Socks in Liz’s back garden, under the shade of an apple tree. There was no attempt at even a makeshift service—Liz just dug, I just stood there. She’d wrapped Socks in a fluffy white blanket as a shroud, had changed quickly into trousers and a sweater that looked far too heavy for the time of year. She still looked as indefinably unlike herself as she’d done earlier. ‘Po
or little Socks,’ she said quietly, lowering the small shape into the hole. ‘I did care about him, you know. You might think it’s silly, but I really loved the little thing.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s silly at all. I had a cat when I was younger, called Tinkerbell. It’s an awful name, but I chose it. I thought it sounded pretty, at the time.’ The memory brought too much baggage with it, this quiet morning—eight years old and coming home from primary school, little black-and-white Tinkerbell the only reassuring presence in the house. ‘She died when I was twelve. I was heartbroken. It felt like—’

  Losing my only friend was what I wanted to say, but I bit down on that hard. It was nothing but the truth, and maybe that was why I felt so unwilling to share it. ‘It felt like growing up,’ I said. ‘I’d had her since I was six.’

  The words fell away into the awkward, oppressive silence of mourning, and the first shovels of earth went into the hole, concealing the white blanket. The grave was filled. Liz took a step back from it, shovel in hand.

  ‘What’s the time, dear?’ she asked, unexpectedly.

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Nearly quarter to nine.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I’m supposed to be at work for ten. Thank you so much, you’ve been such a comfort—but I’d better get a move on. I’m going to be late.’

  ‘You’re going into work? Today?’

  ‘I think it’s best if I’m busy. I couldn’t stand sitting at home on my own all day, thinking about him. It’s going to be bad enough when I come home.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ I said quickly. ‘If you like.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, dear—but really, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll be fine at work. I’ll have other things to do.’

  Back at home, I sat in the living room, keeping an eye out for movement beyond the window. At last I saw her heading out to her parked car, dressed in a long flowered skirt and faded T-shirt, looking like the woman I’d first seen in the front garden. Her untidiness had become something comfortable again, implying a woman who was too busy baking cakes and growing roses to pay attention to silly things like lipstick. Still, I felt I’d seen another side to her, something beyond the middle-aged platitudes and generic amiability; it had never occurred to me that she might be vulnerable at any level, that the death of her pet would inspire any reaction beyond the conventional degree of regret and a few neat little tears. As I watched her getting in behind the wheel, I found myself wondering if she’d be all right, and remembering how devastated she’d seemed.