by Patrick Ness
Tanya skims through the previous letter but there’s nothing about Oliver. Then she reads the last one.
Dearest Catherine
Happy birthday!
You’re 55 today! I bet you’ve become a wonderful, kind, clever woman who doesn’t allow anyone to push her around. I hope so. I wish that for you.
I didn’t make you a cake this year, I’m so sorry. It’s the first time I haven’t. I was so tired this morning that I couldn’t even face mixing the ingredients. Please forgive my laziness. I’ve lit a candle, though, placed it by the window in your room, and peeled back the cobwebs so that I can look out. There are celebratory fireworks tonight. They go on for weeks these days. Autumn skies remind me of you: the scent of sulphur and woodsmoke; fireworks that look like dandelion clocks.
I think this will be my last letter. I’m weak and finding it hard to get around the house. I’m not worried about me; it’s what’ll happen to the bone spiders that keeps me awake at night.
There are two now, did I tell you? One day she went down into the basement and stayed there for days. I went down and found an egg sac in her web. She must have been pregnant when she arrived. Weeks later, she came upstairs accompanied by a tiny spider, its spindly body made out of bones.
Since welcoming the bone spiders, the stone house has come alive. I’m going to change my will, asking that the house be kept as it is for a year so that the spiders will be safe, then given to a charity for refugees. If you ever find these letters, I hope you understand. Bet Constantine Oliver won’t like that. He keeps coming round, but I’m not letting him get his hands on this place. It’s a shame I won’t get to see him lose his smile.
The fireworks have stopped for tonight but they’ll be back tomorrow. I wanted you to know that I’m not alone. The baby is learning to spin dreams like her mother and, in return, I sing her lullabies. She crawls into my lap and chirrups as I sing.
The mother bone spider knows what I want—she’ll make sure that the last face I see is yours. I hope you’re happy, my darling. I wish that for you always, and that you find something that brings you as much happiness as you have brought me.
With so much love, always
Mum
xxx
Tanya and Alan are silent, taking it all in. ‘She never sent them,’ Tanya says, ‘all those words and feelings and Catherine never knew.’
‘We should tell Miss Quill about the change in the will,’ Alan says. ‘If there’s a way we can stop the demolition . . .’
He trails off.
Tanya gets out her phone. It’s on red. She knew she should’ve listened to April and charged it up, not that she’ll tell her that.
‘What is it?’ Miss Quill answers with a hiss-whisper.
‘Alice wanted the house to go to a charity for refugees,’ Tanya says. ‘There must be something in the documents that can prove it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘From her letters. She hated Constantine Oliver and wanted to protect the bone spiders.’
‘We haven’t got time to go through everything,’ Miss Quill says. ‘More builders have arrived. Oliver will turn up soon.’
‘Just try,’ Tanya says then hangs up.
FORTY-SIX
THE VAULT
Tanya and Alan walk in silence through Kensal Green Cemetery. Ornate grey-green tombs contrast with a bright blue sky. Headstones lean and list in the grass like time-frozen wildflowers.
Alice’s family vault is in the second park. It’s a large tomb with four crying stone women holding the roof up with their heads. Alan takes out the key. ‘Let’s see if this works,’ he says.
The door opens. As they enter the tomb, the temperature drops. It takes a while for their eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Cobwebs are strung like bunting. Coffins and sarcophagi are tucked into the walls on their own shelves, with spaces left for future generations. In the centre sits a large stone table with a tomb bearing the name of the most recent interment. Alice.
The lid is slightly askew, showing a glimpse into the darkness inside. They heave the lid to one side. Alice’s body lies on red velvet. Her bones and some flesh remain. Alan looks away.
‘I can’t see the little bone spider,’ Tanya says, swallowing down disgust, and guilt at her disgust.
Alan shines his torch into each compartment. ‘Nothing in here,’ he says. ‘Only dust.’
‘That could mean it’s here,’ Tanya says.
‘Or maybe we’re in an old tomb,’ Alan says. ‘You’d expect dust and lots of cobwebs. Even if it’s in here, how are we going to get it to come out?’
‘We should sing,’ Tanya says, remembering the letters. ‘Alice sang to it. Do you know any lullabies?’
‘I’m not the best singer,’ Alan says.
‘I don’t think that matters,’ Tanya replies. A memory comes back, like a bone spider spun dream, of her dad singing “Rock-a-bye Baby”. ‘I’ll start.’
The sound of singing, with Alan murmuring along, fills the cold vault. When they stop, it echoes. Nothing happens.
‘Maybe it prefers different music. How’s your jazz?’ Tanya says.
‘I’m more of a prog person,’ Alan says.
Tap tap tap.
The very faintest sound comes from under the lowest shelf.
Alan gets on to his knees and presses his ear to the ground, looking underneath. ‘I can see something,’ he says. He gently raps on the shelf. Tap tap tap.
There’s a pattering sound, and then the little bone spider appears. She sees Alan and scuttles back under the shelf.
Alan sings softly and Tanya joins in. Seconds later, it comes back out again.
‘Hello, little one,’ Alan says.
The bone spider blinks at him.
‘We’re here to take you back to your mum,’ he says. It drums all of its legs on the cold floor in turn.
Tanya kneels down and sketches the mother bone spider in the dust. She turns to Alan. Alan nods and smiles. The little bone spider then leaps onto his shoulder. She waves her front legs then closes its eyes.
Images of Miss Quill begin to coalesce above Alan’s head.
FORTY-SEVEN
THE RECKONING
Everything’s gone quiet outside. To Miss Quill, silence does not mean peace; it means that war is about to begin. She places the document inside a folder and walks over to the front window. Constantine Oliver stands in the wreckage of the front garden, waving his expensively suited arms.
He’s handed a hard hat. Another bad sign. Oliver walks towards the house.
‘Stay here,’ Miss Quill says to Amira and the bone spider. She marches out of the door, brushing the protective web from her suit. This is not the time to be invisible.
Constantine Oliver stands in the downstairs hallway. ‘I can’t wait to see this come crashing down,’ he says, looking around the stone house with disgust.
‘You will be waiting a very long time,’ Miss Quill calls down. She walks across the landing.
‘What an enormous pleasure,’ Oliver says, his smile on full beam. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you, Miss Quill?’
‘And neither are you, Mr Oliver,’ Miss Quill replies. She holds up the document folder.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says, still smiling.
‘Alice Parsons wanted the house to be used for refugees. She most definitely didn’t want it going to you. I’ve got the evidence to prove it.’
‘Miss Parsons’ solicitor deals with her estate, it’s nothing to do with me,’ Oliver says, opening his hands out in a gesture of innocence.
‘Funny, because I called Rajesh in your office. Yes,’ she says, ‘the one who gave in his notice today. He confirmed that you had received a copy of the amended will and, somehow, between you and Miss Parsons’ solicitor, you managed to lose it.’
‘That’s slander,’ he says. He has, however, become bone white.
‘I intend to write it down, which would make it libel as well, we
re it not true. But it is true, isn’t it?’
Oliver turns to look at his workers. They’re all staring at him. ‘Get out, all of you.’ They trudge out, muttering about still being paid. Oliver takes out his phone. ‘It’ll take the police minutes to get here, Miss Quill,’ he says.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘I appreciate promptness.’ She folds her arms. Upstairs, a scuttling sound is heard. ‘I can’t wait to tell them that you took a house from a dead woman against her explicit instructions, while depriving the most vulnerable of a home. That’s not going to look good for Constantine Oliver Ltd, is it? Not exactly “Serving the Community”.’
Constantine Oliver slowly walks over. His face is centimetres from Miss Quill’s. She can smell the bacon on his breath. ‘You don’t have a chance,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep this wrapped up in legal issues until the estate has run out of money.’
‘Maybe,’ says Miss Quill, ‘but you won’t get your hands on the stone house till then.’ The scuttling gets louder. It stops above their heads. The bone spider is on the landing.
Constantine Oliver’s smile falls from his face and slides under the floorboards.
The bone spider jumps. It lands in front of Oliver and raises its front legs.
Thousands of tiny spiders appear, scuttling towards Oliver, climbing him, tapping their tiny legs on his face. He screams, scratching at his skin.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Miss Quill says. ‘Do you not like spiders? Are they your worst nightmare?’
Oliver runs for the door but it slams shut. Money spiders cover his face. He opens his mouth to shriek, but the spiders run in, coating his tongue.
‘Funny business to be in if you can’t deal with spiders,’ Miss Quill says.
Gurgling, Oliver drops to the floor. ‘Please,’ he whispers. His hands are covered in creeping web, sticking him to the floor like a trapped fly.
‘I’m sure I can get the spiders to desist but you’ll have to sign something first,’ Miss Quill says. She takes a pen and notebook slowly out of her bag. ‘I’ll have to get our, sorry, my solicitor to make it official, but I’m sure you’ll sign then as well.’
He shakes his head. The spiders swing from his silver hair and try to prise open his eyes. ‘OK,’ he splutters through a mouth full of dust and spiders.
‘You’ll sign?’
He nods. Miss Quill writes slowly, reading out loud:
‘I, Mr Constantine Oliver, of Constantine Oliver Ltd, declare that I have no legal right to the property and that all monies shall be returned to the previous occupant’s estate. I am a shameful, despicable person and no designer suits, shoes, or smile can hide it.’ She pauses. ‘That last bit might not stay but I want you to sign it anyway.’
She places the document in front of Oliver and frees his hand enough to hold the pen. He pauses. The bone spider taps her feet. The spiders move into his ear canal. His hand shaking, Constantine Oliver signs his name.
Miss Quill picks up the paper. ‘Thank you, Mr Oliver. It’s been an enormous pleasure. I won’t keep you any longer.’ The bone spider hits her front legs together and the dream spiders jump off Oliver’s back and face and limbs. The web holding him shrinks. He scrambles up and runs for the now open door, tearing at his suit and screaming.
The dream spiders settle at the bone spider’s feet and then fade.
Amira walks in. ‘What happened?’ she asks.
‘Turns out Oliver has arachnophobia,’ Miss Quill says. ‘Even monsters have nightmares.’
FORTY-EIGHT
REUNION
‘Where are all the builders?’ Alan asks Tanya as they walk up to the stone house. There’s no one in the front garden, no sign of builders drinking tea or smashing stone.
‘They could be round the back?’ Tanya says.
‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ Alan says. He looks down at the shoebox in his hand as if worried he could drop it.
April and Ram are walking up the road towards them; Charlie and Matteusz a conspicuous distance behind.
Miss Quill emerges out of the stone house. ‘What are you all doing here?’ she says. ‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘We thought we’d ensure you were not hurt,’ Matteusz says. Charlie nods once, imperiously, although he doesn’t quite look Miss Quill in the eye.
‘And what about you?’ Miss Quill asks Ram. ‘I suppose Miss MacLean persuaded you. Again.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Ram says.
‘I’m surprised you’re allowed out,’ Miss Quill says to April.
‘As you said, I’m very persuasive.’
‘You’d better all come in then,’ Miss Quill says. ‘If you can bear being near each other for five minutes.’
The bone spider is in the lounge. She takes up almost all of the space. Amira is in the corner armchair. The others crowd around the doorway.
The bone spider starts to cover herself with the protective web.
‘It’s OK,’ Tanya says. ‘They’re friendly—ish.’ She takes the shoebox from Alan, places it on the floor, and lifts the lid. A little bone leg appears. The bone spider chirrups and moves towards the box. The baby bone spider looks up at her mother and blinks. She climbs out, legs folding out like the spines of a tiny umbrella.
The little bone spider dances under her mother, rearing up and reaching for her. The mother nods to her, tasting her. Their chirruping sounds like singing.
The baby bumbles out from underneath her mother’s thorax and runs to each one of them, jumping up to their knees.
‘She’s cute,’ April says, bending and tickling the little bone spider under what could be a chin. ‘Like a terrier.’
‘Just don’t throw her a bone,’ Ram says. ‘Don’t think that would go down very well.’
The little bone spider runs back to her mum and leans against her.
The mother waves her legs and images appear of the little bone spider trapped in a coffin. The little one makes a keening sound and hides under her mother’s leg. Her mother blinks and the nightmare stops, replaced with images of purple skies and caves full of webs. The baby opens one eye, then the other. She starts chirruping again.
‘Do you think that’s their home planet?’ April asks.
‘I’d say so,’ Miss Quill says. ‘Maybe they don’t have nightmares there. They might teach each other the difference between bad dreams and good.’
‘We should leave them to it,’ Tanya says. ‘I think we’re intruding.’
FORTY-NINE
REFUGE AND REVENGE
It is strange and wonderful to step outside. The air smells of fresh grass and spilled petrol. Breathing it in feels like drinking water when thirsty. Everything seems so wide and open, even though I’m in a city where people are stacked on top of each other high up into the sky. My heart’s beating too quickly. I have no idea what to do. It took so long to get here, and I lost so much. Now what?
‘How can we help you now?’ Tanya says. ‘I’ll do everything I can.’
‘I want to go to the police,’ I say.
Tanya nods. She squeezes my hand. ‘Then I’m coming with you.’
The interview takes hours. First one officer asks me questions, then another asks me slightly different questions, then someone from immigration asks me more questions. I have one question I ask them, again and again: ‘Do you know where my father is?’ They don’t seem to know, or want to tell me the answer.
It’s twilight when I’m let out. Tanya is there with her mum and Miss Quill. I wonder what she’s told her mum.
‘You’ve told us where the smuggler lives,’ one of the officers says. She has kind eyes. ‘If we took you back to that street, do you think you could point out the house?’
I nod.
‘You’re sure you want to go?’ Tanya asks, standing up.
‘I think it’ll help,’ I say.
‘Them or you?’
‘Both, hopefully.’
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Tanya says. Her mum shakes her he
ad in exasperation, but doesn’t object.
Half an hour later, I point out the house with the whited-out windows. I can’t believe I got so far that night. It was like the stone house, or the bone spider, called out to me. I’m glad that she did.
Six police officers line up outside the front door. One of them slams something into the front door and the others follow her in. Tanya and Miss Quill stand either side of me. We watch as the man and his friends are brought out, their arms clamped behind their backs. I don’t cry until I see Zainer brought out. And then I can’t hold any of it back.
They’ve taken me back for more questioning. They’re saying words like ‘definitely help your case’ and ‘brave journey’, but I’m tired. All I want is for the bone spider to wrap me up in its invisibility web and for everyone to leave me alone.
The questions stop at last. The officer with the kind eyes opens the door for me. I don’t know where they’re taking me now.
Tanya and her mum are still there. They look as shattered as I am. ‘You should go home,’ I say to them. ‘Thank you so much for . . .’
The kind officer nudges me. She points to the corner of reception where a tall, thin man stands, turning a hat in his hands. It’s Baba. He’s crying.
He runs to me and I jump at him. He wraps me in his arms.
FIFTY
THE STONE HOUSE
Three days later . . .
Tanya stands in the middle of the galaxy scratched on the hallway floor. The little bone spider scuttles from one planet to another, followed by her mother in a game of galactic chase. Above them all, the sky of their home planet is spun from their dreams.
Miss Quill walks in, bang on time. Alan follows behind her, scratching his head. ‘Come on, then,’ she says. ‘Time to go.’
‘Shouldn’t we clear up?’ Tanya says. ‘Look.’ She leads them through into the doll room. It’s a mess. The cabinets have been carted off to the tip or an auction room, and the national dress dolls swept into a box in a bright tangle of wrappers, bubas, saris, flamenco skirts, and more.
