Web of Darkness

by Bali Rai

  ‘Yeah – and what if WAGs had brains . . .’ I rolled my eyes.

  ‘You never know,’ said Tilly.

  I looked up and recognized our form tutor, Mr Warren, waiting to be seated. He was our favourite teacher. He was young and cool, and he treated us like adults. He wore brown desert boots, dark blue jeans and a yellow tartan-checked shirt, and his light brown hair was cut short. He had deep brown eyes too, which Tilly loved.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Warren – on his own!’

  Tilly turned her head so fast I thought her neck might snap. ‘Where?’ she asked, before spotting him – just as he saw us. As her face did a beetroot impression, I waved.

  Mr Warren walked over, smiling. ‘Hello, girls,’ he said. ‘Enjoying your weekend?’

  ‘Hi, sir!’ I replied. ‘Are you on your own?’

  He made a point of looking around to check. ‘Looks that way, Lily,’ he said.

  ‘You can sit with us,’ I told him. ‘If you want to.’

  Tilly shot me a dirty look, as Mr Warren shook his head. ‘Oh, thanks, girls, but I’m meeting a mate,’ he told us. ‘He’s late.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tilly, pretending not to care. ‘We were nearly finished anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ said our form tutor. ‘I can see that. Have fun.’ He turned and walked back to the till area.

  I smiled at my best friend. ‘How red did you go?’ I joked.

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I forgot – you likey Mr Warren.’

  ‘No!’ she protested. ‘He’s just nice, that’s all.’

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Nice nice, or nice like Benedict nice?’

  We window-shopped for the rest of the afternoon, before heading to mine to watch DVDs. Mum was away – at a teachers’ union conference that sounded about as interesting as beige knickers look.

  Tilly was hungry again, and I wondered where she put it all. Her speedy metabolism made me envious. We ordered pizza and cookie-dough, and I felt guilty even before it arrived. Not that I’d eat much anyway – I never did. My relationship with food was like that – look, want, feel guilt, avoid. It did my head in.

  ‘You’ve got a message,’ Tilly said, nodding at my phone.

  It was Benedict again – but I ignored it. I wanted to respond, but a girl can seem too eager.

  ‘I’ll reply tomorrow,’ I told her. ‘Tonight is sister time . . .’

  ‘Don’t be getting all lesbo on me,’ she joked.

  ‘As if . . .’

  My phone vibrated again – a text this time. I read it quickly.

  ‘Danny,’ I said. ‘Wants to come over and talk.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘Up to you,’ she said. ‘Your house.’

  ‘But what about girlie time?’ I asked.

  She grinned. Her big blue eyes sparkled above almost perfect teeth. Her hair was tied up, and her ears were small and sort of pointed at the top. She looked like an ice-blonde pixie. My best friend was seriously hot.

  ‘Who’s a bigger girl than Gay Singh?’ she asked. ‘PJs, pizza and penis-talk – perfect!’

  I replied to Danny – telling him to bring booze, which he often ‘borrowed’ from his dad’s stash. It was usually cider.

  Tilly asked for my phone when I was done.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to check out Benedict some more,’ she said. ‘You know – make sure he isn’t playing you or anything . . .’

  ‘Check out his muscles, more like,’ I joked.

  Despite the humour, I felt a pang of jealousy – something I’d never felt before where Tilly was concerned. I felt guilty.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I told her. ‘Why?’

  Tilly shook her head. ‘You looked a bit distant for a moment, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I told her.

  She nodded and took my phone. ‘OMG!’ She zoomed in on Benedict’s abs.

  6

  Benedict kept up the regular contact, starting the next day. Videos, messages – my Facebook wall had never been so busy.

  Molly Cooper liked most of them, and I wondered whether she had sent Benedict a friend request after seeing how good-looking he was. Knowing her, she’d probably sent him a selfie too, just to introduce herself. Molly was pretty and nice enough – but she was self-obsessed. She wanted to be famous – like the celebrities she followed fanatically on Twitter. But as far as I knew, she didn’t act or sing, or do anything that might bring her fame. She just fantasized about being talent-spotted and becoming an overnight sensation. Like fame was all that mattered.

  Several of Benedict’s messages were flirtatious, and the last one asked when I could chat again.

  I replied eagerly.

  Sorry I missed you. Had a girl-only night with my best friend, Tilly – our names rhyme! Tired today. You around?

  I hit send and switched to Twitter, where Danny was posting positive quotes about being homosexual, and re-tweeting some of the vile insults he was receiving as a result. When I switched back to Facebook a few minutes later, I saw that Benedict had responded.

  Hey – no worries about last night. You good?

  Yeah – what about you?

  Benedict took a while.

  Sorry babe – had to help my mum with something. I’ve got a shoot next week – excited.

  My brain went into dim-mode because I was so tired.

  What shoot?

  A modelling shoot, babe. Got a contract with GAP here in NYC. Big job.

  I grinned to myself. This lad, who was an actual, like, no bullshit model, wanted to be my friend. Not only that – he thought I was pretty and flirted with me online. Yet again, I couldn’t believe my luck. All I needed was for him to suddenly appear in Leicester and I was set.

  Was wondering about that too, Benedict. So, you’re really a model then?

  Yeah and call me Benny – my mum and my friends do. Did you think I was lying?

  I felt bad and cursed myself for making him feel that way.

  Not lying – just thought you might be boasting or something. Boys I know do that stuff.

  Baby – you just met a different kinda boy.

  How different?

  Like all the way different, Lily. I ain’t one to play a girl. Don’t need to. I’m happy about who I am. You should be too!

  Who says I’m not?

  No one, Lily – I was just guessing. When I call you pretty or beautiful, you seem embarrassed by it.

  That’s because I’m not beautiful. I’m not ugly, I know – but beautiful . . .?

  See – you’re asking for my opinion. You shouldn’t care what I think, babe. If I don’t like you, that’s my problem. Same goes for anyone else who you know.

  Don’t get you.

  I couldn’t stop wondering what people thought of me. It was something that bothered me all the time. I knew it was silly but I couldn’t help it.

  Never ask for someone’s opinion of your looks. You are what you are. People accept that or they can fuck off!

  Benedict’s advice struck at something inside me. It seemed clear and real, even more than Tilly’s had seemed. How could some lad, online, make more sense than my best friend?

  He continued.

  Like you know those girls that ask to be rated according to looks?

  I know some of those.

  I see it all, Lily. They want strangers to rate their asses or their boobs or whatever. They got no self-respect.

  Yep – know some of them too.

  One of your friends – Molly Cooper – she sent me a pic. Hold on – I’ll forward it to you.

  She’s not my friend. Not exactly.

  Benny took his time, so I messaged Tilly, to ask about a project we needed to hand in.

  You got email, Lily? Facebook won’t let me attach a photo for some reason.

  I sent him my address and waited. My PC tower’s fan began to croak and splutter, and I thought it might catch fire. The screen went
black and then came back on. It had been doing that for a while. I just knew it was ready to die.

  Check your inbox, Lily.

  When the photo finally downloaded, it showed Molly lying on her bed, wearing just a very tight yellow skirt and black bra. Another of her famous selfies. I went back to Facebook, feeling annoyed. I didn’t hate Molly, but sometimes she was difficult to like. What possessed her to do things like that? And then I started to feel bad about judging her. Maybe I was just jealous of her looks and figure, I thought. Which made my judgements unfair. I tried to calm down before replying, and when I did, I said only a little of what I was actually thinking.

  That’s typical of her.

  It’s girls like her I was talking about. She’s too blatant. I like my girls to have more class.

  My phone vibrated – Tilly telling me she was on her way round.

  Molly’s OK – just a bit insecure, I reckon. And what do you mean your girls??? How many you got? LOL.

  You’re funny, babe. You know what I meant. I like girls like you.

  But you hardly know me???

  Getting there. Hopefully we can be real good friends???

  Hope so too.

  And I really did. I liked our chats and I liked Benedict. It was like having a boyfriend, or at least sort of. Someone to tell what I was thinking and feeling who wasn’t Tilly or my mum. They were great, but having a boy to talk to was exciting.

  Gotta go in a minute, Benedict. Stuff to do.

  Shame but I’ll holla at you later. Maybe we can hook up via webcam??

  Ah – no webcam. My PC was made before the invention of the Internet I reckon!

  You should get one. I’ve got a spare if you’d like???

  Doh! You’re in New York – what you gonna do – fly it over to me?

  You ain’t heard of the post? They don’t got that where you live?

  Let me see if I can get one here.

  Up to you, Lily, but I got one just lying here – unused. Why waste your money?

  Don’t worry, I’ll get one.

  Up to you, like I said, but this is just going to waste. Don’t say I didn’t ask!

  I won’t – better go. Lovely to talk to you.

  You sure I can’t post that webcam to you?

  I’ll let you know. Speak to you later, yeah?

  Yeah.

  Things are moving quickly with Boy #1. He pays no attention to online security. He doesn’t disguise his IP address or use any sort of proxy server. He doesn’t even clear his search history or empty his cache. Everything the Spider needs is sitting there, waiting to be taken – photos, files, deleted items. The Spider can change his desktop wallpaper or hijack his social-media accounts – even send emails in his name. And considering just how much pornography the boy consumes, it makes no sense that he does not attempt to cover his tracks. Oh well, it’s his funeral . . .

  The Spider likes to play games. He enjoys pulling the strings and making his victims dance. He’s an expert too – been doing it for a long, long time. The Web is full of fools with low self-esteem – people just begging for acceptance. For some meaning to be given to their sorry little lives. The Spider weaves his threads around such people.

  He has been watching this group for a while – biding his time. He started with the fat girl – she was the first and the easiest. He used her friend list on Facebook to find more victims. The OTHER’s special interest in young ones made the choosing so much easier. His accomplice’s tastes mean nothing to the Spider, however. His interest isn’t sexual. The Spider does this because he wants to – because he can.

  Now the Spider is ready to act. Thing is, they’ll never see him coming. They’ll never see him because . . .

  Well, because this time he’s already there . . .

  7

  That evening Mum realized we didn’t have any milk. She was busy marking school projects, so she sent me out into the cold. The general store was only five minutes’ walk away, but I complained anyway. I wrapped myself up in a thick navy jacket, and wrapped a light blue scarf around my neck. The sky was cloudless and the temperature had fallen. I walked quickly, my hands in my pockets.

  As I approached the shop, I passed a busy Indian restaurant. I cut across the packed car park, watching families walk out, all happy and smiling, and I thought about my dad. Then I saw her – Amy. She was sitting on the low wall that circled the pub, on her own. She had a thin grey hoodie on, and her skin was scarlet in the cold. She didn’t hear me, and jumped when I called out her name.

  ‘You scared me,’ she complained.

  ‘Why are you sitting out here?’ I asked. It was freezing – the sort of night when you only went out properly wrapped up, if at all. Yet here was Amy, shivering and sniffing back snot, and occasionally wiping her nose with a sleeve.

  ‘Just thinking,’ she told me.

  Her long hair was packed under a black cap, and she rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. I felt myself growing concerned and didn’t really understand why.

  ‘Thinking about what, Amy?’

  She shrugged, flashed me a quick glance and then looked away. ‘Just stuff,’ she said. ‘You remember when we were eight?’

  Her question was so random that I didn’t know what to say. This situation was odd. It felt like something was happening but I didn’t know what.

  ‘I came to your birthday party – me and Tilly together?’ she added.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I said, taking a seat beside her. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Amy replied. ‘I was just remembering – that’s all. You were always really nice to me. You and Tilly both.’

  I nudged her with my shoulder – trying to cheer her up. But my attempt felt inappropriate and it didn’t work anyway. Amy still looked so glum.

  ‘We were friends,’ I said. ‘Why wouldn’t we be nice to you?’

  ‘Guess you were, once,’ she replied. ‘Dunno about recently . . .’

  ‘What about the other day – when I came to see you?’ I asked, feeling a bit miffed. I knew we weren’t close but I’d never ignored Amy or been unkind to her. Tilly had dumped food on someone’s head to stop them bullying Amy. ‘I was trying to help then, but you just shut the door in my face.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, as two lads rode past on mountain bikes. ‘I’m sorry about that – it was mean.’

  I shook my head. Amy might have been acting a bit weird but she wasn’t nasty. If I’d been through her ordeal, I think I’d be feeling the same way. ‘You were angry and upset,’ I replied, hoping she’d realize that I wanted to understand. ‘You’re not mean, Amy. It’s just not you.’

  ‘Still wasn’t right,’ she said. She was hunched forward, her shoulders raised, and her clothes had a musty odour.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ I asked again. I had a sense that something was wrong, but unless Amy told me what that was, I couldn’t help. And I really felt as though she needed help.

  ‘Just . . . nothing,’ she said. ‘I was bored and I wanted some fresh air.’

  I looked at my phone. It was nearly eight p.m. and the shop was about to close. ‘Wait here,’ I told her. ‘I have to grab some milk. You want anything?’

  Amy shook her head. But in the shop, I remembered that she loved Mars bars. I bought us one each, and went back to where she was sitting. Behind me, the shopkeeper locked his doors.

  Amy hadn’t moved. If anything, she had curled up even more – and she looked very, very cold now.

  ‘Why don’t you come over to mine?’ I asked her. ‘Mum’d love to see you.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Well, have this then,’ I replied, handing her the chocolate bar. ‘You like these, yeah?’

  She took the Mars and smiled. ‘Love them,’ she said, her eyes showing just a hint of sparkle.

  She had plump pink lips, shaped like a Cupid’s bow, and really smooth, olive skin. I wondered why people couldn’t see how lovely she was. Why was her weight the
first thing they noticed? Amy was a babe underneath it all.

  ‘Didn’t you puke on my presents at my eighth birthday party?’ I asked her.

  Amy nodded. ‘Yeah – I had too much lemonade!’ she replied. ‘But you didn’t even get angry.’

  I smiled. ‘I know – weird, huh?’

  ‘You went and got kitchen towels,’ Amy continued, ‘and tried to clean me up. That was so cool.’

  ‘All I did was spread the puke over your face,’ I said, grinning at the memory. ‘Mum had to do it properly.’

  ‘Yeah – she was always lovely.’

  ‘She still is,’ I told her. ‘Come on – come round and say hello.’

  ‘Things change,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve moved on, and I’m not the same any more.’

  ‘That’s because you’re unhappy,’ I told her.

  Amy put the Mars in the pocket of her hooded top and shook her head. The wind began to pick up around us, and I shivered.

  ‘I’m not unhappy any more,’ she replied. ‘Yeah – I hate the bullying and that, but I don’t care any more – not really. I’ve found something else.’

  ‘What . . . or who?’

  But Amy just shook her head slowly and stared off into the distance. I watched a grey BMW drive past, and recognized the driver. It was Dave. I wondered if he was going to see Mum, and I felt excited – like I was a child again. Dave had never replaced my dad but he’d come close. He’d been there for me – always interested in my life and my friends, pushing me to improve at school. The thought of him and Mum getting back together made me happy. But then I stopped being so stupid. Talk about jumping to conclusions. Dave lived near us – he could have been going anywhere. I had no reason but hope to think that he might be getting back with my mum.

  Amy stood up. ‘I’d better go,’ she said.

  ‘Who have you found?’ I asked. ‘You said something similar the other day too.’

  Amy shrugged again. ‘Just some friends online,’ she told me. ‘People who understand what I’m going through.’

  ‘Like a support group or something?’ I asked, hoping it was what she meant. I’d spoken to my mum about Amy’s problems in the past and recalled her suggesting something similar. It was exactly what Amy needed – to be around people who made her feel good and didn’t judge her over something so stupid as weight.