Web of Darkness

by Bali Rai

  Tilly put her hand on my arm and told me not to worry. ‘The police are dealing with it,’ she said. ‘Whoever it is would be an idiot to try anything now.’

  I prayed that she was right but I didn’t believe she was. He was dangerous and he was unknown, which meant that he could strike at any time. And not knowing when was the scariest thing of all. It was like he was playing with my emotions, pulling invisible strings that made me jump whenever he felt like it.

  ‘I checked my laptop,’ Tilly added.

  ‘Hmm?’ I said, lost in my own thoughts.

  ‘You asked me to, remember? When your mum cut me off?’

  I nodded. ‘Did you find anything suspicious?’ I asked.

  ‘No – it was fine.’

  ‘You mind if I get Kane’s brother to check it,’ I added. ‘He’s an IT expert.’

  ‘If you want,’ she said. ‘This is all just mental.’

  I’d had enough of talking about serious stuff, so we spent the next hour just drinking tea and chatting. It was odd after the tension, but I loved it. Tilly was like her old self – my best friend, my sister. She was even wearing her Pandora bracelet, the ‘Sisters Forever’ charm dangling from it, reminding us of what we meant to each other. Mine was sitting on my bedroom shelf, the clasp broken. I touched my left wrist anyway, and felt calmer and more relaxed.

  Only the tension wasn’t far from the surface. We still had a big issue to sort out, and eventually I couldn’t hold my question in.

  ‘Are you still seeing this man?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she told me, her eyes wary.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t told anyone – and I’ll trust you, yeah?’

  She beamed at me, her icy eyes sparkly and alive. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m still the same girl, babe.’

  I told her my news – the thing I’d been dying to tell her. ‘I sort of kissed Kane,’ I blurted.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me,’ I said.

  ‘LILY BASRA!!!’ she screamed. ‘You little minx!’

  ‘Well,’ I added, ‘technically, he kissed me. A few times, actually.’

  ‘Wow!’

  I nodded. ‘Am I stupid or what?’ I said.

  ‘You’re what,’ she told me. ‘What’s stupid about tonsil hockey with Kane?’

  ‘I’m stuck in this nightmare – we all are – and I start something with a boy . . .’ I replied.

  ‘Kane’s no boy,’ joked Tilly. ‘Wow. Just, like, wow!’

  We chatted some more, and when I left, she gave me a massive hug.

  ‘What was that for?’ I asked.

  ‘For being my girl,’ she said.

  ‘I’m always your girl,’ I told her. ‘Nothing’s changed that.’

  She shook her head, her pale cheeks taking on colour. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I thought you hated me – because of my boyfriend. I thought we were going to fall out, like, permanently.’

  ‘No way!’ I told her, even though I’d believed that too. ‘We argued, Tilly – nothing else. I know it felt like something final but I never believed it – not really. I won’t lose you. I can’t lose you.’

  ‘Remember when I pushed you off that bus?’ she said out of the blue.

  ‘In Year Seven.’ I nodded. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘You shouted at me for ages and went home crying. I thought you’d never speak to me again then too . . .’

  ‘But I did, didn’t I?’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know and I’m so glad.’

  ‘Tilly – are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Just after these past few weeks – I wouldn’t know what to do without you.’

  ‘Me too,’ I told her.

  ‘No – like you’re the only true friend I have,’ she said. ‘And life without a true friend – it ain’t worth living . . .’

  35

  At home, I tidied up, ate some toast and watched telly. Outside, evening was drawing in, and the sky was changing from pale blue to slate grey. Mum was late again, and as it was a Friday, I knew we’d have takeaway. I grabbed the pile of menus that we kept in a kitchen drawer, and leafed through them. The garden looked strange – the light tinged with green and the plants much more vividly coloured. A fat raindrop hit the window. Seconds later, the downpour began.

  I watched the storm for a while, and then looked at my phone. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched. Was he out there right now, standing in the storm, waiting for me? I shivered.

  The nasty messages from people at school had stopped, replaced with texts from Kane, Mum and Tilly. I also had one from Danny:

  Hello lovely – why you no talk to me?

  I decided to reply.

  Sorry – I thought you hated me. Over the Facebook thing with Molly?

  I’m sorry about that. I should have known it wasn’t you. Can you forgive me babe?

  I’m here now, aren’t I?

  Have you seen the news?

  About Molly?

  Of course. Murder inquiry now. It’s so creepy and so sad. Like being caught up in a nightmare. School is crazy. Thank God we’re finishing soon.

  Is it really that bad?

  You know that day when flying ants hatch? It’s like that, except with journalists not insects! They’re camped outside.

  I can’t get my head around it.

  Two murders they’re saying now. Max AND Molly . . . it’s fucking crazy. I feel so guilty too – for giving Molly all that shit. She was self-obsessed but she didn’t deserve this. Her poor family.

  I know – Max’s too. I still can’t believe it.

  Me neither. It’s like the school has been cursed. Anyway – gotta go.

  Let’s catch up soon, babe. I miss you!

  I put the phone down and switched to BBC News 24. The anchor, a smiley brunette woman with shiny teeth, gave the camera a grave look.

  ‘ . . . latest on these shocking developments from Rosie Oswald, live in Leicester.’

  The journalist stood outside school, exactly where every recent reporter had stood. I wondered if they took turns to have that spot. Her expression matched that of the newsreader. She didn’t look much older than me.

  ‘The focus of this enquiry – for so long about suicide and possible suicide pacts – has taken on dreadful dimensions. Officers now believe that the deaths of Molly Cooper and Max Jones are connected, and that both were murders. Sources close to the investigation said this afternoon that a third death, that of Amy Wiggins, may also be linked. All three pupils attended this school, and all were in Year Eleven. Locals I’ve spoken to, who wish to remain anonymous, have talked of rising disbelief and terror. A killer is on the loose in this area, and as yet police have no suspects and have made no arrests. One resident, a married mother of three, told me that she has banned her children from playing outside, and now takes them to and from school.

  ‘I must stress that incidences of this nature are rare but nonetheless, tonight, in this leafy and well-to-do suburb of south Leicestershire, fear and tension reign . . .’

  Sky and ITV were showing similar reports, and then I saw DI Meadows being interviewed back on the BBC. I wanted to switch off, but I couldn’t. Only a knock at the door dragged me away.

  Walking nervously into the hall, I gripped my phone like it was a weapon. Our front door was solid, so I couldn’t see who was on the doorstep. I toyed with the idea of waiting until they’d gone. But what if it was important? Then I remembered that Kane was coming over. I relaxed a little, but still put the security chain on before I opened the door and peeked out.

  A skinny man I didn’t know stood under a dripping umbrella. He was about fifty, with stringy grey hair, jowly, stubbly cheeks and piggy blue eyes set too far apart. His light grey suit was shiny, the jacket and trousers creased and worn. He didn’t look like much of a threat. He looked sleazy.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you Molly?’

  The next breath caught in my throat.

 
‘This is the right address,’ said the man. ‘It’s on your email . . .’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked, clenching the phone tighter.

  ‘Mr Davidson,’ he replied. ‘I booked yesterday? You look different to the photo on your profile. Younger . . .’

  ‘What photo?’

  ‘The HOOK-UP.com site?’

  I was about to slam the door in his face when he smiled again. ‘Maybe I’m after your mum?’ he said. ‘Are you Molly’s daughter?’

  ‘Molly who?’ I asked.

  ‘Molly Milf,’ he told me.

  My stomach nearly folded in on itself, and my heart began to thump.

  ‘No!’ I screamed, hoping to frighten him.

  He took out a Nokia phone. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got the confirmation email. Today at six p.m. – only I’m a touch late. Full body massage with—’

  ‘What?’ My mind was racing. What did he mean about full body . . .? And then it sank in. He thought he was visiting a prostitute. ‘You’ve got five seconds to get lost,’ I told him. ‘Otherwise I’m calling the police.’

  Panic spread across the man’s face. He looked up and down the street. ‘No!’ he said. ‘No police.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ I snapped, realizing that he wasn’t the hacker. He was just some sad old man.

  ‘No one,’ he almost whined. ‘I booked through the website.’

  I shook my head. ‘Listen, you nasty little pervert – you’ve been tricked!’

  ‘But I emailed you and we booked,’ he insisted, his confidence increasing. ‘And I’m not leaving until I get my services . . .’

  I was about to scream through the doorway at him again when Kane appeared at the bottom of the drive. Relief crashed through my body and I whisked off the chain and slung the door wide open.

  ‘Lily?’ Kane shouted when he saw the man. ‘You OK?’ He ran to the door and grabbed the pervert. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘PLEASE!’ moaned the man. ‘I don’t want any trouble!’

  ‘I think Benedict sent him,’ I told Kane. ‘He’s been tricked. He thinks a prostitute lives here.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’ Kane asked the man, almost lifting him from his feet.

  ‘NO!’ The man cowered. ‘I booked through a website . . .’

  Kane was about to punch him when I took hold of his bicep.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Let’s just look at his phone, see if there’s anything there.’

  The man, glad to be free of Kane’s hands, showed us the website he’d used. His entire body was shaking as he held out his phone. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’m not lying . . .’

  The profile page for ‘Molly Milf’ showed my mum in a red bikini. The photo had been taken on holiday in Gran Canaria. It had been stolen from my Facebook archive.

  ‘Did you meet or speak to the man who set this up?’ demanded Kane.

  ‘No!’ the stranger insisted. ‘I told you: all I do is book through the email system. I don’t meet any men. I’m not a pervert!’

  Kane grabbed his jacket. ‘If you’re lying to me . . .’ he said.

  ‘I’m not lying!’ the man squealed. ‘Please!’

  Kane looked at me and I shrugged. ‘He’s too scared to lie,’ I said.

  The man was trembling now, his eyes full of panic. I could tell he wanted to run away.

  Kane held him with one hand as he answered me. ‘You’re sure?’

  I nodded and saw relief on the stranger’s face as Kane let him go.

  ‘Get lost, you sad twat – go on!’ Kane yelled at him.

  As the man scuttled away, we went inside, and I sat down at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ said Kane, crouching before me.

  ‘It’s him,’ I whispered. ‘It’s always him – he won’t leave me alone . . .’

  My phone vibrated twice. I looked at it and shrieked.

  That wasn’t very nice, Lily. Why scream at a customer? He would have paid £200 for something you’ll end up giving away for free anyway. Silly you . . .

  When Kane saw the message he ran back into the street. Only he didn’t see anyone lurking, and no cars with people in them, watching the house. Just the brake lights of one vehicle, at the top of the street.

  ‘He was outside,’ I whispered.

  ‘Call DC Evans,’ said Kane. ‘Your mum too.’

  My hands trembled as I found the number and dialled. When I’d spoken to them both, Kane stood me up and I wrapped myself in his thick arms.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You can count on me, Lily. I promise.’

  36

  After another endless, sleepless night, I’d never been happier to see white cloud, grey morning light and drizzle. Insomnia had made my eyes sore, and my head felt too heavy for my shoulders. I showered, dressed in jeans and a yellow Superdry polo shirt, and went down to find my mum doing housework. She looked worse than I did, and the frown lines across her forehead worried me.

  ‘Can’t sleep either,’ she told me.

  ‘You heard me last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Her face was drawn and her milk chocolate eyes, usually bright and wide, were dull. The jeans she wore sagged off her behind, and her white shirt was a size too big. As soon as I saw her, guilt wormed its way around my head. It was my fault that she was under so much strain, and that wasn’t a good feeling. She put the kettle on, and sat down with me.

  ‘You and Kane are getting on well,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, he’s lovely,’ I replied through a massive yawn. ‘It’s just a bit weird.’

  She rose as the kettle came to a boil. ‘What’s weird?’ she asked. ‘That you were friends and now you’re going out?’

  ‘No,’ I told her. ‘That’s easy. It’s the other stuff. Like, I feel I should be mourning Max and Amy and be sad about Molly – and I am – but I’m also happy because I’ve got Kane. Makes me feel guilty sometimes . . .’

  ‘You can’t feel guilty because you’re happy,’ she said. ‘What happened to Max and Molly isn’t your doing. It isn’t something anyone can control. Sometimes evil just happens.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but why now and why us?’

  ‘You don’t control that either,’ she told me, retaking her seat. ‘There’s a Buddhist quote I remember my auntie telling me once; it’s something like, we have to have Evil, in order for Good to prove itself greater. It’s like the flipside of goodness, and maybe we can’t have one without the other?’

  ‘But it’s so unfair,’ I said. ‘Max, Molly – even Amy, they’re saying now – what did they do to anyone?’

  Mum put her hand on mine. The table was covered in crumbs, brittle and flaky beneath my fingers. The wood was aged, and I studied a deep, nut-brown knot, as she spoke. ‘When is Evil ever fair?’ she asked. ‘Look around the world, kid. It’s the innocent who pay the biggest price – they always have.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, looking up at her. ‘But you’re, like, talking about war and stuff. That’s different. This is outside our door. It’s not about land or money or religion or whatever stupid reason people fight wars over. It’s just random and senseless and I feel like I brought it into our lives because the hacker chose me.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘You didn’t bring anyone in,’ she said, stroking my hand now. ‘This person, this thing, he decided that. You don’t control his actions. You are not accountable.’

  I wondered if Mum was as scared as I was. It would be just like her to show me a calm front. Underneath, she must have been worried.

  ‘You can never know what people might do,’ she added. ‘You need to leave blame for the blameworthy, Lily. You don’t deserve it.’

  We sat in silence for maybe ten minutes before Mum made me tea and toast.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I told her.

  ‘Then you can vacuum and mop the floors downstairs,’ she told me. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Ha
sn’t Mr Warren dropped off any schoolwork?’ I asked, desperate to get out of my chores.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘He arrived as I pulled into the drive yesterday. With everything going on I forgot.’

  I nodded. ‘He didn’t come in then?’

  ‘We teachers are busy people,’ said Mum. ‘We had a chat outside, though. He thinks you’ll be OK to go back next week. It seems that witch you call Principal Woods has spoken to the police. The stupid, reactionary . . .’ Her words tailed off before she swore, and I smiled at her.

  ‘The work is by the phone,’ she said. ‘Chores first, though.’

  The girl is wearing her pale blonde hair up. Her makeup-free skin is almost translucent, her eyes the colour of pale blue skies. The OTHER admires her graceful posture, the slightly elfish look she has, and the aroma of her perfume – light and floral with a touch of spice. She is dressed demurely – slim, charcoal trousers, a cream top with chiffon sleeves and a light checked coat. On her feet are cream court shoes with just a touch of heel. She has an overnight case, the kind that you can carry onto flights, and a small, square black leather purse. She looks perfect . . .

  The OTHER drives them south, along the A6. He glances at the turnoff towards Wistow. Excitement, touched by a minor sense of loss, builds within. Given the choice, he would not want this. He would hold onto this one for a while longer. But he realizes that the Spider is right. If they want to stay free, they must protect themselves and tie up any loose ends. He glances at her. It is a shame.

  ‘Have you ever ridden a horse?’ he asks her.

  ‘No,’ she replies. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a treat for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – a friend of mine owns some stables on the way to the hotel. He’s given us permission to borrow a horse.’

  ‘You can’t just borrow a horse, Dave – that’s crazy! Won’t it need proper care?’

  The OTHER thinks quickly, but his focus slips. Her neck is so pretty. Her lips so flawless.

  ‘I used to be a stable hand,’ he tells her. ‘Back when I was your age.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’