Milton the Mighty

by Emma Read

  He’d spent the whole night worrying. If he was going to get screamed at and chased with the feather duster every time he went out, life would be unbearable. But what were the options?

  Stick to the dark corners.

  (In my own home? Intolerable!)

  Or move out.

  Milton looked around at his lovely house, with its decorative newspaper collage and antique webs. No, home was where Milton’s heart was. Not only because the skirting board was nice and cosy – warm in winter and cool in summer – but because it was near the front door. The perfect spot, in case his dad ever came home.

  Milton felt a sharp pain in his abdomen as the memory of that fateful day came flooding back.

  ‘Four crates of shopping, Milton,’ said his dad, rubbing his claws together before limbering up for the jump. ‘That’ll take Mr M an average of 4.6 minutes to unload on to the table. Ages! I could shed my skin in less time. You’ll never get anywhere, Milton, if you’re not prepared to take a few risks. You want to know about the man-spider, don’t you?’

  Milton was curious. Inside the top supermarket crate lay a plastic packet. On the front of it was a picture of what looked like a normal house human (but in a very tight red-and-blue onesie), who appeared to have webs shooting out of his hands. The packet was half-buried under a bag of tangerines and, from the spiders’ hiding place, they couldn’t see it properly. Was it really a human who could web? Milton climbed on to the bread bin to get a better look as his dad disappeared over the edge of the crate. Then, as he heard a ‘Wow!’ from under a bunch of daffodils, Mr Macey said, ‘Yes, it’s the wrong order. My daughter and I don’t have a lot of use for toddler-sized Spider-Man pants.’ And with that, the delivery driver hoisted up the crate with Milton’s dad inside. ‘Sorry, sir. Yours must be on the van. I’ll swap them over. Won’t be a mo.’

  Milton raced to the floor, scampered the entire length of the hallway, and scurried up a scarf on the coat rack. ‘Dad! Swing out! Quick!’

  ‘It’s OK, son,’ called his dad, grinning over the side as the crate bounced in the delivery driver’s arms. ‘It’s an easy jump, gotta watch his feet, get the timing right. Wouldn’t want to get stepped on.’ But as Milton’s dad prepared to launch, the driver shifted his weight to open the door. Milton’s dad tumbled backwards into the crate and the easy peel tangerines rolled towards him, trapping a leg.

  Milton gasped as his dad struggled, shoving at a colossal orange with his remaining seven legs.

  But the easy peelers had him.

  For the first time ever, Milton saw panic in his dad’s eyes. Even big spiders didn’t go Out The Front of the house, with its strange humans, cars and oh so many cats.

  Milton’s dad wailed, ‘Nooooooo! Not the street, HELP! Milton!’

  From his scarf viewpoint, high above the crate, Milton knew he could make the jump and help his dad. He also knew that even with both of them pushing, they’d never budge the fruit. His dad knew it too – Milton could see it in his eyes as he lost hope.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Milton. I’ve been a terrible parent, forget everything I ever told you. It’s foolish to be so curious about everything. I don’t want to go in the van! Stick to the dark corners, Milton, and watch out for easy peele—’

  The front door closed and Milton’s dad was gone.

  Milton swiped at an old midge wing hanging from the ceiling and tried to sweep away the memory too. Dad was never coming home, and now neither was he.

  He’d sent Audrey and Ralph away so he could be alone with his thoughts. For a little spider, he had a lot of thoughts about his current situation, all of them miserable. Like this:

  If I move out, I might not even have a downstairs loo.

  With a lovely pot plant, full of aphids.

  Where would I go to practise my bushcraft skills?

  Not in dark corners, that’s for sure.

  It’s not fair. One minute I’m minding my own business, the next I’m running for my life. Accused of a crime I didn’t commit, my family name ruined.

  Typical.

  And so on, until in the middle of a deep sigh, Milton heard Mr M answer the door.

  ‘Good morning, are you Mr Macey?’ said a small, squeaky voice from the doorstep. ‘I’m ever so sorry to bother you. I’ve recently moved to the street, two doors down. I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself, and, if I may, give you my business card?’

  Curiosity always beat misery, so Milton climbed up the doorjamb to peek at the visitor. She was an odd sight – dressed all in brown, with giant yellow hands, a dinner lady’s tabard, and a blue web on her head.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mr Macey, pleased to meet you, er . . .?’

  ‘Felicity Thrubwell,’ she said, her rodenty front teeth sticking out as she pronounced the F. She removed one of the rubber gloves, tucked a stray mousy brown lock of hair under the blue hairnet and extended a tiny hand for Mr Macey to shake.

  ‘BugKILL!?’ he said, reading the card. ‘You’re in pest control?’

  Felicity Thrubwell gave a shy smile. ‘I’m the best. Spider slaughtering is my speciality.’ She tapped the badge she was wearing – a red stop sign with a very unhappy-looking spider underneath.

  BugKILL!?

  Milton fell off the door.

  ‘What a coincidence. Believe it or not, we had a funny-looking spider in the house yesterday.’

  Felicity’s nose twitched. ‘Funny looking, like this?’ She pulled out an enormous photograph of a false widow and thrust it in Mr Macey’s face.

  He yelped and stepped back, nodding.

  ‘My dear Mr Macey, I can quite believe it. You should know, you’re in terrible danger. There is nothing funny about this creature. It’s a killer – deadly and devious.’ Her front teeth protruded again as she tried to smile. ‘I could kill it for you.’

  Mr Macey invited her in and she followed him to the kitchen and sat at the table. She looked nervously at all the dark corners and knick-knacks gathering dust. ‘These widows are the most dangerous spider in the UK, and they’re spreading in the neighbourhood.’

  As she fixed her attention on Mr Macey, Milton took a deep breath and crept into the cereal cupboard.

  ‘If we don’t act soon, you’ll have an infestation before you know it.’

  INFESTATION? For goodness’ sake, woman. I am one miniscule spider.

  Mr Macey made her a cup of tea in Zoe’s favourite mug and Milton frowned.

  Felicity Thrubwell continued, ‘All the other pest control companies are scared of these little monsters and won’t touch them, but not BugKILL! We’re on a mission to rid the world of these horrid creatures.’

  Mr Macey fiddled with his glasses. ‘OK, maybe you should come and take a look.’

  ‘Wonderful, although I must apologize about the waiting list, it’s rather long. So many spiders out there to get rid of.’ Her little eyes darted about, looking at all the shadows and hiding places. ‘After my article in the Daily Light we’ve had a run on bookings. The story has really captured people’s imaginations.’

  Mr Macey put his tea down with a shaky hand. ‘I saw the video . . . those bite marks – I’m worried for my little girl.’

  Felicity leant closer.

  ‘There, there, Mr Macey. Felicity will sort you out, don’t you fret.’ She rummaged in her handbag for her appointment book. ‘Three weeks tomorrow is my next availability. Like I said, it’s an epidemic. Until then, you can take steps yourself and get cleaning. Spiders can’t abide a spotless house.’

  Mr Macey frowned as she ran her finger along the bread bin and inspected it for dust.

  ‘This will help too,’ she said, pulling a long strip of beige fabric from her handbag. ‘Free with your first booking, I designed it myself. It’s the ultimate in creepy-crawly protection: the BugKILL! Belt.’ She lifted up her tabard and gave a twirl, showing off her own utility belt, equipped with bug spray in one pocket, and a fly swat in the other.

  Milton stared in horror at the contraption.

/>   ‘Thank you. You are committed.’ Mr Macey put the belt on the breakfast bar, and Felicity Thrubwell nodded timidly.

  ‘When I was a little girl, a spider crawled in my hair and got tangled from all the wriggling.’ She paled at the memory and tugged the hairnet. ‘I’m always prepared for a spider attack now.’ Taking Mr Macey’s hand, she fixed her beady eyes on his. ‘You and me, Mr Macey. Together we’ll clear this house of invaders.’

  ‘So, you’ll kill them all?’

  Felicity smoothed down her corduroy skirt. ‘Every. Last. One.’

  At this point, Milton stopped having thoughts altogether. He went cross-eyed, eight different ways, and fainted.

  Upstairs, Zoe lay on her bedroom floor, an orange gel pen tucked behind her ear and the Eight-is-Great Encyclopedia of Awesome Arachnids open at the false widow page.

  Next to the encyclopedia lay a notebook in which she had written a heading:

  Convincing Dad Not to Kill the Spiders

  That was as far as she’d got.

  Dad had never liked spiders, although to his credit he’d done his best to not pass his fear on to her. They’d made it into a game from when Zoe was little – Zoe was Chief Rescuer of Spiders from the Bath, she took them for rides in teacups if they strolled into the front room, and went on daring Spot-the-Spider missions with a torch, before Dad would go into the shed. But now Zoe was older, Dad no longer felt the need to cover his arachnophobia. He could go on a scream-fest whenever he liked. Which was quite often.

  Zoe thought that was a shame. Sure, spiders made her jump sometimes, but she still liked them. All their quirky habits, amazing abilities and surprising beauty.

  Dad exploded into the room, tutting as he switched off the light, and threw open the curtains. He was always going on about not wasting electricity and saving the planet, but what was the point if he was going to wage war on one of the most important groups of animals on earth?

  ‘Right then, BugKILL! are booked, but according to Felicity we need to clean. Get your rubber gloves on – we’re going to eradicate, erase, extinctify.’

  Zoe looked up through her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think “extinctify” is a word.’ She closed her notebook. ‘Who’s Felicity?’

  ‘Our new neighbour and – would you believe our luck – the owner of BugKILL!? Nice lady. A little odd maybe, but clearly in the right business – apparently there’s an epidemic going on. It’s not just us.’

  ‘Did she tell you the spiders were dangerous?’ Zoe sat up, confusion creasing her forehead.

  Her dad puckered his face. ‘Of course they’re dangerous. You’ve seen the news.’

  Zoe crossed her arms. ‘The stories are completely exaggerated. They only print those headlines to sell more papers. And don’t you think it’s convenient that BugKILL! “sponsored” the story?’

  ‘I know that, dear, but I’ve checked. The story is everywhere. Gone viral, as they say.’

  Zoe rubbed her face in frustration and put on the voice she used with her annoying cousin Bran. ‘Dad. That’s how the internet works. You can’t believe everything on there. Look at this.’ She held open the book to her dad. ‘They aren’t dangerous. They only bite if you harass them, and even then it’s no worse than a sting.’

  Mr Macey took off his glasses and leant away from the picture in the book – the drawing was five times life-size. ‘I know how the internet works, thank you. Maybe your book is out of date. Anyway, I don’t care. I don’t want it in the house. Better to be safe, I think. If you won’t help, then you can stay up here. It looks like you have homework to do.’ And with that he stomped out of the door and tripped over a pair of wellie socks.

  Ralph and Audrey found Milton curled up beside a box of cornflakes, pale and alarmingly still.

  ‘Milton?’ Audrey shook him gently.

  Ralph chewed his front claw. ‘MILT!’ He looked wide-eyed at Audrey. ‘What do we do? Has he . . . copped it?’

  ‘No, he’s still breathing. I think he’s fainted.’ She shook him a little harder. ‘We need to get him home quickly.’

  Between them they carried Milton under the skirting board, then lay him gently on his favourite web.

  ‘OK, don’t panic! I know what to do.’ Ralph spun around on the spot. ‘I know what to do.’

  He ran to Milton’s pantry and came back with a mug of ladybird juice.

  Audrey stroked Milton’s cephalothorax as his eyes began to open. ‘That’s it, sweetheart, you’re fine, you’re with friends.’

  Ralph rushed over, still shouting, ‘I know what to do,’ and threw sticky yellow juice all over Milton, just as he was opening his final eye.

  Audrey gasped.

  ‘Thanks, Ralph, just what I needed,’ said Milton sarcastically, wiping a large drip from his face.

  ‘Oops.’ Ralph hung his head and avoided meeting Audrey’s eyes, which was quite tricky in such a small space.

  ‘If that’s your attempt at cheering me up, don’t bother,’ Milton said soggily. ‘I told you I was done for – he’s booked BugKILL!’

  Audrey fetched a guest towel. ‘We heard, but it’s not completely hopeless. BugKILL! aren’t coming for three weeks – enough time to come up with a plan.’

  ‘You’ll stick around until then, right?’ Ralph licked a drop of ladybird juice that had dripped from Milton’s leg. ‘Ooh, delish.’

  Milton shook juice from his body then collapsed to the floor, somewhat dramatically. ‘What good is three weeks? It’s just dragging out the inevitable – WE ARE GOING TO BE BugKILLed! And it’s all because of me. The “invader”, the “epidemic”. You two should leave while you can.’

  ‘Oh, Milton. Come on, keep your jaw up.’ Audrey tried to rub some of the juice off his leg hairs. ‘You’re smart, you’ll come up with something.’

  ‘Yeah, come on, Milton. You’re not going to die for at least twenty, er . . . lots of days. You’ve got this,’ Ralph said cheerily.

  Audrey shook her head. ‘Well, about that . . . BugKILL! might not be coming yet, but after that dreadful woman told Mr M to clean, he’s gone on the warpath. He’s in the utility room gathering his weapons: the vacuum, the feather duster, the polish. And he’s got that belt of death too.’

  Ralph put up his pedipalps and did a little boxing shuffle. ‘Audrey, you’re an outdoorsy type. Get to the shed, you’ll be safe there. I’ll hold that house human off.’

  ‘Thanks, Ralph, that’s very brave, but we stick together. Right, Milton?’

  Milton grabbed the towel and wiped his face. ‘Always. We need to go somewhere safe, somewhere he can’t reach with all the cleaning products in the world. Let him scrub and dust and vacuum and spray and think he’s got the better of us. Then we’ll come home and formulate a plan. What do you think?’

  Audrey smiled. ‘I think we’ve got our old Milton back.’

  Ralph rubbed his front two legs together. ‘Right, then, it’s decided. We’re going to the Bunker.’

  Milton, Audrey and Ralph looked around at the abandoned space. Matted web hung from the underside of the floorboards, black and gluey, with the occasional Hama Bead stuck to it.

  ‘Did we take a wrong turn?’ Audrey ran up the walls and along the wood. ‘I’m sure we followed the right pipes.’ Hopelessness began to dull her eyes.

  ‘It’s been a while, but this is definitely the place. This is the Bunker.’ Ralph ran a leg over the dusty shelves. Transparent woodlouse husks drifted to the floor. He picked up a piece of wing, so ancient it was almost unrecognizable, and it disintegrated in his claw. ‘Where’s all the food? The emergency supplies? The Jenga?’

  Audrey cried out from a corner and Ralph came running. A dead cellar spider dangled from the end of a rusty nail.

  ‘Audrey!’ Ralph immediately ran in front of his friend to block her view. ‘Don’t look. Go back to Milton, I’ll take care of this.’ Gently, Ralph wrapped the body in silk and laid it in the furthest corner. While he was there, he found a small bottle of ladybird juice, and a half-wrap
ped bundle of ants. It was a meagre amount and wouldn’t last long between three of them.

  ‘Sorry you had to see that, Audrey. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Ralph. It wasn’t anyone I knew. You’re a sweetheart.’

  Ralph blushed, but no one noticed in the dark. He laid his findings on the ground. ‘This is it. There’s nothing else – what happened here?’

  Milton, who’d hardly said a word since they left the skirting board, suddenly spoke:

  ‘Mice.’

  He was in quite a state – the journey under the house had been a dusty one, and he was still sticky from the ladybird-juice shower. His whole body was now grey and sort of fuzzy. Like a weird doll’s-house cat. With eight legs.

  He was right. On the floor were old mice droppings.

  ‘Ugh! Disgusting.’ Audrey grimaced. ‘It’s all dry and solid. Mammals are completely revolting.’

  ‘Sticky webs, Milton! You’re right. The great big horrors have cleaned us out. There are scratch marks all over. Well, that’s that, then. We can’t stay here. So much for the Bunker.’ Ralph backed into a corner, eyes wide. ‘Now we’re in real trouble.’

  Milton wafted a leg at a dropping and it crumbled. ‘They’re long gone. But you’re right, it’s not safe.’ He shook his head. The Bunker had been their only hope.

  It had always been there – as long as Milton had been alive anyway. His dad had told him about it – a refuge for spiders, well stocked with preserved and wrapped food, for just such an emergency. But rodents didn’t care about spider welfare. As far as mice were concerned, spiders were the food.

  ‘No!’ Audrey stretched up so tall she nearly bumped her body on the floorboard ceiling. ‘I will not be pushed around by a bunch of disrespectful four-legs. This is our Bunker and I’m going to fight for it.’

  Milton and Ralph looked at one another. For such a skinny thing, Audrey had a scary look about her. Before the others could object, she said, ‘Right. Milton, you and Ralph move those Lego bricks into that corner. I’ll get the lolly stick. Pile them up and we’ll stick that . . . that . . . whatever that is, on top.’ Audrey pointed to a curled-up piece of plastic. ‘Shove it on and we’ll web ourselves in. Let those mice come and have a go at us. All we need to do is last until Mr M has cleaned himself senseless.’