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  SONGS FROM SPIDER STREET

  MARK HOWARD JONES

  KINDLE EDITION

  - 2012 -

  Published by Screaming Dreams

  113-116 Bute Street, Cardiff Bay, CF10 5EQ

  www.screamingdreams.com

  Copyright © Mark Howard Jones 2010

  Mark Howard Jones asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration Copyright © Steve Upham 2010

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.

  To the memory of my mother, Josie

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SONGS FROM SPIDER STREET

  SHARDS FROM THE HOUSE OF GLASS

  THE ICE HORSE

  A HELL OF A PLACE

  HEART IS WHERE THE HOME IS

  CHANGE HERE

  MUSE

  MIRRORCLE

  LOVE BOX

  INTERIOR DESIGN

  HUNTER/ED

  BACKSEAT BALLET

  WINDOW

  DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF CLOWN

  CLOUD HARVEST

  THE CONDITION

  NOCTURNAL TIDE

  THE PATH

  IN THE GREYNESS OF TIME

  THE SINGING HORSES

  MISTAKEN MEMORY

  TOKEN BLONDE

  ‘… RUNS OUT LIKE SAND’

  TRACKSIDE

  SONGS FROM SPIDER STREET (REPRISE)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SONGS FROM SPIDER STREET

  Michel followed his father’s instructions very carefully as he navigated the small boat up the foggy river. Too carefully, in fact. The old man had made a mistake or two and he almost missed the place in the early morning gloom.

  Along the banks, the ghost city hid itself from him behind the enveloping spectral whiteness.

  Tying his boat next to what was left of the Pont de l’Alma, he scrambled over the rubble to reach the street above. He followed the scribbled map and soon found Avenue du President Wilson. The place where he was to make the delivery was in one of the streets just behind it.

  He heaved the heavy rucksack onto his back and set off. The remnants of the buildings on either side seemed to move suddenly out of the fog at him, like icebergs miraculously on the move down the broad, rubble-clogged avenues.

  Michel couldn’t understand why anybody lived here any longer. Who needed cities anyway?

  He wandered along, peering up through the milky light until he found the right street – Rue d’Arachneen. He had to look closely; someone had scratched out some of the letters with a nail and painted over it the words that made Michel shiver slightly, ‘Rue d’Araignee’. He hated spiders and their sly, secret ways. He was always on the fly’s side.

  This part of the city used to be ruled by gangs, and he assumed that the odd name meant that this used to be ‘Street Spiders’ territory.

  Michel began to walk along the wrecked road, still following his father’s instructions and hoping that they were right this time. He made sure to stay away from the sides of the road where rats might be lying in wait.

  Gradually the fog seemed to get lighter, the early daylight softer. At some point Michel realised he was walking on the fog but his mind blotted it out, knowing it wasn’t possible. Only when the fog began to hinder his progress did his mind allow him to awaken to the fact that something was wrong. Michel lifted his left foot and something stuck to his stiff leather shoe. He jerked his leg back and freed his foot with some difficulty.

  He held his breath and peered through the whiteness that surrounded him. The white stuff that had stuck to his shoes carpeted the road ahead, stretching off to both sides, with only a narrow path left down the very centre of the street.

  Something was moving at the edge of his vision. Peering closely, he tried to forget what had been scratched on the street sign. As the fog moved in its slow dance, Michel could make out an old lamp-post. It was covered in white silk and in that gauzy maze moved dozens and dozens of black dots. His throat tightened as it finally dawned on him that he was surrounded by spiders. Some buildings had almost disappeared totally beneath the webs, which hung from every possible place.

  His feet wanted to back away and the panic inside him told him to run back to the river, clamber into his boat and head for home. But then he’d have to face his father, with his sharp words and fierce eyes.

  He glared resentfully at the white mass around him before noticing that there was a path through the centre of the web maze. Swearing to himself, he forced his feet forward; he was sticky with the sweat that had sprung out over the whole of his body.

  Occasionally a web would quiver as he passed it. Breathing had become a struggle and he felt a surge of relief when he saw that the path led to the front of an apartment building.

  As he approached it a large black spider scuttled across the face of the iron gate that stood enticingly open in front of the building. Michel took two cautious steps forward; the spider moved its many-jointed legs and scuttled further up the gate. It wasn’t huge, decided Michel, but it was still terrifying. Just large enough for him to see its glittering eyes and to know he was being watched.

  The arachnid seemed to lose interest after a few minutes and darted away into the mass of webbing covering the iron fence at either side.

  Although the gate stood ajar, Michel could see that it hadn’t been opened for some time, with strands of web connecting the gate to the post. He lifted his foot and kicked it open. The heavy gate only moved a few inches but it was enough to stretch and snap the silvery threads, leaving Michel just enough room to squeeze through.

  He mounted the few steps to the elaborate front door of the apartment building. Pushing at it, he found it locked. He knocked loudly and waited anxiously to see who would answer. Unnerved by his experiences so far, he fought to keep his imagination in check.

  Michel was relieved when, after knocking a second time, a nervous-looking woman’s face poked itself through a gap between the door and the jamb. “Yes? Who are you?”

  “H-hello, I’m Michel. Claude’s brother.”

  Only half of the woman’s face was visible. Her hazel eye glinted as it peered at him, presumably taking in his resemblance to his elder sibling. She pulled the door open with difficulty. “It sticks. It drives me insane sometimes,” she explained as she gestured him inside. She spoke with an English accent, as he’d been led to expect. Her French was very good, he noticed, but her use of the word ‘insane’ bothered him slightly.

  Michel stood in a broad hallway that was badly in need of cleaning. The woman put her back against the door and pushed it closed again. “I was expecting you. Well … not you, your brother. Did you find the place alright?”

  He was relieved to see that her face had two halves to it. “Yes. But all these spiders …”

  The woman looked at him oddly, as if he’d complained about something that was obviously beneficial. She was dressed in dark clothes with her grey hair, that was once brown, scraped back into a pony tail. Michel noticed that she was quite tall; her skin was as pale as spider’s silk. “I’m Mrs. Wilson … but I expect your father told you that.”

  He followed her into a large, neat apartment. In contrast to the hallway, it was spotless, though the curtains were partly closed. Michel noticed some old photographs and travel posters on one wall. He recognised some of them – Paris, in the old days.

  “Beautiful, wasn’t it?” the woman sai
d. “I couldn’t bear to leave it. But I rarely go outside these days. It’s too sad.”

  Michel nodded at her words as if he understood, though he really didn’t.

  Turning, he saw that all along one wall was a large old-fashioned glass-fronted cabinet. Michel immediately took a step back once his eyes had accustomed to the light. Behind the glass was a white silky world, a spider’s paradise. Each shelf was a tangle of webs, funnels and silk boles with dim, dark shapes lurking within them. In some places the spiders clung to the glass itself, staring out with eyes like black gems, as if seeking escape.

  Michel felt that it was somehow unclean, and his skin began to itch as he looked at it. The woman noticed his revulsion. “They’re nothing to be afraid of, you know. Spiders. They’re just doing what they’re supposed to. They’re very industrious.” He looked at her, hoping this would be quick and that he could get back to the river as soon as possible.

  The woman noticed his discomfort and tried to take his mind off it. “So where is your brother? He usually brings my delivery. I’ve grown used to seeing him.”

  Michel shrugged. “He had to go away. Claude is in the mountains now.”

  The old woman nodded, her eyes growing sad. She sighed. “Ah, the mountains. Important work, I suppose. A pity.”

  Michel simply nodded, then flipped open the top of the rucksack and began to place its contents on the table in the centre of the room. “Twenty tins and four packets of rice. It’s all there,” he said, accounting for everything.

  Mrs Wilson went to a dark corner of the room and returned with a brown paper package, which she placed on the table beside the things Michel had unpacked, as if to compare them. “There. Tell your father it’s fresh.”

  Michel picked it up and handled it. He’d expected something else in payment. “What is it?” Mrs Wilson just smiled. “Your father will know.”

  Michel placed the packet carefully but resentfully in his rucksack. He wasn’t very happy at being kept in the dark.

  “Sit down for a minute. I expect you’re tired after the journey.” Michel hadn’t thought about it until now but, yes, he’d been travelling up river since just after midnight, so as to avoid the ‘traffic’. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  Mrs Wilson also sat down, placing a bottle between them. “Do you want some wine, Michel?”

  The boy opened his mouth. “Wine. You have wine?” Mrs Wilson chuckled and pointed. “Well, there it is. You can see with your own eyes.”

  Michel had heard of this mythical drink. Sometimes when his father visited the Judge, there was wine to drink. But Michel never accompanied his father on those visits and had never seen any before. “Will I like it?’ he asked.

  She smiled and pushed a glass towards him. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said as the clear liquid glugged into the clear receptacle.

  “Cheers,” said Mrs Wilson, emptying half her glass.

  Michel gazed down into the glass. Even in this poor light there were slow currents glinting in the depths of the strange liquid. Now was his chance to taste it without his father’s watchful eyes on him. He took a cautious sip. Even though it was cool, it tasted warm on his tongue and all the way down to his stomach. He smiled, nodding. “It’s good.”

  The old woman smiled too, understanding just how Michel’s eyes had been newly opened to one of life’s pleasures. The wine seemed to have a beneficial effect on her as she began to reminisce about Michel’s long-dead mother, how she knew his father and how things had been in Paris in the old days.

  Although Michel wasn’t particularly interested – there was nothing he hadn’t heard before – he pretended to listen to her rambling monologue while enjoying the strange new delight in the glass he held.

  He raised his eyes to look at the woman. Then he noticed something moving. He stared with trepidation as two small spiders ran from the woman’s sleeve and down the stem of the glass in her hand. They began a many-legged dance as they lowered themselves quickly to the table top and scurried away. Mrs Wilson hadn’t seemed to notice their presence and ignored Michel’s stares.

  A splash of wine suddenly hit Michel in the face as a spider dropped from above into his glass. He watched, appalled, as it commenced an eight-legged struggle with the meniscus of the liquid, battling for survival. He looked above him immediately, afraid that others were ready to drop on him, then quickly put the glass on the table and pushed it away.

  Until that moment Mrs Wilson had been unaware of the minor drama but at the sound of glass on wood, she looked sharply at him. “I’ve had enough, thank you,” said Michel carefully. She smiled at him, unaware of the spider’s final struggle in its glass prison. “Yes, better take it slowly, I suppose.”

  She continued talking and Michel tried to focus on what she was saying as he felt his head expand. Wine was good stuff, he thought, and vowed to try and get his hands on some more soon. Preferably some without any spiders in it.

  The woman’s tales had moved away from familiar territory now and she began to tell him things about his father that he never knew.

  “Most adults are just lost children – as if they’ve wandered away from childhood and now they can’t find it again – but your father was different. He never used to be afraid to hear the spiders sing.”

  Michel looked puzzled. Perhaps the wine had dulled his wits, he thought. “Sing?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sing. Well, not in the way you and I would sing.” She sent forth a short, tuneful phrase from an old song and then laughed. “It’s more to do with … here, let me show you.”

  Michel struggled slightly to stand up as she took him by the arm and led him out into the hallway. After another battle with the door they stepped outside. Mrs Wilson guided him to the middle of the street.

  The light hadn’t changed since he’d gone inside, yet now he noticed that each web was shining, jewelled with dew. Small dark shapes moved among them here and there; others sat watchfully where they were.

  He wasn’t sure if this was what wine was supposed to do to you, or if the old woman had put something in the wine, but his head felt hot and somehow full. His thoughts had suddenly become too sluggish to move through his head properly and his mind began to throb. He struggled through it, trying hard to concentrate.

  He noticed the pulsing thorax of the spider nearest him. There seemed to be a glow around it as a thin strand of silk ran from it, adding to the already considerable web in which it sat. Then he realised that all the spiders in the street were lit with this unnatural glow. Mrs Wilson put her hand on his shoulder and whispered to him. “Just relax, Michel. Let them tell you what they will.”

  At first there was nothing. Then, at the very far edge of hearing, a high tuneful sound began to scratch at his mind. Michel turned his head this way and that to try and catch the sounds.

  Then he realised he didn’t need to use his ears. He could hear the music in his head. He turned to speak to Mrs. Wilson but she was already fading from sight as pictures formed behind his eyes. “It’s starting,” he whispered. “It’s start—”

  SHARDS FROM THE HOUSE OF GLASS

  No vegetation has grown near the house since shortly after Louis John Willets finished his painting of it.

  The memorial painting, smeared across its huge canvas as if the image has grown there like mould, can still be seen hanging lopsidedly in the local mortuary.

  “Would you please try and do some work today instead of just vegetating in front of the artwork?” Mr Kaltenbach’s sour voice cuts through Joseph’s trance to bring him back to a world filled with the sharp tang of preservative fluid. He looks around, shamefaced.

  The old man’s face is just inches from his, the lenses of his glasses almost opaque with fingerprints and dust. His breath smells almost as bad as the chemicals. “That car crash case that came in this morning needs a lot doing to it. The family wants an open-casket viewing, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mr Kaltenbach … sorry.�
�� As he shuffles away, Joseph can hear the old man muttering about having the painting removed before turning again. “And straighten that damn thing up before you get back to work will you, please,” he snaps.

  Joseph does his best with the large canvas but it refuses to maintain its equilibrium, always dropping to the right. He loves the painting with its tangle of sensuous greens and earthy browns, far more inviting than its subject matter which sits grimly at the side of the road out of town. He loves all Willets’ work and the painting is one of the main reasons he’s refused the lure of better jobs over the past two years.

  Willets. Small town celebrity and major artist. God knows why he never moved away from this place, thinks Joseph, while secretly feeling glad that the painter chose to stay.

  Joseph is removing his apron when Kaltenbach creeps in.

  “Very nice. Good work, Joseph.” The old man almost smiles, peering at him through his muddied lenses, as he stands over the woman’s reconstructed body. “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t compliment you often … well, compliments cost money, you know,” he says before breaking into a dry, cackling laugh.

  Joseph smiles weakly, unsure of what to say.

  “Well, I’m off home. Lock up on your way out,” Kaltenbach instructs.

  He waits until the old man shuffles out, the scuff marks of his shoes on the ancient tiles forming glyphs of despair. A secret language that perhaps no-one cares to decipher. Certainly not Joseph.

  He walks slowly into the office, which is never locked. The old man lost the key over a year ago and refuses to have another lock fitted. This is Kaltenbach’s small, secret world and he takes comfort in its shrunken gloom. He has no way of knowing that his most precious secret has relinquished itself long ago, betraying his trust to another.

  Joseph carefully slides the knife blade into the narrow space above the lock. The blade dances to and fro half-a-dozen times before he hears the small sound he has been waiting for.