Anansi Boys

At first glance, he thought it was a scarecrow.

That was foolish. It could not have been a scarecrow. Scarecrows are found in fields, not on football pitches. Scarecrows certainly aren’t left on the edge of the woodland. Anyway, if it was a scarecrow it was doing a very poor job.

There were crows everywhere, after all, big black ones.

And then it moved.

It was too far away to be anything more than a shape, a slight figure in a tattered brown raincoat. Still, Fat Charlie knew it. He knew that if he had been close enough, he would have seen a face chipped from obsidian, and raven-black hair, and eyes that held madness.

Then the train jerked and began to move, and in moments the woman in the brown raincoat was out of sight.

Fat Charlie felt uncomfortable. He had practically convinced himself by now that what had happened, what he thought had happened, in Mrs. Dunwiddy’s front room had been some form of hallucination, a high-octane dream, true on some level but not a real thing. Not something that had happened; rather, it was symbolic of a greater truth. He could not have gone to a real place, nor struck a real bargain, could he?

It was only a metaphor, after all.

He did not ask himself why he was now so certain that everything would soon begin to improve. There was reality, and there was reality, and some things were more real than others.

Faster and faster, the train rattled him further into London.

Spider was almost home from the Greek restaurant, napkin pushed against his cheek, when someone touched him on the shoulder.

“Charles?” said Rosie.

Spider jumped, or at least, he jerked and made a startled noise.

“Charles? Are you all right? What happened to your cheek?”

He stared at her. “Are you you?” he asked.

“What?”

“Are you Rosie?”

“What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m Rosie. What did you do to your cheek?”

He pressed the napkin against his cheek. “I cut it,” he said.

“Let me see?” She took his hand away from his cheek. The center of the white napkin was stained crimson, as if he had bled into it, but his cheek was whole and untouched. “There’s nothing there.”

“Oh.”

“Charles? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am. Unless I’m not. I think we should go back to my place. I think I’ll be safer there.”

“We were going to have lunch,” said Rosie, in the tone of voice of one who worries that she’ll only understand what’s actually going on when a TV presenter leaps out and reveals the hidden cameras.

“Yes,” said Spider. “I know. I think someone just tried to kill me, though. And she pretended she was you.”

“Nobody’s trying to kill you,” said Rosie, failing to sound like she wasn’t humoring him.

“Even if nobody’s trying to kill me, can we skip lunch and go back to my place? I’ve got food there.”

“Of course.”

Rosie followed him down the road, wondering when Fat Charlie had lost all that weight. He looked good, she thought. He looked really good. They walked into Maxwell Gardens in silence.

He said, “Look at that.”

“What?”

He showed her. The fresh bloodstain had vanished from the napkin. It was now perfectly white.

“Is it a magic trick?”

“If it is, I didn’t do it,” he said. “For once.” He dropped the napkin into a bin. As he did so, a taxi pulled up in front of Fat Charlie’s house, and Fat Charlie got out, rumpled and blinking and carrying a white plastic bag.

Rosie looked at Fat Charlie. She looked at Spider. She looked back at Fat Charlie, who had opened the bag and pulled out an enormous box of chocolates.

“They’re for you,” he said.

Rosie took the chocolates and said, “Thank you.” There were two men and they looked and sounded completely different, and she still could not work out which one of them was her fiancee. “I’m going mad, aren’t I?” she said, her voice taut. It was easier, now she knew what was wrong.

The thinner of the two Fat Charlies, the one with the earring, put his hand on her shoulder. “You need to go home,” he said. “Then you need a nap. When you wake up, you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

Well, she thought, that makes life easier. It’s better with a plan. She walked back to her flat with a spring in her step, carrying her box of chocolates.

“What did you do?” asked Fat Charlie. “She just seemed to turn off.”

Spider shrugged. “I didn’t want to upset her,” he said.

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

“It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Like you’d know what was appropriate?”

Spider touched the front door and it opened.

“I have keys, you know,” said Fat Charlie. “It’s my front door.”

They walked into the hallway, walked up the stairs.

“Where have you been?” asked Spider.

“Nowhere. Out,” said Fat Charlie, as if he were a teenager.

“I was attacked by birds in the restaurant this morning. Do you know anything about that? You do, don’t you.”

“Not really. Maybe. It’s just time for you to leave, that’s all.”

“Don’t start anything,” said Spider.

“Me? Me start anything? I think I’ve been a model of restraint. You came into my life. You got my boss upset, and got the police onto me. You, you’ve been kissing my girlfriend. You screwed up my life.”

“Hey,” said Spider. “You ask me, you’ve done a great job of screwing up your life on your own.”

Fat Charlie clenched his fist, swung back, and hit Spider in the jaw, like they do on the movies. Spider staggered back, more surprised than hurt. He put his hand to his lip, then looked down at the blood on his hand. “You hit me,” he said.

“I can do it again,” said Fat Charlie, who wasn’t sure that he could. His hand hurt.

Spider said “Yeah?” and launched himself at Fat Charlie, pummeling him with his fists, and Fat Charlie went over, his arm around Spider’s waist, pulling Spider down with him.

They rolled up and down the hallway floor, hitting and flailing at each other. Fat Charlie half-expected Spider to launch some kind of magical counterattack or to be supernaturally strong, but the two of them seemed fairly evenly matched. Both of them fought unscientifically, like boys—like brothers—and as they fought, Fat Charlie thought he remembered doing this once before, a long, long time ago. Spider was smarter and faster, but if Fat Charlie could just get on top of him, and get Spider’s hands out of the way—

Fat Charlie grabbed for Spider’s right hand, twisted it behind Spider’s back, then sat on his brother’s chest, putting all his weight on him.

“Give in?” he asked.

“No.” Spider wriggled and twisted, but Fat Charlie was solidly in position, sitting on Spider’s chest.

“I want you to promise,” said Fat Charlie, “to get out of my life, and to leave me and Rosie alone forever.”

At this, Spider bucked, angrily, and Fat Charlie was dislodged. He landed, sprawled, on the kitchen floor. “Look,” said Spider. “I told you.”

There was a banging on the door downstairs, an imperious knocking of the kind that indicated someone