Anansi Boys

likewise? You can make the fire and I will clean the lamb and make a spit to turn it. Can you not taste it already?”

Spider was so hungry he was light-headed. Had he still been in possession of his tongue, perhaps he would have said yes, confident of his ability to talk himself out of trouble; but he had no tongue. He picked up a second rock in his left hand.

“So let us feast and be friends; and let there be no more misunderstandings,” said the stranger.

And the vulture and the raven will clean my bones, thought Spider.

The stranger took another step toward Spider, who decided that this was his cue to throw the first rock. He had a good eye and an excellent arm, and the rock struck where he had intended it to strike, on the stranger’s right arm; he dropped the lamb. The next rock hit the stranger on the side of the head—Spider had been aiming for a spot just between the too-widely-set eyes, but the man had moved.

The stranger ran then, a bounding run, with his tail straight out behind him. Sometimes he looked like a man when he ran, and sometimes he looked like a beast.

When he was gone, Spider walked to the place he had been, to retrieve the black-tailed lamb. It was moving, when he reached it, and for a heartbeat he imagined that it was still alive, but then he saw that the flesh was creeping with maggots. It stank, and the stench of the corpse helped Spider forget how hungry he was, for a little while.

He carried it at arm’s length to the cliff edge and threw it down into the sea. Then he washed his hands in the stream.

He did not know how long he had been in this place. Time was stretched and squashed here. The sun was lowering on the horizon.

After the sun has set, and before the moon has risen, thought Spider. That is when the beast will be back.

The implacably cheerful representative of the Saint Andrews Police force sat in the hotel front office with Daisy and Fat Charlie, and listened to everything each of them had to say with a placid but unimpressed smile on his wide face. Sometimes he would reach up a finger and scratch his moustache.

They told the police officer that a fugitive from justice called Grahame Coats had come in to them while they were eating dinner, and threatened Daisy with a gun. Which, they were also forced to admit, nobody but Daisy had actually seen. Then Fat Charlie told him about the incident with the black Mercedes and the bicycle, earlier that afternoon, and no, he hadn’t actually seen who was driving the car. But he knew where it came from. He told the officer about the house on the cliff top.

The man touched his pepper-and-salt moustache, thoughtfully. “Indeed, there is a house where you describe. However, it does not belong to your man Coats. Far from it. You are describing the house of Basil Finnegan, an extremely respectable man. For many years, Mr. Finnegan has had a healthy interest in law and order. He has given money to schools, but more important, he contributed a healthy sum toward the construction of the new police station.”

“He put a gun to my stomach,” said Daisy. “He told me that unless we came with him, he’d shoot.”

“If this was Mr. Finnegan, little lady,” said the police officer, “I’m sure that there is a perfectly simple explanation.” He opened his briefcase, produced a thick sheaf of papers. “I’ll tell you what. You think about the matter. Sleep on it. If, in the morning, you are convinced that it was more than high spirits, you simply have to fill in this form, and drop off all three copies at the police station. Ask for the new police station, at the back of the city square. Everyone knows where it is.”

He shook both of their hands and went on his way.

“You should have told him you were a cop too,” said Fat Charlie. “He might have taken you more seriously.”

“I don’t think it would have done any good,” she said. “Anyone who calls you ‘little lady’ has already excluded you from the set of people worth listening to.”

They walked out into the hotel reception.

“Where did she go?” asked Fat Charlie.

Benjamin Higgler said, “Aunt Callyanne? She’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

“There,” said Rosie.” I knew I could do it, if I just kept swinging.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“He’s going to kill us anyway.”

“It won’t work.”

“Mum. Have you got a better idea?”

“He’ll see you.”

“Mum. Will you please stop being so negative? If you’ve got any suggestions that would help, please say them. Otherwise just don’t bother. Okay?”

Silence.

Then, “I could show him my bum.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Er. Instead of?”

“In addition to.”

Silence. Then Rosie said, “Well, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Hullo, Mrs. Higgler,”said Fat Charlie. “I want the feather back.”

“What make you think I got your feather?” she asked, arms folded across her vast bosom.

“Mrs. Dunwiddy told me.”

Mrs. Higgler seemed surprised by this, for the first time. “Louella did tell you I got the feather?”

“She said you had the feather.”

“I keeping it safe.” Mrs. Higgler gestured toward Daisy with her mug of coffee. “You can’t expect me to start talkin’ in front of her. I don’t know her.”

“This is Daisy. You can say anything to her you’d say to me.”

“She’s your fiancee,” said Mrs. Higgler. “I heard.”

Fat Charlie could feel his cheeks starting to burn. “She’s not my—we aren’t, actually. I had to say something to get her away from the man with the gun. It seemed the simplest thing.”

Mrs. Higgler looked at him. Behind her thick spectacles, her eyes began to twinkle. “I know that,” she said. “It was during your song. In front of an audience.” She shook her head, in the way that old people like to do when pondering the foolishness of the young. She opened her black purse, took out an envelope, passed it to Fat Charlie. “I promised Louella I keep it safe.”

Fat Charlie took out the feather from the envelope, half-crushed, from where he had been holding it tightly the night of the seance. “Okay,” he said. “Feather. Excellent. Now,” he said to Mrs. Higgler, “What exactly do I do with it?”

“You don’t know?”

Fat Charlie’s mother had told him, when he was young, to count to ten before he lost his temper. He counted, silently and unhurriedly, to ten, whereupon he lost his temper. “Of course I don’t know what to do with it, you stupid old woman! In the last two weeks I’ve been arrested, I’ve lost my fiancee and my job, I’ve watched my semi-imaginary brother get eaten by a wall of birds in Piccadilly Circus, I’ve flown back and forth across the Atlantic like some kind of lunatic transatlantic ping-pong ball, and today I got up in front of an audience and I, and I sang because my psycho ex-boss had a gun barrel against the stomach of the girl I’m having dinner with. All I’m trying to do is sort out the mess my life has turned into since you suggested I might want to talk to my brother. So, no. No, I don’t know what to do with this bloody feather. Burn it? Chop it up and eat it? Build a nest with it? Hold it out in front of me and jump out of the window?”

Mrs. Higgins looked sullen. “You have to ask Louella Dunwiddy.”

“I’m not sure that I can. She wasn’t looking very well the last time I saw her. And we don’t have much