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Of black widows and dead spiders. by Nick Day.Chapter one.It had been a long time since Amber had been out on the heath at such an earlyhour. The forecast had been for sunshine and clear skies , accompanied bytemperatures of around 27 , anxiety, paranoia and mild agoraphobia, thoughthankfully the feelings she’d anticipated had thus far failed to materialise.She allowed herself a deep breath, intoxicated by the cool of earlysummer. The sun seemed to exist only to soothe the weary, the disheartened, thebroken. The birds appeared to sing only to the melancholy.Her headache and stiffness had faded, ghosts of a sleepless night,leaving, in the wake of their haunting, a numbing drowsy fatigue, like a warmblanket around her.What the weatherman had failed to convey and what she’d forgotten, wasthat mornings such as these were so much greater than the sum of their parts. He’dbeen predictably eager, however, to remind her that she ‘needn’t wrap up warmtoday’ (like so much baby talk), that it would be ‘colder in the north’ and thatwe ‘shouldn’t expect this good weather to last more than a few days’, (these lasttwo, from his ten commandments)At 28, although she wore the pallor of self-exile, still she was pretty,even if she didn’t feel it. Former boyfriends had (to their cost!) described heras ‘pixie-like’, (barely acceptable) or as having ‘girl-next-door’ looks . Thelatter phrase really jarred, an old fashioned expression, misappropriated by thetabloids and lads’ mags and now residing among phrases such as ‘love rat’, ‘bustyblonde’ , ‘spit roast’ and ‘camel-toe’. She was generally astonished by theirhonesty, given a little encouragement .It had been different with Stan. He’dsimply told her ‘you’re beautiful’ and made her believe it.Her nose-stud remained, though Stan would not have recognised her by herhair, now ‘deep chestnut,’ if she remembered correctly. She’d not bothered withmake-up, but there were, as expected, few passers-by. Though small in number, theyhelped her feel a little safer. She was amused by the recalcitrance of dog orowner, by the joggers; the older ones trying to run off a mid-life crisis, theyounger ones just running in a new Ipod.She stopped for a moment, the path stretching before her, snaking awayto the right far in the distance. She adjusted her hair clip, wondering if Stanwould have recognised it as the one she’d worn the last time she’d seen him.Between then and now, the protracted misery of 103 long days.She couldn‘t ever remember so much rain falling in one day. There hadbeen no ‘baby talk’ that day. Mr. Ten commandments had gone all old testament. Ithad felt like the end of the world. It was only the eve of it.More often, towards the end, she’d sense his twitchy discomfort and knowexactly what it preceded. Stan needed to get away for a few days, clear his head.He had cousins in Bournemouth, he’d murmur, stammering over his words, avoidingher gaze.That Wednesday, he’d returned mid-morning from Reg’s, having been coaxedout for a beer and finding himself too shit-faced to order a taxi home.The key in the door, the trigger for her tears. She’d endured a wretchednight.He stood in the doorway in his very own puddle. It was as if it wasactually raining in the hallway. As if the black cloud that had followed himaround for so long had finally burst, shedding its contents on the laminate. Hisparka, jeans, loafers a far darker shade than when he’d left. His scruffyshoulder- length hair had curled in the rain like the coat of a stray dog.“Is this what it’ll be like when you’re not here any more?” barelycoherent, her words punctuated here and there by deep heaving sobs. .This is the part she remembers most: His usual reserve gone, throwing

his wet self around her, as if she’d saved him from drowning. She felt his tears,warm against her cheek. He sobbed quietly at first. Water everywhere. As if a damhad burst inside him.They showered, made love and slept for a couple of hours. On awakening,Amber sensed that the atmosphere in the flat, like the weather, had worsened, theyspent much of the afternoon like characters in a Bergman movie. Staring outdespairingly as the wind howled spitefully, the rain continued its vicious andrelentless assault on the windows and the sky darkened like Stan’s mood.She returned from the hairdressers on Thursday afternoon hoping tosurprise him. He’d had the same idea. He’d left no note, taken no clothes and asit soon became clear, there were no such cousins in Bournemouth.In the days following the assault, they’d lost their home, former lives,selves and finally each other. A year had passed. She wondered how Stan would markthis day. Men were hardwired to forget significant annual events, but this wouldbe different.Should people send cards with tacky badges on the front? ‘Best victim inthe world!’, or that maggot-ridden chestnut, ‘lucky to be alive!’ Because, ofcourse, she should be grateful that her life had been spared. A life which, byimplication, she didn’t have the same God-given right as everyone else to own. No.She’d worn that badge for long enough. She was a survivor and it was that verythought that had propelled her from her bed at four o’ clock this morning.Another deep breath. She could smell the wild ramson, hear the birdsongabove the faintest whisper of traffic . She didn’t glimpse beyond the long grass,the bluebells, the brawny oaks, didn’t see the man stood, twitching in their lea,his eyes never leaving her. To her left, lay dense woodland, providing effective cover, shegathered, for no small amount of dogging, cottaging and general, non-specificbuggery that went largely unpunished. She’d also heard that they still snaredrabbits around hereDuring a different season, or at a different hour of the day, the woodscould be dark and uninviting, anything but benevolent. Yet today it would yield agift. She made a connection, the thought more organic than conscious: wild flowers-- the savage beauty of life. Bluebells. Her favourite.She considered it a brave move, walking into the woodland alone.Especially since she had left the flat in the preceding few weeks only foressentials (semi-skimmed, Silk cut and chocolate) and yet she wasn’tcongratulating herself. Already she’d wandered further into the woods than she’dintended, drawn in by a now unconvincing stillness. Every step, taken with alittle more apprehension than the last.She came to a stop. A childlike irrationality gripped her. Thatillogical sense that to go back could do her more harm than good. That whateverlurked; hiding, watching, that’s how it got its kicks: It didn’t just snatch youoff the path when you least expected it (grown-ups knew otherwise). It fed offyour fear. It wanted only to take you at the peak of your terror. The samescenario, the same primeval fear, read quite differently from an adult standpoint:The moment you turned, in blind panic, to flee, whatever, whoever stalked you,would have to take it’s chance. You were at a massive disadvantageShe’d followed this line of thought for longer than was good for her.The noise tore through her senses. She stumbled, choking in air. Sherecognized immediately the early signs of an anxiety attack and acknowledged itscruel inevitability.As she pulled the from her bag, fumbling she felt it tumble from hergrip. Then she realised: it wasn’t her phone that was ringing.Movement behind her. Flushed, dizzy with fright, she scooped up thephone. One thought: Run!Shades of green spun around her, a carousel of twisting, spindly limbsstretching out to her. Blindly she ran on, staggering, swerving, falling heavily.

Something had snagged on her ankle. The image of a rabbit caught in a snare, toofresh in her mind. She checked behind. A tree root. Relief. But only momentary.Pulling herself up onto all fours, she tasted bile, felt the convulsions and knewshe would vomit.Spittle hung from her chin, her stomach had begun to cramp again, hermuscles began to tighten. She pushed off on a surge of adrenaline which lasteduntil she reached the path, crashing headlong into the giant airbag.The jogger removed his earphones. A pudgy, stocky man in pristine whiteshorts and t-shirt with a matching headband. He’d been oblivious to her approachand she hadn’t seen him until it was too late. He looked as surprised as she did.Still, luckily, he’d caught her as she bounced off him. After she’d calmed alittle, she told him she’d been startled, spooked and that she felt a bit silly.She’d dropped her phone (a white lie). Re-assuring her, he said he’d try and findit. “Glad of a little breather, actually,” he puffed.She sat for a while, her back against a tree-trunk. This time, it washer own phone that startled her.JANE T. (D.I. Turner). She didn’t remember reading in any of thoseleaflets from Victim support that receiving news about a potentially dead lovedone was usually a good way out of a panic-attack. Nevertheless, shakingfeverishly, she pushed the green button. “Hello.” Her voice lower than she’d intended, chest still heaving.“Hi. Amber?”“Yes.”“It’s Jane. D.I. Turner. Listen, are you okay?”“Fine.”She continued, clearly unconvinced. “I called round to see you.Whereabouts are you?”“The heath.”“I’m five minutes away. Did you get on at Purliss road end? Do you wantto sit tight?”A sense of foreboding curled a figure of eight in her stomach. Theconversation, not a minute old had already taken a dire turn. Certain that even inher present state, she’d not imagined in the subtleties of D.I. Turner’s tone,professional detachment, calm insistence and a little too much eagerness.She’d liked Jane from the very start. Although maybe four or five yearsolder than Amber, she didn’t do the big-sister act like some of the W.P.Cs had.Not that she’d minded. She’d always wanted a big sister.It wasn’t that she doubted Jane’s personal integrity But there must comea point, as a D.I when you needed to pull back a little. To protect yourself.How well she remembered previous calls. By contrast: “Amber, don’tpanic. Look, if it was bad news, I’d call round in person.” But plan-A had beenbadly flawed, placing too great a reliance on Amber’s recent reclusive tendencies.This was clearly more than a social call. She needed time to composeherself, regain some dignity. The one-syllable answers weren’t helping to easeD.I. Turner’s concern.She took a deep breath. “Can I meet you back at the flat?” It would takeher half an hour “In an hour?”She was relieved when her friend returned from his search, wearing thesame friendly expression. She hadn’t, it seemed, sent him to an unwitting deathand he had clearly found no-one. He’d probably heard her talking. She’d justapologise and say she’d found it on the path. But before she could speak, heraised a flabby arm in triumph and handed her a black phone. Waving briefly hecontinued with his run.A gentle breeze began to stir. Patches of woodland floor grew light,then dark, the woodland canopy swayed softly, creating patterns that danced over ashadow in the shape of a man.