Fifty/Fifty and Other Stories (4 page)

Wee Tiny Spiders

“
W
hy are you scratching?” asks Jemima.

“
Wee tiny spiders!” I say.

“
What do you mean, wee tiny spiders?” she asks.

“
Wee tiny spiders! Haven’t you seen the nests?”

The house we live in is set into a steep hill, so that our back garden is higher than ground-level, and for most of the day the small patio outside our kitchen is in the shade. Cool, dry and sheltered from the wind, it appears to be a paradise for all manner of creepy-crawlies. It used to drive me mad in our previous home, when Jemima would throw crusts and stale bread out for the birds, but now I am grateful for our very own avian army, swooping down to pick off slugs and insects. Their chirping in the old fir tree which towers over us from our neighbour’s garden comforts me.

The railings and fenceposts enclosing our property are strung with myriad cobwebs, which glint when the sun reaches them, and lie in wait when it doesn’t. Most evenings I try to clear them away, but in the morning they are back, speckled with the husks of dead bugs, food for another day. The paving and brickwork is tracked with glistening footprints. On the gable wall I see snail shells glued 40 feet high, looming over the precipice. 

What worry me most are the aforementioned wee spiders. I see their nests everywhere. They are stuck to the vents of the double glazing, the hinges of the back door, under the handrail which runs up the steps into the garden itself. I attack them frequently with a brush, but try as I might they adhere as chewing gum to hair. They appear fluffy, and I treat them as you might asbestos. The last time I attacked the colony at the hinges, a spider with a circumference of several inches came tearing out, dropped to the ground and scurried into an unseen gap between the doorframe and the house. I could not find it inside, so it must have escaped into the walls. The same spider was hiding in a pair of dirty jeans I was gathering for the wash several days later, having grown ten-fold, feasting on dead skin and fibres. Again he scurried off.

One day I became frustrated with the futile brushing, and held a cigarette lighter to a nest for the briefest of seconds, and I believe this is where my nightmares began. The nest bubbled and spat for an instant before dozens and dozens of barely visible spiders exploded from it, scattering in all directions. Since that moment three weeks ago, I have itched from head to toe, my body now covered in scratches, rubbed raw in places, scabs beginning to form here and there. In what now passes for sleep, I feel them on me, see their microscopic fangs piercing my skin, hear them scurry across my flesh.

They follow me to work, so that my colleagues believe I am neurotic, lice-ridden, eczematous. My desk is covered in flakes, as I scratch and wriggle in my seat, which by now is infested with more spiders. They are spreading across the office, into the ducts and airways of the building and out into the surrounding city. There is no escape.

I visit the pet store to enquire about spider-eating lizards, but leave when the employee attempts to lead me past a terrarium which is home to a large tarantula.

“
They’re everywhere,” I say, as I claw at my temples.

“
Yes, they’re very popular now,” he says, not understanding as I back away.

“
It used to be goldfish” he says, “But now people want something more exotic – is there something wrong sir?”

On my way out I calm myself just long enough to pay for a large bag of birdseed, which I scatter all over the patio. Jemima is confused by my tactics. I cannot begin to explain the scale of the problem to her. Knowing will expose her all the more to the very real danger that the arachnids are taking over, their collective mass tipping the scales in their favour.

Never in my life have I been afraid of them – I am not irrational. When people trot out inanity such as “You know you swallow hundreds of spiders every year in your sleep!” I am always the first to laugh. When people panic as a trapped wasp buzzes angrily from corner to corner, I am the first to arm myself and hunt it down, knowing that with patience I will safely deal with the threat.

I tell our son that spiders, bees, flies are more scared of him then he is of them. But not these ones. This is altogether different. These spiders have no fear, for they know they are unstoppable. When I am alone in the house I prowl the hallways armed with insect repellent and a thick, rolled-up newspaper. I leave our bed under the premise of using the bathroom, having heard them weaving their silk in the night. I am sentinel, for everyone else is blissfully unaware.

They wait in their webs, patient, wait for their prey to come close. Their skill as hunters is unrivalled, laying their intricate trap, retreating to a safe distance, approaching when their kill is weak and without defence. I can learn from their strength, exploit their weakness. I wait for them now, hyper-aware, my senses tingling in anticipation.

Jemima comes home to a trail of birdseed running through our kitchen. The floor tiles are spattered white, and a single grey feather balances on the edge of the counter. I crouch in the corner with my newspaper. I am naked so that clothes cannot hinder my attack.

“
I think we need to get you help,” says Jemima.

“
It’s too late,” I tell her, “It’s much too late”.

The Bicycle

T
he bicycle hangs upside down from a rafter in the garage, plastic red hooks suspending it by the wheels. A thick coating of dust covers it, so that when I go to lift it down it is slippy in my hands, and heavier than I remember. I swing it towards the ground, unhooking one wheel and then the other in a move which was so well practised for a time, that it comes back instantly. As the wheels hit the ground there is a whumph, as air between the un-inflated inner tube and the tyre escapes. The chain clangs and cables ping off the frame as it bounces. A familiar, instantly pleasing sound. Dust motes hang in the air, suspended in the shaft of light which penetrates into the darkness at the back of the garage. As I wheel it outside I can feel every bump and imperfection of the rough concrete floor through the flat tyre.

I saved for a year to buy this bike, telling everyone as I did so that I’d be getting a new bike soon. It must have become tiresome to listen to. My friend and I used to spend our Saturdays in the bike shop in the centre of town, tucked away in the most unlikely of places down one of the ‘entries’ which now are home to ever so fashionable pubs in what has become the ever so fashionable Cathedral Quarter. Back then it was run down, the area around High Street in dire need of rejuvenation.  We took the train in from the leafy suburbs, chugging along beside Belfast Lough and into the city, arcing out over the Lagan Bridge, past the weir and the Waterfront to arrive at Central Station.

The owner of the bike shop was a gruff old man, who sat on a high stool behind the counter throwing dirty looks at prospective customers. They have since moved on to larger premises in another part of town, just outside the city centre, but I’ve only been there once to exchange a poorly-chosen Christmas present. I hated this new shop, the young kids working there looking at me with contempt - how could someone like me possibly be interested in riding a bike? The old man is long gone, or at least I assume so. More than his gaunt face, I remember the hacking cough which could be heard from outside the shop.

The metallic flakes in the blue paint called out to me – I knew it was The One long before I had ever given thought to a budget. I read reviews in magazines, pleased when it scored well, dismissive when it didn’t. I wore out three manufacturer’s catalogues that year as I endlessly thumbed through the range. As I inched towards my savings target, the new models for the next year came out, and my bike dropped a hundred pounds in price. I returned the next Saturday, my father in tow to make the purchase. I had enough left over for a matching helmet and a jersey with the manufacturer’s logo emblazoned large across the back. I don’t think I actually rode it before I bought it, merely sat on it to check that the frame was the correct size. I spent the car ride home with my head turned to look out the back window, my heart racing as each bump in the road saw my new baby shiver on the bike rack.

I spent all my meagre pocket-money on that bicycle, searching out second-hand parts, bargains, end-of-season sales. I changed all the contact points so that by the time I was done, the handlebars, saddle, pedals, tyres and various other bits and pieces not only fitted me perfectly, they were a reflection of the love and personality that I had put into my bicycle. After every muddy ride the bike was hosed down, inspected for dings and chips, dried and oiled. Then it was hefted back up to where it slept, hanging upside down from the red hooks in our garage.

I had a bad crash one day, doing enough damage that the bike was unrideable for several weeks, as I saved to buy new cranks. I still feel pain in my right knee from time to time. I found some second-hand parts, which were a nice upgrade, and fitted them, anxious to get back out. After several rides I crashed again, the sequence repeating itself twice until I lost my appetite for broken cranks, mis-threaded pedals, the inevitable face full of dirt and the empty wallet. At about the same time, I learnt to drive, and the speed I craved for on my bike was quickly surpassed by mother's Ford Fiesta 1.1, metallic silver, replete with plastic wheel trims.

For years, that bicycle hung upside in my parents garage, collecting dust. I worked out recently that it is 14 years old, exactly half my age, but I wouldn’t trade it for any of the bikes I see ridden about town. Last Christmas, Sam, aged 3 at the time, got his first real bicycle from Santa. Black, with 12 inch wheels, it has a bright yellow chain guard and detailing, with a smiling cartoon wasp, stinger extended towards the front of the bike.

Just before his 4th birthday, we took his stabilisers off, and taught him to ride up and down the long hall in our house. Once he had begun to get the hang of it, but not without some degree of trepidation, I took him down to the park by the Lough, only to see him accelerate away from me. The pace at which he sped off took me completely by surprise, and I could not keep up with him, even at a run. I was bent double laughing from the sight of his little legs, furiously pedalling, whilst he shouted “Look at me!” at the top of his voice. His new found speed is the reason I went to find out what state my old bike was in.

Now, every Saturday the pair of us don our shorts, and Sam puts on his special robot socks which make him go fast. We load our bikes into the car and head to the park. Sam goes first, unless there are any dogs, and we speed along the Lough's shore, weaving in and out of the joggers and dog-walkers. We like going out in the rain, so that there are plenty of puddles to ride through, the pair of us returning with skunk stripes of dirt up our backs. We stop for a drink when we start to get tired and turn for home. Our ride always takes longer than it should, as we go back and forth through the tunnel under the motorway four, five, six times to hear our echoes bounce back to us. I feel so proud, as each time we go out we go further, and faster than before.