Barry Maitiland - Spider Trap

‘When do we turn off?’ Mark demanded, and Wayne said, ‘Best to keep going until we reach the M56. That’s the quickest way.’

Slowly, imperceptibly, the sky was getting darker, though whether this was due to bad weather ahead or the approach of evening was hard to tell. Everyone had headlights on.

They reached the complicated spaghetti of the M56 junction at last, and turned westward, across the lowlands of the Mersey and Dee estuaries, skirting Chester, and then leaving the dual highways for a quieter country of bilingual signs and odd-sounding places- Gwernymynydd, Nercwys and Pant-y-mwyn. An ambulance coming the other way carried the slogan AMBIWLANS, and Mark snorted,‘Can’t they fucking spell up here?’ Nobody laughed. He lit another cigarette, cracking his window open a fraction to let out the smoke.

Wayne directed them onto ever-narrower roads, until at last they saw the dark spike of a church spire up ahead, and beyond it a tiny pub and a corner store.

‘This is the village,’ he said. He was looking anxiously at the heavily laden white roofs and hedgerows.‘They’ve had fresh snow. Lots, by the look of it.’

They slowed to a crawl until Wayne pointed to a break in the bank on the left.‘That’s the lane.’

‘Blimey, just as well we got four-wheel drive.’

Which Brock didn’t, Kathy thought in despair. In their headlights the lane climbed steeply up the hillside,hard to make out among the rolling white mounds of undisturbed snow. Nothing had been up or down this way since the last snowfall. Mark was swearing as he pushed the pitching vehicle through the drifts, trying to keep the momentum, speeding up over a sheltered stretch in the lee of a tall bank, then plunging into deep snow on the far side. They came upon a car abandoned beneath a tree, roof covered with snow,and Kathy recognised it as Brock’s.The lane got steeper, the snow deeper, and finally the front of the Merc lurched alarmingly up into space and came crashing down into a deep drift and stalled. Ahead of them, through the frantically thumping wipers, they could see a cottage, snuggling into the white folds of the hillside, flickering orange lights glowing from its two front windows like eyes,a pale column of smoke rising from its chimney. Beyond it,a dark ridge of woods was almost indistinguishable in the gloom of twilight.

‘There it is,’Wayne said, in a flat voice.

‘Right. In we go then.You two lead the way, and don’t try anything ’cos we’re right behind you.You want to stay here, Dad?’

‘No way,’ Spider growled.‘I’ve got to be there.’

The sudden shock of cold air stung their faces as they heaved the doors open against the snow. As she slid across the seat, Kathy reached into her pocket for her wallet, which she tucked into a corner of the upholstery. Then they were out in the snow, struggling in it up to their hips.Wayne, still in his site boots, was the only one remotely dressed for this,and they heaved and swore until they managed to clamber through to the shallower snow beyond the drift. The path to the front door gradually became easier, and they could make out signs of snow having been cleared around the cottage, and of human tracks leading to the back. There was some kind of outbuilding, and a mound of snow beneath which the wheel of another vehicle was visible.

They trudged forward, the smell of wood smoke in their lungs, their panting breath forming clouds. As they approached the door, solid braced timber with iron bolts, it swung open, and for a moment the scene froze in the light spilling out of the room as Michael Grant took in the group in front of him. Then Wayne started forward at a run, as if to get into the shelter of the cottage. There was a sharp bang, and he staggered and fell forward into his friend’s arms. Mark shoved his way in after them, pushing them aside, while Ricky jabbed Kathy forward into the doorway. Ahead of her she could see Mark peering through a door on the far side of the room, waving his gun.

‘Where’s Brock?’ he was yelling.‘Where the fuck is Brock?’

Michael Grant was kneeling on the floor, Wayne prone in his arms, while Jennifer Grant sat stunned in an armchair beside the fire, eyes wide with fright. Mark marched across to her and pointed the gun at her head and bellowed at her husband.

‘Pay attention! Where is Brock? Tell me or I’ll blow her fucking head off!’

Michael looked confused. He seemed transfixed by the blood on his hands, oozing over his jeans. He blinked rapidly, looking up and seeing the terror in his wife’s eyes.

Kathy spoke,trying to sound calm.‘Michael,is Brock not here?’

He gulped at her, then stared at the empty door beyond Mark Roach, and said,‘Er, no. He . . . went out.’

‘Out?’ Mark screamed.‘Where?’

‘To . . . to the village. The electricity failed.’

Mark stared at him in disbelief, then turned to his father, who was shuffling towards the other armchair by the fire. The old man didn’t look well after his struggle through the snow, with Ricky half-carrying him much of the way. He slumped into the seat and swore under his breath.

Mark pointed his gun at Kathy. ‘Close the door. Now, sit on the floor, over there.’ He pointed towards Michael and Wayne,

who was feebly coughing up blood.

Kathy did as he said.

‘Now,’ Mark went on, turning to his brother. ‘Have another look back there and make sure I didn’t miss anything. And get Dad some water.’

Ricky nodded and went off, gun in hand.

‘Wayne . . .’ Michael said.‘He needs help.’

‘Shut up!’ Mark’s scream, its message of violence barely contained, shocked Michael into silence. ‘Brock can’t have gone. We didn’t see any tracks in the lane coming up here.Where is he?’

‘There’s a path across the fields. It’s easier for walking, you don’t get the drifts like you do in the lane.’

Mark narrowed his eyes at Michael, unsure whether to believe him.‘When did he leave?’

‘About half an hour ago. He should be back soon.’

‘With people?’

‘No, alone. He went for more paraffin-for the lamps-and some wine for dinner.’

Kathy reached across to get a better look at Wayne, but Mark yelled at her to stay still.As she straightened,her eyes met Michael’s, and for a moment his confused, frightened air was gone, and she thought she saw some message in the hard look he gave her.

Ricky returned with a glass of water.‘There’s no sign of him.’

‘Right. Then we wait.Which direction is the path?’

Michael pointed to the side.

‘We’ll need someone out there to watch for him,’ Mark said. ‘That’s you, Ricky.’

‘You’re kidding. My feet are soaking wet.’ He stared down at his trainers and the damp legs of his jeans below the knees. ‘I’m freezing,’ he muttered.

‘Yeah, well, we’re all like that. There’s some boots by the back door, and you’ll probably find dry socks in the bedroom. Get some for Dad and me as well.’

Ricky went out again, looking meaner and angrier with each passing minute.

‘See if you can find something to tie them up with while you’re at it,’ Mark called after him.

Brock was regretting the whole thing, the long drive up north, the skid into the ditch, and now this ridiculous expedition on foot down to the deserted village. He’d arrived at lunchtime, and after the accident in the lane had trudged up to the cottage carrying the bag of food he’d bought at the supermarket deli outside Chester.As soon as Michael opened the door he sensed the mood of dark gloom inside. The escape to the country clearly hadn’t restored their spirits,and both Michael and Jennifer looked worn and deeply depressed, as if the isolation had only compressed and intensified their misery.