The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

He stopped himself. Abbie said, “A death wish?”

Michael shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

“No. I don’t think so,” said Abbie. “As for who I am. You ever read or watch any Spider-Man?”

“Yeah.”

“Course you have. Who hasn’t? Well, when I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Spider-Man animated series. I used to watch re-runs all the time. Whenever I could. Like I said: obsessed.”

She paused to remember. She could see the living room. See herself, sitting on the floor, surrounded by unoccupied sofas, eyes glued to the television screen. How rare it was for her to think of that simpler time. Back when she possessed both the innocence of childhood and something resembling an everyday life. Before the responsibility. Before the dreams.

The past was a dangerous place. Before it could trap her, Abbie tried to climb out. To focus on Michael.

“I’m like Spider-Man,” she said. “I believe with great power comes great responsibility, and so here I am, swinging in to save the day in your boring town.”

“It is boring,” Michael agreed.

“It is. Yet here I am. Granted, I’ve got off to a bad start on the day-saving front with Danny, but that means things can only get better. I can help you, Micheal.”

“Why would you?”

It seemed clear the answer he was looking for was not, Because I suspect helping you might bring me closer to helping the guy I actually came here to save. So she said, “Because you asked. And as a wise man or maybe God once said, ask, and you shall receive.”

Again, she stopped pacing. She twisted her feet, planting them within the chipping, as though afraid a wave might otherwise appear from nowhere and knock her down, wash her away. She faced Michael, who struggled to look back at her.

“Of course,” she said, “there’s a catch.”

“A catch?” His face somehow went even whiter with fear.

“Duh,” she said. “There’s always a catch.”

Michael looked further away. He was afraid she might ask something untoward or dangerous of him. She crunched through the chipping and knelt before him, which was not comfortable on the knees.

“Michael, the catch is you have to be honest with me. That’s going to make you feel uncomfortable because I know you’re afraid of Francis and fear he might hurt you if he finds out you’ve been talking. And maybe you’re going to worry about your friends. Betraying them. But let me be clear: if you are not going to tell me the truth, all of the truth, there is no point going down this road. Because I can’t help if I have only half the story. Does that make sense?”

Feet still planted, Michael pushed, extending at the knees, moving his swing a little further from Abbie. Getting the message, she rose from kneeling and took a step back. Whatever he needed to feel comfortable.

“I can do that,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Yes, please, I need you. Please help me.”

“I most certainly will. But can we do it somewhere else? Turns out I was lying about not wanting to sit down.”

They found a cafe five minutes down the road. It was small, with only a handful of tables and fewer patrons. One woman sitting in a corner staring at her phone. No one else but the bored lady who stood behind the counter, staring into space and presumably dreaming of sunny beaches and cocktails.

Michael chose a table. Abbie ordered drinks. Latte for him, black Americano for her. No sugar for either. When the barista placed the drinks on the counter, she looked over Abbie's shoulder at the boy. Her look questioned if Abbie was a young mum or a paedophile.

"My nephew," said Abbie. "That alright?"

The woman grunted. Said nothing. Abbie paid and took the drinks to the table.

"Yours," she said, sliding the latte over and taking the chair opposite Michael. It was plastic. Uncomfortable. Even more so than had been the seat in the police station. That was okay. Abbie was used to discomfort.

"So," she said once she was as settled as the chair made possible. "Let's hear it."

Michael was looking at his drink, staring into the foam. He had yet to pick it up and try it. When Abbie spoke, he turned his eyes to her.

"Where should I start?"

"It's your story. I don't know what you have to say. Pick a place that seems sensible and just get talking. I have any questions, I'll ask."

Michael looked to his side. A pot at the table's edge contained ketchup, brown sauce, brown and white sugar, milk pots. Michael stared at the condiments as Aladdin might have stared at the treasures found within the cave of wonders. Then looked back to Abbie.

"You want to know what Ronson and Travis were arguing about yesterday?"

"I want to know whatever you want to tell me."

"Okay." He nodded. Seemed to derive confidence from this free reign. Abbie hoped he wouldn't start talking about his third birthday party when he fell and skinned his knee, and all the other kids laughed. She hoped he stayed at least vaguely on point.

He said, "My father never wanted anything to do with me."

Not only because she wanted Michael to feel comfortable, Abbie restrained from releasing a groan. After all, this could be relevant.

"He and my mum were my age or slightly younger when they had me. Teenagers. Mum got pregnant. Dad wanted nothing to do. In the end, right before I was born, my grandparents sent mum and me away. Found her a job. Found us somewhere to live. My paternal grandparents paid maintenance at first, and dad’s given us money since he was old enough to get a job. But never a lot. And he never wanted to see me."

Michael shrugged as though to say this was no big deal. A tough sell when Abbie could almost see the weight of disappointment crushing his soul.

"Mum always struggled," said Michael. "She couldn't hold down a job. Always drank way too much. People knew it was a problem. I don't know how she managed to keep