Caught in the Web by Emmy Ellis (most read books in the world of all time TXT) 📗

screaming for help. If he did that, The Man would come and see him, and no one wanted him in their life. Except for her. She loved The Man. Kissed him. Touched his willy and chest and bum and snogged him the same way people did on those films she watched where they were on the bed, naked, groaning, boobies on show. When The Man visited, she usually walked around with no clothes on, and he told her to do rude things to him.

Those kinds of thoughts needed to go away.

He finally made it into his room.

To the spider bed that gave him such a good hug he cried.

Silently.

 

 

He woke with the uncomfortable hot wetness of tears on his cheeks, his pillow cold from where they’d spilt. The dreams were a blight on his existence—out of his control. They belonged to a past he’d rather forget, one his conscious mind had been able to banish from his waking memory until recently, but his subconscious wrenched them out of hiding and into the forefront while he slept.

It wasn’t fair.

Despite the dream, he’d had a good sleep. Or it felt as though he had anyway. And there it was. The sun had managed to banish the mist and shoulder her way through the heavy, oppressive clouds until the heat of her had turned them from purple to grey. The murky blue sky, a backdrop to the majestic circle of yellow that she was, meant the rest of the day promised to be pleasant.

This was a good omen.

He stretched then left the bed to press his hands to the windowsill and look out. His breath changed to condensation on the glass—still pretty cold out there then. It would be a terrible winter, so it had said on the news. But that was okay. Terrible was sometimes good. Terrible sometimes turned out to be all right and just the thing he needed.

Chapter Three

Burgess waited for an answer from the kid at the zoo.

Robin Gedman appeared scared out of his wits, his face pale, blue eyes wide. He had to be about twenty, give or take a couple of years. His floppy brown hair, wispy, almost reached his shoulders. He reminded Burgess of a student, maybe with a fount of knowledge in that brain of his that would hopefully spill over with much-needed information.

“Um, I’ll show you where he came in, if I’m allowed back in there.” Robin jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“You’ll be with me, so yes, you’re allowed. Just don’t touch anything. And you’ve got booties on already, so lead the way.”

Lead the fucking way into Hell.

Burgess followed him from outside the building into a room that was apparently usually semi-dark, to add a creepy vibe, so the other kid, Nathan, had said. It was creepy just knowing what the room contained, dark or not. But the main lights were on, and several forensic officers in white suits dusted for prints, despite being told the intruder had worn gloves. He wondered if Robin had given a second thought as to how much attention was being invested in the theft of a zoo creature—Burgess had given express instructions that no officer reveal that it might be linked to their murder case.

Might, my arse.

Robin stopped in front of a wall that housed things, socks, and Burgess averted his gaze so he didn’t catch sight of them. The glimpse of the one from earlier this morning had been enough for today, thank you.

“Up there.” Robin pointed to a latticed metal grate in the ceiling.

Burgess estimated it to be half a metre square. So an average-sized man then, to be able to fit through. “And this…spider—”

“Arachnid.” Robin frowned.

“This arachnid. Tell me about it.” Burgess concentrated on the floor, ill at ease.

“Harry is a gentle soul. Would never hurt unless forced to, and even then I’d say he’d leave it to the last knockings before he attacked. He’s venomous, can make you feel a bit poorly with one bite.”

Burgess eyed Robin’s shuffling feet, his black boots beneath the booties the standard zoo issue from what he’d seen of other workers so far. Apart from the manager, Mr Clarke, who’d sported shiny brown brogues that had peered from beneath the hems of a pair of super-ironed beige suit trousers, the crease down the legs as crisp as the man had been.

Tosser.

“So,” Burgess said, “if a person wanted to use—Harry, you say?—to…harm someone… That isn’t a likely scenario if the venom only makes you a bit ill?” He raised his head to look at the kid, waiting for horror to break out on his face at what Burgess had implied.

Seemed Robin hadn’t picked up on it. He shrugged, his expression neutral. “I wouldn’t think so. And who would want to do that?” He wrung his hands. “I just want Harry back here, safe, where he belongs. He might be frightened. That man put him in a little bag—Harry would hate that. I just hope it was aerated, otherwise he’d suffocate.”

He possibly suffocated all right. In a mouth.

Burgess considered putting Robin out of his misery—or giving him more—by telling him Harry was dead. And it couldn’t be any other arachnid—the coincidence was too great. Thinking that task would be better left to an officer who could show the required amount of sympathy, he said, “So there have been no other thefts or missing spi—arachnids—before now?”

Robin shook his head. “Not in the time I’ve been here, no, and that’s going on four years. I came here straight out of uni.”

He’s probably older than twenty then.

“And you can’t think of any reason why someone would want to take Harry?” Burgess asked.

“No, unless they wanted an unusual pet. These ones”—Robin swept a hand out and indicated the two walls of glass houses—“can’t be bought