Anansi Boys

STORIES ARE WEBS, INTERCONNECTED STRAND TO STRAND, and you follow each story to the center, because the center is the end. Each person is a strand of story.

Daisy, for example.

Daisy could not have lasted as long as she had in the police force without having a sensible side to her nature, which was mostly all anybody saw. She respected laws, and she respected rules. She understood that many of these rules are perfectly arbitrary—decisions about where one could park, for example, or what hours shops were permitted to open—but that even these rules helped the big picture. They kept society safe. They kept things secure.

Her flatmate, Carol, thought she’d gone mad.

“You can’t just leave and say you’re going on holiday. It doesn’t work like that. You’re not on a TV cop show, you know. You can’t just zoom all over the world to follow up a lead.”

“Well, then, in that case I’m not,” Daisy had retorted untruthfully. “I’m just going on holiday.”

She said it so convincingly that the sensible cop who lived at the back of her head was shocked into silence and then began to explain to her exactly what she was doing wrong, beginning with pointing out that she was about to go off on an entirely unauthorized leave—tantamount, muttered the sensible cop, to neglect of duty—and moving on from there.

It explained it on the way to the airport, and all across the Atlantic. It pointed out that even if she managed to avoid a permanent black mark in her Personal File, let alone being thrown out of the police force altogether, even if she did find Grahame Coats, there was nothing she could do once she found him. Her Majesty’s constabulary look unkindly on kidnapping criminals in foreign countries, let alone arresting them, and she rather doubted she would be able to persuade him to return to the UK willingly.

It was only when Daisy got off the little plane from Jamaica and tasted the air—earthy, spicy, wet, almost sweet—of Saint Andrews that the sensible cop stopped pointing out the sheer ill-considered madness of what she was doing. That was because it was drowned out by another voice. “Evildoers beware!

” it sang. “Beware! Take care! Evildoers everywhere!” and Daisy was marching to its beat. Grahame Coats had killed a woman in his office in the Aldwych, and he had walked out of there scot-free. He had done it practically under Daisy’s nose.

She shook her head, collected her bag, brightly informed the immigration officer that she was here on her holidays, and went out to the taxi rank.

“I want a hotel that’s not too expensive, but isn’t icky, please,” she said to the driver.

“I got just the place for you darlin’,” he said. “Hop in.”

SPIDER OPENED HIS EYES AND DISCOVERED THAT HE WAS staked-out, face down. His arms were tied to a large stake pounded into the earth in front of him. He could not move his legs or twist his neck enough to see behind him, but he was willing to bet that they were similarly hobbled. The movement, as he tried to lift himself out of the dirt, to look behind him, caused his scratches to burn.

He opened his mouth, and dark blood drooled onto the dust, wetting it.

He heard a sound and twisted his head as much as he could. A white woman was looking down at him curiously.

“Are you all right? Silly question. Just look at the state of you. I suppose you’re another duppy. Do I have that right?”

Spider thought about it. He didn’t think he was a duppy. He shook his head.

“If you are, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Apparently, I’m a duppy myself. I hadn’t heard the term before, but I met a delightful old gentleman on the way here who told me all about it. Let me see if I can be of any assistance.”

She crouched down next to him and reached out to help loosen his bonds.

Her hand slipped through him. He could feel her fingers, like strands of fog, brushing his skin.

“I’m afraid I don’t seem able actually to touch you,” she said. “Still, that means that you’re not dead yet. So cheer up.”

Spider hoped this odd ghost-woman would go away soon. He couldn’t think straight.

“Anyway, once I had everything sorted out, I resolved to remain walking the Earth until I take vengeance on my killer. I explained it to Morris—he was on a television screen in Selfridges—and he said he rather thought I was missing the entire point of having moved beyond the flesh, but I ask you, if they expect me to turn the other cheek they have several other thinks coming. There are a number of precedents. And I’m sure I can do a Banquo-at-the-Feast thing, given the opportunity. Do you talk?”