Anansi Boys

A woman was talking to her. She was saying, “You’re Rosie Noah. My name’s Daisy. Let’s find somewhere for you to sit down. Would you like to sit down?”

Someone must have found the fuse box, for at that moment the lights went on all over the house.

A large man in a police uniform was bent over the bodies. He looked up and said, “It is definitely Mr Finnegan. He is not breathing.”

Rosie said, “Yes, please. I would like to sit down very much.”

CHARLIE SAT BESIDE SPIDER ON THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF, IN the moonlight, his legs dangling over the side.

“You know,” he said, “you used to be a part of me. When we were kids.”

Spider put his head on one side. “Really?”

“I think so.”

“Well, that would explain a few things.” He held out his hand: a seven-legged clay spider sat on the back of his fingers, tasting the air. “So what now? Are you going to take me back or something?”

Charlie’s brow crinkled. “I think you’ve turned out better than you would have done if you were part of me. And you’ve had a lot more fun.”

Spider said, “Rosie. Tiger know

s about Rosie. We have to do something.”

“Of course we do,” said Charlie. It was like bookkeeping, he thought: you put entries in one column, deduct them from another, and if you’ve done it correctly, everything should come out right at the bottom of the page. He took his brother’s hand.

They stood up and took a step forward, off the cliff—

—and everything was bright—

A cold wind blew between the worlds.

Charlie said, “You’re not the magical bit of me, you know.”

“I’m not?” Spider took another step. Stars were falling now by the dozen, streaking their way across the dark sky. Someone, somewhere, was playing high sweet music on a flute.

Another step, and now distant sirens were blaring. “No,” said Charlie. “You’re not. Mrs. Dunwiddy thought you were, I think. She split us apart, but she never really understood what she was doing. We’re more like two halves of a starfish. You grew up into a whole person. And so,” he said, realizing it was true as he said it, “did I.”

They stood on the cliff edge in the dawn. An ambulance was on its way up the hill, lights flashing, and another behind that. They parked by the side of the road, beside a cluster of police cars.

Daisy seemed to be telling everyone what to do.

“Not much that we can do here. Not now,” said Charlie. “Come on.” The last of the fireflies left him, and blinked its way to sleep.

They rode the first minibus of the morning back to Williamstown.

MAEVE LIVINGSTONE SAT UPSTAIRS IN THE LIBRARY OF Grahame Coats’s house, surrounded by Grahame Coats’s art and books and DVDs, and she stared out of the window. Down below the island’s emergency services were putting Rosie and her mother into one ambulance, Grahame Coats into another.

She had, she reflected, really enjoyed kicking the beast-thing that Grahame Coats had become. It was the most profoundly satisfying thing she had done since she had been killed—although if she were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit that dancing with Mr. Nancy came in an extremely close second. He had been remarkably spry, and nimble on his feet.

She was tired.

“Maeve?”

“Morris?” She looked around her, but the room was empty.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you, if you were still busy, pet.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” she said. “But I think I’m done now.”