Spider was not terribly good at telling the truth. He regarded truth as fundamentally malleable, more or less a matter of opinion, and Spider was able to muster some pretty impressive opinions when he had to.
Being an imposter was not the problem. He liked being an imposter. He was good at it. It fitted in with his plans, which were fairly simple and could until now have been summarized more or less as: (a) go somewhere; (b) enjoy yourself; and (c) leave before you get bored. And it was now, he knew deep down, definitely time to leave. The world was his lobster, his bib was round his neck, and he had a pot of melted butter and an array of grotesque but effective lobster-eating implements and devices at the ready.
Only…
Only he didn’t want to go.
He was having second thoughts about all this, something Spider found fairly disconcerting. Normally he didn’t even have first thoughts about things. Life without thinking had been perfectly pleasant—instinct, impulse, and an obscene amount of luck had served him quite well up to now. But even miracles can only take you so far. Spider walked down the street, and people smiled at him.
He had agreed with Rosie that he would meet her at her flat, so he was pleasantly surprised to see her standing at the end of the road, waiting for him. He felt a pang of something that was still not entirely guilt, and waved.
“Rosie? Hey!”
She came toward him along the pavement, and he began to grin. They would sort things out. Everything would work out for the best. Everything would be fine. “You look like a million dollars,” he told her. “Maybe two million. What are you hungry for?”
Rosie smiled and shrugged.
They were passing a Greek restaurant. “Is Greek okay?” She nodded. They walked down some steps and went inside. It was dark and empty, having only just opened, and the proprietor pointed them toward a nook, or possibly a cranny, toward the rear.
They sat opposite each other, at a table just big enough for two. Spider said, “There’s something that I wanted to talk to you about.” She said nothing. “It’s not bad,” he went on. “Well, it’s not good. But. Well. It’s something you ought to know.”
The proprietor asked them if they were ready to order anything. “Coffee,” said Spider, and Rosie nodded her agreement. “Two coffees,” said Spider. “And if you can give us, um, five minutes? I need a little privacy here.”
The proprietor withdrew.
Rosie looked at Spider inquiringly.
He took a deep breath. “Right. Okay. Let me just say this, because it isn’t easy, and I don’t know that I can…right. Okay. Look, I’m not Fat Charlie. I know you think I am, but I’m not. I’m his brother, Spider. You think I’m him because we sort of look alike.”
She did not say anything.
“Well, I don’t really look like him. But. Y’know, none of this really comes easy to me. Ookay. Uh. I can’t stop thinking about you. So I mean, I know you’re engaged to my brother, but I’m sort of asking if you, well, if you’d think about maybe dumping him and possibly going out with me.”
A pot of coffee arrived on a small silver tray, with two cups.
“Greek coffee,” said the proprietor, who had brought it.
“Yes. Thanks. I did ask for a couple of minutes…”
“Is very hot,” said the proprietor. “Very hot coffee. Strong. Greek. Not Turkish.”
“That’s great. Listen, if you don’t mind—five minutes. Please?”
The proprietor shrugged and walked away.
“You probably hate me,” said Spider. “If I was you I’d probably hate me, too. But I mean this. More than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.” She was just looking at him, without expression, and he said, “Please. Just say something. Anything.”
Her lips moved, as if she were trying to find the right words to say.
Spider waited.
Her mouth opened.
His first thought was that she was eating something, because the thing he saw between her teeth was brown, and was certainly not a tongue. Then it moved its head and its eyes, little black-bead eyes, stared at him. Rosie opened her mouth impossibly wide and the birds came out.
Spider said “Rosie?” and then the air was filled with beaks and feathers and claws, one after the other. Birds poured out from her throat, each accompanied by a tiny coughing-choking noise, in a stream directed at him.
He threw up an arm to protect his eyes, and something hurt his wrist. He flailed out, and something flew at his face, heading for his eyes. He jerked his head backward, and the beak punctured his cheek.