Billy Spider is his nickname because his entire head is tattooed with the image of a vast spider gorging a mouse. In 1980 Billy is eighty-four years old and only knows his date of birth, 1896, because it’s tattooed on his penis. After employment with Al Capone, he worked as a hitman for the highest bidder and saved most of his earnings living in obscurity in Baja California. Now, as an old man, he’s tired and remembers his birthplace and longs for South Wales.

It’s an epiphany moment. He asks for it to be played again, buys the single as a votive object and blags a copy of the lyrics. 

He’s smuggled ashore from a tramp steamer in Cardiff docks. It cost his savings, but he needs to be incognito: he’s still a wanted man. Wearing a Trilby hat and Max Factor Pan Stick foundation and concealer, to hide the spider, he walks up through Tiger Bay without incident. In the Castle Arcade he stops outside Castle Records captivated by music coming through the shop’s external audio speaker. Inside the shop, he’s told it’s Bob Marley and the Wailers’ ‘Redemption Song’; one line stands out: “None but ourselves can free our minds”.

Finally at his birthplace, he’s surprised to see the roof of the tiny stone cottage in LLangenith is intact. Wind whistles through broken windowpanes, bringing the smell of the sea from beyond the dunes. Inside the only room he shouts, I’m back, I’m fucking Bleddyn Morgan! That’s fuckin’ me! The locked doors of memory open. Not Billy Spider no more. No furniture remains, except an old spotted mirror on the mantelpiece amidst the dust and mouse droppings. He places ‘Redemption Song’ next to the mirror, and watches himself repeating, None but ourselves can free our minds. On the floor, he rests his head on his old Gladstone bag and falls deeply asleep, home at last.

Gentle early morning light fills the room. He opens the front door. He remembers the joy, the silence, of snowflakes gently falling on his outstretched hands. But he’s suddenly horrified: his past, long buried to save his sanity, rushes back. He remembers a morning just like this, with her small cold hand clasped in his. Bleddyn weeps. It was her father I killed. She was an innocent child, too young to be a reliable witness, but I killed her anyway. I ran, but I never escaped; even disguised with ink I was still trapped inside my head. 

Stripped naked, he runs out into the falling snow. Blue with cold, on he goes through the dunes to the deserted beach. He stops, gathers wet sand in his hands and frantically rubs his face and head attempting to erase his spider. Blinded by the sand, he forces his way out through the pounding waves, ever deeper into the ice-cold sea. His heart misses a beat and misses again. He sinks. Overwhelmed with cold he opens his mouth and gurgles, I’m free. His lungs fill. 

(‘Billy Spider’ first appeared in the story of the same name, posted on 07.02.2021)

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2023
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.