Page 1 of The Attercop

Chapter One

The late-July sunset painted the Calgary horizon with radiating bands of yellow, orange, amber and purple. He watched as the colours began to shift, and the darkness devoured the light. He found momentary inner peace observing the death of the day from his home in the sky.

He thought back to the afternoon when he had attended the condominium’s open house last year. The fourteenth-floor penthouse suite had been priced far above any of the other units in the development. He had gently reminded the unseasoned sales rep that superstitious buyers were savvy enough to notice that the numbers of the floors jumped from twelve to fourteen, meaning the suite he wanted was actually on the thirteenth floor. He’d smiled, then continued, that given the current market of slowing condo sales, wary buyers weren’t going to jump at the chance of picking up the overpriced unit. The sales rep could let the suite linger on the market, which would only call into question the initial asking price, or accept his modestly reduced offer. He was persuasive when he wanted to be, but just to hedge his bets he had talked to other perspective buyers at the open house and expressed his concerns about rumours that the builder had cut corners by using substandard rebar in the construction. He’d gotten his price and now the place was his, a refuge from life’s stresses.

He stood naked in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, took a sip of his vodka, and stared out athisview—which, he acknowledged, was courtesy of his father who had essentiallypaid for it by having the decency of dying and leaving him a healthy inheritance.

The money had come as a great surprise because his father had heartily disapproved of him. Not so much because he was gay—although his father had loudly carped that a queer son wouldn’t produce another generation to carry on the family name. No, the expansive parent–child chasm had grown out of his father’s determination that his son was weak and useless, just like his mother, who had run off with another man. He’d never met the other guy, but he had, after all, only been five when it had happened.

His father had further declared that his son “had no gumption” and that if he didn’t prove he could make something out of himself by the time he was thirty, he would be cut out of his father’s will. In the end it didn’t matter. Fate had intervened and the old man had died just a few days before his son’s thirtieth birthday.

The year surrounding that event had been filled with unexpected surprises, such as the reappearance of his mother. She’d said that she’d been watching him from afar and wanted to help him establish himself. She had used her connections to land him a decent job in a small, financially stable firm. He was all set for success. It looked as if he was going to prove his father wrong after all. But no matter how hard he tried, things never seemed to go his way, especially in his search for love, because nobody really liked him. Every time he thought he’d found ‘Mr Right’, it always turned into ‘Mr Right-Now-But-Never-Again’.

At first, he couldn’t understand why. He was good-looking and intelligent. He was certain he was good in bed. His major flaw, from what he could see, was that he fell in love too easily, and that was something he couldn’t help. He was a giver and, to those he fell for, he gave everything. He became infatuated withthem. And what did he get in return? Another view of the curb he’d been kicked to—again and again.

Well, he’d had it with that. He was done with being ‘Mr Nice Guy’. He took another swig of his drink and lay on the carpet by the window. A small spider made its way along the floor and crawled up his naked body, past his carefully groomed pubic hair, slowly working its way toward his navel. He put his hand on his stomach to block its path, but it simply crawled up onto his fingers. Nothing was going to stand in its way.

He held the spider up to his face and watched its tiny legs working in precise synchronicity as it traversed the back of his hand. It was persistent. It had gumption.

Many people would have thrown the spider to the floor or squashed it where it stood. Spiders were repulsive to most—things to be feared, to be reviled. But he liked spiders. They were patient and meticulous and never gave up. Even when people tore down their webs, they started again. He needed to become more like a spider. He needed to decide what he wanted and go after it. And if anyone stood in his way, he would show them what a spider could do. Like the ones in his favourite bookThe Hobbit, he would ensnare his enemies, keep what he wanted, and make the others feel pain and suffering. ‘Attercop’ was what the character Bilbo had called the spiders. A term that meant ‘poison head’ in old English. It was intended to be an insult, but he liked the description.

He gently lifted his hand to his face. It was time for he and the spider to become as one. He set it on the end of his tongue and swallowed. He knew what his purpose was. It was time to become The Attercop, spinning his web. And soon, he would pounce. He would snare the thing that he wanted most and if anyone got in his way, he’d suck them dry and discard their empty husks. And there was one person in particular he yearned to snare. Declan Hunt would be his.

Chapter Two

Dr Michael Colton stared down at her daily agenda and sighed.

Time sure does seem to fly.

A month had already gone by since she’d moved her practice to the corner of Centre Street and 16th Avenue NW, after her original office a block away had been condemned. The new space, a former secretarial placement agency, had become available and the price was right—plus it was convenient for her patients who already knew their way to this part of the city. Sure, the brick building was older and didn’t exactly ooze prosperity, but her business was now situated above a florist shop with a cheerful window display and the two large upper rooms were well suited to the needs of her practice as a psychotherapist.

The inner office was now warmly furnished with two comfortable armchairs separated by a dark-oak coffee table. There was also a large cherrywood desk with an adjustable office chair and a few grey metal filing cabinets. She had carefully arranged her books in the built-in shelves and hung two framed prints on the wall, one depicting the interior of a warm country cottage, the other an abstract image. She found it interesting which piece of art her clients were drawn to and how they reacted to each picture. It told her a little bit more about them. One of her regular clients, Declan Hunt, had disliked both prints. He’d described her taste in décor as a cross between a senior’s residence and a funeral home. She thought it was homey, cosy and non-threatening.

A light breeze blew in through the window scattering a few pieces of paper on her desk, bringing her back to the present. She glanced at her computer. A message flashed across the screen—Tuesday, August 7, 2 p.m., Colin Winkler.She heard the outer hall door open and close. Michael noted the first trait of her next client—he was punctual.

Two cups remained on the coffee table from her previous session and there was no time to wash them, so she moved them to her desk. Hopefully this client wasn’t a person who needed things to be tidy. She smiled, then opened the door to her waiting room.

“Mr Winkler?”

A man looked back at her. He was wearing a medical face mask, and was dressed in a bulky sweatshirt and oversized track pants. “Doctor Colton, I presume,” he said.

“That would be me. Please. Come into my office.”

She led the way into the inner room and motioned him toward one of the armchairs as she took the seat opposite him.

“I hope you had no difficulty in finding the place?”

He shook his head. “No. No problem at all.”

He folded his hands in his lap and stared at her through his square-rimmed glasses.

“Good. So before we start, I have a few simple questions to ask, just to get your file opened up properly.”

“Okay.”

“When you booked your appointment, you said your name is Colin Winkler. Do you have a middle name?”

“No.”