And then he saw Spider and Rosie, walking hand in hand on the other side of the road. Rosie was finishing an ice cream. Then she stopped and dropped the remainder of the ice cream into a bin and pulled Spider toward her and, with an ice-creamy mouth, began to kiss him with enthusiasm and gusto.

Fat Charlie could feel his headache coming back. He felt paralyzed.

He watched them kissing. He was of the opinion that sooner or later they would have to come up for air, but they didn’t, so he walked in the other direction, feeling miserable, until he reached the tube.

And he went home.

By the time he got home, Fat Charlie felt pretty wretched, so he got onto a bed that still smelled faintly of Daisy, and he closed his eyes.

Time passed, and now Fat Charlie was walking along a sandy beach with his father. They were barefoot. He was a kid again, and his father was ageless.

So, his father was saying, howareyou and Spider getting on?

This is adream, pointed out Fat Charlie, andIdon’t want to talk about it.

You boys, said his father, shaking his head. Listen. I’m going to tell you something important.

What?

But his father did not answer. Something on the edge of the waves had caught his eye, and he reached down and picked it up. Five pointed legs flexed languidly.

Starfish, said his father, musing. When you cut one in half, they just grow into two new starfish.

I thought you said you were going to tell me something important.

His father clutched his chest, and he collapsed onto the sand and stopped moving. Worms came out of the sand and devoured him in moments, leaving nothing but bones.

Dad?

Fat Charlie woke up in his bedroom with his cheeks wet with tears. Then he stopped crying. He had nothing to be upset about. His father had not died; it had simply been a bad dream.

He decided that he would invite Rosie over tomorrow night. They would have steak. He would cook. All would be well.

He got up and got dressed.

He was in the kitchen, twenty minutes later, spooning down a Pot Noodle, when it occurred to him that, although what had happened on the beach had been a dream, his father was still dead.

Rosie stopped in at her mother’s flat in Wimpole street, late that afternoon.

“I saw your boyfriend today,” said Mrs. Noah. Her given name had been Eutheria, but in the previous three decades nobody had used it to her face but her late husband, and following his death it had atrophied and was unlikely to be used again in her lifetime.

“So did I,” said Rosie. “My god I love that man.”

“Well, of course. You’re marrying him, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I always knew I loved him, but today I really saw how much I loved him. Everything about him.”

“Did you find out where he was last night?”

“Yes. He explained it all. He was out with his brother.”

“I didn’t know he had a brother.”

“He hadn’t mentioned him before. They aren’t very close.”

Rosie’s mother clicked her tongue. “Must be quite a family reunion going on. Did he mention his cousin, too?”

“Cousin?”

“Or maybe his sister. He didn’t seem entirely sure. Pretty thing, in a trashy sort of way. Looked a bit Chinese. No better than she should be, if you ask me. But that’s that whole family for you.”

“Mum. You haven’t met his family.”

“I met her. She was in his kitchen this morning, walking about that place damn near naked. Shameless. If she was his cousin.”

“Fat Charlie wouldn’t lie.”

“He’s a man isn’t he?”

“Mum!”

“And why wasn’t he at work today, anyway?”

“He was. He was at work today. We had lunch together.”

Rosie’s mother examined her lipstick in a pocket mirror, then, with her forefinger, rubbed the scarlet smudges off her teeth.

“What else did you say to him?” asked Rosie.

“We just talked about the wedding, how I didn’t want his best man making one of them near-the-knuckle speeches. He looked to me like he’d been drinking. You know how I warned you about marrying a drinking man.”

“Well, he looked perfectly fine when I saw him,” said Rosie primly. Then, “Oh Mum, I had the most wonderful day. We walked and we talked and—oh, have I told you how wonderful he smells? And he has the softest hands.”

“You ask me,” said her mother, “he smells fishy. Tell you what, next time you see him, you ask him about this cousin of his. I’m not saying she is his cousin, and I’m not saying she’s not. I’m just saying that if she is, then he has hookers and strippers and good-time girls in his family and is not the kind of person you should be seeing romantically.”

Rosie felt more comfortable, now her mother was once more coming down against Fat Charlie. “Mum. I won’t hear another word.”

“All right. I’ll hold my tongue. It’s not me that’s marrying him, after all. Not me that’s throwing my life away. Not me that’ll be weeping into my pillow while he’s out all night drinking with his fancy women. It’s not me that’ll be waiting, day after day, night after empty night, for him to get out of prison.”

“Mum!” Rosie tried to be indignant, but the thought of Fat Charlie in prison was too funny, too silly, and she found herself stifling a giggle.

Rosie’s phone trilled. She answered it, and said “Yes,” and “I’d love to. That would be wonderful.” She put her phone away.

“That was him,” she said to her mother. “I’m going over there tomorrow night. He’s cooking for me. How sweet is that?” And then she said, “Prison indeed.”

“I’m a mother,” said her mother, in her foodless flat where the dust did not dare to settle, “and I know what I know.”

Grahame Coats sat in his office, while the day faded into dusk, staring at a computer screen. He brought up document after document, spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Some of them he changed. Most of them he deleted.

He was meant to be traveling to Birmingham that evening, where a former footballer, a client of his, was to open a nightclub. Instead he called and apologized: some things were unavoidable.

Soon the light outside the window was gone entirely. Grahame Coats sat in the cold glow of the computer screen, and he changed, and he overwrote, and he deleted.

Here’s another story they tell about Anansi.

Once, long, long ago, Anansi’s wife planted a field of peas. They were the finest, the fattest, the greenest peas you ever did see. It would have made your mouth water just to look at them.

From the moment Anansi saw the pea field, he wanted them. And he didn’t just want some of them, for Anansi was a man of enormous appetites. He did not want to share them. He wanted them all.

So Anansi lay down on his bed and he sighed, long long and loud, and his wife and his sons all came a-running. “I’m a-dying,” said Anansi, in this little weeny- weedy- weaky voice, “and my life is all over and done.”

At this his wife and his sons began to cry hot tears.

In his weensy-weak voice, Anansi says, “On my deathbed, you have to promise me two things.”

“Anything, anything,” says his wife and his sons.

“First, you got to promise me you will bury me down under the big breadfruit tree.”

“The big breadfruit tree down by the pea patch, you mean?” asks his wife.

“Of course that’s the one I mean,” says Anansi. Then, in his weensy-weak voice, he says, “And you got to promise something else. Promise me that, as a memorial to me, you going to make a little fire at the foot of my grave. And, to show you ain’t forgotten me, you going to keep the little fire burning, and not ever let it go out.”

“We will! We will!” said Anansi’s wife and children, wailing and sobbing.