Spider

DATURA BOOKS An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd Unit 11, Shepperton House 89 Shepperton Road London N1 3DF UK daturabooks.com twitter.com/daturabooks Black Widow A Datura Books paperback original, 2023 Copyright © Azma Dar 2023 Cover by Alice Coleman Edited by Ella Chappell and Robin Triggs Set in Meridien All rights reserved. Azma Dar asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it. 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ISBN 978 1 91552 300 6 Ebook ISBN 978 1 91552 301 3 Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ International. 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 For my Baji TABLE OF CONTENTS PROLOGUE SOPHIE: One Month Earlier PART ONE: AMIR AND SOPHIE AMIR: 2008 SOPHIE: 2008 AMIR: 2008 SOPHIE: 2008 AMIR: 2008 SOPHIE: 2009 SOPHIE: 2011 AMIR: 2011 SOPHIE: 2011 AMIR: 2011 SOPHIE: 2011 AMIR: 2011 SOPHIE: 2012 AMIR: 2012 SOPHIE: 2012 AMIR: 2012 SOPHIE: 2012 AMIR: 2013 SOPHIE: 2013 SOPHIE: Present Day SOPHIE SOPHIE PART TWO: SOPHIE AND FARAZ FARAZ: 2014 SOPHIE: 2014 FARAZ: 2014 SOPHIE: 2015 FARAZ: 2015 SOPHIE: 2015 FARAZ: 2015 SOPHIE: 2015 FARAZ: 2015 SOPHIE: 2015 FARAZ: 2015 SOPHIE: 2015 FARAZ: 2015 SOPHIE: 2015 SOPHIE: Present Day SOPHIE SOPHIE AMIR SOPHIE PART THREE: SOPHIE AND TARIQ TARIQ: 2016 SOPHIE: 2016 SOPHIE: Present Day FARAZ SOPHIE TARIQ: 2016 SOPHIE: 2017 TARIQ: 2017 SOPHIE: 2017 TARIQ: 2017 SOPHIE: 2017 TARIQ: 2017 SOPHIE: 2017 TARIQ: 2017 TARIQ: Present Day SOPHIE TARIQ FARAZ TARIQ FARAZ AMIR SOPHIE SOPHIE: Six Months Later ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS PROLOGUE The room where they keep the bodies is like a giant fridge, where people lie shelf upon shelf like frozen turkeys. I can’t turn away from the thought of dressing them up with Christmas trimmings. I cough and slap a hand over my mouth to stop a crazed giggle escaping my lips. What is wrong with me? The fear and grief of the last few weeks, and the shock and dread of what I’m about to face have made me almost hysterical and out of control. “Are you ready?” asks Inspector McKinley. Unable to speak, I nod. She reaches for my hand, but I brush her away as the doctor draws back the sheet. My skin begins to prickle, my breath quickens. The effects of the fire are horrific, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. He looks nothing like the man I married on that winter’s afternoon just a year ago. The sun had gleamed a mellow warmth from behind gun-metal clouds and a spiky fretwork of spindly branches. I’d worn jewels in my hair and a chiffon dress spangled with diamonds and pearls, white instead of the traditional red, just to make it clear to those inclined to judge me that I was still a pure, untarnished woman. My husband had been a picture of calm; unwavering in his devotion to me. Tariq, with his dark, rosewood-coloured eyes that were both intense and sincere, and his endearing way of making the odd, small joke, then putting a finger to his lips as he apologised for it. Despite all the doubt and suspicion, he’d been the single reason they’d finally admitted we made an elegant, luminous couple, an example of perseverance and faith. A sob, and then I choke out the words, before I drop to my knees. “It’s him.” SOPHIE One Month Earlier They offered me a stunt double but I refused on the grounds of authenticity, even though I can’t swim, and they’ve run out of life jackets. I’m standing somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean in the open door of a helicopter, blasted by wind and noise, staring at the cold, dark mass below. I’m about to ask for some kind of safety harness or a parachute at least, when the pilot walks over and pushes me roughly. This is how it feels, then. I’ve pushed a few people in my time, in different sorts of ways. I must say I’m quite enjoying plummeting towards the sea. When I hit the water seconds later, it’s unexpectedly warm and soothing, and somehow, I’m perfectly capable of diving under to look for the enemy submarine. “Surprise!” A familiar voice, but completely out of place in this context. Bond girls don’t have children. “Surprise!” says Zain again, and I feel his little hands on my shoulder, shaking me awake, and I leave my high-octane dream regretfully. “Hello, darling,” I say. I draw him up and sit him onto the bed with me, wrapping him in my arms, but he squirms and jumps off. “I have to get the present,” he says and picks up something from the chest of drawers. It’s a sandwich on a plate, messily cut into squares. “I put marmalade in it.” “Ahhh, that’s so lovely, thank you.” The orange marmalade is Tariq’s breakfast spread. I don’t like it much, being a jammy girl myself, but I’ll eat it just to keep Zain happy. I know that he’s gone to the extra effort because he wants me to tell him a waking up story, unusual for a rushed school morning. He’s obsessed with The Rhyming Rabbit and has memorised most of the words. I put on a squeaky posh accent for the bunny and different silly voices for the other characters and he laughs gleefully. When the story finishes, Zain goes to the bathroom, and I eat the sandwich in bed. Tariq left early,