I'm really enjoying the direction this is going, especially after being unable to write much a few weeks ago, but of course there are still plenty of things I'd like to improve. If it's not too much trouble could you give me some thoughts an opinions (positive or negative) about what you think, what I can improve, etc. Any feedback is always appreciated, no matter how big or small.

Chapter Ten – The Goblin in his Cage

A loud buzzer sounded as the heavy metal gate in front of me slid open. I stepped inside to be greeted with three armed guards, all in protective uniforms holding automatic weapons. The man at the front, an older gentleman, approached me.

"Edward, it's been years since I last saw you." He held his hand out and I shook it. "Now I want you to remember that this isn't usual procedure, if it wasn't for having toured with your dad I would've said a flat no."

I held back my disgust at the mention of the abusive bastard that was my dad. "I honestly appreciate it." If I had to be my father's son then I may as well get some use from it. "It'll really help me with a lead I'm working on."

One of the guards accompanying my family friend asked me to raise my arms as I was patted down. My keys were taken from me, and I was given a warning not to use my phone for anything other than voice notes. I agreed to this then turned back to my dad's friend.

"Like I was saying we're working on something big at the Bugle, and this could be the last piece."

The man, Mike Barker his name was, continued with his small talk. "I didn't realise you were a fully fledged journalist now Eddie." A small lie I had told, but a necessary one. It was amazing what you could do with a swiped Bugle press-pass, some photos, and an office laminator when you needed it. When I got the info I was fishing for here Jameson wouldn't care about the lies – he'd probably give me the job he'd been teasing us interns with all year straight away.

"Well it's hard to believe for me too." I replied.

"How is your dad? Not seen him for a while." Barker seemed obsessed with bringing the conversation back to my father, a topic I'd rather leave. I had no idea how he was – I hadn't spoken to the freak in years, ever since I left for college really. He hated me, and I hated him. He belonged more in here than out in the real world if I'm honest. His messed-up PTSD-ridden child-beating head would fit right in here in the Ravencroft Institute.

"He's good."

As we walked through the halls I took note of my surroundings. The building was more prison than hospital, dark corridors and armed guards at every intersection. It was designed only for those with serious conditions, or those with high security details. That was exactly who I was in here for, someone who two years ago caused chaos in New York and killed countless innocents. The scum who would be better off in the electric chair than on a shrink's couch. I felt my hand close around the crucifix around my neck as I pushed the judgements away. It wasn't my place to decide who lived or died.

Religion was the only constant I had had in my life. From moving around the city when I was younger, my dad dumping me on my grandparents to join the army, a string of failed relationships, the only thing that was always there for me was my religion. It calmed me, relaxed me, made me remember I wasn't alone. Barker noticed my sudden change in demeanour and paused. My anxiety spiked; if he was going to back out now all of this would have been for nothing. No second chances at this.

"You alright son?" He asked.

I took a moment. "Just thinking of where to start."

"You're the journalist." Barker replied. "Just remember, don't get too close, don't let him get in your head."

We were stood in front of a heavy-duty door. On the other side of this door was my information, my ticket to success. No second chances. I took a deep breath. "Noted. This needs to be off the books remember like we agreed – like he agreed. If he thinks you're listening in then it's over."

Barker nodded his head and opened the door, and I stepped through into the clinical sterile room. The walls and floor were empty, and coated in pale linoleum and light blue paint. A single table was placed in the middle of the room and bolted to the floor with heavy duty rivets. A large metal bracket was attached to the table, which the chain of a pair of handcuffs was roped through. I pulled the chair out so I could sit down, pulling it away from the table to give myself distance. I was a good deal broader than the handcuffed older man in front of me, but in this moment I felt tiny.

I looked into the eyes of Norman Osborn.

"Hello, my name's Eddie Brock."

"I know." He said in his low, southern drawl. I had read that Norman wasn't originally from New York, but from the south. I had done my research. He was a far cry from the Norman from the papers, however. Where once he was clean shaven with tidy slicked back hair, now he sat here with a short messy beard and longish scraped back hair. He was dressed in white overalls, the Ravencroft Institute's uniform for their patients, and had the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. It was hard to believe that the man sat in front of me was once the head of Oscorp, the multi-billion dollar company focused on military contracts, and it was even harder to believe that two years ago he was the man who terrorised the city as the Green Goblin.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

A smile broke across his face showing a set of bright white teeth. "Looking for an exclusive scoop Eddie? Ask away, I'm an open book."

I pulled my phone out and set it down on the table, clicking record on the voice memo app, then set my pen to a fresh page of my notebook. "So what happened two years ago?"

"Two years ago?" Norman paused for a second to think. "There was a Superbowl on. England was celebrating something, I think. You'll have to be more precise Eddie; a lot happens in a year."

"What happened with the Spider-Man."

This elicited another wide smile. "You have a wife, Eddie?" Norman asked. "Maybe a girlfriend at your age. Or a boyfriend?"

I thought about Felicia, about her silky hair and her smooth skin, those perfect lips which felt right at home against mine. "I am currently seeing a women, yes." I didn't want to give too much away.

"I had a wife once, until a few years back in the fall. She ended up dying of an awful disease, like a poison in her body. Nothing could be done."

"Are you saying your actions are linked to the death of your wife?" I enquired.

"Don't try to psychoanalyse me Eddie, you're not a psychologist, you're a journalist. Just listen to me."

I nodded curtly.

"Now obviously her death devastated me, but even worse it devastated my son. Poor Harry didn't know what to do. Can you imagine the effect it would have had?"

"I can actually." I said. "My mother died when I was young. Postnatal depression, most likely. She ended up taking her life when I was only a toddler."

"Oh really?" Norman asked. "Did it have much of an effect on your father?"

"He was pretty broke up about it. Turned to drink, blamed me." The memories hurt, but I persevered. "Ended up joining the army for a few tours."

"Must've been awful for you." There was a look of sincerity on Norman's face.

"I worked through it." I replied, trying to get back on track. "Was Harry badly affected?"

"He withdrew himself, hid himself away." Norman leant back.

"I had the pleasure of meeting your son not long ago."

Norman ignored this comment. "So what are you really here for?"

"I want to know more about you and why you did those things."

"No." He fixed his blue eyes into my green. "You want to know about the Spider."

"Do you have anything you can tell me?" My heart began to race.

"How about his name?" Norman teased.

"Go on."

"There's a reason I bought up my son – they're connected." Norman smirked. "Both went to Midtown High. Why do you think the Spider was always around that area?"

"So who is he?" This was it, the scoop which would make me JJ's favourite.

Norman paused, as if he was weighing up his options, considering his next actions. He sat up straight, the chains on the handcuffs pulling tight against the bracket as he did so, before again fixing me with his cold stare. He opened his mouth to speak, and my face broke out into a smile.

Score.

Song Recommendation: Little Drop Of Poison - Tom Waits