The Spiral

by Charlotte E Hart

  The dogs upstairs.

  My head lolls back as I strip from my jacket and scrunch it to the floor, kicking it away as it lands on the rough stone squares in disgust. Dirty, smeared by smoke and grime as I held her in my arms. Why did I do that?

  I rub my brow then look at my hand covered in more filth, streaks of blackened grunge running between my fingers. She isn’t Selma. She isn’t. She is Madeline Cavannagh. A no one. A woman of no connection other than looking like my dead wife.

  My brutalized, bloodied and battered dead wife.

  Chapter 8

  Madeline

  S everal hours have passed as I’ve paced around the house not really knowing what to do with myself. It’s beautiful. Old, distinguished, slightly reminiscent of the ghost story the façade outside offers. It’s got all the corners and nooks to worry about, the occasional cobweb dangling to highlight its aged appearance.

  I’ve wandered aimlessly, quietly opening doors and peeking inside. Every room is lovely, put together perfectly with matching curtains and designs, but it’s devoid of love or care. It’s feels like a film of grime has come down on it, killing its warmth. A bit like me now.

  Hollow and cold.

  A woman did this, or certainly a designer. It’s not a man’s style. Its English country gent, but with a touch of renaissance about it. The floral patterns on some of the walls clash with the tartan heritage cloth dotted about, and the heavy old oak brings notions of Scottish heritage, thistles engrained into the wood on some pieces. It’s attractive, and if it was any other day, I’d be smiling, I’m sure. I’m not, though. I’ve got nothing to smile about. My world is decimated.

  He’s made it so.

  Again.

  I crawled into the bed last night, tossing and turning for a while until eventually I must have drifted off through my tears. Where Jack was for the night, I don’t know, and don’t know why he told me to lock the door either. I did, though. I preferred that thought to the possibility of anyone I didn’t know coming in. Given that he doesn’t lock his front door, I suppose that’s what he meant. Although, I’m not convinced. I saw something in his eyes last night I’ve not seen before, something dark. It scared me. Gone was the man who held me back from the fire and protected my stupidity. Gone was his care or comfort. He was replaced by something that looked blank, indifferent.

  I stare into the fireplace and remember the smell of my burning home, the one I’d hardly set up yet. I’ve tried not to think about it. Tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, that perhaps it was an accident, but I know it wasn’t. Deep down I know it was Lewis or someone he sent. I wish I had tears left, but I don’t seem to be able to find any. I’m just lost and drifting with no sense of direction. Maybe I got rid of my tears yesterday or through the night. I don’t know, but it seems no matter how much I try to grieve for my lack of independence or think of how terrible it all is, I just can’t find the thoughts I need. I’m numb. It all seems distorted, as if nothing quite makes sense other than the fact that I know Lewis did this.

  And he needs to pay.

  At some point this morning, while I’ve been floundering around half dazed in this dressing gown, I’ve come to the realization that nothing will change if I go back to him. If anything, going back will make it worse. I was right to leave. I did the right thing by me and my future. It’s not like I haven’t been living in hell for the past few years anyway, terrified of every move I make. I might as well be terrified and on my own. At least I have some power that way, some small element of control to use going forward.

  I can use that control. I can use it and focus on vengeance for the one friend I had to help me onwards. He took her from me. She’s gone, taken along with the house he destroyed. Killed.

  All because of me.

  Something’s switched inside me now, or maybe it happened overnight. I’m not sure. I spent the drive back here last night feeling emotional, scarcely holding in the need to fall into Jack’s lap and cry my heart out. In fact, I probably would have if he hadn’t been so cold towards me. But this morning I don’t feel like that. I feel emotionally lifeless, and this blur in my mind only heightens that sensation, not really giving me anything to grab onto other than hatred for the man who did this.

  My husband.

  I might not be able to have him committed for rape anymore, and I might not have the evidence to have him hauled in front of the law courts for his previous behaviour like I originally planned before I chickened out. I might not even have the capacity to prove he did this to my house, to my friend, but I damn well have the ability to make him pay for his actions.

  Death, presumably, is easy enough to achieve if you don’t care about repercussions.

  If I go back to him, he’ll beat me again. If I try to hide, he’ll find me again. If I try to run, he’ll chase me again. There is nowhere to go other than to stand and face him. And I’ll do it with a gun in my hand this time. He’ll either back down or he’ll die. I don’t care which. I’ll either get caught, or I won’t. I don’t care about that either. He must pay for what he’s done. He will pay. His wealth, his father, his family—none of them will help him out of this one. I don’t even want to see him rotting in jail anymore. I want him dead, departed from the planet so I don’t have to think about him anymore. I want freedom, even if that comes with a jail sentence. I want sanity.

  And I want revenge for Callie.

  God, do I want that.

  I circle the room I’m in, tracing my fingers over the furniture and collecting the dust that lingers on them. No one’s been in here for some time. It feels cold, motionless, still beautiful in its slightly dirty state, but unloved and disused.

  Thick reams of powder lift off the surface of a sideboard as I draw the shape of a gun in the dust, swirling my finger to mimic smoke from the end. It’s peculiar to think of me doing such a thing, not normally my style at all. I used to be bubbly, a happy-go-lucky sort of girl. Lewis ruined that. Whatever changed in him when we moved here started the process of me becoming what I am today, and last night finished me off. There’s nothing left. No niceness, no anxiety, no thought of doing the right thing. There’s certainly no hope of me being happy and contented with white picket fences and quiet family streets. He’s taken that last shred of faith I had, burned it to the ground as if it was something to be scorned, scorched even.

  Perhaps it was. Perhaps I was dreaming to ever think it was viable. I suppose I just hoped he’d leave me alone, realising the mistakes he’d made and giving me a chance at freedom. He clearly won’t.

  “Why are you in here?”

  The sound of Jack’s terse voice shocks me, making me spin to look at the door. He’s half naked, still in his trousers from last night but with no top on. I stare, barely acknowledging the skin on show. He’s flawless. Unadulterated. Toned, long. Skin the colour of honey and ripples goes on endlessly. It’s something I should notice, but at the moment it means nothing to me. I feel as empty as this room did minutes ago.

  “I’m wandering,” I reply, gazing at his lips and waiting for whatever he’s got to be gruff about.

  There are a few seconds like this. He looks back at me, flicking his eyes between my face and the old dressing gown I found hanging in my room. I wish I wasn’t losing myself in hazel eyes that frown insidiously, but I am. I’m willing that man from last night to keep coming at me. The darker the better as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps it’ll help engrain my new persona, make me strong enough to do what needs doing. My mind is so bare I feel incapable of anything other than honesty about who I am, what I want. What I’m becoming. Not that I quite know what that is yet, but that man who lingered over liquor can help me with that, the one who scared me as he smashed bottles. Perhaps if I can conquer the way he made me shake in fear then I’ll be ready to take my revenge. Be more prepared.

  “You naked under there?” he says, nodding at the dressing gown.

  “I don’t have much choice. No clothes available,” I mutter, tilting my
head at him and breathing in husky morning masculinity. He grunts and leaves the room, the slight snarl developing on his mouth increasing whatever thoughts I’m having about underhand manhunts.

  “I’ll get you some.”

  I lean on the doorway, watching him leave and pulling the robe tighter around me.

  “You going to be in an arsehole mood all day?” I call out, hoping that he is.

  I don’t want nice Jack who dances around ballrooms with me, or sensible Jack who thinks logically about situations. I need whoever that was last night. The one who brooded and dwelt in darkness as he downed alcohol. I need him to help me on this journey.

  I turn back into the room and sigh, ready to let myself linger in the mood I’m falling into. What else is there to think about? Nothing. He’s right, though. Clothes might be good.

  My thoughts make me slump down into a sofa, coughing slightly at the plume of dust that envelops me as I do. Christ, someone could really do with a cleaner. Doesn’t he have staff? Surely a place this big should be looked after by people. Maybe he’s one of those eccentric types who lives alone in the country, hoarding things. I don’t care. I’ve got plans to make. For a start, I need somewhere to live. I suppose the insurers will need to be contacted, and then I’ve got police reports to file. The cops said something about that. Going back to town. And Callie’s parents. Oh god, I don’t even know who they are or where they live. They need to know, though. It’s about the only thing I feel anything for, enough so that my eyes well a little, tears threatening as I finger the sofa and pull at a loose thread, trying to picture her smiling face yesterday before I left. M&M’s. She was eating M&M’s. And laughing at me. Always laughing at me.

  They need to know.

  “You okay?” he says, as a load of clothes are thrown by my side on the couch. I don’t look up at him. What’s the point? He doesn’t care if I’m alright or not. I don’t know why he’s being nice in any way. Instead, I lift the stack of clothes—plain blue skinny jeans, about my size by the look of them, and a brown, tight fitting t-shirt. Both women’s.

  “Do you have guns here?” I ask.

  “What?” he replies, his voice low and cautious.

  “Guns, for killing people with?” I slowly look up at him, undoing the robe around my waist as I do, not in the slightest bit embarrassed by my nakedness. What’s the point in that? He’s already seen my tears, seen my fury. There’s nothing left for him to see other than love, and there’s none of that left now. “It’s a simple question.” I reach out for the t-shirt, shrugging it over my head and then standing up, leaving the robe behind on the sofa. His frown increases more than usual, if that’s possible, and at the same moment his eyes travel over my exposed crotch and skin. I reach down for the jeans, not wanting any more than to get dressed and learn how to shoot a gun. “So, do you have guns?” I ask again, yanking my legs into the jeans and then bouncing to get my bottom into them.

  “Yes.” He might have said it, but there’s hesitation in his voice.

  “Good, where are they? I need to learn how to use one to kill with,” I say, making my way out into the hall and following it down past the stairs to get to the kitchen. “With all this space around the house I should be able to learn quickly enough.”

  “Madeline, that’s not the answer you’re after. You need to forget this and move on.”

  I swing around mid-stride, daring him to carry on. How the hell would he know what I need, or what will make this go away? How would he have the first clue about how I’m feeling or what I need to do to make this right again. Forget it? Dismiss it like it’s nothing to think about, just another little dalliance in life that should be disregarded? Lewis destroyed my home and killed Callie, and the last shred of me along with her.

  “How would you damn well know? Living here in your playboy mansion, having sex with women at will with no thought I should think. Playing with people must be so much fun.” There’s a menacing narrowing of his eyes, then a sigh, followed by him walking towards me slowly with apathy entrenched in his eyes.

  “I suppose that’s what you would think,” he says eventually, walking past me and stopping by a part of the panelled wall. I watch him for a second or two, noting the way his muscles twist around, and try to calm my wandering thoughts back to killing.

  “What else is there to think? It’s all there’s been to see.”

  There’s no response to that. What could he say? It’s true. His hands are rough. His vocabulary rougher regardless of the wealth that surrounds his frame. He’s clearly just another man who thinks he can play with whatever falls into his lap, me included. No more. Not now I’ve seen what I need to do. I thought I was in control before. I wasn’t.

  I am now.

  He points at the panel, misery etching his features as he steps away from the woodwork and huffs out a breath.

  “Take your pick.” I look at him, unsure what he means. “Push on the panel.”

  My hand gently eases at the grained oak, trying to find access to some secret cavern. Nothing happens until I increase my pressure. It snaps back and slides downwards, opening a small closet. I peer into the back of the dingy space, searching for a light. There isn’t one I can find, but the glinting of metal shines back regardless. Three shotguns and two handguns, all safely secured to the wall, an array of bullets and cartridges loaded neatly on the shelves next to them.

  “Pick one up,” he says. “Feel it. It won’t solve your problems, I promise you that, but if you think it will, try.” He walks away from me, back in the direction he came from, past the spiral and to the left. And then he’s gone, leaving me staring at guns without any real ability to use them.

  I gaze at them, lumps of metal resting onto each other, and then look back up in the direction he left in. I don’t need him. I don’t. I wish that thought sat as comfortably as the words, but it doesn’t. It’s something about the way sadness crept into his eyes as he gazed at me. Or perhaps the way he said ‘try’, as if the very word made him melancholy.

  My hands fidget at my sides, unable to actually pick up the things as I glance back at them. They’re alien to me, not something I’ve ever used or thought about using. Lewis had one—hell, most of America has one, but not me. I suppose I’m still too British, not quite able to see them as normal and feasible for use. Although, Lewis isn’t going to die unless I pick one up, is he? My life won’t be free. Nothing is going to change unless I take control and do something about it.

  I force my hand forward, knocking the panel first for some semblance of reality, and then link my fingers around the chrome handgun to lift it from its holstered position. It’s heavier than I thought, and the grip’s bumpy, wider than anything I’ve ever held there, awkward. And cold, it’s bitterly cold, like it’s been in a fridge. I hold it up, inspecting it and trying to find a comfortable position for it as I feel my breathing increase. It sits clumsily in my grasp, as if it’s got no reason to be there. It has, enough so that I find myself tweaking it around.

  Opening and closing my thumb around its base to force it into a more comfortable position, I tremble around it. My finger hovers over the trigger, unsure about safeties or bullets as I lift it to my eye-line and stare down the top of it, hoping for aim. My blood heightens as I begin to believe I should be holding it, that it’s in my hand for a purpose. Perhaps it’s the feel of it warming in my grip, moulding itself to me and making me feel at ease with its cumbersome shape.

  “Hold it with two hands,” his voice says behind me. “Cup your left hand around your right.” I don’t know why I’m smiling, but I am. He suddenly makes me feel like it’s all worth something, like this fiddling about with guns is workable somehow.

  “I thought you didn’t care,” I say, jiggling with my grip and trying to find what he’s talking about to no avail. His hand slides around my waist, pulling me back into him as he lifts my left hand, closing it around the right and securing it into place.

  “I don’t, but I won’t have you killing
yourself either. Keep it close to you. Look down the barrel for precision.” He shoves my head forward, lining it up with the barrel correctly. “Your left hand will help keep you level and straight. You’re right is for trigger pulling and aim.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you need to calm your breathing. You’re scared of it. Don’t be. It’s nothing without someone holding it. Just think of it as a piece of iron, useless unless you power it.”

  I breathe out slowly and then inhale again, letting his body move me around as we aim at things in the hallway—a vase, an old locket in a picture on the wall, the dotted moulding around the cornicing. Each time he believes my aim’s true, he nods, then swings me to a new angle, bracing his foot behind mine to ensure I’m straight. Eventually, he lets me go and backs away. I keep pointing at things, finally getting used to the feel of it and the way I need to hold myself, until I end up pointing at him as he leans on the wall, arms and legs crossed.

  He stares, doing nothing else. The look is enthralling in its untroubled attitude. There’s no fear or concern etched in, no worry that I’ll actually pull the trigger. I need to find that emotion, use it. I need vague and blank, or cocky and self-assured. Having said that, I don’t suppose he needs to be worried or bothered. It’s not loaded, I’m sure. Either that or there’s one of those safety features on it that hinders the mechanism.

  I creep closer to him, staring down the barrel and watching his lips lift a little.

  “You going to shoot me, Madeline?”

  Still he stares, relaxed as ever with the beginnings of a grin. My own mouth twitches into a half smile, overly consumed by his attitude. It’s not like Lewis’s. It seems justly superior in some way. As if he’s earnt his stripes, worn them well and deserves his respect. What for, I don’t know, but it makes me see Lewis for what his brashness was: childish. “Or should we get on with the fucking now?”