The Spiral

by Charlotte E Hart

  That’s about to change.

  It doesn’t take long for me to pack my bags and haul them out to the Range Rover. Apart from a few clothes, shoes and toiletries, I don’t want anything from here. No furniture, no paintings, no reminders. I’ll do it all again in my new place. I haven’t showered or changed. I need the evidence fresh under my nails and the blood still clotting around my skin. I wish I could remove his semen from inside me, but I know I can’t even do that yet. They’ll have to do that for me when I get there.

  I slam the door none to quietly and head for the car. I’ve timed this run before. Twenty-one minutes at a decent time of day. And that’s exactly what it takes me to get through downtown traffic, drive by his building with my finger held high, and then park outside the police station. Twenty-one minutes, thirty-five minutes floundering in my pain, plus one hour of being beaten and raped. That’s how long it’s taken me to get my act together. Why I haven’t done it before now, I don’t know. Why I didn’t listen to Callie after the first time, I don’t know. And why I’ve put up with it every time since, I don’t know. I loved him, I guess. Maybe I thought that each new time he said he wouldn’t do it again, he wouldn’t. I believed him.

  I don’t anymore.

  A police car passes behind mine as I stare through the tinted windows at the building, getting ready for my ordeal. It’s almost easier to think about Lewis doing his worst than going in here and having them prod and poke at me. I’ll have to explain it all to someone, be honest about the last few years. These people will be the first to know, the first ones to hear the words out loud. I don’t even speak out loud to myself about it. It all stays inside my mind where I can contain it and put it into logical thought, even if none of it’s been rational in any way.

  The thought suddenly scares the life out of me as I squint at the doors and wonder who’ll be the one who asks me questions first. A man, woman? Who goes in between my legs? How many photos will they take? And when they’ve taken them, where do those photos go? Who gets to see them? And what about the papers? Will this be news tomorrow morning? Will my name be plastered across the papers with photos of the evidence available for the world to dig into and paw over?

  My fingers refuse to let go of the steering wheel as I try to turn my body and open the door. They just stick to it like glue, telling me not to move. To stop and think a little more about this. I could just disappear instead without all this drama, couldn’t I? Go to my new house, have a shower, stay inside for the next week or so and then get on with my life. We don’t have children. I don’t want the house, and he can keep his money. There’s nothing else to fight about. Just the fact that he’ll want me back where I belong, or his father will. But if I don’t go inside this place and do this, I’ve got nothing. No proof, nothing to threaten him with, no ability to ask for a restraining order, nothing.

  I have to do this. I have to.

  Have to.

  I don’t have to, and this is proved by me reversing out of the parking area and turning back towards the traffic. I can’t. I don’t want to. I just want out. I want to move on and forget, put it behind me somehow. I’ll deal with divorce if I have to. I can see the papers now as they dirty and drag up our lives. The moment they get involved, the great Blisedy family will get involved. His father will drag my dad into it, say I came from an insane background and probably try saying Lewis was only defending himself against the crazy Cavannagh family. No one is insane in my family, certainly not me, but my dad has been in a mental institution for the last ten years. Anxiety and depression, certified. So much so that they came and took him away the day before I started my GCSE’s. After that, Mum finally got a chance to live again, and she told me to go get on with my life. To make something of myself. To go abroad if I wanted to and to never live in fear of anything.

  Fine job I’ve done of that, not that she knows.

  The streets of Atlanta all blur into one another as I cross town again and head for my new place. I can hardly see out of my left eye, but at least the pain is wearing off a little now all thanks to the extra strong pain killers. The blood on my leg has dried up, and the ache in my head seems to be dulling down. Hopefully, the ice did some good to my eye and it won’t be long until it’s coverable. With any luck that will mean I can deal with the Blandenhyme estate properly.

  You wouldn’t think antiques were so hard to deal with, but valuing, supervising, cataloguing, categorising, transporting, and correctly placing objects, are significant tasks. I get paid a lot of money for doing it. I spend most of my time travelling to one museum or another, or picking up an artefact for someone and taking it to another country. It started when Lewis’ father had an old Rembrandt hanging that he hated, so Lewis asked me to take it to Scotland because he couldn’t. An old Laird had bought it from the Blisedy family. I’ve been doing the same sort of thing ever since. It’s the one thing I do have Lewis to thank for—my job.

  It’s a detailed career, one I sort of fell into I guess, but it’s one I love. It responds to my sense of organisation. It’s chaotic sometimes—I’m forever panicking last minute and worried about what could go wrong with the next million pound thing I’m categorising or moving—but it’s all mine. And now it really is just me. No help from Lewis. No back up. I’m alone.

  It’s a revelation I hadn’t really thought about, not enough to consider the feeling of actually being alone, anyway. It confuses me, as I turn back onto the highway and travel south towards my new home, making me question what I’m doing for a minute even though I know I’ve done the right thing. Of course I have. I’ll be fine on my own. Fine.

  Opening the window, I let the fresh summer air cascade in and blow my hair about. It soothes the aches that still remain, filling me with a new sense of hope that everything’s going to be okay. I mean, what can he do other than scream and shout about things? The new place is like Fort Knox with its state of the art security system and lockable everything. He might be able to find me—I doubt that will take long at all—but he won’t be able to get in. I’ve made sure of that at least.

  My hand turns the radio on of its own accord, ready to listen to something brighter than the constancy of dramatic dark strings I’ve been made to endure for too many years. I need light and happiness now, pop, maybe some graceful classical to help bring on visons of breezes and hope. There will be no more darkness for me. I want light and airy, uncomplicated cheerful and joyful notes that uplift and bring euphoria rather than shadows of doom. Lewis can decompose in that if he wants. In fact, Lewis can submerge himself in whatever hate he wants to for the rest of his life. I hope he enjoys it, languishes in it even, and buries himself. He won’t be doing it to me anymore.

  It seems to take no time at all to arrive, regardless of the two hour drive. A new home, new life, new chance. Cherry trees line the road, their pretty pink petals fluttering to the ground as cars slowly drive by. It’s enchanting, much prettier than the road we lived on where tall imposing buildings looked like eyesores and made all who dared enter cower in fear. No, this is beautiful, welcoming. It makes me think of grandmas and apple pies. Not that I care for baking in the slightest, but the thought’s lovely nonetheless.

  Slowly creeping along, I peer in other people’s windows, noting all the architecture and quaint Victorian frontages. They’re not small houses, most four bedroom I suppose. Mine certainly is, but compared to the ten bedroom mansion I’ve come from, they’re beautiful in their size. Perfect for families of a middle class predilection who try to attain more. I laugh lightly at the thought. They shouldn’t bother. These people should just relax in their homes, enjoying the time they have and loving each other wholeheartedly. Have children, play in parks, go shopping and on holiday frequently. I can most definitely tell them the wealth they want is worth nothing.

  Not one thing.

  Eventually, I pull up outside my new place and breathe in a long, full breath. Home. The light blue door hangs gracefully within the white panelled exterior. Five windo
ws balanced perfectly and all sitting snugly beneath a tall red pitched roof. Roses grow up around the door, climbing towards the first floor, and just to top it off, the quintessential white picket fence cages the whole property in and reminds me of the English Surrey countryside I grew up in.

  There isn’t much furniture here, but it’s enough to get by with until I find the time or energy to go out and get more. Perhaps once I truly feel like I’m at home the right furniture will present itself, but at the moment what I have is minimal—a few things dotted about and a kitchen ready for use. Two of the bedrooms are fully furnished I don’t know why. I thought perhaps, if I was lucky, maybe Callie would come and visit.

  I miss her. I miss the giggles and the fun we used to have. I miss going out with her, and the way she just knew me so well. And that’s all my own fault. If I’d just listened to her I might have had a chance at getting away earlier, but I didn’t. So instead, I’ve spent the last year or so socialising with Lewis’ friend’s wives and girlfriends. None of them have been real people. In fact, the entirety of the social scene we’ve been a part of is pretentious and fake.

  Thankfully, I can choose my own everything now, including friends. I’ll learn to become who I was before Lewis again. Learn not to jump at every shadow that creeps up on me, fear of the next blow heading my way ruling my every waking second.

  Just me and my new life.

  I turn back for the door and close it. I’ll just get myself settled in and have a coffee, and perhaps then I can go get some groceries in, rent a film on Netflix, have a bath and wipe the last of my husband off of me. That’s my choice now. No ordering. No comments on what I should or should not be doing.

  Just me. Alone.

  I walk back into the kitchen and dig around in cupboard, flicking the boiler on for hot water and then drawing out the first aid box I prepared. Sadly, I knew the day I arrived it would be because of a beating I’d taken. It makes me frown at my own mindlessness, causing a wince of pain as I begin strapping an eye-pad into place gently and sealing the corners securely. It’s funny how I could prepare for this but not just get myself away before it happened. Pathetic of me really. It won’t be happening again. Nothing like that will happen again. These bruises will be the last ones I take from anyone. They’ll heal, I’m sure, and then my skin will finally be free of torment. My life, too.

  I stare back at the cupboards, travelling my eyes down to the one below that hides the gun safe I had installed. I’m going to get that gun he wouldn’t let me have, and I’m going to use it. I’ll prove myself safe somehow. I have to learn to be free again. Be without him.

  Because nothing is getting to Madeline Cavannagh again.

  Chapter 3

  Jack

  M y fingers grate against the tartan fabric of the chair, picking at the loosening threads to remind me of little fingers and their mischievous habits. Sounds of sweet laughter attack my mind instantly, followed by the pattering of tiny feet and crashing objects as he ran by. I wallow in that, closing my eyes and allowing my frame of mind to torment every inch of me. Her voice joins in, too, calling from the kitchen garden and telling me to come grab a basket for her. It’s so clear—clear enough that I can almost smell her perfume and feel her hair between my fingers.

  I open my eyes, leaning my head back to stare at anything but the spiral in hope that I’ll see her. I won’t. I never will again. And yet not one fucking thing, person, object or image makes their faces disperse to the shadows I need. Time is static, filled with nothing but dark corners and visions of crimson stains against sepia walls. There’s just white ceiling above me, faintly lit by the gold lampshades she chose that dimly light the ornate cornicing above. Darkness and shadows, just the way I like it. Heavy dark blue velvet curtains. The blinds drawn. The doors closed again after my fucking dogs have been walked. Never locked, though. I leave them open, inviting anyone who dares come in to attempt at decadence again.

  Their voices subside after a while, leaving me with silence and emptiness again, so I tip my head back to the spiral, snarling at the bottom step that taunts me with its worn surface. It took a little over a month for me to step on that one, then another to try a few more out for size. After drinking myself into a near coma, I managed to pull myself quarter of the way up, and there I slept all night, desperate to hear her voice berating me for being a drunkard.

  The toe of my shoe scuffs the step I didn’t realise I’d made my way to, halting before it plants down. Fuck these steps and their climb. I glare at them, willing my feet to move, but they won’t. Not one fucking inch. I know why. It’s too soon. They’re not ready for me yet after yesterday’s misdemeanour. The sole of my shoe buffers itself around on the black material instead, wearing the tread away some more before returning to the wooden floor below.

  Fucking steps to my hell.

  I turn and head for the poolroom, choosing one of the only things I take any pleasure in other than my purpose here. What little civility I had for the outside world is long gone. It died its fucking death along with them. I’ve left that side of life to Toby. My sibling is less dulled by hatred than me. He’s still ruthless as a shark in the boardroom, but more inclined to take a lenient route if required. There is nothing lenient about me. Not anymore. The small part that was once content to engage frivolities and happiness was lost the moment I came home and found their brutalised bodies. Selma—raped, tortured and split open like a pig on the bathroom floor, and Lenon, my son, shot and left to die in his toddler bed, bleeding and alone.

  Most humans deserve nothing but contempt and loathing now.

  Knocking on the lights in the poolroom, I cross to the cabinet and begin fastening together the cue, slowly grinding the screw together. The solid beech feels familiar in my grasp, like an old shirt that eases woes. It gives me a sense of security, or simply the unhindered feel of something dense in my hand to remind me. I smile as the wood accidently bounces off the side of the table, enjoying the weighty sound that ricochets off the cloth’s surface. It’s a sound I know well, like the swift strike of wood against boned extremities, or the sound of agonised howls.

  My guts coil as visions crash through me again, causing me to brace a hand on the table. Selma’s body was like a massacre—prone, exposed, drenched in her own blood and splattered with semen. She wasn’t bound; she was just there, her glassy eyes staring up into me and her body spread open and left to bleed out on the tiled floor. No bullet holes, just a large impact wound to the head and a mutilated frame. It’s a sight that preoccupies every fucking step I take since that night, especially the ones up the spiral.

  I sigh and rack up the balls then wander to the other end of the table, dragging my fingers along the cloth as I go to imagine her skin beneath them, soft as silk and olive tanned as the night. She was my reason for life—her and Lenon. Nothing mattered before her. No woman of consequence ever found a way to interest me for longer than a few weeks, but with her, I learned to breathe more deeply than ever before. I learned love and compassion, and a depth of feeling I’d never experienced previously.

  Not anymore, though.

  All I have left now are the spaces within this fucking crypt of a once held life. It’s sacred to me, honoured for the beauty she bestowed on it and left to decay in her wake around me. Sell up? I glower at the thought, ready to give Toby more of my mind than he’s already had. I’ll do what I want with her perfectly created spaces, no matter how they rot without her in them. Lounges and dining rooms. Two studies, nine bedrooms, sun terraces and conservatories. Manicured fucking gardens becoming ruins with each passing day she doesn’t tend to them. They’re mine now. My memories.

  All mine.

  The crash of the cue breaking against the fireplace causes shivers of hatred to rear up and remind me of where I need to go, of the fucking dogs. My muscles tense instantly, my own hackles rising on the back of my neck, ready and willing to rage all the hatred I have. I snarl at the broken cue and walk for the door, throwing one snapped e
nd onto the table and watching the balls bounce off each other. Fucking balls. There’s only one place to alleviate this need. It’s up that spiral, waiting for me, but the splitting skin is less avenging than it was at first. It no longer masks the pain inside. It increases the hunger for more odium to be reigned down. More animosity to be bestowed.

  More fucking insanity to come.

  Doors slam behind me as I grab my coat to give the pretence of respectability. Suits and expensive shirts still clothe me, all things chosen by her. It glamourizes the impression of society’s needs, shielding others from the actual truth of what this mind now holds inside. Hate. Revenge. A fury so engrained it doesn’t want absolution or alleviation. It desires nothing more than to ruin those who derived pleasure from their acts. It bleeds from me as I bleed it from them, the crimson droplets and stripes moulding sins into something tangible that I can feel beneath my hands rather than the hollowness of life. Those dogs revitalise her memory, keep it vibrant and alive inside my mind so I can continue seeing them both. Brown hair, green eyes, smiling mouths and fluid limbs. Limbs that ran and lived. Limbs that were still alive.

  The cool night air causes another shiver as I step outside and scan the yard. There’s nothing but the few servants’ houses dotted about on the park’s grounds. Nothing has happened here since that evening. Police reports were filed. Officers with tracker dogs and crime scene investigators did their work while I sat and watched them. Another officer asked me questions, ones I nodded and shook my head at in response. And then I stared blankly as two body bags were taken from my home, Lenon’s small hand still visible where the fastening hadn’t been zipped correctly.

  My life left that night. All of it. But it was five months after that when I changed. Those five months turned up nothing. Perhaps previous to that I believed in justice, trusted the system and expected that criminals were found so they could pay for their atrocities, but they weren’t found. Nothing was found. The case was closed. But money made things work more successfully—money and criminals who knew their own kind. I found the fuckers then thanks to my wealth. I found them and had them brought here.