And here they still are, paying for their crimes.
Lights flicker around the drive leading down to the house, illuminating the gravel underneath and lighting up the area. I gaze at the drive and sweep my eyes over the grounds surrounding it, fields upon fields of grassland. All bought for our children to eventually run around in and play, to grow up on, to enjoy and be free to feel safe in as they roamed aimlessly. It’s all useless now, just barren grassland wasting away and lacking any reason at all.
I wander towards the garages, still taking in the night air, and fish around on the wall through the selection of car keys. A drive is needed to calm down. They won’t survive another attack from me. Not yet. They need time to repair their grotesque little selves so I can do it again. I lost control, lost the order of beatings when that fucker disobeyed me. Now I’ve not rested one of them long enough. It fucking infuriates me again as I snatch at the Merc keys and search the room for the car amongst too many other fucking cars, then eventually find it at the back.
I close the front door and open the back section instead to pull out onto the back driveway rounding the estate. I haven’t been this way for a while. It’s the way she used to come in, saying it was prettier, so I follow the curvature of the road as it swings its way, barely noting all the small servant houses and barns along the route. They’re empty now and of little interest. I fired the majority of them that night, hardly containing the need to kill the lot of them for not doing something, or at least noticing something was wrong. It didn’t matter that they’d been in the house on their own that night. It also didn’t matter that all the servants had been out at the cook’s daughter’s christening. Someone should have checked in on them. No one did. Not one of them.
The only one who remains on site now is old Bob Ritters, the gardener-come-handyman. For whatever reason I’ve kept him on, perhaps as a nod to the fact that he’s been here for thirty-two years, long before we arrived. Bob worked on the estate for the previous occupants. He knows the old house like the back of his hand and keeps it standing regardless of the fact that he can hardly see anymore. Or maybe it’s just the fact that the old man once carried Lenon across the brook on his shoulders and the image still mingles with the other more disturbing ones. But he never goes upstairs.
No one goes up the stairs but me.
And he never questions what he damn well sees either.
My foot flattens on the accelerator as I hit the top road, increasing my speed and swerving the corners to drown out the screams I never heard.
“Selma.”
It blows from my mouth, aggravation numbing the volume to nothing but tormented woes. One more time? A thousand more times? Perhaps the next time I tear flesh apart I won’t see Lenon’s face as I pound into one of them. Or better yet, perhaps I will again and I can let that rage fill me with absolute vacancy as I deliver another blow, the fury intended to either diminish or relight the fire for more. Just pain—that’s all I want to provide. I want to sweat and rip at them, punishing them and making them feel the hate that courses through me. I want expulsion, discharge, so I can see her face smiling and forgiving me for letting them down. I want that wrapped all around me, reminding me of Sunday drives in the country, of relaxed afternoons and wicked evenings in the arms of warmth. Fuck this life and moving on. There is no moving on. I am stagnant, and desperate to stay motionless. The thought of anything gaining momentum, other than hatred, is enervating.
Life is safe in this unending hole I’ve created. In stasis maybe, but predictable in its regularity at least. Dark and foreboding is comfortable. There is solace in its arms around me. I am in control in that house, delivering revenge and justice. Out here I’m lost and alone again.
I slam on the brakes and haul the car to the side of the road, disordered about whether to go forward or travel home to the fuckers. What does it matter if they’re half dead already? I could do it this time. Finish it all.
Cars scream past me, blaring their horns at my untimely halt mid-swerve. I hardly hear them, couldn’t fucking care less. Her name is out there now, loud and clear in the air. I can hear it still.
My forehead rubs into the wheel, trying to see her more clearly, but nothing materializes. Only blood and disgraced skin.
I sigh and lift my head again, resting it back and considering turning the car around, but something catches my eye outside, something consuming to the point of irrationality. Her smile and hands seem to be beckoning me outside the car for some reason. She’s there, hovering in sight, almost real in the headlights and trying to suggest something as a mist rolls in from nowhere.
“Selma?” I whisper the name into the car and watch her mouth broaden in the lights.
The ghostly apparition just continues smiling, her clean, white dress floating around her feet as she slowly begins to disappear again. “No, Selma, don’t…”
My hand reaches forward, my fingers knocking against the windscreen as I try to touch her, but it’s too late. She’s gone. Lost into whatever cloud of light she came from as it disperses back into the trees. Only a slight fog remains to confuse me further. I stare at it then open the door and walk towards it. There’s nothing but the bright shine of my main beam against the forest lying ahead, nothing but the black of night, more screeching tyres running by, and dense thickets of hedgerows.
I turn within the space, searching for anything to show me I’ve actually seen a ghost of my dead wife, but still nothing highlights anything odd. All I have is memory of the vision I’ve seen, and an unusually frigid chill in the air for the time of year.
“Selma?” I call out again, louder this time, perhaps hoping she will reappear. She doesn’t, but the faintest sound of laughter comes from somewhere, causing me to spin on my heel and move forward into the undergrowth. “Selma?” I call again, even louder.
There isn’t a response, but I can hear the laughter still echoing. It’s her laugh, full and bold, happy, gregarious. It initiates a smile, the first real one in months to break out on my face, as memories of happy times come flooding back. And I chase it. I chase deeper and deeper into the woods, desperately searching for her image and not caring for the fact it’s ghostly. Any image of her not sprayed with blood is better than the only one I have left. I want this new one, want it like my life depends on it.
Trees blur as I dodge the branches and follow the sound of her voice, owls calling out a night chorus as I hurry further on. The dense floor beneath me crunches and clatters, cracking twigs and knocking stones out of my way as I run on and finally arrive in a clearing.
I eventually stop and brace my hands on my knees, sucking in rapid breaths for oxygen as I hunt for her voice again. Nothing comes back. No sound at all other than the groan of trees in the breeze. I peer into the dark depths, examining it for any sign of light or fog, but still only shadows reflect back at me, shadows and gloomy offerings of ancient parkland trees casting their branches under the moonlight. My eyes narrow, my lips chuckling at my own futility. Ghosts? What am I thinking? But she was so clear in those lights. And her voice was crystalline. It was hers; I know it so well, still. I hear it daily, calling me, shouting at me, her moans, her screams of pain or pleasure.
“Selma?”
Nothing again. No white lights. No fog. No guidance to what the fuck just happened.
I glare into the night again with one last hope that she will materialise and explain, or just hover again so I can look at her for hours and remember the way she moves, the way her cheeks glow. The way her body sways even, and the effortless way her eyes sparkle and make everything dull in comparison. I just want five more minutes, an hour, twenty fucking seconds, anything more than this empty oblivion again. But nothing happens as I keep looking around.
Not one thing.
Eventually, I huff and turn from the clearing, heading back towards the dense tree filled forest and wondering how the hell to get back to the road. Where did I come from? I can’t remember. I track as best I can, following the uneven
surface and checking for footprints within the damp ground. It’s good enough, because some time later I see the headlights of my car glinting in the distance, enough that I fight my way back through the undergrowth to get to them.
I pull my coat tighter around me as I get to the Merc, sensing the frigid chill in the air again and turning back to face the forest. The fog’s behind me again now, drifting through the undergrowth and offering some resemblance of the image I saw earlier. Is she still there?
“Selma? Please, if you’re there…”
The mist disperses instantly, evaporating back into the woodland and tumbling away from me through the brambles and thickets. Gone again.
I frown at the thought, chastising myself for my folly and shaking my head back into order. It’s time to get going, to continue on with whatever I was fucking doing before this interruption took hold. I get into the car with one final glance back at the woods, hoping she appears, but she doesn’t, so I slam the door and buckle up.
Pulling out onto the highway slowly, I stare into the oncoming lights and shake my head again. Irrationality and foolishness. Ghost stories? Perhaps I’m going mad. My brow rises as I let the thought wash over me. Madness isn’t an unfathomable thought. I could be. I hardly socialise anymore, taking little interest in normal activities. I chuckle, amused by the image of myself going mad.
Jack.
I slam on the brakes again at the sound of her voice, not bothering to pull to the side this time. It’s so clear, so profound that I nearly get out of the car before it stops, wrenching at my belt for escape as I open the door again.
“WHAT?” I call out into the air, tripping over my own feet and trying to avoid the oncoming car as it swerves around me. “JESUS, WHAT? SELMA? Please…” I fling my head around, wildly searching for the source of her voice, but there isn’t anything, only more cars blaring and screeching around me. “Please, Selma,” I mutter, chasing my own feet to get me off the road and onto the path. “What do you want?”
And more nothing. Nothing but the sound of cars hurtling by, narrowly missing the Merc every single time as I shake at the side and wonder what the fuck is happening to me. Madness. This is fucking madness. I scrub my face, scratching at my hairline to wake myself up. I’m damn well dreaming. I must be.
I kick out at the car, furious with my own lack of understanding and irritated by the loss of her voice again, then rip my coat off and fling it to the ground in rage.
More fucking mist rolls in from somewhere. I back away from it and stumble into a ditch, falling down the slope until I bottom out on my backside. “What the fuck is happening?” I shout into the fog, anger and confusion wracking my every thought. “What do you want?”
Home, Jack.
Chapter 4
Madeline
S o what’s the plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“The plan, you know, a new man to play with?” I smirk, shaking my head at Callie and turning around to face anything but her in the restaurant. I haven’t played with a man for a long time. Lewis became anything but playful. But if ever there was someone to not beat around the bush, Callie’s it.
Eventually, having searched for an escape from the conversation only to find there still isn’t one, I look back at my food. Salad appears to have become standard eating material over the past week. Salad and anything that could be deemed easy to digest. I’ve got no appetite at all. I don’t know what’s happened. I expected to be full of energy and life after leaving Lewis, but I’m not. I’m sad, feeling sorry for myself for some unquantifiable reason.
“Because you’re moving on, right?” I snap my head up to her. Of course I’m moving on. What does she think, that I’m still pining for my old life and its violence?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’ve been here a while now and you’re still eating salad. You’re moping and pathetic.” She dabs her mouth and puts her cutlery together neatly, leaning back and crossing her arms at me. “It’s getting a bit old, Maddy. I thought I was coming here to party, wake you back up so you could get on with life, but you still love him, don’t you?” No. Not at all. Perhaps a little bit in some way, but not enough to give a damn. “Either that or you don’t know what to do without him. Which one is it? Are you still hopelessly in love with the bastard? Or are you just weak?”
“May I remind you that I did actually leave him last week, and that I have a house without him in it. I’m over it, Callie. It’s just, I don’t know, I feel like my left arm’s been cut off. That’s all. It’s odd being on my own.”
“Even though he beat the shit out of you constantly?” A shushing noise comes out of my mouth quickly as I scan the room surreptitiously. I could have clients in here. “Yeah, whatever. You’re not over him at all. I don’t know why. He’s an asshole. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you? How often did it happen? Weekly? Daily?” Oh bugger this. In the middle of a restaurant, really? She’s been here two days and she chooses this place for the conversation?
I’m leaving the chair and walking over to the paying booth before I’ve thought about it. It’s been great having her around, just like old times in some respects, but as always with Callie, mouth moves before brain thinks.
“I’m not letting you walk away from this, Maddy. You need to speak about it, you know? Get it all out there in the open. Just because the bruising’s about left your skin doesn’t mean it’s gone from your mind, does it?”
She’s right. I know that. I do. But not here, and certainly not until I’m consciously ready for that sort of discussion. I didn’t ask her here to railroad me into this. I just wanted some laughs, like the old days, something to get my mind over being on my own.
I pay the waiter who happily offers me the stupidly high bill considering the nine scraps of lettuce I’ve eaten, and I swing myself towards the door hoping she doesn’t follow. She does.
“And what is it that he had anyway? He wasn’t even that good looking with his floppy hair all on display,” she says, hurrying to catch up and linking her arm through mine. “I really can’t see it at all. I know it wasn’t the money. That shit’s never interested you, so what? The lifestyle? Did you enjoy the beatings or something? Was it sexual?” God no. My scowl lands directly in her direction as I shrug my arm from her and quicken my pace. What the hell does she think I am? “Don’t look at me like that. I mean, there’s stuff like that about or so I hear. Apparently people get off on it. And you did stay with him, so…”
“Well, I’m not one of them,” I mumble in reply, opening the car door. “And I don’t know why I stayed, but I’ve left now so it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not ready for this, Callie. I just need to work more and find my way out the other side. I’m happy right now. It’s okay. Just leave it, will you?”
She buckles up and shunts herself about in the seat until she’s got her booted feet up on my pristine dashboard and is fully facing me. My look of horror at her blatant disregard for cleanliness clearly goes unnoticed.
“I call bullshit. You’re not okay. You’re still all screwed up about it.” I huff out at her continued interrogation and start the car, trying my best to ignore her irritating feet and her irritating mouth as I slam on the power and rev out into traffic. “Nope. That’s why you asked me to come stay. So I’m here, right? Doing my thang. Winding you up and causing chaos. You should thank me really. By the time I’m gone, dickheads will be a thing of the past.” I can’t help but snort at her as I round the corners and see her eyebrows shunting up and down out of the corner of my eye. “We’ll have you fucking someone new in no time—a nice boy with a little cock so it doesn’t hurt too much.” That causes a splutter of laughter to come out of me. “Not too little mind, no fucking point if ya can’t feel something going in and out. Unless his hands are handy, you know?” And now I can’t keep a straight face. “Poking without substance is actually highly nauseating. Gotta have a bit of girth, right? I mean, this last guy I was fucking was all
at it. Big, broody, the works. And then, tiny fucking wiener.” There’s another snort from me, followed by me still trying to appear irritated with her and failing. “It was like puny. Fucking useless with it, too, by the time he found the fucking hole.” She’s waggling her hips around now, pretending to have sex badly. “And how do they get that big without their cock growing, too? How does that fucking happen? Wasteful. Their mama should’ve fed it better.” I think snot just came out of my nose. I quickly delve around for a tissue, attempting to cover my accident. “Did you just snot out your nose ‘cause I was talking dick?” Oh my god. “Dick, cock, shoving and grinding. You knoooow you want it again. You do. Say you do. Go on, say it. We’ll find you a nice one. You just leave it to Aunty Callie. You’ll be having that pussy licked out before—”
“Will you stop?” I spit out through my still snorting nose. “Jesus, Callie.”
I continue with my coughing and spluttering for a while as she carries on and does not stop. In fact, she carries on with her amusing tales of sex for about fifteen minutes as I try to drive in a straight line, aiming for home. So much so that by the time we actually arrive home, I’m crying, full on tears of proper hilarity pouring down my face as she keeps talking. “And so, yeah. He’s going at it like a trooper and I’m like, ‘You finished? ‘Cause I’ve got a shift in ten and someone better at fucking to find after it.’ He got a bit fucking pissed at that, started going hell for leather, fucking lubing up and sticking his thumb in my ass, which was getting somewhere, you know…” She’s shoving her crotch about again, boots scuffing my dash and grunting out, ungodly sounds coming from her mouth. “Yeah, then he revved the fuck up. Dick grew, too. I was like, ‘yeah, baby, ride that ass’” I’m crying hard as I slide the car up to the drive, shoulders shaking as I desperately try to park.
The Spiral Page 3