Page 10 of The Spiral

Chapter 5

Jack

Selma?

I mutter her name, not daring to believe she’s here but still feeling her aura in the old building nonetheless. It followed me back last night, or maybe it was already here when I got back. There isn’t a reply, but the fabric of the place creaks and groans with her voice’s harmonic tone. It whispers memories at me, reminding me of love and niceties I no longer believe true or worth thought.

I drove on last night, ready to floor the damn thing and release pent up aggression, but the mist kept getting in the damn way, slowing my route and eventually halting my progress entirely. I just sat there in the middle of a dark and dismal road, letting the gentle rain patter the window as I stared into thick fog. No more ethereal words had come from her, no orders or directions, and I didn’t see the apparition again, but she was there. I felt her—felt her warmth on my skin amidst the frigid chill, just as I do now.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, walking along the deep red hall and glancing in every room I pass in case she appears again.

The dining room is blank apart from the exquisitely dressed memory of Christmas dinners and champagne. The formal lounge is nothing but a charade of tartan, velvet, and roaring log fires now. The snug, one of the only rooms I still entertain entering, is lifeless without her in it, but memories of Lenon playing with his fire trucks continue to make me smile every now and then. The study is a place of work and nothing else, certainly not somewhere she ever enjoyed unless she was bent over my desk. I stop and smile, remembering the sound of her moans, as I push on the door to widen it. The desk is clear, no papers or clutter, and the floor is still clear of obstacles due to the lack of Lenon crashing through and leaving Lego scattered around.

I finger the door’s surface gently, remembering the feel of the boy’s tawny hair in my hands. So fine. Nothing like his mother’s thick, dark curls.

Sighing, I run my hands over my face and brush the image away as I carry on to the drawing room, once one of our favourites. A place where we would all eat breakfast from our laps and drink coffee. It’s as vapid as the last room now, vacant of life or hope. It just sits, stagnating along with me, happily gathering dust and slowly disintegrating further into emptiness.

Jack.

My head swings at the sound of her again, and I hurry back along the hall in the direction of the voice. There isn’t a vision of her, but the light of the mid afternoon sun filters in around the main door, highlighting the stained-glass window’s greens and yellows. They cascade into the hall, throwing aquamarine tones onto the dark flooring beneath my feet.

I stare at them as the light bounces around on my tan shoes, watching the vivid spots and mixing colours dance with each other. Turquoise—her favourite colour. It reminded her of our honeymoon, and me of her eyes, sun drenched beaches and blue lagoons. Leisurely days. Long, long nights. Lazy mornings fucking anywhere that was acceptable. Making love. I smirk at my own thoughts, imagining her slapping me for using such a term to describe us together. Publicly, anyway. I’d have fucked her anywhere, still would if she was here. But she isn’t. She’s dead.

A corpse.

The loud old fashioned doorbell makes me frown from my musings and look up. Who’s here? Why? I snarl at the door and turn from it, ready to head back towards the kitchen. It rings again, followed by a knocking sound against the wood. My head inclines back to it as I pocket my hands and peer at the stained glass. Nothing moves or comes into view. There’s just the continued echo of the damned bell holding me still in the corridor.

“Mr. Caldwell?” My heart damn near stops, nearly ripping the guts from my insides as I stumble backwards further up the hall. Selma? “Mr. Caldwell? The old man said you were here. Are you?” Christ. My hands grab out at the walls, looking for support or tangibility. It can’t be her. She’s dead. “Mr. Caldwell, please? It’s Miss Cavannagh. I’m here to see the antiques for sale.” What the hell is she talking about?

Something moves in the stained glass, a shadow of someone trying to look through it. I freeze, not knowing what to do. And then the bell rings again. Over and over it rings. I step away from the fucking thing, backing my feet up the hall slowly in the hope that the face peering in can’t see me. “Oh, for god’s sake,” I hear mumbled. “Is that you, Mr. Caldwell? Please could you answer the door?” Fuck.

I stand immobile, and glare at the door, hoping that if I stand here long enough the issue will disappear, or fuck off and leave me alone. Is it not bad enough that I have to endure the insanity of ghosts appearing?

“Mr. Caldwell, should I go? I’ll have to wait for my car to be pulled out of your bog, I’m afraid. The old man’s doing it now.” The bog? What is she talking about now? I half move, suddenly concerned for reasons unknown. Or perhaps it’s the thought of her voice leaving, the one that sounds just like Selma’s. “I’ll just wait out here then, shall I?” Yes. I narrow my eyes at the sight of her leaning against the stained glass. “It’s not like I’ve driven over a bloody hour to get here, you inconsiderate arsehole.” The last of it is mumbled and full of frustration, something that raises my lips as my foot inches forward without consent.

I wait for a while, neither moving forward nor backward. I just stare at the figure of her body resting against the rippled glass work and wonder what she looks like. Does she look like Selma, too? Why does she have to be British? Who would have sent this enigma to me, and why?

Toby.

The door handle suddenly twists slightly, making me snarl and flick my eyes over the hall, searching for something, anything to help me understand what the fuck is happening before the door opens. I listen intently, hoping for the real ghost version of Selma to say something, warn me, help me. One or the other. Christ, this is irrational. And unfounded. I’m hoping for a ghost rather than the actual human outside the door?

I shake my head, feeling more than unsatisfied with my own irrationality, and take a step towards the door again, bracing my hand on the wall for support. I have to see her, if nothing more than to send her on her way and scare her into never coming back. Sell my antiques? Selma’s things? It isn’t happening no matter how much my brother thinks I should move on. How fucking dare he do this to me? Nothing is leaving this house. Ever. I’ll burn the place to the ground before I let one piece of her leave these walls.

Her jolt and tumble down the steps as the door opens is amusing, enough so that a chuckle comes out of me, but the moment she turns to look up at me, I can’t breathe. I hold onto the doorframe, choking on my inability to move or speak as I look at her. Her hands splay on the steps as she begins to pull herself upright, the crease of her suit exposing her legs and drawing me away from her eyes if only for a few seconds.

“Mr. Caldwell?” she asks, climbing up the steps to stand. I can’t say anything, regardless of the fact I’m trying. I nod and try once again to pull in breaths. “Oh, good. I thought you were out. I’m Miss Cavannagh. Shall we get on with it?” Still there are no words to be found, but I find myself nodding at that, too, as she stares at me. “Are you alright, Mr. Caldwell? You seem ill. Pale.”

Ill. A good word for what is currently circulating my thoughts.

Madness is more fucking appropriate.

I lick my lips and gaze at her eyes again, allowing myself to be drawn into the blue depths I know all too well.

“Lighter hair,” I eventually muse, barely restraining the need to reach out and touch it. It falls around her cheeks, tumbling just as Selma’s did, but it’s a little lighter in colour.

“Excuse me?” she responds as she fingers it and frowns. “Lighter than what?” Nothing comes out of my mouth at that. “Is it a problem? I can assure you it doesn’t impact on my ability to value correctly.” I watch the way her lips move around the words, listening to the British lilt behind the slight Americanism, and devour the image of lush pink lips. “If we could just get on with it, Mr. Caldwell. I’m sure you’re busy and it’s a long drive back for me.”

Something snaps inside me at her words. Back? She’s leaving?