Page 4 of The Spiral
Chapter 3
Jack
My 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 end 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.
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.