Page 43 of The Spiral

Chapter 15

Jack

She stares at me as if I’ve gone mad, challenging these feelings inside. I might well have done, because I can feel Selma’s breath on my neck as I watch Madeline gawp at me. Her hand still hovers with the axe, as if she’s ready to attack me with it, but it seems so clumsy in her fingers, just as it always did with Selma.

“What?” she says, lips quivering around the words. “What does that mean? What do you want?”

My lips smile at her, finally seeing the blend of the two of them and mapping out how we make this happen.

“Selma?” I ask, turning my eyes down the hall again to see if she appears. She doesn’t. There’s nothing but dusty old furniture and the darkness of this third floor looming back at us.

“What’s in this damned room, Jack?”

“The past.”

It’s all I’ve got to give her. The past that I’ve kept in my every day, forcing it to continue in my memory so I can wreak my vengeance on their skin and bones. “I used to do that for her,” I continue, nodding at the axe. Still she looks confused, her body backing towards the door as I take a step closer to her. “You’ve made as much of as a mess as she would have done.”

“What?”

“Chopping wood.”

She looks at me again, then at her hand, then back at me.

“It’s a door, Jack. What’s behind it?” she snaps.

I sigh and walk away from her along the corridor, running my fingers through the dust that covers the tables along the way.

“Why do you want her to see that?” I ask into the air, unsure what my wife is up to and unclear about whether it’s the right thing to show her or not.

The air immediately turns as frigid as it was when I burst into the ballroom, making me glance back at Madeline’s naked frame. She shivers there behind me, still hovering around that one door that she seems to know holds all the problems beyond it. The thought of one of the dogs catching a glance of her pristine skin makes me glower at myself and open the door nearest to me, searching for a blanket.

I stop on entering, stunned by the room I’ve walked into without thought. All her things are in here, making her seem so much more alive than she is. It’s the place I put them into at first, hoping to hide from them somehow rather than face the truth. My breath halts, the last fog lingering in the dimly lit gloom as I stare into the space and will my feet backwards. They don’t move. Nothing moves. No sound. No offer of her ghost to make this comfortable. It’s just her dresses. Her shoes. Her jewellery. All of it neatly and carefully laid out on the bed and furniture, as covered in dust and grime as she is.

“Jack?”

I no longer care who said that. I can smell her here, and the aroma makes me smile wider as I move forward towards the bed and grab at something tangible to hold. Silk touches my fingers first, the lingerie laid out as if she were getting ready for a night out, or in. I chuckle at the thought of it, remembering her taste under my lips as I pick up the red garment and bring it to my face.

“Jack?”

It smells of roses, the blush of perfume still heavy even after all this time.

“Jack, the door… Oh.”

I pull the silk away from my nose and slowly turn my head to look at her. She gazes around, her mouth open as she takes in the luxury on show and stands immobile in the doorway. She couldn’t look more perfect if she tried, other than the colour of that pristine skin. “Is this…”

She trails off, unable to finish her sentence as she walks over to the far corner and I try to come to terms with her in this room. It feels as awkward as it was watching her batter the door, causing me to trail my eyes down to her hand to see the axe still hanging there. Maybe she could put that to a better use, clear the angst out of her system on real life rather than hammer wooden splinters to dredge out the pain.

I watch on as she gingerly reaches out at a fur coat, her fingers barely touching the soft fringing that used to house Selma’s neck on cold winter nights.

“Is this her?”

I don’t answer. I’m too consumed by her to answer, and suddenly too miserable to offer her help understanding what’s happening here. Not that I know entirely, but this woman standing here, touching my wife’s clothes and letting her scent mingle with times past, must be a reincarnation of sorts. A ghost sent to haunt me, or renew me perhaps.

She smiles at something, a slight lift of her lip causing me to follow her gaze as she looks down at the floor.

“Nice shoes,” she says, reaching to pick the silver heels up.

They are. They were my favourites on her, especially when she wore nothing else with them.