Page 67 of The Spiral

“Three men in a cage,” she replies whimsically, walking closer to it and running her fingers over the chopped up handle. “They moved like dogs.” Dogs? “I did that.” My eyes narrow. “With an axe.” The thought of her with anything close to an axe has me snorting in derision.

“Madeline, that’s been like that since I found him. I don’t know what you think has happened here, but–” She swings back to me, her finger pointing as she walks up to me and pokes me in the chest, hard.

“No, Toby. I did that a few hours ago.” She pokes again. “I did it before he took me to that room up there.” She waves her hand along the corridor towards the room I found all Selma’s belongings in. “And then I found a picture of Selma in this drawer, realised how much I look like her,” she says, walking to the old bureau and running her fingers over it. She smiles at something, eyes directed at the staircase. “And then we went to Lenon’s treehouse and she came again, showed me what they needed me for.”

There’s no way she should know shit like this. It’s weird.

I watch as she turns back to the doorway, pushing on it and walking in. She stops immediately, eyes scanning for whatever she can’t see, and then wanders straight for the marks on the wall where I detached the bolts.

“Here,” she says, fingers running over the holes. “And the keys were here,” she continues, wandering those fingers back to the old hook. “Jack stood behind me.” She looks back towards the small table. “There was a picture of Selma in a sliver frame, taken on the terrace outside.” All true. I can’t even find a reason to tell her she’s wrong. “I can still smell them.” My stomach rolls with the thought. I can, too, but if she thinks they were alive then I’m damn glad she didn’t see what I found after Bob called me.

I find myself leaning against the wall, some part of me falling into a damn trance as she carries on around the room, reciting everything in exact order. The lines of the cage floor. The shackles that were hanging. The curtains that were heavy against the back wall, ones I eventually pulled down to let some fucking light and fresh air into the cesspool of filth and blood that was here.

She turns abruptly, scanning the walls in the corner. “The gun.” What? She flusters her hands around the woodwork, skimming the wallpaper lightly. “The bullet must be here somewhere. That’ll prove this is true.” I didn’t find any guns, apart from the one in Jack’s hand, and that’s still under this suit to this day. “I shot at Lewis here. Well, not at him. I only wanted to scare him off really.” She glances back at me. “And they were in the way so I couldn’t see straight anyway.”

“Who?”

“The men. They were in front of me after I let them out, protecting me,” she mumbles, still searching. My brow creeps up, wondering what fucking planet she’s on. I can’t damn well deny any of this truth, though. No matter how much I want to. “Oh, for god’s sake. It must be here.” She inches down the wall, peering, and still not finding what’s she’s after. Her head swings back again, looking at me. “I was right where you are, Toby.” She storms over. “Do you have a gun? Of course you do. All Americans have a gun. Give it to me.”

“You think I’m giving you my fucking gun? In your state of mind?” She frowns.

“Okay then, hold it yourself and point it over there.” My eyes roll at the suggestion, making me sip another damn drink and huff. She quirks her head at me, somehow steamrolling me into doing what she says. “Scared, Toby? Not so much like Jack then, hey?”

Perhaps it’s intrigue, or perhaps it’s just the suggestion that he was braver than I am, but I’m pushing of the wall, putting my drink down, and getting the fucking thing out before I’ve over thought it. She gasps, reaching for it. I snatch it back to my side.

“Not likely, Madeline.”

“That’s Jack’s.” Fuck.

“How the hell do you know that?”

She shakes her head and smiles, disregarding whatever thought she’s had. “It’s the one I used, Toby. He opened the panel and let me have it.” How the hell does she know about that? “Hold it up.” She trails off again as I slowly raise it at her, and walks to the wall, inspecting it until eventually she turns and points at a small indent in the shadow of the door frame, a triumphant smile gracing her face. “See. Bullet.” And then she’s off out of the room, determination in every step. “Not mad, Toby.” I follow again, noting the small hole she pointed out and peering into it to find exactly that. Damn, she’s right. “Come help me find the other one,” she calls.

“What other one?” I pick up my drink and slowly exit the room, wondering what else she’s about to tell me.

“Well, he was trying to shoot himself and I stopped him.” That is mad. He’s dead.

“Gravestone?”

“Yes, but not then. I mean, he is dead, you’re right, but he wasn’t a few hours ago. Well, not to me anyway.” I turn onto the second floor and find her skimming her hands over the steps, searching again. “We wrangled the gun. Fought. I stopped him, but the gun shot around here somewhere and he was desperate to find the bullet.” She moves again, glancing around. “Now I think about it, he said he didn’t want to let another woman down. Muttered it beneath his breath.”

Stupidity, or intrigue, has me searching with her, because that is just what he would have said. He was so angry at himself for allowing their deaths. He blamed himself for it all, no matter how many times I tried to tell him there was nothing he could have done. Weeks and weeks passed and all he did was drink himself into a stupor, barely existing but for these old walls around him. He revered them, said they were all that was left of Selma and Lenon. And then he seemed to change, became someone I barely knew at all. It happened overnight. I eventually knew why two days after I found him dead. He’d found the fuckers, made them pay.

I smile at the thought, part disgusted by what he became and yet still in awe of him because of it. My brother, never one to let something go until he’d got the better of it, beaten it.

“Why can’t I find it, Toby?” she says, scrabbling around on her hands and knees. I watch her and slow my searching until I can’t be bothered and just watch her move. “I’ve got to find it. Prove this somehow.” I’m not that sure she needs to anymore. Not for my benefit anyway. For some reason, and maybe because of those earlier words, I believe her. Or at least I believe she believes it.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” she snaps, her face flying to mine as I look down at her and sit on a step. “It does to me. I need to know why. Why did they make me kill him?”

“Who?”

“My husband.” Her fingers fly to her mouth the moment she says it, her body halting its erratic movements. “Madeline Blisedy.” She chuckles a little and looks back at the stained glass window, musing the patterns of light that come in. “How much did you say you wanted for the house?”

“What?” She laughs. She laughs out loud and all but falls onto the step behind her until she’s almost hysterical.

“Oh god. I’m free, Toby.” Where the fuck is this going now?