The Spiral

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  THE SPIRAL

  A Dark Romance

  Copyright ©2018 by Charlotte E Hart

  Cover Design by MAD

  Formatting by MAD

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved alone, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of those trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  “An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.”

  Charles Dickens

  Chapter 1

  Jack

  T he pad vibrates in my fingers, an enthusiastic yelp coming at me from the distance because of it. I scowl, enough energy left in the sound to make me wander through the woods towards it. I don’t need to. Two more presses against this pad and they’ll be rushing back to my feet anyway, but there’s still that obstinate element in me that enjoys the sound of their pained howls. Likes to see it.

  Dogs.

  There are three of them. I’ve let them out for their weekly run. One is bulky and stout. He’s the fighter, the one who pushes the other two off the food. The leaner one is crafty, forever hovering behind the stout one’s feet, waiting for his chance. And the last one is near starving, scavenging for any small scrap he’s left with, constantly whining. They’re hunting for rabbit now, foraging through ditches and headlands, hoping for something to eat. It’s their chance to open up and stretch, my offer of normality. Although, they won’t get any more freedom anytime soon.

  I stare around the parkland, letting the warmth of the sun bask down on me in the hope I’ll feel it. I don’t. It may as well be the depths of winter for me. Everything is cold, pointless. It’s only these three dogs that keep me going. Feed them. Walk them. Train them. Remind them. That’s it. Nothing else exists for me other than those four disciplines.

  My phone rings somewhere on my body. I ignore it, not caring for whatever irrelevant topic the caller wishes to discuss. I have no reason to talk to anyone now apart from these dogs and one member of staff, and he barely gets conversation. It beeps a message at me, one I’ll ignore further until I can be bothered to look at it later. The last message was from my brother, some counter topic about selling up soon. I ended the call before the message got a chance to finish. I’m not selling anything. Ever. It belongs to me and me alone now. No one is forcing anything from me, even if it is with the best intentions.

  Another yelp sounds out as I turn into the ditch, my finger pressing the button in my hand so one of them shows themselves to me. A flash of brown darts around the corner, mud being kicked up as it runs and tries to hunt for rabbits again. I chuckle at the sight of it, and move branches out of my way as I clamber out the other side of the boggy ground. This one’s fast. He likes to play games with me, testing my patience with every break for escape. The others are slower, easier to keep up with, but I haven’t seen either of them since we made it past the border of the headland. They’ve probably turned back, given up the chase in the hope that this one will bring home the bacon. Either way, I don’t care. The buttons I’m holding will do the work for me when I need to call them all back.

  I stroll my way through the marshy ground, picking my route carefully, and stare back at the house to look at its grandeur. It’s still as striking as it was the day we first saw it, imposing its presence on the parkland around it with little care for competition. It sits tall, casting a now ominous glow over the area and warning intruders to stay away. It never did at first. It was beautiful then, a perfect pretence of modern fairy-tales waiting for happy families and a king and queen to rule over their land, children in tow. Now it’s a mausoleum, one I create and allow myself to weep within. Happily.

  A shriek of sound splits the air’s quiet meander, growls and snarls floating through the trees back at me. I turn and hurry along the paths, wanting to see the kill and watch the throttle of fur as he takes his meal. It feeds me somehow, gives me a sense of purpose or pride. Maybe it just gives me something to live for, something to witness and cling onto. They’ve become like my children somehow now. My purpose.

  The trees clear as I round the corners, only the small bushes hindering my view of the cacophonous sound. I climb the bank, heaving my feet through the wet ground to get a clear line of sight, but I’m already too late. There’s nothing left but traces of blood surrounding his muzzle, and fur hanging from the carcass at his feet. I sneer at it, annoyed with myself for missing the entertainment, and press the buttons six times just to watch the fucking thing yelp in quick succession. His body quivers and thrashes under the shock that rides him, legs giving up bothering to stand.

  Fucking dog. I should have moved quicker, kept up with it.

  The thought’s annoying enough that I press the other buttons, too, listening for more yelps in the distance so I can punish them for this one’s indiscretion. He knows he should wait; they all do. They fucking wait until they’re told to do anything, eating included.

  Howls sound off to the left somewhere, both of them agonised and tormented. I smile at that as I look down at this one still bucking about, some element of me feeling amused with the thought, and then release the buttons and turn for home. Their run is done now, called short by this one forgetting his training. Maybe they’ll get another one next week. Maybe they won’t.

  Hard ground eventually crunches underfoot. I keep moving with little care for the continued whimpers that come from behind, and stare into a mist that’s come down. He can suffer the pain. It might make him think faster next time and remember his place. This is a partial freedom I allow them, not a chance at proving some attempt at superiority. Starving or not, they will not eat until they’re told to. They won’t do a fucking thing until they’re given permission.

  They can all go back to their damn cages and wallow in their misfortune again. Wait until I give them another chance at escape, just so I can force them back to where they dared to once wreak havoc. They can sit in their place, staring at her photographs and learn some more about what it means to destroy something I love. They’ll rot in the poison I let them drink, eat the pungent meat I charitably offer them. Beg and whinge for decency as I hurt them for their rashness, all the time staring at the faces of those they destroyed. They’ll putrefy in their mistake, dealing with whatever fate I choose to deliver for as long as
I deem necessary.

  Damn dogs. Vile, insipid, treacherous fucking dogs.

  If she were alive now, they’d know the benefits of protecting her at all costs, know how much more pleasurable life is with her around.

  They’d know their manners now.

  They’d kill for her rather than take liberties they never should have damn well taken.

  Chapter 2

  Maddy

  F ifteen minutes I’ve been standing here looking out into the garden. Fifteen minutes digesting the last hour and trying to find another way for us, but there’s nothing left anymore.

  It’s hopeless.

  I stare out into perfected grounds and manicured lawns. There should be nothing like the spring to remind me how life should be—warm, carefree, happy. The ground beneath me dry. The skies above me blue. But life isn’t carefree here; it isn’t happy, and nothing here is warm. This world I live in is dead. A lie. A jail, if truth be told. Nothing but fragmented dreams and shattered skin. That’s all there is now. Shattered skin.

  Cradling my face and trying to find another rag to soak in ice, I eventually shuffle my way out to the garage, clinging to the wall as I go. It’s not that far from the house, and thankfully I can get to it from the back door, meaning I don’t have to go around the front. I’m not ready for that yet.

  Not yet.

  I’ve managed to cover it for years. Sometimes with foundation, other times with hats and scarves if its winter, but this time it’s so bad I know nothing’s going to mask the bruising when it comes. And summer is coming, anyway, that lovely time of year when everyone should be leaping about in close to nothing. Enjoying the sun on their skin and appreciating all that life is, perhaps getting in the pool at the bottom of this garden and having some fun, a barbeque even. That’s not going to happen this summer. Not that it’s happened for any other summer in the last two years with any plausible admittance of contentment.

  The door creaks as I shove my weary frame against it and flick the light on, hoping it will help me see through the swelling that’s beginning to worsen on my left eye, but the fluorescent light is so bright it actually makes it harder to see rather than easier so I switch it off again and rest in the dark instead. Maybe I should just stay in here, lock the door and stay where he can’t get to me. I chuckle at myself as I turn to the freezer and pull on the handle. He’ll get to me anywhere, won’t he? Always has. Always will.

  I tried getting away from him the second time it happened with any real brutality. I went to Callie’s house and told her he’d gone away to mull his actions over. I told her that he’d apologized and said it was just stress, that he didn’t mean it. She’d snorted and slapped my non bruised cheek immediately, a sharp reminder that once they hit, they always hit. Once they beat, they always beat. Once in fear, always in fear. She was right. I may not have believed her at the time, and I certainly didn’t listen to her when he came and picked me up to take us back home, but she was right.

  I’ve been scared ever since.

  Nothing’s changed. Maybe he was better for a while. He didn’t hit me, anyway. But the aggression’s always been there, lurking in his hands and waiting to come out. He wasn’t like this when we originally met. I couldn’t have asked for a better man than the Lewis I met in Paris as I placed my crepe order. He was kind, thoughtful, and extremely attractive with his relaxed sense of style. He paid for my crepe as I shyly smiled back, and then we sat by the Seine all afternoon and chuckled about anything and everything.

  He was slightly older than me, but that didn’t matter. I was nineteen and in a French college studying French and biology. What did I care? He was nice, seemed happy enough and laughed all the time. We laughed all the time. And attentive, he was always so attentive. He’d pamper me with all sorts of things, taking me to high end shops and expensive restaurants. I guess I never questioned where it all came from. I just enjoyed it. I enjoyed him.

  It wasn’t until about a month or so of dating that I found out about his family and their wealth. Fourth son of Phillipe Blisedy—France’s answer to the millionaire club. Bankers. Not that Lewis showed any interest in either the money or the industry. He seemed to not give a damn. He took me out after college, showed me all the sights he’d grown up with. He even got me into appreciating art and literature as he talked endlessly about sculpture and design, something I’d never been interested in before him. But the moment we moved to America, it all stopped. Everything changed after that job offer of his, the one his father made him take.

  Life was never the same again.

  The ice stings as I tentatively hold it over my eye and let my body sink down to the floor in exhaustion. One hour fighting for my life again. One hour trying to curl myself up as tightly as possible so he couldn’t get to my face. One hour just hoping that if he didn’t get to my face then at least I’d be able to leave the house and go to work. One hour I shouldn’t have bothered trying for. I should have just let him do it straight away. Stood there, opened my arms, and let him get the death punch in instantly. Taken it and let him have his ego helped on its way before his meeting.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have the split skin on my calf from his shoe then, or the grip marks on my arms, or the hair ripped from my scalp. Instead, I’m a walking disaster again. One who’s going to have to cancel all my appointments and rearrange, tell the museums they will just have to look after themselves, and somehow put off the Blandenhyme deal for a while.

  I find myself staring into space as I dab at my eye continuously and gently feel for where my hair used to be, foolishly wishing the bruising away. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Not that any time is a good time for being beaten, but one week before the biggest deal of my life isn’t great. If I wasn’t so furious with just that thought, I’d be crying I’m sure. I’d probably be screaming silently into this gloomy garage and asking ‘why me?’ constantly like I have done all the other times, but I’ve got no questions left anymore. No tears either. There’s just anger and frustration in me now. Hatred, if I’m honest.

  I don’t love him anymore. I don’t like him anymore, and I can’t put up with his self-serving attitude anymore. In fact, I can’t remember one damn thing to make me want to stay anymore, regardless of the enormous attempt at a home we’ve built. It’s time to get on with the plan. Madeline’s plan. Money, most definitely, is not everything.

  Some time passes as I look at my bare legs and wonder which trousers to wear tomorrow instead of a skirt. That’s all I’ve got. Which Prada or Gucci trousers to put on next. Any of the hundreds of pairs will do, I suppose. They’ll all cover the broken skin, or the scars left from the other beatings I’ve taken. He’s always liked the legs; he knows they can be covered easily.

  I still don’t know why he did it. I’ve asked a thousand times, pleaded for some semblance of apology in the aftermath of the event, but there’s never an answer, just the threat of another bruise and a sneer. So now I don’t care either. I’m done with this, with him. There’s nothing left for us.

  I just need to leave.

  Slowly pulling myself back up the wall, I walk back to the house with little concern for him coming home. He won’t be back until later tonight or early tomorrow morning. He’ll go to his high-powered meeting, win whatever battle he’s currently in, and demolish his opponent, undoubtedly racking up our bank account another few million as he does. And then he’ll go out and get drunk with his colleagues, celebrating his outstanding achievements in the only way he knows how—drinking. After that, he’ll roll in around two am with a bunch of flowers in his hands, stinking of some spicy perfume as he apologises again and tries to get me to have sex.

  The thought’s almost pitiful. It’s exactly the same procedure every time this happens. I can set my watch by it, and I can already hear the words as they leave his lips.

  “Mads, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It was the stress. I’m trying. Please forgive me.”

  My lip scoffs at the tone of his voice. Mads. I
hate that nickname now. He only ever uses it when he’s sorry for something. It used to be sweet, loving and full of kind thoughts. It used to fill me with joy and make me laugh. Now, the sound of it repulses me, almost to the point of wanting to be sick. Mads. Cute little Mads. Mads who rolls over and takes it. Mads who lets him get away with it. Mads who, for some godforsaken reason, loved him in spite of it. Mads Blisdey needs to die along with every other dream the stupid cow had. Madeline Cavannagh is the one who’s going to make it out of this now and find her way. Madeline is the one who will stop this unending control he has over me. And Madeline will make sure he doesn’t do it again.

  My bare feet hit the kitchen floor and I head into the dining room where the remnants of his attack still lie scattered around. Crystal ornaments, shattered. Chairs upturned. A small spray of my blood on the glass table and up the cream curtains. I pick up a silver photo frame from the floor and place it gently on the fireplace, hardly able to smile at the image of our wedding. There’s nothing to smile for anymore, no matter how happy we might appear to be in this photo. I can still remember the limp I covered by hanging onto him that day, grinning idiot that I was at the time, pretending we were fine.

  What might have once held hope is lost.

  We’re done.

  Turning the photo down and sliding the diamond rings off my finger, I place them beside the frame then turn to leave the room. I don’t bother with tidying like I normally do. Instead, I head straight to the lounge for my bag and keys, knowing this will only end when I make it end.

  I’ve been clever about it, organised myself to some degree. Bank accounts in my maiden name, enough to keep me going when he freezes everything. A house bought and paid for, which is nowhere near here. I’ve got my own business, my own car, my own everything really. Just not my own life.