PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller

by Michelle Muckley

  Chapter twenty

  It was Ishiko that left me bewildered at the table, breathing hard and struggling for air. I am alone now, save a few birds braving the chill of the winter temperatures who are circling like sharks above my garden. She said a lot during the last five minutes, but there are only a few of her words that I have remembered. A lot of them just hit me on their journey through, blinding me and deafening me as they travelled like a shot from a handgun through my eye, tearing through my mind and ripping it clean, the bang bursting my ears and rendering me senseless. But a few words, her final words to be precise, that I heard so loudly that they have left me with tinnitus, ringing like cymbals in my ears. They scared me to the point that I now feel that I myself am my own enemy. Try…..to…..remember.

  There is a woman in my house that knows more about my life than I do and I am terrified by this fact. I have lost so much of my mind that I cannot remember things that she knows, and she makes me think there are important elements to the past that I should remember and I simply cannot. I have to see Dr. Abrams. Maybe he can extract these memories with the precision of a surgeon, and force me to see what she tells me I am missing. There is no more time for softly-softly, or step-by-step. I need to know. Now. I call him but he doesn’t answer. I replace the phone on its base. I can hear her upstairs moving around. I pick up the phone and try again but he still doesn’t answer. I focus on the front door, then the rear door that leads outside from the kitchen, and then the window in the hallway. All exit routes. She is carrying on as normal, but there is something different. She is faster today. Moving at a quicker pace, dashing rather than shuffling. I can see the flowers in the kitchen that she cut yesterday waiting for me. I consider leaving them there and going upstairs and confronting her but even the thought of it makes me sweat and this level of tension isn’t good for me or the baby so I stay put with one bare hand on the phone. I watch my hand for a while, lounging like a holidaymaker with not a care in the world. As certain as I can be in this state of tension I become convinced that I can see something moving from the phone and onto my skin. It is like a film or a shadow, a mist creeping over me and I know that it is unsafe. I pull my hand away and dash to wash my hands in the downstairs toilet, fighting back the tears.

  Something I remember. Gregory’s touch when I came home. His delicate fingers nursed me, I know this. They picked away individual hairs that stuck to my summer sweat-drenched forehead. It was as if each individual strand had the power to fight me, to kill me, and so he picked them away one by one. My eyes remained in a closed state of recovering desolation. My only hope was to die, to drown, to depart. Yet I remained. But this is a pieced together memory, a patchwork of half truths and flashbacks. Perhaps this is nothing like what really happened. Perhaps she is right. The truth is somewhere in those gaps in memory, the answers to why I know that my life doesn’t feel like my own and why he doesn’t really love me. I will try to remember, and until I can I will do as he said. I will pretend.

  I go upstairs, enter my room. I wash my hands again. I pull away the plaster and bite my lip as I open the wound on my hand, allowing the blood to pour out into the stream of cold water. I wash my hands. I dry them. I am bleeding. I remove the drawer from my bedside table and take out the pearl bracelet. A drop of blood drips onto the carpet. I see Ishiko’s image staring back at me, her head severed down the middle by a perfect fold. I snatch it out and hold it in both hands to my chest and chin. The tension through my fingers threatens to tear it apart without any conscious effort. I feel my breath reverberating back from the photograph to my own face, as if the image is coming alive in my hands and by tearing it I would really kill her. My own blood has trickled down my arm and I imagine it is hers, pouring from her sliced up body. I tear the image, slow at first but then with a final injection of effort she has been separated into two parts. I shove her dismembered image back into the drawer space and return the drawer. I pick up the bracelet and I hold it tight and…..

  …..I am holding the flowers and Marianne opens the door. Snow has fallen and mist surrounds me. I cannot see the road behind me. She is so pleased to see me. I feel myself smile. She is speaking and I answer her, but I have no idea what either of us is saying. I am on autopilot. She makes tea, we drink it. We talk. We laugh. At some point I say something that makes her touch my face in a loving way but I don’t know what I said to cause it. We are in the lounge and I see Mary staring back at me from all directions. In a moment of lucidity she tells me that John has told her she must leave early today. He is still angry at her about last Friday. She shows me how she has packed and that she has to leave now, even though she would like to stay with me and chat. There is a small bag that waits for her at the side of the door that looks lonely. I help her to the car with it. I tell her I have to use the toilet before I leave. I go upstairs. The curtains are open and the bed is made. The sun is shining here. Her things have been removed, the house consumed by reality. Marianne doesn’t exist here today. She is in the car, packed into a small overnight bag. On one of the bedside tables there is a picture of John. On the other, Mary. Assuming that they do not wish to look at their own faces, I sit on Mary’s side of the bed, the one with John’s image. I pick it up. He is younger here. He is of an age when he loved her, maybe. I rest the silver frame back onto the glass table, leaving a bloody fingerprint on the glass. The cleaner has been in. Looking around the room, there is a small collection of stuffed toys, bears of variable sizes, lined up on an ottoman. Some of them have been positioned with their arm around another in an act of enforced friendship, which makes me feel sad and I cannot bring myself to look at them anymore. There seems such hope and such dreams placed on these tiny animal bears that I have to look away, close my eyes, for I know that real life holds nothing of the same promise. I feel my pain much more acutely in the presence of others who know nothing of real life, but who in spite of their daily toil manage to remain positive and hopeful, finding joy in the simplest of places. The sheets are edged with lace and the delicate rose pattern is repeated across them like confetti at a wedding. The carpet is pink and dated. There are no glasses on the bedside table. There is a suit hanging that seems to have been returned from the drycleaners. I open the drawers and see Mary’s clothes in one drawer, John’s in another. They remain together. I wonder where Marianne leaves her things when she is here.

  “Charlotte, are you finished?” she calls up the stairs. I pull the pearl bracelet from the pocket of my jeans. I rest it on the glass of the bedside table in front of John’s picture. There is a small drop of blood on it and more on my finger. I move across to the other side and tip Mary’s image on its front. I close the door behind me without making a sound.

  “Sorry about that,” I say.

  She is smiling at me again, giggling but only briefly. She takes a glance at her watch, taps the glass face before saying, “Anyway, I really must be going.” I wonder if she picked up his suit. I wonder if she rearranges the bears whilst she is here. If he needs a shirt ironing, who will do it? Is she really his substitute wife, filling the void that others have left behind them just like Ishiko tells me she is doing? I wonder why anybody wants to be the filler of a void. I hate Marianne for being such a willing filler. It is pathetic not to want to have your own place in the world, your own position in life, and I can feel some of the anger that I previously fed off returning to my bones and I feel better. It is like a good old friend who has returned to me in the fog to show me the way and guide me back. I feel much.....

  Later that day I call Dr. Abrams again but still he doesn’t answer. Where is he? I consider driving to his office but I am certain that if I get there and he is not available the risk to me is greater than if I remain here and wait. I try to focus on the holes in the patchwork of my life and to remember the pieces that should be there instead of lost. I must fill in these voids myself. I must fill the void left by my absence and in turn push her out. Push Ishiko out. Take back my life, whilst I still can.

&n
bsp; Gregory was late home and I was sat in the drawing room when he arrived. I had already eaten. Long day, he said. Didn’t want to talk about it. Ishiko followed him into the room carrying a small tray on top of which was a brandy. Without looking at her he handed her what looked like post, something I found odd because I didn’t remember seeing any letters in the hallway. “Deal with these Ishiko,” he said, and she took them from his outstretched arm. I was captivated by the brandy still on the tray in her other hand. It was a work of art. She had poured it exactly as he liked in a spotless beaker, over ice with crisp sharp edges which reflect the light like mirrors. It was perfect looking, without any trace of a flaw. His preference.

  “What?” he said as he finally looked up to question her continued presence. “What’s this?”

  “Your brandy, Mr. Astor,” she said, smiling. He stared at her for a moment longer than I would have liked. Their eyes met and something was exchanged, but I was uncertain as to what it was exactly.

  “I didn’t ask for it,” he says, resuming his hardened stance. “Take it away.” He was muttering under his breath as she left the room about the waste. We must have both heard him. We were certainly supposed to.

  He eats in the drawing room, with me. We don’t speak whilst he balances the white china plate that looks too fancy for a laptop dinner on an elegantly crossed knee. In any memory I have, it seems like the most alien thing to expect Gregory to eat from his knees. I notice that he tries to preserve his table manners. A napkin across his lap, a knife and fork to take only small mouthfuls. He has tried to look casual, ambivalent to the lack of etiquette in his actions. But eventually it all becomes too much for him and so he drags over the occasional table and puts the plate down on top of it. I can see the relief wash over him as he sets about finishing his half eaten dinner. I wait with good intentions for him to finish and speak. I am thinking about my hair, my face, the fact I am wearing no makeup. I wonder if he finds me attractive today, or if I look swollen, puffy, ugly, or unworthy. He stands and looks through his CD collection, selects a song I have never heard. It is a piano, a violin, a lullaby of two halves, two individuals who effortlessly blend.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says as he turns to look at me as the music starts. He looks tired, and he bends down to light the fire. Striking the match, he cups it in his hand to allow the spark to catch before using it to set small fires which look like ancient beacons along the Scottish borders to warn of imminent invasion. Satisfied with his effort he sits next to me on the settee, his arms outstretched and around me. We sit for a while, both of us entranced by the flames as it blisters and cracks into life. It is Gregory who breaks the silence. “I have not been fair. I understand now. You.....you, need my help.”

  I turn my head slightly, but I cannot turn properly because he has gripped me as tight as a straightjacket and his face is so close to mine that I cannot get a proper look at him. But I do catch a glimpse of his eyes and I see the fire reflecting in them. It makes him look wild, like a tiger. “I do,” I say, and I feel him tighten his arms around me even more, relieved at last to have a victim for whom he can care. He is needed again.

  “Things will get easier. You have to understand, many things have been.....difficult. I was trying. I mean,” he stops, and just for a moment I feel him take a stuttered breath inwards that makes me wonder if he is trying hard not to cry. He controls himself and instead he says, “I tried, for a while at least.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Back then, it was too much. What you asked of me. I tried but I couldn’t do it.” I don’t say anything. Instead I wait. “I am scared. I admit it. I never thought we would be in this position. I told myself nothing between us would ever be this hard. Never.” His grip loosens and he turns me around to face him. “But I will try. I must try. I must try to be here.”

  “Can you be here?” I ask.

  “I can try. Can you?” I don’t know if I can. I do know that I still feel the pull of the lake, but that I do try not to, which is a start. I nod my head. Our discussion is broken by the sound of shouting. It is coming from next door. I can hear tears, raised voices. Something was smashed. “I guess it is not just us,” he smiles, glad of the break in intensity. A shift in focus.

  “I was thinking that we could have a dinner party on Sunday. Not here, but we could go out. Invite everybody.” He turns his lips up, curls them as if he is pondering what I said.

  “Sounds good,” he says without a hint of interest.

  I can hear the phone ringing in the background and Ishiko answers it. She is telling Stephen Jones that I am unavailable, as she has been trained to do. I hear her say she cannot confirm if we will be in the house tomorrow morning. She hangs up. Gregory shifts in his seat as he listens to Ishiko and gets up to stoke the fire.

  “Should be warm enough for you until you want to go to bed. I am going to go up, I’m pretty tired.”

  “You don’t want to sit with me for a while?” I ask.

  “I want to go to sleep.” He turns to me and strokes my head, pets me like a small dog eager to please his master. “I will be at the hotel in the morning. Arrange Sunday, if you want.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Yes, I have to do a few things. Join me, if you like. We can eat on the new deck.” I nod but there is no enthusiasm in his voice and I think he might forget about this invitation as soon as he is through the doorway.

  I stay by the fireplace for a while, watching the flames dancing up towards the chimney. I look over at the Wexley’s house and cannot hear anything, but the lights are on downstairs. By the time I follow him to bed he is already asleep in our bed. At least his eyes were closed, and when I speak to him, “Gregory, are you awake,” I whisper, he chooses not to reply. I am grateful that he is next to me, and I tell myself that I can't have everything all at once. I pick up my pyjamas and dress in the bathroom in case he is secretly awake. I do not want to answer any questions about the growth lines that I have marked on myself. Tomorrow morning I will measure the extent of my expanding stomach. I expect changes each day, even if they are almost undetectable. Somebody has to measure the growth.

  I complete my routines, which have magnified since Ishiko and I spoke this morning. I have counted thirty times for hand washing, I have checked the windows are locked downstairs twenty two times, and I am currently rinsing my mouth for the third time tonight. My hands are redder than they have ever been and seem to scream for attention. A red warning sign, STOP, they shout, but I do not listen and for my efforts the open wound on the fleshy triangle of skin bleeds like a faulty tap, weeping for me in sadness. I enjoy the process of healing when it has an outward sign that I can display to the world such as this wound. I have always been in the process of healing, but it seems that when that healing is confined to one’s head it is much less acceptable than an obvious wound. The world around a victim of an accident, a cancer, a heart attack, they rally and fight together to restore the balance of wellness. When the illness lies within the soul, the character, the very make up of that person and what makes them who they are, people are suspicious. They know deep down that there is no hope. It took Gregory a while to realise this, but he did, and just like Ishiko implies, he abandoned me to my own senseless life. I do not know if it is guilt, pity, or a true willingness to accept me again that brings him here to our bed tonight. But for now perhaps it seems that he is able to forget about who I really am, and pretend that I am nothing more than the mother of his child. If this is what he is offering me, I will take it.

  I lie awake for longer than I initially expected. I picked at the wound on my hand a little, hoping that it would be enough to settle me to sleep, but it wasn’t so I started on my head. Although it wasn't causing me any pain, I managed to open a small bauble of something creamy that when I brought it close to my nose smelled rotten. I got out of bed and wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves, I washed the wound. When I removed the gloves there was a small coating of powder that seemed to h
ave congregated in the cracks of my hands and also in the open wound in a way that had stemmed the bleeding. I was considering the idea of either leaving it there or washing my hands when I was distracted by something happening outside of my window. It was the Wexley’s. Although the arguing that had started earlier had stopped I heard a yelp of helplessness. I imaged them sat on opposite sides of the settee, Mary crying, Wexley pleading, begging her for forgiveness whilst she demands to know who his latest fling was and who the bloody pearl bracelet belongs to. I thought about calling Marianne, but having her arrive now, as entertaining as it might be would be a disaster for my plans. It wouldn’t make anything right. Wexley wouldn’t really understand his mistake if it culminated in a showdown tonight, and therefore Gregory wouldn’t pay any attention to it either. Gregory must see what happens when betrayal seeps into life, and rather than stamp it out you welcome it and nurture it. He will see what is possible.

  When I hear the door close I get up and look out of the window. I pull back the curtain to see John Wexley stepping into his car. The night is perfectly clear, a crystal ball of vision, no fog, with the slightest hint of diamond frosting on the roof of his car. He scrapes at the window, a small peephole through the layer of frost. The gravel shifts underneath his tyres as he drives away, taking his hopes for a swift return with him. He will be back, tomorrow at the latest. Of this I am sure. But the seeds are planted and I will water them so that they might grow into something even more impressive.

  Gregory will see exactly what happens when you try to fuck me over.

  Chapter twenty one

  By the time I woke Gregory was leaving the house. I stirred once as he washed and dressed, and I remember him telling me to go back to sleep. I drifted in and out of sleep for the next half an hour until finally I woke with a start at 8:32 AM. At first I thought that Wexley was back, the raised voices a sign of an impending argument. I thought to myself that it had been pretty quick, even by Mary’s standards. I jumped out of bed and pulled back the curtains only to see a scene of quiet, and Wexley’s car was not on their driveway. Releasing the curtain from my grip, I turned my attentions downstairs. The voices were either coming from the drawing room or kitchen. They were raised, but hushed, a sort of scream that comes out when you don’t want to be heard. A shout through gritted teeth. I listen closely, but the voices are muffled. I cannot make out the words.