You see, I believe that to be a good liar you have to put some effort in, some conscious and fore planned thought. To his credit, I believe that John Wexley is exactly this type of liar. Beyond any reasonable doubt he has most certainly lied his way through his marriage to Mary, and has the forethought, and consideration no less, to realise that at times he will be caught out. He has managed to creep his way back into the house, and so it seems for John that the only lie he has to peddle in order to rectify his situation is one of togetherness because he is already back and life goes on. I guess he was lucky that the mother died. Priorities changed, and what he did suddenly became less serious. Mary can pretend, just like Gregory, that everything is alright as long as there is togetherness. It doesn’t matter how fake or transitory it might be, as long as she can pretend.
Throughout the morning my main thought is the meeting that I have planned with Dr. Abrams. Gregory has decided that meeting with my therapist is pointless and that we should focus on the future. I can see his point, and it is true that in the moments of reflection on the past I do seem altogether worse. But I am still avoiding looking at the lake through my own windows. When I lie my head back at night and the rest of the house is quiet I still listen out to see if I can hear the water lapping against the edges of the boats, and I can still feel it pooling in my lungs. I still know it is there. I can still feel it. Its heart is still beating beneath the surface and I still know that until I die there it will not leave me alone. I belong to it.
I hope that once there is a child in the house it could deaden the sound of it. The cry and the shrill screech of a baby’s screams could suffocate my sense of my own fate. The screams could write me a new destiny. But equally I do worry that I could stay the same and that I might still feel the urge to die there, just like my own father did, leaving my child behind to a life of this. Of Gregory.
It was Gregory who announced that he had an urgent appointment that he must attend. This appointment appeared to arise from thin air, and he certainly had not told me about anything before. A stroke of good luck was that his appointment was an hour before my appointment with Dr. Abrams, and so I smiled, told him it was no problem, and that I would be fine at home alone.
As a by note, I have washed my hands nine times and picked my head three times already today. There is still a minimal amount of green slime-like fluid that comes out of the wound, and less blood than normal. I have grown by three millimetres in all directions. I am wearing a pair of latex gloves. The windows are locked, and on the front of last week’s newspaper there is a story about the weather and how it is likely it is to snow.
Chapter twenty five
On the way to Dr. Abrams I decided to pass by the estate agents where I used to work. Since Stephen Jones visited the house it has been difficult to get him out of my mind. I hadn’t expected to think about him when Gregory was lying on top of me in the hotel, but since I did I have been infested by a series of less than appropriate thoughts about him and what his manly hands might be able to do to me. I pull into a space on the main road. I make one final check of my watch and confirm that I still have half an hour until my secret appointment with Dr. Abrams.
It’s an uphill stretch from where I left the car to the entrance of the office, and by the time I open the door I am puffed out and flushed. It doesn’t help that the wind whips down Crag Brow Lane with the same force and unimpaired progress that it might blast across an open ocean, as if there is absolutely no obstacle in its way. I open the door and the little bell above me chimes. Phillipa is sat at her desk, and Martin is at the other. My desk behind them sits empty, waiting for somebody to fill it.
“Hi,” I say, waiting as they take a moment to look at each other before looking at me. Phillipa is the first to break the silence, which is so thick I can almost feel myself choking on it. I realise that my hands are empty and wish now that I had stopped at the bakery down the road and picked up a cake. They would have appreciated that, and it would have distracted them from my presence.
“Hi, Charlotte. How are you?” Her how are you is an actual question, rather than just a polite introductory snippet of conversation. I reach in my handbag and take out an antibacterial wipe and clean my gloves because the number of people who grip the door handle on any given day is innumerable.
“I’m good. Out of breath from the hill.” I smile and offer a chuckle, but neither of them seem amused. “It’s so cold outside,” I say, but they seem incapable of accepting my polite chatter, and Martin hasn’t taken his eyes of my hands. I throw the anti-bacterial wipe in the nearest bin and get straight to the point. I plaster over their obvious discomfort with my own words. “Is Stephen here?”
“Who wants to…..know?” Stephen was coming out of his office, head down, looking at the paperwork in his hand. When he looked up, his words trailed off into almost nothing as he saw me standing there. He coughed before saying, “Charlotte. You better come through.” He opened the door and waited for me to pass into his office, and then he closed it behind him. He said something to Martin and Phillipa as he was closing the door, and as I turned around to look at him, I noticed that Martin was still watching me until the very last second.
Inside the office there is a large window on one wall that allows a lot of light to stream through, but yet offers no discernible view to speak of. All you can see is the concrete wall of the next building, and some overhanging laburnum trees from the garden behind it that spark a memory of a sweet vanilla aroma in spring and bright sunshine orange flowers. He offers out his arm, indicating that I should sit. I do, and he puts the papers from his hand back down on the desk. He catches me looking at them as he sits down in his chair which makes me feel like I am at an interview, asking for my job back. I look away, suddenly wishing I hadn’t come here.
“I have a viewing,” he says as he motions to the papers. “I’m sure it’s a waste of time. Says he is from out of the area, that he wants a holiday home. It could be something but I think it’s nothing. Who’s going to buy a holiday home for over eight hundred thousand?” He opens his arms out as if weighing up the possibility of securing this sale, that it is either something or nothing. How many times I have asked this question of myself, whether I am indeed something or nothing, is beyond counting.
“Probably nothing,” I answer as I pull my scarf off.
“Exactly. You remember how it is.” He clasps his hands together, looks around the office for help and inspiration. His eyes rest on the pot of coffee. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t offer you anything. You want something to drink? It’s cold out. Freezing in fact.”
“No. I’m OK, thank you,” I say as I wave my hand in an overenthusiastic but negative fashion. A moment of silence falls upon us and we both feel out of place and awkward, and I wonder again why it was that I came. I grip my arms in my hands, hugging myself, and realise that there isn’t really any reason to be here. I just sort of arrived without purpose or intent, and now we are both feeling the awkwardness of having nothing to say. Even Stephen.
“I should go, you have work to do.” I attempt to get up from my chair, and this pushes him into action.
“No sit. Sit. I insist.” He gets up, pours me a black coffee and then sits on the edge of the desk on top of numerous house brochures. “It’s just a surprise to see you that’s all. A nice surprise,” he adds in at the last moment. He smiles at me, revealing a big set of overly white teeth. But it’s a warm smile, cheeky almost, and I find myself giggling without any real reason.
“Smells good,” I say as I bring my cup up to my nose.
“You still don’t take milk, right?” There is a moment of concern but I shake my head and confirm that he got it right. “Ah, good. It’s good to see you, Charlotte.” His eyes rest upon me as if he is studying my face, and like an oil painting hung at a gallery I feel on display. But his critique appears appreciative, as if he is looking at every brush stroke, every misplaced drop of paint, every imperfection, and finds the beauty in the overall composit
ion.
“I’m not sure Phillipa and Martin were that pleased to see me.” He laughs. “I guess once you have been mental……” I leave the sentence unfinished but bring my fingers up to my temple in a circular motion which infers irrationality in my behaviour and that I might be completely mentally warped. I shake my head back and forth, further imitating my insanity, but he has stopped laughing and doesn’t seem to see the funny side and instead just looks at me. He feels sorry for me that a joke has been made at my expense, even though I made it.
“It’s got nothing to do with that, Charlotte.” I feel an urgent need to change the subject, or get out of the office, and he recognises it because he does so on my behalf.
“It’s a shame we have lost you. You were good at your job.”
“Thanks.” I look down at my lap and stare at my hand but I feel no urge to pick at it in this moment. I take a sip of the milk-less coffee without a second thought.
“Is it better?”
“Is what better?” I ask, confused.
“The hand. Remember, the other day. You were bleeding.” He points at my hands.
“Oh, yes. It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t look like eczema.”
I put down my cup and push my hands under the desk, and then slide them under my legs. Their being on show is no longer acceptable, even through the gloves. “It’s nothing, honestly. I didn’t do it. Maybe I picked it a bit, but I didn’t do it.” My confession surprises me. I am speaking to him as if he knows me. As if I need to explain my actions to him.
“You never did, Charlotte. You never did anything. It all just, sort of happens around you.” I don’t feel like we are still talking about my hand. “But I guess that’s none of my business anymore. What’s happened has happened. You have everything you wanted now.” He nods to my stomach. “Husband, nice home, baby.”
“Apparently so.” In the moment of silence that follows I remember what he said the other day whilst we were sat in the conservatory. I look up at him and ask, “Is that why you said that I never wanted to leave, because I wanted to give up work, stay at home, and have a baby? That’s what Gregory told me I wanted.”
“What I meant, Charlotte,” he began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. The person on the other side didn’t wait to come in and a woman with long dark hair waltzes through as if the office is her own. She is wearing a beige woollen coat and a brightly coloured scarf with zigzags on it. She, and the scarf, look expensive.
“Charlotte,” she says, as if she knows me. I follow the features of her face. Her hair is black, and her eyes match. Her cheekbones would be suitable for a high fashion magazine. She doesn’t seem familiar. “You…..are here.”
“Charlotte was just leaving. She came to formally hand in her resignation.” As Stephen makes his announcement I stand up out of the chair, aware that my presence is no longer welcome.
“Oh really?” She looks at me, up and down, my coat, my gloves, my make up free face before smiling at me through pursed lips. “How are you, Charlotte?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I answer her without any clue who she is. But she knows me, and it is further damning proof that I have lost so much memory that I no longer have any real idea of how I got here today in this position and in this life. My memory is made up of fragments, of voids that I need to fill in. My past is an open book with blank pages, waiting for strangers to mark it with their version of my truth.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she says to me, without trying to hide the grin that is appearing on her face.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Isabella. Stephen’s wife. We met at the Christmas party, last year.” She holds out her hand and I take it, and despite the fact that she has just pulled off her leather glove, I keep mine on and feel better for knowing my disinfectant wipes are close by. “If you remember, I had to go home early, our son had been sick. I left you all there. Together.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” She doesn’t answer me. Instead she hands Stephen a set of keys which she tells him he left behind that morning. Apparently he would never have got in their house later on without them as she herself was going out. He takes them. He puts them in his pocket.
“Anyway, I really must go,” Stephen says. “Charlotte, thanks. All the very best of luck.” He ushers us both out of the door.
“OK, bye. Bye Isabella,” I say as I turn around whilst walking through the door. My scarf slips through my leather gloves and as I lean down to pick it up my Triquetra necklace falls free, swinging out in front of me like a pendulum. I stand back up, tuck it in and drape my scarf across my shoulder.
“Beautiful necklace,” Isabella says, staring at my now covered neckline. “Isn’t it, Stephen?”
He nods as I say, “thank you.”
“Where did you get it from? It looks local,” she says.
“No, it isn’t. My father gave it to me. It’s very old. I always wear it.”
“I could have sworn I saw something similar in the window of the jewellers just the other day. I must be wrong,” says Isabella, smiling again. I say my goodbyes and leave without looking back.
I walk back to my car and sit inside. The sips of coffee have left a very strong taste in my mouth, and I can feel it furring up on my tongue with each breath I take. Just as I was about to drive away I hear a tap at the window. It is Stephen and I nearly jump out of my skin, but he doesn't seem alarmed at all. I press the button and the window disappears into the door. He is staring straight at me, as if taking a mental picture, reading me for reactions, but he doesn't wait for me to speak and he doesn't apologise for startling me either.
“I meant that you never could do what you wanted. That you never found the courage to leave him, even after what he did.” He looks away from me, shakes his head. “If ever you do,” he says as he reaches into the car to touch my cheek, “call me.” With that he leaves, and even when I call out for him to stop he continues to get into his car. By the time I open my door and get out to ask him what he meant he was already driving away, and he didn’t turn to look at me again. I drove to Dr. Abrams wondering what the hell had just happened between us.
Chapter twenty six
The waiting room at Dr. Abrams office is small. It is perhaps three meters square in both directions and painted in daffodil yellow so that in here it is a perpetual spring, the season that brings new life and a second chance. It is a cross between a waiting room and a home, designed so you feel like you belong, which is strange, because most people in here probably don’t feel like they belong anywhere. I know I don’t, even though the snow is melting from my boots and into the carpet. I can see small frost crystals forming in the drips of water, trying to anchor me to the floor. I shuffle my feet and they break, setting me free.
There is a stone fireplace with three ornaments on the mantel piece, an owl, a vase with red fake flowers in, and a small trinket box. The owl sits in the middle, staring back at me with a near human quality. The owl is the perfect night hunter, its life lived out in the shady conditions of night. They can sit for hours, stationary and camouflaged, waiting and stalking. Their awareness of their surroundings is acute, well trained. I asked Dr. Abrams about the owl during one visit. I asked him why it was there. He told me that owls are wise, an invisible see-er of all things, even when the dark and the shadows cloud the vision of others. He told me it represented him, and this is how he would help me, to see in the dark when I could not. He wanted to be my eyes and my ears so that I could see life in the way he did. I told him that the owl is also the bringer of death, the night-stalker who swoops without warning, a connection to the underworld. That when it was dark it was the owl that would find you, finish you off, and that no matter how much you tried to hide, your undoing would be inevitable. He hadn’t considered this.
I sit in the pink chair, waiting. There are four other chairs here and only one of them is being used. In it sits a child, no older than ten years old. Her feet
dangle over the edge and she is swinging them back and forth. Her hair has been pulled back into side bunches, high up, and too childlike for her age. She smiles at me. It is the smile of an adult, a smile which says to me that she understands why we are here. She knows the part she plays in this. We both hear the mumble of voices on the other side of the wall and then the door opens and a woman who I assume is the child’s mother comes out. She is jittery and quick in her movements, her head never coming upright. I smile at Dr. Abrams and then look back to the child. Her smile has gone, and she offers out an arm for her mother to hold. She takes it, and the child helps to steady the woman as they leave. The child doesn’t look at me. There are no more smiles. Instead, she slips back into her real life, the one outside the office of a psychologist, the one that will change her as she grows, and to the one that will deliver her back here in this same office when she is my age.
PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Page 25