PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (17 page)

When
I wake up on my bed it is 6:33 PM.  I woke up smiling because in spite of what
had happened earlier being anything less than satisfying Gregory was here
again.  He was alive.  I could smell him on me.  The world was good.  I woke
because Gregory opened the door.  He was virtually ready, wearing his suit,
with only a tie to arrange.  I was wearing only pants and my necklace.

“Charlotte,
it’s time to wake up.  Time for a shower.”  He looked away as if embarrassed.  He
stayed in the shadows and as soon as I was awake he was gone and the door was
closed again.

I
did as he said and stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water.  It ran
powerfully and loud.  I left it to run for a minute or so whilst I stared at my
used body in the mirror.  I was good again, valuable.  I was good for him and
good for the baby.  It was a body of worth, of pleasure, of the future.  It had
purpose other than to bleed and to die.  It was only after several minutes of
evaluation that I noticed the plughole was blocked and that the water was
pooling in the shower tray.  I turned off the water and found my rubber gloves from
underneath the sink.  I gave a quick poke at the plug hole but I couldn’t see
anything stuck in it.  In the few inches of water that had pooled in the tray
there were a few hairs swimming freely, and a few that had floated up but
remained attached to something beyond the drain.  I couldn’t shower like this.

After
wiping the gloves with a disinfectant wipe and placing them back in the Ziploc
bag from which I took them and washing my hands with the vigour you would
expect from me, I wrap the towel around me, enveloping my precious body and
open my bedroom door.  I could hear the telephone ringing on the hallway
table.  Nobody was answering it.  Between rings there was another noise.  A
familiar noise, but foreign at the same time.  It was a noise I had never heard
before, but yet knew what it was.  The song of a new bird, most definitely
bird, undoubtedly avian, but nothing my ears have previously documented.  The
phone stopped.  The birds sang.  There were two.  One I knew.  One was new.

The
door to Ishiko’s room was open.  Ajar.  Enough to hear somebody coming.  I
heard knocking growing louder and faster, and the familiar sounds of Gregory’s
grunting grew in strength with each step I took and with each grunt I heard.  Avoiding
the creaky floorboard I arrived outside the door.  I peered in and saw them for
the first time in reality rather than in my mind, visible in the reflection of
the wall mirror.  She was sat on the dresser, her skinny legs wrapped around
his soft naked flesh.  His face was in her chest, her neck, over her arms, her
cheeks.  His tongue was out licking at her like a cat.  One arm looked like it was
gripping her hips against his, and another hand was on her breast.  All the
while I was stood there only a meter away from them his hips were moving
backwards and forwards and in rhythm with his grunting.  She was facing me but
her eyes were closed – I think – and her head was tilted backwards.  He was
fucking her like he had never fucked me.  I don’t know how long I was there
for.  Minutes, seconds.  Could have been hours.  That’s how it felt. 

I
left for the fear that they would hear my own heart beat which was threatening
to tear through my chest.  I forgot the creaky floorboard and as I stepped onto
it I woke from my trance and I ran to my room and closed my bedroom door behind
me like a scared child shutting out the world.  Like I was in the wrong.  My
hands were over my ears, except for the odd occasion when my knuckles reached
up and struck themselves against my forehead.  My skin tingled from top to
bottom.  My skin trembled on top of my bones like a fibrillating heart.  I
wretch.  I swallow it.  He must have heard the creaky floorboard because I hear
that the singing has stopped.  There is silence.  I discard my towel and get in
the shower irrespective of the water in the tray and the hairs and one of them
wraps itself around my big toe like a noose so I start counting in my head
maybe out loud but I cannot be sure but each number is met by a different image
of them together flashing before me and I only get to twenty one seconds before
he opens the bathroom door and he is fully dressed but his shirt is a little
bit dishevelled and his hair is a mess because what is usually slicked over
into a nice neat side parting has worked its way loose and he has.....

“Charlotte,
can you hear me?"  I look up, see his lips moving, and try to
concentrate.  "Everything OK?” he says, a cheery little bird with a smile
sweet as acid.

“Why
shouldn’t it be?”  I am standing completely still, still wearing my pants,
water cascading over me.  I can feel it trickling into my mouth and it tastes
like blood.

“I
thought I heard you call me?”

“No.” 
My face was covered in water.  If I am crying, of which I have no idea if I am
or not, my tears would have been camouflaged and he wouldn’t see them. 

“Oh,
OK.”  He slackened off the door handle which I can see he is gripping
very
tightly.  Something catches his attention on the other side of the wall behind
him.  He only moves his eye lids a fraction, but it’s enough for me to notice
and enough for me to realise that she has followed him.  His knuckles are
white, the bones almost piercing through his skin.  “Well, hurry up, we have to
be leaving soon.”  He closes the door behind him.  I was alone again.

I
washed.  Everywhere.  Everything.  I covered myself in shower gel.  Inside and
out.  I even drank a bit and then decided it was bad for the baby so made
myself sick.  I dried.  Got dressed.  I did my make-up.  I put my hair behind
my ears.  Side parting.  I wore a blue dress.  Long shift dress.  It’s my
favourite, Gregory tells me.  I put black shoes on.  Stilettos.  Pointed like
weapons.  I walk down the stairs.  Gregory is standing there.  He is wearing
his coat waiting.  Ishiko holds mine.  I stop and stare at her.  I can smell
her.  She smells of sweat.  Of sex.  Of Lavender.  Of him.  I now know he
fucked her over that same chair.  Where I sit.  Where I slept.  Where he groped
me.  Where I was the warm up show.  How many times I have been out and they
have been alone.  I cannot count them.

“Come
on,” he says, urging me on in a kind of irritated fashion, spastic and seizure like,
but I can sense a degree of apprehension.  I don’t say anything.    

I
take my coat from Ishiko never once ceasing to look at her.  She doesn’t look
at me.  I wear it.  She hands me my gloves.  I follow him out of the door.  I
turn back.  I stare at Ishiko.  I don’t care what she has that I do not.  I
don’t care about her at all.  He sits in the car and starts the engine.  He
opens the door of the car and leans his head out of it and shouts, “Come on,
Charlotte.”  She realises that I am staring and politely bows her head away.  I
close the door behind me.  I get in the car.  He smiles.  I smile.  We both
lie.  We embrace the falsity of our lives.

One
of them has to die.  No.  I'm going to kill them both.

We
are late arriving at the fundraiser.  We have travelled the five minutes
distance to The Sailing Club in silence, the only exchange between us the
occasional false smile.  At one point I considered grabbing the steering wheel
and ploughing our car through the hedgerows and plunging it into the lake.  I
envisioned the whole scenario in my head; taking hold of the wheel and pulling
it towards me, striking the bushes, the bumping and banging as the car rocked
over the uneven surface, and then the silence of hitting the water, all to a
soundtrack of him screaming to let him go.  I imagine his hands fumbling about
over the handle of the door, or maybe the button to open the window, but he
cannot escape because I am gripping his arms as the car sinks beneath the
surface.  I doubt I would be strong enough to hold him for long, and I have
already decided that my initial plan is foiled.  There is no way of
overpowering him.  He would correct the car and we would remain on the road. 
Those big hands would grip the wheel and push me away like a stray cat and we
would arrive at the fundraiser with him certain of my craziness and angry because
of such an obvious display of it.  He would have Dr. Abrams on the phone before
the night was out, and I no doubt would end up back in a bed with cot sides and
a nurse to keep me company.

So
we travelled in silence which, although short, gave me some time for
consideration.  It didn’t take me long to establish that not only was my idea
of crashing the car flawed, my initial plan was also unsuitable.  Kill him, and
then kill her?  Then what?  Raise our child alone?  I would spend my whole life
alone in that house with nothing for company other than a baby.  I would be
driven crazy, OK, crazier, and eventually the child would grow up and leave as
screwed up as I am now and I would be left with nothing for company except the
old crumbling walls of Windermere Grove.

We
arrive at the entrance to The Sailing Club and somebody has done a nice job. 
The air is as crisp as fresh linen, and the bay trees at the entrance are decorated
with fairy lights which look so romantic it makes me think of a Shakespearian
love story.  Gregory reaches down for my hand but my fingers remain limp as he
takes it in his hand.  I cannot bring myself to hold his back, so instead I
allow my hand to be held.  We are back in public mode.  A happy couple.  I am
sure that I can smell lavender.  It’s warm in here and I undo the buttons of my
shapeless wool blend coat which I apparently like.  The fairy lights continue
throughout the hallway and I can see them spreading across a trellis work on
the ceiling and it appears that space has descended upon us and that the stars
are there within touching distance.  I want to enjoy the beauty that somebody
has created tonight, but I cannot.

I
see John Wexley up ahead and he waves to us.  His wave is timid, and he is
anxious about me, knowing that I have been collaborating with Marianne.  He is
wary of me because he has witnessed everything that has happened.  He knows my
friendship cannot be a simple offer.  To him I will always be crazy and not to
be trusted.  Especially since I made friends with his mistress.  That’s a
risk.  Girls talk about things, that’s what he will be thinking.  Girls gossip
and this woman is crazy, he will say to himself.  It will have to be stopped.  He
knows Marianne is close to the edge already and the last thing he needs is a
new best friend to make things worse.  Craziness rubs off on people, that’s
what he will say.  It won’t be him that drove Marianne to take an overdose when
the shit finally hits the fan.  It will be my influence and my warped sense of
right and wrong.  I will be the one responsible.  He will blame me.  And he will
be right to do so.

There
is a swelling of blood collecting underneath my scalp and I am sure that it is bringing
with it a headache.  I attempt to pick my wound but I am still wearing my
gloves and cannot get any leverage on the skin flap.  Gregory notices and gives
my hand a quick tug, as if he were bringing me into heel.  Or heal.  Maybe it's
the same thing.  “Not here,” he whispers, and a few drops of his spittle land
on my cheek.  Frantic, I wipe them away, repeating his words over and over, lip
synching
not here, not here
, wondering how many germs he has managed to deposit
on my face. 

I
spot the Lovells and the Calthorpes congregating at our table and Gregory pulls
me along behind him.  Only Dana is still buzzing about ensuring that all of her
raffle tickets are sold.  A waiter in a white shirt who is probably no older
than twenty is serving flutes of champagne on a circular tray.  He offers me
one and I take it.  He tries to leave but I say, “Excuse me.”

“Yes,
madam.”

“Is
there any lavender growing in here somewhere?  Any table decorations with it
in?”  He looks around at anything that resembles a plant before looking back at
me with an expression as vacant as a mannequin.  Gregory can feel my resistance
and he pulls on my arm a little harder.

“Charlotte,
dear.  Come on.”  He gives me a tug and I feel my shoulder pull.

“Anything,
come on,” I urge the waiter.

“Ur,
I dunno sorry, I mean, I don’t know.”  He looks at me as if he is thinking how
weird old people are, and then turns to leave, his eyebrows raised in confused disbelief. 

Almost
everybody else is sitting and as we make our way through the crowd I feel a
hand on my arm.

“Charlotte.” 
It is Stephen Jones of Stephen Jones Estates.

“Hello,
Stephen,” I say.  I feel a desperate urge to try and get away from him.  I feel
nothing good can come from a conversation between us.  I haven’t seen him since
I gave up my job.

“How
have you been?  Are you well?”  We have arrived at our table.  I have continued
to walk and Stephen has followed.  I have Gregory on one side, and John Wexley
on the other.  I scan the table but I don't find Mary. 

“Yes,
why shouldn’t I be?” I say.

“Well,
we haven’t seen you all week.”  I see that Gregory has heard.  He is turning
towards us.

“Of
course you haven’t Stephen,” I say, smiling again, less false than in the car,
but let’s just say I am not exactly happy at this little situation that is
arising. 

“You
must have been busy.  We have missed you in the office.”  Lie. 

“Ladies
and Gentleman, take your seats please!”  The owner of The Sailing Club is
acting as compare, standing on a small wooden platform.  I have seen the owner
a few times since the day I came here and took Gregory’s boat and never brought
it back.  I make him very anxious.  He knows accidents like that don’t happen. 
“Drinks will be served at your tables.” 

“Stephen
you should take your seat,” I say, trying to pull out my chair.  Gregory has
already sat down. 

“OK,”
he concedes, looking somewhat disappointed as he eyes up our table.  “Make sure
we see you this week, OK?”

“Of
course, of course.  I’ll pop in.” 

He
looks at me for just a fraction of a second longer than I find comfortable, and
then says, “you look nice tonight.”  I reach up and touch the pendant hanging
around my neck, feeling suddenly conscious of my appearance as I watch him walk
away.  I sit, feeling bothered by the fact that I have promised to go to the
office and wondering if I can just pretend this never happened.

The
waiters bring trays of wine and champagne.  I accept another after realising
that I have drunk the first.  There is a moment of panic when I realise that I
must have been drinking from the glass that they gave me because when I reach
into my pocket I find the Ziploc bag and flute still in there and my headache
is immediately worse so I reach inside my bag and pull out a disinfectant wipe
and bring it up to my mouth to wipe my lips and the taste is medical and bitter
and reminds me of the hospital but at least it is better than the thought of
what might have been on that glass and when Gregory doesn’t flinch or make any
comment I push the new glass away from me and Dana has joined us and she sits a
space away from me and she is saying.....

“Charlotte,
you look delightful tonight.  Jemima doesn’t she look wonderful?”  Dana always
does this.  Ever since the suicide attempt it is like it has become her
personal mission to make me feel good.  In her world everything is good if it
looks good.  If I know I look good, I must feel good, in her mind at least.

“Yes,
you do Charlotte.  You look well.”  This is Jemima Calthorpe.  She is quite the
opposite to Dana.  Dana’s compliments make you feel good, even if they are not
always believable.  Jemima’s always remind you of your flaws.  To her I can’t
look just nice.  I have to look well, so that I remember at one point I
didn’t.  I don’t like her at all.  She thinks of me as common, and I think of
her as a bitch.

“Thank
you,” I say and take a sip of my champagne.  “I am well.”  As intended, my own
reference to my wellness and therefore previous state of illness makes Jemima
feel uncomfortable.  “I see my doctors regularly and I am fine.”  I have made
Dana uncomfortable too, which is unfortunate.  Gregory doesn't notice what I
said because he is still talking to passersby, feeling important.

“A
toast to a wonderful evening,” Gregory begins, holding up his champagne.  I
leave my glass on the table far away from me and toss my disinfectant wipe on
the floor underneath the table.  “Dana, you have done a wonderful job,” he says. 
My lips taste of bleach.

“Here
here,” somebody says, which was probably Gordon Calthorpe but I wasn’t really
paying attention because I am sure I have spotted lavender in the floral
display next to the stage.

“The
lights are remarkable, they really are.”  Sounded like Joseph Lovell.

“And
the champagne is……” apparently too wonderful for a complete description.  
Jemima I think. 

“Thank
you both, thank you.  You must buy some raffle tickets.  There are cakes,
hampers,  and the floral decorations will also be given as prizes at the end of
the night.”

I
turn as if a holding spring has just been released.  “Is there any lavender in
that?” I ask, my interest not just caught, but rather strangled into attention.

“No
dear,” Dana begins.  “At the moment the flowers that are in season are the…..” 
I have lost interest and turn away.  I think she probably continues to tell
Jemima about the season behavioural patterns of the local flora, who would no
doubt have known them already. 

When
somebody erects a tombola drum in front of the main floral display, and the
other smaller supporting displays become obscured by other guests as they take
their seats I turn back to the table.  During this time I decide that we are
all complicit in John’s deceit, which makes us all just as responsible as he is. 
We all smile politely when Marianne is trotted out on display, accept her into
our circle as a friend, chat to her, admire her new bracelets, new breasts, and
comment how wonderfully happy she seems to make him.  On a night like tonight
we all pretend that she doesn't exist.  And I might add that it hasn’t gone
unnoticed that tonight, Mary doesn't even seem to be here.  He hasn't even
brought her with him.

He
lies to Mary, and therefore we all lie to Mary.  Mary lies in return.  Marianne
lies to herself.  Gregory is lying as we speak, pretending to be a doting
husband who has nurtured his wife back to life but really he is waiting until I
am otherwise engaged and locked away in a shower for five minutes so he can get
all over Ishiko like a bad rash left untreated and so he is lying to me and I
suspect also to them but then again perhaps they all know and it is just the
expected conduct of an average Windermere Grove resident because if they lie to
Mary then they will lie to me the fucking bastards.  Breathe, breath I say to
myself.  Perhaps during my absences, my long stay for recovery and therapy, it
was Ishiko that took my place at this table.  Perhaps it was Ishiko who slept
in my bed, ate my food, wore my clothes, upturned my photographs.  Perhaps all along
I have been the part-timer, just like Mary is now.  Suddenly I feel like the
whole room might have seen Gregory with Ishiko and that they are laughing at
me.  Perhaps he took her out on the boat and sailed around the lake until they
found a quite spot for a picnic and a kiss in the early days before their
dalliances were so blatant that he would screw her whilst I was in the shower
in the next room.  Perhaps he brought her here to the last fundraiser as his
‘guest’, whilst all the naive onlookers commented on how beautiful her Japanese
face was.  Fucking whore.

I
watch Gregory for a while as he fiddles his knife and fork into alignment and
shuffles his napkin onto his knees.  He is looking around for a waiter and
commenting how we need some wine.  He is making signs like semaphore, guiding
the nearest waiter to land at our table, bottle in hand and ready to serve.  He
feels entitled because he is rich and floats around a hotel all day long being
served.  Wait, he owns a hotel.  He owns a fucking hotel and still fucks her in
our house!  I want to crush his head like the roll on my plate which has
arrived without warning or request and now lies in crumbs, my fist on top of it
like a meteorite in the ground. 

“You
OK there, Charlotte?”  Dana is watching me, and I realise that I have indeed
crushed the roll and now only fragments and crumbs remain, strewn about my
place setting.  Gregory notices and chooses to say nothing about it.