PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (30 page)

“Gregory
has always been very considerate of you coming here, Charlotte.  I find it difficult
to believe that he would ask you to stop coming to our appointments.”

“But
he did.”

“But
why?  What does he have to gain from you not coming to our sessions?  When I
was at your house, he was adamant that you attend.”

“I
don’t know what he wants.  No, wait.  He wants me to not remember.  That’s what
he said.”  The shovel is still grating, but more distant and the sound is
softer.  I look out of the window and the man is still working but no longer
pays me any attention.  I get up and walk to the window.  When he sees me
staring I wave, and he waves back but seems surprised by my friendliness.  I
sit back down and Dr. Abrams starts talking again.

“That’s
very unlike him.”

“If
you don’t believe me, then there is no point in me being here.”  With that, I pick
up my coat and walk towards the door.

“Don’t
be hasty, Charlotte.  Come on, sit down.”  I put on my gloves and grab the door
handle.  As I open the door I can see that he is conscious of the next person
in the waiting room who has arrived well before her time slot.  He doesn’t want
to divulge anything personal, and his words become a whisper.  “Charlotte,
please.”

“You
can ask him yourself, in one of your next sessions together.”  I make a start
towards the exit, but Dr. Abrams places a hand on my arm which stops me.  I don't
feel trapped or threatened.  It is a soft touch, not one to wriggle free from,
rather, it is one to sink into. 

“What
do you mean by that?”

“You
don’t have to play the psychiatrist with me anymore, Dr. Abrams.  I’m not
coming here again.  I know now that you have been seeing him.  I bet he has
told you all about Ishiko.  I bet he has told you how he fucks her and you have
a good laugh about it.  How can you be my doctor if you are listening to both
of us and when you obviously knew all along what they were doing?”

“Charlotte,
I don’t see Gregory as a patient.  You are my only patient, and I can assure
you that I know nothing of the sort.  It’s only you that I am concerned with.” 
His hand slips free from my arm, and I pull my coat together, fastening the
buttons.  “Come on, take a seat.  We have another half an hour.”  The patient is
watching us, and at first I pay her little attention.  But then I think that I can
smell lavender and so I turn around to get a closer look at the woman watching
me.  She has black hair and a blunt fringe.  For a second I think it is Ishiko sitting
there, but I think I am probably wrong, so I turn back to Dr. Abrams.

“He
comes here, he told me so.  He told me that you said I don’t need you anymore
because I have him.”  This probably isn’t the truth, but it could be.  He could
have said that.

“Charlotte,
I don’t see Gregory.”

When
I left the office building I was aware of Dr. Abrams staring at me through the
window.  I was already feeling guilty for treating him this way.  The man with
the shovel was still working, but most of the pathway was clear and he had
brushed my earlier footsteps away.  Another mark that I had left on the world
casually discarded.  It is as if I am not even here.  He didn’t try to talk to
me again. 

When
I got home Gregory was out.  Ishiko was in her bedroom and the house was quiet. 
I used the time to take out the drawer and count the tablets.  I took the three
from under the mattress.  Fifty two.  I took out number fifty three and held it
in my hands for a while.  My guilt over the session with Dr. Abrams was welling
in my stomach, and I saw the fifty third tablet as a possibly remedy.  My
treatment of Dr. Abrams was unjust and I considered that taking one of his
tablets was a good idea and in some way could act as atonement for my earlier
actions.  A sign of my compliance.  Why would Gregory lie about seeing Dr.
Abrams?  How would Stephen know?  Surely Gregory would know that I would find
out, unless he was banking on my adherence to his suggested avoidance of my
psychotherapy sessions.  In the end I lined the little green and white capsule
up on the shelf and put the drawer back in and got on the bed, certain that
fifty three tablets would be enough to kill Marianne.

That
night I am waiting in the drawing room for Gregory when he arrives home.  I
hear him park the Jaguar on the driveway, his feet destroying the snow as he
inches towards the house.  A blanket of winter has fallen across the town,
covering up the tiny imperfections and smoothing out the wrinkles of life by
the lake.  He opens the door, letting in the chill like a common cold, which
runs quickly through the house infecting all in its path.  The log fire that
Ishiko set earlier whistles up the chimney, bracing itself as the breeze tickles
at its edges, the smallest of the flames breaking free and escaping upwards
into an amethyst February sky. 

I
shivered as he came near me, the cold emanating from his skin and clothes.  His
lips were frozen, and as he leant down to kiss me they met my cheek, his blue
blood circulating against my skin leaving upon it the mark of a soulless kiss. 
His lips were dark blue and his skin was nipped white as if it had snowed
straight onto him, leaving a coating.  He looked depleted, desaturated of life,
somewhere between black and white in a place that has consumed the hopes of all
souls.  He appeared as the colour of despair, and in my eyes, a liar. 

He
brushes off his coat like an eagle spreading his wings, and few droplets of
water sprinkle onto me.  I pull my chair a little closer to the fire to further
the distance between us.  My head is throbbing.

“Oh,
what an afternoon.  So busy.  One job turned into two jobs turned into six
jobs,” he says as he lays his coat across the back of the leather settee.  He
looks around for Ishiko but she is not here.

“What
jobs?”

“Oh,
you know, just things that cannot wait.”  He sits down next to me and I move to
create enough space in the oversized armchair.  He is freezing to the point that
a corpse may feel no more lifeless than his touch right now.  “Things that no
longer seem important,” he grins, “now that I am home with you.”

“I
thought that you just had one appointment,” I say.  “Who was that with?”

“You
know, Charlotte dear, I don’t want to talk about my day.  My day was fine and
uneventful, and I am sure nothing but boring to you.  Tell me,” he says as he
strokes my hair away from my face, “what have you done?”  I see Ishiko appear
in the doorway to the drawing room.  It is late, past dinner time and neither
of us has yet eaten.  I see that it has started snowing again.  “Have you eaten
darling?  Shall we sit together in the conservatory?”

We
eat our dinner whilst talking about the trivialities of my day, most of which is
fictional because I don't want to mention either of the visits that I made this
afternoon.  He stands after he finishes eating and offers me his hand.  I
accept it as if I am dismounting from a horse drawn carriage, and I allow him
to lead me towards the settee.  I sit in the same place where I pretended to
sleep whilst lamb chops burnt in the kitchen, and he props himself up on the
edge of the seat next to me.  He clears his throat and turns to face me.  I
remain uncertain as to what to expect.  An admission?  An apology?  But he says
nothing.  Instead he reaches into his pocket and produces a box.  If we were
not already married, I may have expected a proposal, the comfortable kind that
has received little thought or attention to detail.  At home on the settee.  Lame.

He
opens the box and I see a small silver heart.  It’s a locket, the kind you
insert an image inside of the person whom you cannot stand to be away from.  I
feel an instant wave of sadness knowing that I have nobody in my life that I
couldn’t stand to be away from.  I have nobody to put inside and keep close to
my heart so that should that day be the day I die an accidental death, I would
not die alone. 

“Go
on, try it,” he says as he pulls it out, the locket spinning and glistening in
the subtle light of night.  He pulls me in closer to him and turns me to expose
the back of my neck by holding up my hair, giving it a quick tug so that I hold
onto it for him.  Automatically I take my hair in my hand and he attaches the
locket to my neck.  I let my hair fall as he places his hands on my shoulders
to indicate he has finished, and I place my hand over the locket as he turns me
around ready for inspection.

“Let
me see.”  I peel my hand away to show him what his gift looks like on my neck,
and as I do so my other necklace, my Triquetra, the one that my father gave me,
slips away.  He has unfastened it without me realising.

“My
necklace!” I panic.  It has slipped into my clothes and I stand up to catch it. 
He cups his hands at my waist and seizes the necklace as it succumbs to the
call of gravity through my clothes.

“Don’t
worry,” he says.  I ignore him, as if I haven’t even heard him.

“Why
did you take that off?” I ask as I straighten out my baby blue jumper, holding
out my hand for him to return it.  “Why?”

“Because
I have replaced it.   Replaced it with a new one.”  He says, slipping the
Triquetra into his jacket pocket.  He pushes my expectant hand away.  “Which I
might add is much nicer and likely to be more expensive than this.”  He pats
his pocket, smoothing it shut.

“But
I always wear that necklace,” I say as I clasp my palm to my chest, comforting
its loss.  My words are weak because I know the battle has already been lost. 
“You knew that.”  I can feel the wound on my head pulsating and I want to rip it
open just to feel another kind of pain, something other than the pain of loss.

“And
now you wear something else.”  He closes the box by gripping his hand together
in a fist, and he stands up and walks back over to the table, setting it down. 
“I thought you might like to put a picture of me and the baby in it.  Of us.” 
He is oblivious to my sense of loss and sees nothing of the pain he has
caused.  He sees only what is in his eyes the inappropriateness of my
reaction.  He is hurt, like he has all the right in the world.  Anything is
excusable, as long as its explicable. 

My
hand investigates the new necklace, and I try to accept that for now my
Triquetra is gone.  I look at the pocket that he placed it in as if I can feel
it, as if it too is calling out to me in pain like a newborn baby to its mother. 
“I’m sorry, but you surprised me.  You know how I am with surprises.  I have my
routines.”

“Yes,
I am well aware.”  He is not facing me, and instead is tapping the table,
rhythmically like the second hand of a clock.  For some reason I feel scared,
but have no idea why so I begin counting to the same beat of his fingers,
telling myself to breathe.  I get on my feet, approach him.

“It’s
nice.  It’s lovely,” I say as I touch him on the shoulder, light as a chance
breeze that crept underneath the door.  He turns to me with a satisfied smile
on his face, wide eyed like a child at Christmas, his cheeks pinker now, more
lifelike. 

“It
looks exactly what I wanted it to look like.”  He kisses me on the nose.  That is
the only compliment he gives me.

That
night I go to bed early.  After removing the necklace and leaving it on the
bedside table I sit watching the flakes of snow settle in small drifts on the
window frame in complete and beautiful silence.  Gregory is downstairs
finishing his brandy after gifting me a rare moment of solitude.  I take out
the drawer and count the tablets.  Ishiko’s torn picture is there waiting for
me, but tonight I ignore it.  I count the tablets again to be certain.  Fifty
three.  I check the windows are locked.  The freezing temperatures radiate
through the glass, windows that have not been replaced in almost a century.  The
sky looks like a swollen belly, pregnant with snow.  I try to cover the wound
by my thumb with a plaster.  I consider the need to put on latex gloves, and
whilst at first I decide against it, I get up only a minute later and put a new
pair on.  I have only one pair left.  I decide to check the engravings on my
stomach and find that they have dried up and they are no longer painful.  I
measure them.  I have grown.  It reminds me that the knife I stole from the
hotel is still in my handbag and so I take it out and hold it for a while.  I
think about making fresh cuts, and perhaps adding new ones to my thighs, but in
the end I decide against it, perhaps because of another wave of cowardice and
so I put the knife in the drawer space with the other items that are already
hidden there.  When there are no more thoughts in my brain, I slip between the
sheets with one hand resting on my empty neck.

On
the way to the hospital I receive three compliments about my love heart
necklace.  The first was how well it matched the colour of my skin.  My skin is
a shade of white, and if I were a hue of paint I would be Dover White, chalky
like the cliffs.  The colour is broken up in only three places besides the
obvious locations of mouth, hair, and eyes.  These places include a mole on my
left cheek, small and discrete and close enough to my cheekbone to appear cute
rather than ugly.  The second is a mole on the top of my bottom, which you
could almost call the base of my back.  The final place is a cluster of thread
veins on my left calf which I developed during a particularly dedicated period
of exercise, and which I happened to notice have dramatically increased in size
since the onset of pregnancy.  Accordingly, I have also begun measuring this,
and so have included a new column on the chart which I now keep behind the
sink.  The necklace is silver and I see no particular reason why it would offer
a greater match to my skin tone as opposed to that of Asian or African skin.  I
have always felt that Gregory was inherently racist and I take this comment as
further proof of my earlier judgement.  It also matches, according to Gregory,
my hair colour and the neckline of my dress which is a sweetheart neckline. 
This final compliment, I have to say I agree.  However, the dress is merely a
dress and has nothing to do with me. 

When
he tired of discussing me and the necklace he turned his attentions to the
scenery.   Such is the extent of his delight that it seems he might never have
travelled on this road before.  He is in awe of the trees, the way the sun is melting
the ice on their branches, the craftsmanship of the wall, and the blah blah
blah.  The journey is slow, and we are driving at no greater than a
blisteringly depressive ten miles per hour and I know that the journey will
take us the best part of two hours at this speed.  At thirty minutes into the
journey I try to zone out, the same way as I did with Stephen Jones when he was
aimlessly talking about nothing of importance, but Gregory is determined, and
continues to drag me back into the conversation like a shark attack victim, and
no matter how much I flail and fight to claw my way out from the water, he
pulls me back in.  By the time we have arrived it feels as if he has severed
all of my limbs, and torn my body to shreds like a scarecrow.

In
public he likes to create a show.  It is another of his characters.  He was
raised to believe that he is better than most people, and that they are best
served to remember that.  Therefore, his voice is always raised a notch to
ensure that people can hear him.  He will make sure that he always refers to
the car as
The Jag,
or in polite company,
The Jaguar. 
I have
noticed that his keys never quite make it to his pocket, they are always left
out or jangled so that people will notice the silver cat key ring, just in case
they missed what he was saying.  He also talks of
The Maid,
asking me
what we should have her cook, when will The Maid collect the dry cleaning, that
he hopes The Maid has cleaned up properly this time.  His intention with this
last comment is to ensure that people understand that we also have our
problems.  That having a maid is not the luxury you might think it to be and
that life for the served of the world is also fraught with difficult situations
which he must strive to overcome. 
We have our problems too, you know. 
What
a trooper he is.  It’s his way of connecting with the lesser people.  Of
dumbing down.  He thinks it’s endearing.

“Good
morning to you both.  Nice to meet you, Mr. Astor.”  The doctor holds out his
hand.  He looks a mess, like he probably worked all night delivering other more
fortunate children into the world.  “I am Dr. Jenkinson.”

“Good
morning.”  Gregory holds out a limp hand and Dr. Jenkinson takes it but seems
bothered by Gregory’s lack of effort.  He lets Gregory’s hand go as if he had
touched something unpleasant, which of course he did.  We enter the room and we
all sit down.  A nurse comes in and offers Dr. Jenkinson a coffee.  He agrees
like she has offered the very nectar of life, relief consuming him, and I
notice that he play acts a little bit to show how tired he is.  Whilst we wait
for the coffee to be made we chit chat about the weather and how he has been
stuck here all night because it snowed so heavily at 2 AM that he couldn’t face
the idea of going home at that time.  We agree it must have been treacherous at
that time with no other cars on the road.  The nurse returns with a steaming
cup of coffee which she sets on the desk by leaning across Dr. Jenkinson, one
hand resting on his shoulder.  The way she touches him makes me think that he
has probably fucked her.  Or at least, that she would like to be fucked by
him.  Or vice versa.  Maybe it happened last night.

“We’ll
be in the house within the next two weeks,” Dr. Jenkinson says to me with a big
smile that stretches across his face.  He takes a gulp of his coffee, burns his
lip at the same time.  “Hope the weather has cleared up a bit by then,” he
says, dabbing at his scorched lips.  Dr. Jenkinson puts the mug back down on
the desk on top of some notes and I see that some coffee has escaped down the
side of the mug.  A ring forms underneath the cup, permanently marking them. 
Gregory seems confused before he finally understands the connection.  He seems
mildly impressed that I may have sold a house to a doctor.

“That’s
good,” I say.

We
discuss how I have been feeling and if I have had any physical problems.  No
bleeding, fluid leakage, vomiting, or abdominal pain.  Yes I am taking my
tablets.  And yes I am OK.  And no, no more thoughts about ending it.  These
are his exact words and I am surprised because we haven’t discussed anything
about my mental health before.  But he seems to know all about it.  He fumbles
his way around a psychiatric assessment in typical amateur fashion, stating at
the end how wonderful it is that I now have something to live for.  It seems I
really was nothing before this baby.  Perhaps he thinks that all childless
people should consider suicide.

After
the discussion I remove my clothes as instructed, wear the gown, and lie back
on the bed.  Gregory remains on the opposite side of the curtain.  When Dr. Jenkinson
lifts the gown to measure my stomach I am aware of his surprise at the wounds
that segregate my stomach into four quarters.  He has also noticed my gloves
are still on, but this fact seems to pale in comparison to the cuts on my
stomach.  What he hasn’t noticed is that the box of gloves on his examination
trolley is noticeably emptier than it was five minutes earlier, and that my
pockets are noticeably fuller. 

“Measurement
lines,” I whisper, and he nods his head to agree, but he seems uncertain because
the creases on his forehead have deepened and his smile is forced, suggesting
to me that he finds my efforts less than normal.

“Well,”
he continues, steeling himself with a big inward breath, “you are about twelve
centimetres, which is absolutely normal for this stage in the pregnancy.”  He
uses the measurement line that I have created to take his readings and I can
tell that beyond his shock he is impressed, or at least assisted by my
rekindled ability to cut my own skin.

“Twelve
centimetres?”  I am alarmed.  “But this morning I measured five hundred and
fifty two millimetres.”

“It
would seem that I measure rather differently to you.”  I was grateful of the
ambiguity that the curtain offered Dr. Jenkinson’s words, and I pulled my gown
down to signify that the discussion was over.  He did pull it back up a little
to do an abdominal examination, but I could tell he wanted to end it quickly. 
I pretended that he was hurting me and he seemed to work faster the more I
winced, even though it didn’t hurt at all.  He was probably wishing that he had
spent a bit more time on the psyche evaluation.  Then he used his machine and a
blob of jelly, which without prompting he assured me was clean, to listen to
the heart rate of the baby. Gushhush gushhush gushhush gushhush.   After thirty
seconds or so, I see Gregory appear at the edge of the screen, his face washed
out like a fresh sheet hanging on the line.  I have never seen him look whiter,
with perhaps the only exception yesterday evening.

“What
was that?” he asks.  Dr. Jenkinson smiles, knowing that the time has come.  This
is his glory moment, the reason he does this.  The chance to show a parent the
life that they are bringing into the world.

“That,
Mr. Astor is the sound of life.  That is the beating heart of your baby.”  Dr.
Jenkinson seems as proud as if it was his own child, but Gregory doesn’t say a
word.  He just stands there.  His shoulders have rounded in on themselves, and
his lower jaw has dropped slack as if a chain holding it up had disintegrated
and fallen away.  He catches my eye and takes a step towards me, rests his hand
on my shoulder and I adjust the gown so that he cannot see anything that he
shouldn’t.  He is actually resting it on me, full weight, like without my
shoulder he might just melt into the ground and disappear like the snow from my
shoes in Dr. Abrams’ office.

“The
heart beat?”  He repeats the words of the doctor in disbelief.  “You can hear
it like that?”

“Yes,”
the doctor says, laughing at Gregory’s shock.  “Here.”  He takes Gregory’s hand
and guides it onto the probe which is resting on my stomach.  He is fortunately
fully engrossed in the moving image and so pays little attention as the probe
rocks over a scabby line of measurement.  Gushhush gushhush gushhush gushhush. 
Gregory is somewhere between tears and laughter, and I believe for a moment it
will come out as both.  He looks down at my face, really looks at it, his eyes
never leaving mine.  It is as if behind the blue of my irises he has felt life
for the first time in the whole time he has known me.  In this moment, when
another person stands between us and we are linked by nothing more than a
machine, I am to him a living being with a future and with hopes.  I cannot
help but smile, and for a moment I forget that I am married to a liar who has
done something worthy of abandonment. 

“So,
we will see you in about six weeks,” Dr. Jenkinson says as I am getting
dressed.  He is already closing my notes and standing up.  He is satisfied, and
Gregory is silent.  He has been stunned. 

The
journey back to the house is also completed in near silence.  There has been a
higher volume of traffic on the road during the two hours that we have been at
the hospital, and the sludge has started to melt, meaning that at least we can
travel at a more reasonable speed.  When we get home Gregory parks up on the
driveway, sits back in his seat as if he has no intention to exit the car.  I
go to open my door and as I do I hear the crunch of the leather as he moves
towards me, his big woollen sleeve resting across me.  I turn to face him and
his eyes are watery which could be from the cold, but I am not convinced.  A
soft flurry of snow has just started, and outside the car the daylight appears
brighter, like somebody turned on a lamp.

“Charlotte.” 
He waits.  Thinks.  “It is really quite a wonderful thing.  It is a miracle. 
Something that you cannot imagine until you hear it like that.  An actual
life.”

“It’s
called pregnancy, Gregory,” I say with a sad little huff.  “It’s been happening
for about twelve weeks now.”

“Yes. 
And I haven’t been there for you.  Things have been,” he pauses, “wrong.  I
haven’t done this properly.”  Beyond my wildest imagination I think there might
be hope in his voice.  But I don’t know if it is enough for the both of us. 

“Well,
there are still twenty eight weeks left to get it right,” I say, trying to
sound positive.

“We
have to get this right, Charlotte.  Like I said.  It’s us now.  We will make
some changes around here.  But to do so, we both have to let go of the past.  I
am going to do it.  I have decided.  If you will do it too, we will be OK.  No
more thoughts, no more therapy to remember.  This is day one of the future. 
Can you do it?  Can you let go?”

“Yes,”
I say.  I don’t know if that’s the truth, but I know that it is what I am
supposed to say, so I say it.

He
kisses my cheek, but his smile remains unconvincing.  He gets out of the car
and I follow.  We both take small snow-cautious steps towards the house.  As we
enter the house I go upstairs, telling him that I will rest whilst he tells me
that he will light a fire.  As I reach the top of the stairs, Ishiko is coming
out of her bedroom, her face flushed pink, her pupils mere dots, like ships on
the edge of a crisp horizon.

“I
have lost something,” she tells me as she pulls the door to her bedroom tight
shut behind her.

“Well,
then I suggest you look for it,” I say, and I take another step towards my
bedroom.

“But
where should I look for it, Mrs. Astor?”  Her words are sharper than any I have
heard come out of her mouth before.  Sharp like the knife I have hidden away
especially for her.

“I
don’t know.  You tell me.”

“Why
don’t
you
tell me?” she spits out as I feel her hand reach out for my
arm.  I am still wearing my coat and she doesn’t get a good grip, so as I pull
my arm away I easily slip through her grasp.

“Whatever
is the matter with you, Ishiko?”  I have never seen her like this before.  I
have seen quiet, serene, intense, sarcastic.  Never angry.  Never a fighter.