PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (10 page)

I
am in the kitchen when she arrives.  I can feel her face burning into my hip,
her outstretched fingers tickling at my skin from inside my pocket.  I wonder
if I smell of lavender now that I have been in her bed.  She places her coat,
hat and scarf into the cloakroom, and joins me.

“Mrs.
Astor, would you like something to drink?  Tea?” She looks freezing, her cheeks
pink like an Aunt Sally doll, perfect symmetrical rosy circles. 

“Yes
please, Ishiko, that would be wonderful.”  I already know that I won’t drink it. 
She appears as surprised at my tone as I am.  It’s remarkable how disturbing
friendliness can seem when it is not the norm.  It is much more comforting for
an enemy to remain an enemy, than to appear something else without explanation
or cause.  She places the lamb chops on the side and fills the kettle with
water.  Before she came home I had walked out into the far side of the garden
where our gardener places the cuttings and rubbish.  It remains as a pile of
mulch and mud, even when it hasn’t rained.  I had put on my hiking boots and I
trampled through it after first kicking off a crusty top layer of frost to
reveal the wet stuff which smelt bad like a rotten tooth.  I then proceeded
through the house, walking my boots through the utility room and television
room leaving a trail of dirt and tiny pieces of rotten vegetable skin. 

“I
think you will find that somebody has trailed mud through the rooms at the back
of the house.  It looks somewhat fresh.  We really have to ensure that when we
go outside, Ishiko, that we remove our muddy boots before relaxing in the
television room with our feet up.  Especially if we have jobs to do.  You
better clean it up before preparing our lunch, before it dries.”  She huffed a sharp
little breath in and out as she placed my tea down on the table, only a little
of which was spilt into the saucer.  I leave the cup on the table and with a
smile that I think looked genuine I left the room.  For the first time in a
long time that smile lingered with me without any conscious effort as I walked
through the house to the dining room.  I took a seat in the chair next to the
bay window, still smiling as I watched the private road where nothing was
happening.  I looked at the house next door and continued to smile.  I smiled,
and smiled, and smiled until the next idea came to me, and it was such a good
one that I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought about it before.

I
watched Marianne close the door of her baby blue Volvo and walk towards the
Wexley’s house.  She smiled and waved as I walked out to greet her, wrapping my
arms around my waist to seal my long woollen coat that is not only practical
and stylish, according to Gregory, but also one of my personal favourites which
I know I don’t like.  The temperature has dropped because of the fog that
returned throughout the morning, and so the frost from the night before has lingered
like the memory of a beautiful dream.  I couldn’t even see Mrs. Sedgwick’s
house at the bottom of the driveway, and the tress that I had watched Ishiko
disappear behind were shrouded into invisibility.

“Marianne,”
I called, breaking into a jog to catch her before she closed the door.  She
looked surprised by my friendliness, but I can’t ever recall being unpleasant
to her.  Perhaps she felt uncomfortable without Mr. Wexley at her side, her
ticket to the good life that she is currently enjoying.  Monday to Friday.  At
the expense of his wife.

“Hello. 
How are you?” she asked.

“I’m
good, very well, thank you.”  I wish at this moment I had opened the presents
from last night so that I had something polite to say, a thank you for a gift, but
I didn’t and so I don't.  I look at her coat and her hair and wonder if I can
find something positive, but I can’t.

“Good,
I was worried about you this morning, you know,” as she points the key and
clicks her car locked.  “You seemed in another world.” I consider answering but
I’m not sure what to say.  Tell her that I vomited on myself?  Tell her I
wouldn’t touch my own face because I had been forced to touch a wall in the event
of vomiting?  I am not unaware of the unusual nature of some of my behaviour,
and so I choose instead to ignore what she said and press on regardless.

“I
was wondering if you would like to get a coffee together later on.  I am after
all, a lady of leisure now.  Like you.”  I wink my left eye in a way that
suggests we might be sharing a joke.  She checks her watch and looks down the
street into the fog and to where you should be able to see the road.  She
doesn't seem excited by my suggestion.  There is no smile to reflect my own.

“Well
I have a doctor’s appointment soon, but perhaps a little bit later.  This
afternoon?”

“Perfect.” 
I knew where she was going.  Those stitches wouldn’t remove themselves.  I had
to admit that the new breasts looked good and realise only now that there was
something nice I could have said after all.  I paid attention last night
because she was wearing a style of dress that she probably couldn’t have got
away with without the new additions to hold the shape together.  “Shall we say
four o’clock?  Lakeside Café?”  She didn’t seem to find it a good idea,
and the keys jangled as she fiddled with them in her fingers, turning them
around and around, perhaps considering a possible escape as she looked left and
right.  I found it very distracting to the point that my mind wandered away
from the conversation and back to the mud that Ishiko cleaned up earlier.  She
should be cooking the lamb chops now.  I like them with mint which I have no
idea if we have or not, but it doesn’t matter because I won’t be eating them
anyway.

“Charlotte? 
Charlotte, did you hear me?”  I realise that time has passed of which I have
not been party to.

“Sorry,
Marianne.  I got distracted.”

“Are
you sure you’re alright?”  She looks concerned now.  She placed the keys in her
pocket and she is moving closer to me to get a good look at me as if my
problems might be visible, something you can route through like old records
until you find one that you want.  I take a step back and look lively.

“Yes,
yes.  I’m fine.  Sorry.  What did you say?”

“I
was saying that we could go into town instead?  Or drive out to Ambleside, to
one of the hotels.  Daffodil, perhaps?”

“Isn’t
it a little far away in this weather?”

“Oh,
it’s not far, besides, the lounge area there is very nice.”  It came as a
surprise to me that she would consider it, my need not to be near the lake.  I
know she thought about the Daffodil hotel because it has a lounge that fails to
benefit from any view of the lake.  Perhaps it was some sort of self
preservation method, that if she had to go out with me, the least she would do
was to ensure she had done all she could in advance to make sure it went well. 
And without incident.

“I
think the lake is quite beautiful today.  I can barely see it.”  I laugh and
she seems a little uncomfortable but offers a pathetic effort of a smile. 
“I’ll see you at Lakeside at four.” 

With
the exception of Gregory and Dr. Abrams people are very anxious around me now. 
They are over friendly, eager to please, as if my mental stability all depends
on their latest meeting with me and should it fail now the burden of blame will
fall at their feet.  They are desperate to appear happy, bright,
accommodating.  Only last week Dana Sedgwick cancelled an appointment with her
hairdresser so that she was able to fulfil my invitation to help me arrange the
winter roses that I had asked Ishiko to cut.  At first she said she couldn’t make
it, but quickly realised who she was talking to and within ten minutes she was
in the house, flustered and out of breath from the dash up the private road as
if my life, or perhaps hers had depended on it.  Admittedly, I may have sounded
a little anxious on the telephone but it is true that flowers start dying from
the moment they are cut and she is the chair of the horticultural society and
of all people I would expect her to realise the urgency even though she was
going to ignore such a responsibility and go to the hairdressers anyway like
what I had asked of her was some sort of casual afternoon activity.  I had already
washed the stems and cleaned the leaves in anticipation and if she hadn’t
attended it would have been a waste and surely have resulted in a complete
devastation of the roses and I honestly don't know how she would have been able
to forgive herself but I know I would have been OK.  Marianne must be wondering
what she has done to deserve a coffee break with me at the side of the lake. 
She’ll learn.

Coming
back inside, it was a complete accident that I brought leaves in on my shoes,
and most convenient.  I called to Ishiko and she came through with a brush and
dustpan to clean up.  I moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge.  Inside,
I found the soup that had been planned for our lunch, Winter Vegetable, and
with a gloved hand and a cup I ladled a portion out.  I waited for Ishiko to
return to the kitchen, and as she did I passed her with the cup hidden in my
coat and headed upstairs.  It was ten minutes until two o’clock.  Gregory would
be home in less than that, according to Ishiko.  I crept into the bedroom,
listening for the sound of tyres over gravel.  I poured some of the soup into
the toilet in our bathroom and some into the sink.  I threw the soup like an
artist might throw paint at a canvas, splattering it against the ceramic white
bowls.  I washed the cup in the shower, and tucked it behind the lamp on my
bedside table.  I removed my soaked leather gloves and threw them in the bin.

“Ishiko!”
I screamed.  Loud and shrill like the scream of a victim.  A call for help.  It
sounded desperate, and she came running.  I heard her feet gaining up the
stairs.

“Mrs.
Astor?” she said as she knocked and opened the door simultaneously.  I was sat
on the edge of my bed, a tissue held up to my mouth, a finger wiping away a
false tear.

“Ishiko,
I am sorry but I have been unwell.”  I pointed to the bathroom and she peered
inside, seeing the soup stained sink.

“I
will clean it up,” she said, but I was already on the way out of the bedroom. 
I moved as quick as a rat, downstairs and straight into the kitchen.  The lamb
chops were cooking and smelt delicious.  There was a small bowl of mint sauce
prepared at the side.  It smelt like Sunday, and family, and I almost felt
sorry for what I was about to do.  I turned up the flame to full.  It didn’t
take long before the edges started to burn and the first signs of smoke
appeared.  I closed the doors behind me and took a seat in the television
lounge next to the conservatory.

It
was Gregory that I heard first.  I closed my eyes and rested my head down onto
a pillow.  I allowed my facial muscles to slacken, my cheeks sinking inwards,
mouth turning down.  Asleep.

“Ishiko!”
I heard him scream.  It was a scream mashed together by rage and concern, the
kind you might utter when you drown under a wave of utter disappointment. 
“Ishiko!”  I sucked in a few deep breaths to ensure that I could not smell the
burning meat, the smouldering of herb and fat.  I heard feet on the stairs, a
pitter-patter of urgency and then the muffled anger of a voice under restraint
as he asked for her version of the truth.

At
this point I cannot hear what is being said.  I can only hear Gregory and his
voice is controlled and hushed, trying not to billow over into the anger that
his first cries of
Ishiko
promised
.
  With no other sound around
me I think only of her name leaving his lips.  Ishiko.  Ishiko.  I wonder how
many times he has said her name aloud, screamed it at her when I have been out
of the house, whispered it into her ear in the middle of the night.  I remember
the first time he said my name.  I heard him say Charlotte, his eloquent voice
making me sound like something.  Like anything.  Charrrrrllllotte, he said as if
testing it out for the fit.  After that, even a simple task such as passing the
newspaper brought with it a formal address and the use of my name.  Pass the
newspaper, Charlotte.  I am going to kiss you now, Charlotte.  I love you,
Charlotte.  How could you, Charlotte.  I’m sorry, Charlotte.  Forgive me,
Charlotte. Breathe Charlotte, for God’s sake Charlotte, breathe!

I
hear the door open and then I feel the concern as he gives me a shake.  I
imagine his eyes popping open in desperation and I have to put all my effort
into not cracking a smile.

“Wake
up, Charlotte.   Are you alright?”  I pretend to rouse from a deep afternoon
nap, and I pull up my eyebrows in theatrical fashion as if I am trying to pull
open my obstinate eyelids.  I take a deep breath pretending to yawn and then
wince, my mouth screwed up tightly as I take in the smell of my own creation.

“Whatever
is that smell?” I ask.

“Burnt
lamb chops.  Why was she upstairs when she was cooking lamb chops, I'll never
know.”  It wasn’t really a question for me to answer, just flippant
exasperation as his arms flung up in the air before freefalling for his palms
to slap against his thigh.  “I have opened the windows to let it air.  What
will we have for lunch now?”  Not even this question was for me.  Gregory often
does this, asks questions with no particular audience.  Half of his life is
rhetorical.  It is his way of demonstrating that the world doesn’t understand
him, that he was forced into the unwelcome situation of asking questions of
nobody because there was nobody capable of answering.  I think it makes him
feel superior.

“There
is soup.  I will ask her to prepare it.  Here,” I say, standing up, “take this
off and warm up.  It is freezing out today.”  I helped him out of his coat and
ran the palm of my left hand down his left cheek.  He stared at me for a
moment, complete surprise at what he had arrived home to find.  He looked
around the room, placing objects and cross referencing them with his memory,
asking himself if he had arrived in the right house.  He looked back towards
the front door, to see if everything was as he expected.  It was.  It was only
me that was out of place.  As I step out of the room I look back to him and he
is watching me.  I smile, my eyes meeting his.  He doesn’t manage a smile, but his
face twitches a little, the corner of his mouth turning upwards, and I feel at
least it is a start.

I
can feel Ishiko’s brown eyes upon me as I walk into the kitchen and close the
door behind me with Gregory’s coat in my hand.  We are both well aware that
this little fiasco is my creation and it brings me great joy to feel her eyes
boring into my back as I walk through to hang up his coat.  I return to the
kitchen to find her stood over the bin, depositing the now cooled and crusted
lamb chops.  It is freezing in here because the window is wide open and it
smells like the inside of a barbeque pit.  As she tips the meat away she is
watches me with complete audacity, her eyes running all over me like a colony
of ants.

“Make
the soup, Ishiko,” I say quietly, my eyes fixed on hers.  I walk over to her to
say, “And remember this lesson.”  That’s all I say before returning to the
conservatory.