PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (13 page)

“I
need my tablets,” she says, her arms reaching up to me, her fingers getting
caught in my necklace.  A rush of anger grips me as I panic that she is going
to break it.  I prize her fingers out from the chain and tuck the necklace back
into the neckline of the jumper.  “It’s beautiful,” she mumbles, and I think
that she is talking about the Triquetra symbol.  “My tablets,” she says again,
and I wonder if she is ill with a disease that may evoke a sense of sympathy in
me, for her.  She points to her purse.  I hand it over.  It is Chanel.  A
gift.  She empties it out, bits of junk flying everywhere, items that do not
belong in such a purse.  Gum, a cheap pen a bus ticket, and a small bottle of
tablets.  I recognise them.   Elavil.  Amitriptyline.  I had a bottle in my
cabinet at home.  One tablet a day, good for depression, regular follow ups required. 
Can elicit suicidal tendencies.  They stopped me taking it.  Too late if you
want to be pedantic, but I guess I’m still alive.  I hand her the bottle, and
she pops one pill with some dusty old water.  She flicks a tab of gum into her
mouth, dry no doubt thanks to the Elavil, and she closes her eyes, her fingers
stretching out for mine in friendship.  I avoid her touch, already stepping out
of the door.

I
walk back through the house.  It smells like Mrs. Wexley, old but clean,
perfumed.  I see that there are a series of photographs tipped on their fronts,
frame legs sticking up in the air.  Each one I discover is of Mrs. Wexley. 
Tipped over no doubt so that their lie remains unchallenged by her judgmental
face.  I stand each one back up, an advocate for the absent wife, and close the
door behind me.  I have enjoyed the afternoon.  I know exactly what I want to
do.

I
called John Wexley on his mobile when I got home and told him that Marianne was
tucked up in bed after an afternoon of drinking.  I told him that she seemed
upset and had insisted on upturning all the images of Mrs. Wexley before I
managed to get her to bed, which he seemed a bit surprised about.  It was
immediately obvious to me that he never knew they were facing down, and that
she must have done it whilst she was alone in the house, erasing her from
reality even if just for a while.  Marianne must enjoy that time alone in the
big house, when there are no whispers from reality to prevent her pretending that
everything is hers.  I wonder if she wears Mary's clothes. 

In
case you haven't realised yet, I have decided to use Marianne as a model for
Ishiko, assuming that most mistresses are made of the same stuff.  Before bed
that night I super-glued the frames of our photographs to their respective
bases, even the Scottish honeymoon photograph that sits on top of the 1925
Steinway and Sons baby grand piano in the drawing room.  I knew that in doing
so I would ruin the restored mahogany that somehow still smells like the warm winds
that traverse the southern forests of Cameroon.  But Ishiko can fuck herself if
she thinks she can strip this house of me when I go out. 

Unfortunately
the next couple of days were spent in a delirium of vomit.  The idea of an early
morning walk and routine change was interrupted because it didn’t matter what I
did, any movement, any food, all resulted in me throwing it back up.  I spent
most of the time in bed.  Indeed that first night Gregory did venture back into
our bedroom as I had requested and he slept alongside me as promised.  When I
woke him up at 4:00 AM with an urgent need to vomit he watched from a safe
distance for a while, standing nearby whilst I threw up.  But once I started
the routine of rinsing and hand washing, a routine that on this occasion was
incessantly interrupted by a repeated need to be sick, and I admit was never
once completed from start to finish, he soon departed.  The problem was that it
was almost impossible to vomit without in some way touching the toilet.  This
understandably brought about the onset of tears, a headache like you wouldn’t
believe, and utter conviction that there would be another seizure within the
next half an hour if it didn’t stop.  This is the point in time when he decided
it best to leave, whilst mumbling to himself about how it was impossible to remain
in close proximity to me. 

After
he left I decided to pick the wound on my head to ease the pressure, and I found
not only blood, but also something green and slimy.  It was a welcome
distraction, although it smelt revolting enough to cause another episode of
vomiting.  I washed the wound in the shower and promised myself I wouldn’t pick
it again.  That is the story of how sleeping in the same room came to an end. 
On a positive note and by a sheer stroke of good luck he arrived in the guest
bedroom to find the bed unmade, and afterwards I heard the creak of a floorboard
as he stomped towards her bedroom.  I heard him shouting at Ishiko for the lack
of clean sheets dressing his bed.  I was so tempted to poke my head out of the
door to watch the scolding unfold, but instead I waited behind it, enjoying the
acoustics of the old house before returning once more to the toilet to vomit. 
The guest door slammed and for the next two hours, before a fitful sleep took
me, I heard nothing. 

During
my waking moments, punctuated by sporadic offerings of sleep filled with
underworld dreams of Marianne sailing away with Wexley, or of Mary Wexley dying
alone and painfully, I would think of Ishiko and Gregory together.  I thought
of them downstairs, pretending I wasn’t here, of them holding each other and of
him stroking the blunt fringe that chops off the upper part of her face.  I
thought of his lips on her skin, soft and young, and tight.  There were moments
when I felt something other than anger, sometimes sorrow, despondency that she
would win and I would be the one alone, perhaps in solitary confinement in this
very room for the rest of my sorry life.  Sorrow that he didn’t want me or the
child inside of me.  Other times lust would swell up inside of me and I would
do shameful things to myself again, the picture of her burning me as I held it
scrunched up in my free hand.  Afterwards I would hold my stomach, cradle the
tiny swelling in my palms and make promises that I couldn’t be certain to keep. 

By
Friday I was feeling better and I woke up surprisingly bright and nausea free
at 7:38 AM.  I rinsed as always and headed downstairs.  I rather expected to
find a scene of quiet, and in a way I did.  What I expected was an empty
conservatory, Gregory showering and Ishiko in the kitchen clearing, pretending
they hadn’t spoken to each other or done anything with each other for the
duration of my isolation.  Gregory however was standing in the conservatory
drinking coffee, gazing out at the lake as the sun rose, burning through the
soft layer of silken mist that hovered over the surface of the still water.  He
was smiling.  He turned to look at me, and still he was smiling.

“Good
morning, darling.”

“Good
morning,” I offer, confused at what I have stumbled into.  I feel weak, and
rough.  I know my eyes are an ugly mixture of black shadows and red swelling,
bloodshot, with the taste of bitter vomit in my mouth.  The dry patch on my
right hand is very itchy and the dryness is spreading towards my arm.  I see my
place is set for breakfast and there is food on the table.

“Today
is a good day, Charlotte.  Have you seen outside?”  I gaze reluctantly in the
direction of the lake.  I am looking out onto a clear blue sky, an uninterrupted
ocean of sky that seems wider than the deepest of canyons without a ripple or
waft of cloud to disturb it.  Grizedale forest is visible in the distance, the
tree tops clear and green, their cover of grey lifted.  I gaze right and see
the Langdale Pikes in the distance, their snowy caps glistening under the
winter glare.  “Look at the beauty of the world, Charlotte.  We have barely
seen you all week with your sickness, but even you have risen on this fine
morning.  It is a sign.”

I
am silent.  I am not sure what answer is expected of me, and the pleasantries
are disconcerting.  I have already mentioned how unnerving unexpected
friendliness can be.  I was right.  I force a smile to my lips and comment
something banal.  “Yes, the weather has changed.”  In the background I can hear
a concerto playing, Bach, if he has taught me as well as he believes.

“You
are feeling better?”

“Yes.” 
I’m right, it’s concerto number three, G Major.  Maybe it’s F major. 

“You
like the music?”  He spots me trying to decide.

“Bach,”
I say.

“Bravo,”
all the emphasis on the O.  “Bravo,” he says again.  This spurs him on and he
sets his coffee down on the table and walks over to me, one hand on the base of
my back, the other on one of my wrists.  “Come, sit down.  Eat.  You are weak,
and as you are pregnant your nutrition is of greater importance to you now.”  He
guides me to my seat where I sit without resistance.  I am looking up, staring
at him, wondering who this imposter is.  He has acknowledged the pregnancy, and
for a moment I am stunned.  I cannot say anything.  There is a pause of long
drawn out seconds that would span the width of the Nile delta before I feel
able to say anything.  I can see behind the chirpy smile there is still that
ingrained worry about me that must to him now feel as natural as breathing.

“Yes.” 
It’s all I can manage.  It satisfies him. 

“Today,
I have something to show you.  Something good.  You will like it.  Eat, shower,
dress.  OK?”  I nod, shielding my eyes from the intense low sun.  “No,” he
says, extending the word in a breathy coffee scented whisper, lingering over it
the way he does Ishiko’s beauty.  “Feel it.  Feel it on your skin.”  He takes
my hand away and draws my eyes closed with a delicate raking of his chubby fingers
across my lids.  With the other hand he tilts my face towards the window, and I
feel the heat as it travels through the glass, no airflow inside to feather it
away.  The light burns at my eyes, but my cheeks warm up and I imagine them
nipped and pink, as if I were sat next to a fire.  To feel his hand on my face
and the smile that I believe to be there is a treat in an otherwise difficult and
scabrous life.  I cannot help but smile myself.  Naturally this time.  I
haven’t even tried. 

He
lets go and I open my eyes.  He is watching me.  What a morning it is.  I have
woken in a different time.  I have woken on day one and perhaps this is the day
when the first brick is laid, or the first drop of water escapes the frozen
waterfall.  “To feel the good, we must let go of the bad,” he says.  “To see
the beauty of the forest, we must first look beyond the expanse of the water.” 
It sounds like a metaphor, and for anybody else it would be.  For me, it is a
literal statement.  A fact as sure as both life and my attempted death.  He
smiles again, and kisses me on the cheek.  I think his fingers stroked my
stomach but I cannot be certain.  He might just have rested a napkin on my lap
because when I look down there is one there.  “Half an hour,” he says as he literally
skips out of the door.

I
eat a croissant after cutting it into small pieces with my knife and fork.  I
shower and dress as he suggests.  Nausea threatens during the shower but I
swallow it down.  It is the first time I have looked in the mirror for the last
two days.  My hair seems to have grown, my fringe almost long enough to look like
it was never a fringe.  My face is a little chubbier perhaps, but it could just
be the smiling.  I realise I have barely given any thought to Marianne over the
last two days, and now it is Friday and she will be leaving again.  I must see
her today.  What I am wearing is irrelevant.

As
I walk down the stairs he is waiting at the bottom.  He is dressed in his
winter coat, a long woollen trench that stops at the knee, unbelted and double
breasted like a woollen tube.  He is fixing his gloves and Ishiko stands beside
him, his scarf in her hands ready.

“Come
on, darling.  Let’s go.  Come on, come on.”  In the background now I can hear
Rachmaninoff’s second concerto and Gregory’s head is swaying in time, eeking
out the last drops of pleasure in the music before we leave.  He holds my coat
and I make a half turn on the bottom step and he helps slide in my arms before
turning me around and doing up my oversized buttons.  “So?” he asks.

“So
what?” I reply, uncertain of the question.  He shakes his head towards the
drawing room, a series of nods in the direction of the music.

“Any
ideas?”

“Concerto
number two,” I say shyly, eyes on the floor looking at his feet, or rather his
shoes which are perfectly polished and shine like a mirror.  He stares at me,
his head coming in a little bit closer, waiting.  “Rachmaninoff,” I complete.  
He smiles, his face in the air, eyes closed.

“That’s
my girl.”  He opens the door and the air gusts in as the leaves billow up like
spray from a giant wave.  It is biting cold, and as I reach for my scarf he is reaching
for a woollen hat, which he insists I wear without uttering a single word.  I
oblige, and he takes my scarf from my hand and drapes it around my neck.  I
pull on my gloves.  I am already beyond confused about where I have woken up,
and to complicate matters further as he ushers me out of the door, he doesn’t
even say goodbye to Ishiko. 

*          *          *

 “Many
months ago, you gave me a wonderful idea,” he says as he parks up outside his
hotel.  “You told me that the hotel was a claustrophobic hole and that you
couldn’t survive if you had to spend time there.  You told me that the
corridors were dark, obnoxiously tight I think were your words, oppressive, and
that the new wing was like an extra limb, surgically attached.”  He is smiling,
somewhat unnaturally I might add, and he has the faintest touch of insanity
about him, like he is trying too hard.  “I thought  perhaps it was just your
mood, but,” he stopped and glanced at the hotel, taking in its corners and
edges and mismatched angles which tell the story of two architects, two
generations, and two completely different ideas, “but perhaps you were right.” 
I have no recollection of this conversation, but I agree entirely with what I
said, if indeed I said it.

“So
why did you bring me here?”  In fact I am annoyed that he would bring me here
if I actually said these things.  It is quite a repulsive act of betrayal, and
my earlier pleasure is fast slipping though my fidgety gloved fingers.

“Because,
my darling, things have changed.  There is indeed still a lot more to change,
but we have made a start.”  I do not know if he is referring to me, us, or the
hotel.  “I want to show you how I have corrected those problems.  So that we can
spend time here together.  It was a plan born before our hardships.  Before you
did what you did.”  His eyes dip into his lap, and for a second or so I can see
that he cannot bring himself to look at me in this moment because my very face
reminds him of what he has endured.  In this instant, as I see the shadows
beneath his eyes, the dropped shoulders, and the overwhelming effort that he
seems to be making I wonder if it is unfair of me to begrudge him his moments
with Ishiko.  In this moment I wonder whether it would be fairer to just let
him enjoy that easy time, when the woman who is there with him smiles back,
when she doesn’t ask anything in return, and when he can predict her actions with
a degree of certainty.  Perhaps he needs this time out, and that this is the
very glue that holds us together.  I consider this, but I realise with little
effort that I cannot and could not tolerate such vulgarity in my life and if
this is what he needs, he better fucking learn how to need me instead.