PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (21 page)

I
feel cheated.  I want to tell him this.  I want to tell him that I was doing
well.  I want to tell him that I was having a baby and that I was delighted
about it.  I want to tell him that it made life easier, because finally I was
something other than crazy or depressed or suicidal or post suicidal or
anything else people have called me, including slut, whore, easy, fragile,
weak, wrong, damaged, and forgotten and I want to tell him that it is only because
Gregory doesn’t want the baby or me for that matter and that all he wants to do
is screw our housemaid that I feel that I am fucked and have no hope left so
that this week, I haven’t even tried to talk to Gregory, and he is now avoiding
me too. 

Cheated. 
And Fucked. 

I
sit in silence.

To
tell him about Gregory means that it is over.  If I remain the only one who
knows what he is doing it means that it is less real.  If it doesn’t leave our
house, our minds, our knowledge, it means that what he is doing with Ishiko can
end as if it never began.  Until it becomes something real like Marianne and
John Wexley it can be snuffed out, extinguished like a tiny spark.  A bubble in
the ocean is nothing if it never breaks the surface.  If it is never seen it is
simply an imagined reality, consumed by the mass of ocean around it, the life
of it sucked out until it becomes the nothing that it was destined to be.  I
thought for a while that to have my baby, to hold it, to cradle it, to protect
it, meant that there was something of worth inside me, and the call that I hear
to end it all would quieten and I that I would become something other than insignificant. 
I wanted for this call to craziness to quieten.  I wanted for it to disappear. 
In the days after pregnancy and before his cheating I may never have been happier
in my sorry and miserable life and I was trying to cling to that feeling of
hope that I felt during those days when I felt something good, but ultimately I
fear in every passing moment that it is becoming impossible.  

Betrayed. 
Worthless.

“Why
did you come here today, Charlotte?”

Because
Gregory made me come.  Not through force, but I felt his pressure in the mass
of silence that has overtaken our house.  Those who have been incapacitated at
some point in their lives leave some of their autonomy behind, they become malleable,
and Gregory knows this is true of me.  When I was in the electric bed,
connected through tubes and wires and straps and restraints, I waited for the
craziness to be excised from me into the solid walls of the hospital.  I felt
it leave for a time, but after it had gone I felt the loss like the absence of
an abusive partner.  I knew it was supposed to be better that way, with the threat
removed so that I could become something other than the person that I was before,
but still the void left behind was never entirely filled.  It didn’t matter how
much they tried to fill it with good thoughts good love good work or just
anything else that they had to offer, there was always that small part of me
that missed my companion, no matter how much it hurt me.  The ‘recovered’
pretend that they have moved on, that they don’t crave it anymore.  They
pretend that life is better without the chance of a beating, that to sleep
alone in a bed where half the sheets remain cold but risk free is easier.  But
the void is still there.  Only now I keep the void hidden.  But there will come
a day when this void opens back up.  I know this because I have stood on the
edge of this precipice before, at fourteen, and at twenty one, and at many
moments between when they told me I was better and I knew that I wasn't because
I didn't even want to be.  I knew what I really was, always was, and will
always be.  I am sat here in this chair because I am told to be here.  I’m here
because it is a good idea to come here.  I wish more than anything that there was
a bubble that I could sit inside, my own bubble, like my baby wrapped up warm
and protected.  But like I said, even bubbles can burst.

“It
is the best idea to come here, Dr. Abrams.  There is no reason to stay away.” 
Because it just doesn’t matter.

“Good. 
Good.”  He is so genuinely pleased by my answer I want to hold him and hug him
and tell him that I am sorry.  I have pleased him and I didn’t even try to.  I
said that because I know it is the truth, and I want to tell him the truth,
even though every part of me knows that it is pointless. 

“We
have to continue to widen your reality, Charlotte.  Your world caved in around
you to the point there was nothing left but you and your misery.”  And
Beethoven.  One boat.  One bottle of vodka.  A whole bunch of pills that they
gave me.  “We are pushing it back out.  Slowly.  Together.”  I smile.  Bless
him.  He really believes that together we can do anything.  He should be on
stage doing motivational speeches, or be a politician.  Together. 

Yes
we can.

“Yes,”
I say.

“Charlotte,
there is just one more thing I want to ask you before we finish today.  Is that
OK?”

“Yes.”

“You
haven’t mentioned the baby.  On Saturday you were very focussed on the baby. 
Why is it that you haven’t spoken of it today?”

I
sit and stare for a while at the lines on his face and trace them as they move
as he continues to speak.  He must be in his late fifties by now and has lived
almost twice the life I have lived.  And yet I know nothing of it.  I have
never asked a question of him because I never cared to learn about his life
because I understand now that there is no such thing as a real connection to
another person.  My eyes wander above him and I am sure he is still talking but
I do not hear the words.  On the shelves behind him there are books that
reflect the life he has created.  To list a few: Psychology and Social Sanity;
The Science of the Mind; The Games People Play; Mindfulness and Psychology; and
one that is obviously his favourite because he displays it on a stand so that
the cover faces out, A Graphic Guide to The Mind.  It has an iceberg on it with
somebody chipping away on the top.  This is how he pictures himself, I am sure,
sat atop my head, hacking his way in.  He has a gramophone on another desk, and
the remaining shelves are scattered with periodicals, ornaments, and
photographs designed to make this place feel like the home that most people who
visit here don't have.

“Does
that work?” I ask whilst he was mid sentence.  I point to the gramophone, the
big bell like a set of open, inviting arms.  “Do you ever use it?”

“Yes.” 
He smiles, not bothered by my interruption.  “Would you like to hear it?”  I
stand up and move over to the gramophone and he follows me in a series of quick
movements as if he is trying to get in front of me in a queue, perhaps so I
don’t touch it inappropriately.  Not in an unkind or uncomfortable way.  He
cares about this machine.  He wants to protect it from my clumsy gloved fingers. 
The same way that he is trying to do with me.

“There
is a record already on here,” he says as he opens the lid, surprised.  “Oh yes,
one of my favourites.”  He cranks it up by winding the handle with a daft smirk
across his face, which he is trying to conceal by biting his lip and contorting
his cheeks.  I wish he wouldn’t, because his enthusiasm is nice and although I
cannot share or feel it I can at least witness it.  The bird is still singing
outside, its fervour never once subdued.  Perhaps I should have been a bird.  “Here
take this in your hand.”  Touching only my glove, he guides my hand across the
arm that moves back and forth and helps me move it towards the spinning
record.  I feel a sudden pressure as he pulls me back.  He picks at the needle
and cleans away a small collection of dust.  He looks at me with raised
eyebrows and puffs out his cheeks as if to say, ‘
Phew, that was nearly’. 
Such
care over a machine, a record player, a thing which is outdated and obsolete. 
Unless you like hanging on to the past there is no need for this machine.  No
wonder I am interested.  “Carefully.  Yes, that’s it.  Wait.”

I
listen to the crackle as the needle rocks over the imperfections of the old
vinyl, the scars of years gone by.  He is smiling like a little boy.  I smile
too without even realising it.  We listen together as the music starts, him
lost in a dreamland full of smiles and happiness and I watch him, trying to
work out how he did it.

“Where
did you get it from?” I ask.

“It
was my father’s, and before that it was my grandfather’s.  I inherited it from
my father when he passed away.”  I can see his hand tapping and foot bobbing as
he speaks.  We are both aware of the differences between our stories.  His
father gave him a legacy, history, possessions that make him smile when he
thinks of times past.  My father left me to drown.  My throat hurts, like it is
swollen.  I can feel his memories of past and family weighing down on me and
suddenly I feel cold and reach for my coat.  I wonder if his grandfather used
to play it on a Sunday when his parents took him to visit and he would sit by
his knee in front of a roaring fire.  It’s a cliché, but suddenly I want
it. 

“Do
you have your own family, Dr. Abrams?”

“Yes. 
Two sons.”  He takes a photograph down from the shelf and hands it to me.  Both
are handsome.  Somewhere in their late teens, but it must be from a while ago
because he is too old for teenage sons now.  They have been placed together for
a joint photograph and their pose is forced.  But they are smiling.  “They are
grown up now.  The eldest, Thomas, this one here,” he says pointing at the
taller of the two, “is married and living in London.  The youngest, Joe, he is
our free spirit.   He is currently in The Netherlands.  Not sure he will settle
down, but he might end up giving us some grandchildren nevertheless, if you see
what I mean.  He is a good boy though.  Works hard.  Has a great job, something
in finance.”  He is so animated whilst telling me this story that for a second
he pays no attention to me, lost in his own memories.  I might as well not be
here for all he is aware of my presence in the room at this moment, this
very
moment when I see what having a connection to another person means.  He realises
that the retelling of his own history has answered his original question.  History
is why I haven’t talked about the baby.   Excitement and hope has given way to
reality.  Truth.  I hand him back the photograph and he takes it but doesn’t
look at it again, as if not to draw attention to it.  “History doesn’t always
repeat itself, Charlotte.”  He is quick to try to reassure me, but I know now
that hope is for losers.

“But
it might.”  We both take a big breath in, he offers me a seat but I motion to
the clock suggesting that time is almost up.  The music is still whirling along
and I am comforted by the knowledge that nobody can hear what I am about to say
on the other side of the room.  “Gregory doesn't want the baby.”  Dr. Abrams
face remains unchanged as he digests this latest thought.

“I
have known Gregory for many years.  His father was a friend of mine.  Gregory
will come to terms with the idea of baby.  You will be a family, and have all
the things you never had, Charlotte.”

“You
can’t promise me that, Dr. Abrams.  You know you can’t.”  He pulls his lips
together as if he wants to stop himself speaking again.  “I know he doesn’t
want it.”

“He
has always wanted it.  It is just a little bit hard for him right now.”  He
looks like he really believes what he is saying to me.

I
hold his upper arms and although I want to kiss him on the cheek in awe of his
willingness to believe I do not.  He is a sweet man, and he wants so much to
help me.  He really wants my life to be good.  I smile at him, but I think it
comes out looking sadder than I anticipated before turning to walk away. 
Gregory is waiting for me on the other side of the door.

“I
forgot to ask,” I say turning back to Dr. Abrams just before he closed his door. 
The waiting room is empty and the fire is about to go out if somebody doesn’t
attend to it.  There are logs at the side and I am sure Gregory must have
noticed them.  He could have thrown one on, but he didn’t.  “I like the song. 
It’s very upbeat.  What is it called?” 

He
looks slightly embarrassed before saying, “Crazy Rhythm.”

My
almost real smile fades a little, before Gregory places a hand at the base of
my back and pushes me towards the door.  Of course it is called Crazy Rhythm. 
We should be skipping out like dancers from the 1920’s, legs and arms flailing
back and forth like we haven’t a care in the world.  I can almost hear the
trumpets with their muted bells, the oompa oompa of the tuba in the background,
and the rhythmical crash of a cymbal.  It is almost impossible to be unhappy
when you hear music like this.  And yet I, we, still manage it.  We walk out of
the building along a perfectly clear path, the gardener no longer in sight.  I
cannot hear the bird anymore.

We
arrive home and Gregory suggests I take a rest in a way that doesn’t seem
optional.  I lie on my bed for a while thinking about the session with Dr.
Abrams.  My trip to the psychiatrist's office has done little to lift the
silence filling the rooms of this house.  There are no sounds to count the
passing seconds.  I am amazed that Dr. Abrams manages to remain so positive
with me.  He never fails to see the possibility in me, which I fail even to see
myself.  Hopeful, pleased, joyous, happy.  Pathetic.  Could it be possible that
I ever felt this way?  It was never possible, I know this.  Right before I went
in the water, on the day of the 'accident', I hit my head.  I had chased down
the tablets with almost a bottle of vodka.  If I hadn’t waited so long there
would have been no chance they would have pulled me up.  I would have sunk to
the bottom and stayed there.  They would have had to dredge the lake to find me
by that time, or wait until I popped out amongst the tree roots and foliage,
bloated and pale like a puffer fish, bits of me chewed or rotted away.  But
they got me.  They pulled me, blood pouring from my scalp staining my hair and
my face until it was pink and looked artificially alive.  They breathed for me
until my lungs realised the plan had changed, and my heart was shocked back
into action.  A full about turn. 

When
I woke up with a tube hanging out of my nose and another one collecting my pee,
I had no recollection of what had happened.  They had already pulled the tube
from my throat.  I could feel the scratched flesh that it left behind, and this
pain confirmed for me that I was alive because I couldn’t begin to allow myself
to believe that there was still pain after death.  What a terrible thought.  Some
people peered in at me, all smiles and best-friend falseness.  Others didn’t
want to look after me.  They thought I deserved it.  It was what she wanted, they
said.  I liked and appreciated these people more.  One distinct memory is of
throwing up thick black vomit because of the charcoal they were feeding me.  I
remember somebody telling me that I would be alright but that I had to
cooperate.  Another memory is of the delirium in the seconds immediately prior
to my body giving in, when it shook as my brain malfunctioned and I had a
seizure.  That was the last thing I remember.  Until Gregory.  I woke up and he
was there.  Smiling, crying, shaking.  He was at my side.  He loved me so much
in those moments and was so happy I had survived.  He was dressed in an old
jumper even though it was August.  His eyes dark and droopy, watery too.  He
squeezed my hand so much I thought he might pull it off.  But after that my
memories get chaotic and confused.  I don’t remember going home.  I don’t
remember my first meal or my first shower.  I don’t remember my first day back
at work, although I remember Gregory insisting that I shouldn’t go.  I remember
the freshly baked food that appeared in my kitchen that Ishiko insisted she hadn’t
cooked and I remember wondering how it had arrived there.  I don’t remember
meeting Dr. Abrams.  I don’t remember making love to Gregory.  I don’t remember
when he stopped loving me.  I only wish I couldn’t remember that there was a
time when he did, because somehow knowing this makes things worse.

I
hear a knock at the door, and it opens a crack, the unmistakable black fringe
of Ishiko standing in the shadows.

“What
is it?”  I look at the clock.  It isn’t time for dinner yet.

“Your
friend left something in the dining room.”  She held out her hand to reveal a
neat pearl bracelet.  Marianne had been showing off this bracelet on the night
of my birthday, a gift from her lover to show that she was important.  That she
was more than a secret.  She was worth something.  She wasn’t kept in a
bubble.  She wasn’t nothing.  I wonder how many gifts Gregory has bought Ishiko
and where she hides them.  What if he bought her a bracelet like this?  When
would she wear it?  Would she keep it in her handbag and put it on her wrist when
she leaves the house and then remove it before she comes home?  I wonder if he
has taken her away, to Glenridding to his other hotel for secret liaisons.  I
wonder if he has kissed her in the garden, shrouded by mist with a false sense
of freedom because they are out from behind closed doors.  I wonder if he has
made her promises like John has made to Marianne.  I wonder if that’s why he
doesn’t love me, because I have ruined his plans.  This baby has ended his
chances to get rid of me and now he is stuck with us both in the house and he
doesn’t know what to do.

“Give
that to me.”  I sit up and as she walks forward I snatch the bracelet and tell
her to get dinner ready.  I wait for her to leave.  I listen at the door to
check that I am alone.  I hear them both downstairs discussing, probably about
dinner because it is 4:18 pm.  I open the drawer of the bedside cabinet and
take it out, placing it on the bed.  I take the table lamp and bring it down to
the floor where I am now sitting and it casts a shadowy light into the space. 
On the left there is a small shelf, on which there is a row of Prozac tablets,
forty eight of them.  They sit evenly spaced and aligned, green half to the
back, white half facing in like an inspection parade of camouflaged soldiers.  On
the opposite side, a replica shelf of the first, I lay out the pearl bracelet. 
I look inside for a while, realising that something is not as I expected.  Something
is missing.  I dart across the room to the wardrobe, rummaging through the clothes
until I see the dress that I wore the night of The Sailing Club dinner folded
into a pile.  Underneath is a handbag.  I open it, willing it to be there.  It
is.  I take out the picture of Ishiko and smooth out the crumples.  There is a
new fold that dissects her in half, right through the head.  I put it back in
the drawer space next to the bracelet and in front of the CD which I took from
her room.  An evidence haul of betrayal.  Property of Judas.  I take out
today’s Prozac capsule from the bottle which sits on top of the bedside table and
place it on the shelf.  I put the drawer back in and remind myself, Marianne
first.  This one is easier.  I wonder if forty nine tablets will be enough to
kill her.  I wonder if Ishiko will need less because she is smaller.  I wonder
if what I am going to do will scare Gregory enough to make him realise.

I
wash.  I eat.  I smile politely.  I wash.  I answer.  I look positive.  I nod
my head.  I wash.  I shower.  I wash again.  There is nothing left for me to do
so I sleep.