PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (3 page)

There is something in my throat that
refuses to dissolve and it is doing it’s very best to suffocate me, like the
pillows I used to imagine stuffed all the way down to my guts when Gregory
still cared and almost killed me with his attention.  I might go back to that
now, to try his version of love one more time if there was still a chance.  I
would go upstairs and take my tablet and do as he says, if I thought feeling
nothing again was a better option.  I feel the urge to be sick, but I know it
isn’t morning sickness because that has passed.

We met on a cold Saturday night, the
kind that numbs your fingers making simple tasks near impossible.  I stood
outside the party to light my cigarette, glad to leave the inane chatter behind
me.  With the wind working against me, I saw a hand form a cup in front of me,
the cherry glow of my cigarette illuminating his palms as he shielded me from
the wind.  I saw only the inside of his hand and fingers, and immediately I
thought how wonderful it might be to feel them on me.  They were strong hands,
man’s hands.  You see, I place hands above anything else.  The hand is an
object reflective of who we are, and highly innervated and sensitive to touch. 
They are the creators, the shapers, the doers.  It is the hand that I am sure
created Ishiko’s face.  It is the hand which can comfort a child or the
bereaved, show love when entwined, grip and break an enemy arm, or stroke a
woman to the point of pleasure.  The hand can speak, a language of sign for
those without words.  Hello, or goodbye in a simple wave.  The hand before me on
that night could have been the hand of God himself, for I had never seen
anything so perfect.  I was hooked before I had seen his face.  His hand said
hello, and as I held it I said goodbye to me.  I left with him that night, and
I never returned to my life.  Not fully.  Perhaps in reality I haven’t found
home since, because on that day when I stood picking at my scarred head,
watching her dance in front of him exactly two years later, I realised that I
was being replaced right before my own eyes.  As she danced in front of him,
teasing him with her grace and beauty, I stood there watching, barren and
childless and loveless and bleeding.  I saw that she is the one that feels his
hands on her skin, his breath on her neck.  I knew in that moment that he was
fucking her.  But then my womb whispered in my ear, whispered to me that now we
were in it together.  We were comrades.  I had been dealt a new hand, a second
chance by a lucky turn of fate.  The gift of a child.  It would be different, I
thought.  He had to love me once I was carrying a baby.  He would forget Ishiko
once he knew I was worthy of a child.

That’s what I believed back then when
I took the test to confirm that I was pregnant, sat next to the toilet on the
locally quarried slate floor that I had, according to Gregory, insisted upon.

By
the time I arrived at work some of the earlier mist had cleared and the first
of the tourist cruisers were setting forth for the day's maiden voyage.  I
parked my car on the brow of the hill, my breath caught by the wind as I
climbed the steep gradient towards the office.  The door bell chimed like a
remnant from Victorian times, something that had hitchhiked its way into the
future, tinkling every day so that it wouldn't be left and forgotten.  As I
opened the front door I smiled at them.  Phillipa smiled too, but as I turned
to close the door and shut out the sounds from the town outside I saw her
sideways glance at Martin, whose own eyes were darting back from the clock. 
Phillipa looked like she was sucking on the inside of her cheek as I passed
her, raising her eyebrows at Martin.  I think that they are unimpressed by my
lateness.  I’m not sure if we have ever been friends, but it doesn’t feel like
it.

“Don’t
worry, he’s not here yet, either.”  Phillipa is leaning on her elbows and
glancing over her shoulder back at me as I set my bag down on my desk.  One
could easily mistake her words as comforting, telling me not to be concerned
about the lost minutes of my day, as if she would keep our little secret
because the boss wasn’t here.  I could almost believe in her sincerity if it
wasn’t for the sideways smile that was pushing up her eyebrow.  Only a fool
would believe that the illicit ten minutes that I dwindled away by watching the
water creeping in and out at the lakeside don’t matter to Phillipa.  But even
in the fog of friendliness her words are sharp edged like the northern ridges
of the nearby mountains, designed to remind me that she believes I get special
treatment.  Martin doesn’t say anything.  He is wary of me.  I heard that his
father committed suicide.  He probably thinks I cheated somehow, considering
that I’m still here.

It
was suggested, by some, that I give up working.  It was deemed inappropriate
for the wife of Gregory Astor to work.  His parents were horrified from the
outset that he had chosen to marry a person who was not only without the
benefit of a university education, but one who had chosen to sell houses for
money.  At first Gregory tried to appear new age and forward thinking by
supporting me in my whimsical notion of employment, but I could see cracks in
his character from early on, and I knew he was just trying his best to be what
he thought I wanted.  I knew that they found it pitiful that a person should
work because they had to.  His mother, Beatrice could never understand.  She
was born complete, with all the money she could ever want.  She didn’t have to
create anything in her life.  Her name means bringer of joy, a fact which I
find hilarious.  Gregory’s father, Mallory, was just as bad.  His name means
unlucky.  It is perfect for him.

Today's
appointment is Long Hill Grange.  I have viewed it myself twice, and have been
most impressed by it.  It is set in an elevated position, overlooking
Bowness-on-Windermere.  I would describe it as recently extended, offering a
splendid blend between traditional and modern.  In reality these types of
houses often look like two elements joined together, like a marriage that
doesn’t really work even though on paper you would have expected it to.  The
plans often look great, a seamless connection between two halves.  In reality
however there are many cleverly plastered girders, uneven floors and unusually
placed steps that join up the dots.  Like a centaur, a creation of mismatched
parts that don’t belong together.  If we were a house, Gregory and me would
never have made it past the planning stage.

Long
Hill Grange is a rarity.  It works.  It is worth the million pounds that I have
placed on it, but still they were expecting more.  This overinflated sense of self
importance amongst the rich is something to which I have become accustomed.  I
am always disappointed in myself that I am no longer appalled to hear such
remarks as;
but the granite alone is worth forty thousand. 
It’s quite
obscene that I don’t see the vulgarity of it anymore.  I tell myself that
people change.  That I changed.  But by the same standard, I wonder why it is
that I find it so hard to make the changes that people ask of me.

I
find that I do not have much in common with my colleagues.  It is strange
considering we all sell houses for a living.  You would think that we would be
able to find something to talk about, but we cannot.  I suppose that in itself
is the reason, because I don’t sell houses for a living.  They know that I go
there for different reasons, and that for me it is just an escape from the life
I have created for myself.  Almost like a hobby.  At my wedding, my colleagues chipped
in for a card, and they all put some money in as a gift.  Gregory’s decision to
open the cards in front of the guests as they handed them over seemed genuine
enough at first.  The first card from Mr. Alabaster, wished us well and was
signed on behalf of him, his wife, and his children.  I nearly choked on the
champagne as Gregory revealed a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds.  It was an
obscene amount and utterly unexpected.  The next cheque, from Mr. Sedgwick and
his wife Dana, was also for fifteen thousand pounds.  My initial shock was soon
replaced by the embarrassment of Gregory announcing the amounts as if the
numbers were a lottery or raffle ticket prize.  But I watched how the figures ripped
through the room like a spark in a brittle summer forest.  In fact, I was sure
that I saw somebody opening up their card and tearing up one cheque and
replacing it with another.  The amounts went up and down as if resting on the
tide of the ocean until eventually we had a winner.  Twenty five thousand and five
hundred pounds.  Mr. Forsythe, who had outdone his nearest competitor by a mere
five hundred pounds, seemed a little too smug for it to be due to good luck and
fortune.  He became a trusted business colleague of Gregory’s after that, and
has been to our house for dinner.  When Gregory opened the card from my work
colleagues towards the end of the proceedings, I am ashamed to admit that my
first thought was,
is that all,
when I saw a cheque for one hundred
pounds.
 
They could see it on my face, and things have never been the
same since.

After
picking up the key for Long Hill Grange I got straight back in my car.  It’s a
Jaguar, something big and not as sporty as I would have preferred but at the
time it was purchased I was still trying to be reasonable and show a degree of
restraint.  I arrived at Long Hill Grange early, and I left my showroom-clean
car tucked from view at the side of the house.  I stepped into the hallway, and
as I had suggested the vendors have left a pot of coffee warm on the stove, and
the smell of it mixed with the scent of fresh bread.  It makes me feel simultaneously
both sick and hungry, and I charge for the toilet.  The pangs of nausea are
rare and I am getting better at containing them.  Occasionally I have felt the
vomit rise in my throat but if I swallow down fast enough I can return it to a
peaceful slumber, like a trained dragon, full of hot breath but no fire.

With
my composure regained, I make a quick check through the house.  I plump up the
cushions and straighten the throw on the settee.  I open all of the doors so
that I won’t have to do so later.  It is a mistake in terms of house sale
rules, but this is necessary.  For me.  I check the mantle for dust, and then
drop a couple of logs into the hearth.  To light a fire shows the possibility
of this house.  It announces that inside of this house there is energy, stored
for you to grow and prosper.  Photographs dictate the life of only one, but the
fire burns for the life of the unnamed person.  I stifle it with the guard and
leave it to burn.

This
is what selling houses is all about.  Creating possibility.  To give people the
opportunity to aspire to the life they witness here.  To make them desire.  I
know the fire and the fresh bread are staged and look false, and so will the
people who have arrived to view the house, but it doesn’t matter.  As people we
have come to terms with false, as long as it suits us and we desire it.  False
nails, false hair, false breasts, false teeth, fake bags to make us look rich,
fake tan, fake diamonds, fake face, fake personality.  As long as it looks good
on the surface, fake doesn’t matter.  But what about fake marriage?  From the
outside Gregory and me look good, so it doesn’t matter right?  That’s the
question that I cannot answer, whilst I wait for him to love me like I hoped
for when his perfect hand first showed up in my line of vision.

They
turned up early, and I know they have arrived because I can hear the gravel
grinding underneath their car.  It sounds like a big car, expensive.  I take a
cleaning wipe from my handbag and wipe over the leather of my gloves before
removing them.  I wash my hands in the downstairs toilet, turning the taps on
and off with my elbow.  I do not dry them as I do not know if the towel is
clean or has already been used.  I wait in the sun room that sits on the west
side of the house, with large windows and ornate drapery.  It reminds me of the
conservatory in which I eat breakfast and which is covered in Charlotte-chosen
items, according to Gregory, but yet still doesn't feel like mine. 

I
knew they wouldn’t knock the door immediately, even though it’s cold outside. 
They have done what I did the first time I came to this house.  They were drawn
to the garden without any conscious decision to go there.  The view pulls you,
sucking you down like a whirlpool, a portal to another place.  The garden
appears peaceful, the centre of the house which just happens to be outside.  It
is lined with trees that are tall and strong and have withstood tough times and
hard winters, standing firm to protect those beyond like a row of warriors.  This
space is why you would buy this house, not for the modern kitchen or its
disparate connections of old and new.  It is a place where children will grow
and flowers will flourish.  It is a place for summer picnics and welcoming
guests.  A daughter could marry here overlooking the raggedy crags of The
Langdale Pikes.  A son might sit to study in the summer holidays before he
becomes a lawyer or a doctor.  It is a place of life, of hope, and pleasure.  I
stood here three weeks ago and looked out over the trees towards the lake,
thinking what a wonderful life somebody might be able to create here.  I hope
these people do it.  The little girl looks like she will grow up to be
beautiful, a heart breaker as my father might say.  She is already running
around the garden, arms outstretched in airplane fashion.  I watch as The Wife
squeezes The Husband’s hand and turns to look at him as if what’s on the inside
of the house suddenly became irrelevant.  She has already seen her future here. 
When I stood here gazing beyond the tree tops towards the depths of the black
lake, I wondered if I hired a boat whether I would have the courage to weigh
myself down with concrete blocks and slip into the water.  I wondered if I
would fight, or if I would let the current take me.  I wondered if I would
regret my actions and try to save the little seed that I knew to be growing
inside me, clawing at the bubbles as they crept freely to the surface.  I
envisioned myself at the bottom of the lake amongst the mud and the bottom
feeders, returning to the place from where I had once escaped.  I imagined fiddling
with the locks to free my feet whilst the winter sunshine rippled through the
water above me like a reminder of the life that I had lost.  I wondered how
long it would be until I drowned, before my fingers seized up from the cold
water, or before the last bubble escaped from the imbuement of my lungs.  That
night I held my breath under the water in the bath.  I could feel the large
gulp of air bursting against my ribs, overinflated balloons of tissue filling
up with toxic gas as I refused to breathe.  I lasted thirty six seconds before
I slipped quietly back up.  I looked at my belly, swelling already if I used my
imagination.  I told myself fake was good.  That fake doesn’t matter.  Everybody
loves fake.