PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller (29 page)

On
the way to Dr. Abrams I decided to pass by the estate agents where I used to
work.  Since Stephen Jones visited the house it has been difficult to get him
out of my mind.  I hadn’t expected to think about him when Gregory was lying on
top of me in the hotel, but since I did I have been infested by a series of
less than appropriate thoughts about him and what his manly hands might be able
to do to me.  I pull into a space on the main road.  I make one final check of
my watch and confirm that I still have half an hour until my secret appointment
with Dr. Abrams.

It’s
an uphill stretch from where I left the car to the entrance of the office, and
by the time I open the door I am puffed out and flushed.  It doesn’t help that
the wind whips down Crag Brow Lane with the same force and unimpaired progress
that it might blast across an open ocean, as if there is absolutely no obstacle
in its way.  I open the door and the little bell above me chimes.  Phillipa is
sat at her desk, and Martin is at the other.  My desk behind them sits empty,
waiting for somebody to fill it. 

“Hi,”
I say, waiting as they take a moment to look at each other before looking at
me.  Phillipa is the first to break the silence, which is so thick I can almost
feel myself choking on it.  I realise that my hands are empty and wish now that
I had stopped at the bakery down the road and picked up a cake.  They would
have appreciated that, and it would have distracted them from my presence. 

“Hi,
Charlotte.  How are you?”  Her
how are you
is an actual question, rather
than just a polite introductory snippet of conversation.  I reach in my handbag
and take out an antibacterial wipe and clean my gloves because the number of
people who grip the door handle on any given day is innumerable.

“I’m
good.  Out of breath from the hill.”  I smile and offer a chuckle, but neither
of them seem amused.  “It’s so cold outside,” I say, but they seem incapable of
accepting my polite chatter, and Martin hasn’t taken his eyes of my hands.  I
throw the anti-bacterial wipe in the nearest bin and get straight to the
point.  I plaster over their obvious discomfort with my own words.  “Is Stephen
here?”

“Who
wants to…..know?”  Stephen was coming out of his office, head down, looking at
the paperwork in his hand.  When he looked up, his words trailed off into
almost nothing as he saw me standing there.  He coughed before saying, “Charlotte. 
You better come through.”  He opened the door and waited for me to pass into
his office, and then he closed it behind him.  He said something to Martin and
Phillipa as he was closing the door, and as I turned around to look at him, I
noticed that Martin was still watching me until the very last second. 

Inside
the office there is a large window on one wall that allows a lot of light to
stream through, but yet offers no discernible view to speak of.  All you can
see is the concrete wall of the next building, and some overhanging laburnum
trees from the garden behind it that spark a memory of a sweet vanilla aroma in
spring and bright sunshine orange flowers.  He offers out his arm, indicating
that I should sit.  I do, and he puts the papers from his hand back down on the
desk.  He catches me looking at them as he sits down in his chair which makes
me feel like I am at an interview, asking for my job back.  I look away,
suddenly wishing I hadn’t come here. 

“I
have a viewing,” he says as he motions to the papers.  “I’m sure it’s a waste
of time.  Says he is from out of the area, that he wants a holiday home.  It
could be something but I think it’s nothing.  Who’s going to buy a holiday home
for over eight hundred thousand?”  He opens his arms out as if weighing up the
possibility of securing this sale, that it is either something or nothing.  How
many times I have asked this question of myself, whether I am indeed something
or nothing, is beyond counting.

“Probably
nothing,” I answer as I pull my scarf off. 

“Exactly. 
You remember how it is.”  He clasps his hands together, looks around the office
for help and inspiration.  His eyes rest on the pot of coffee.  “Oh, sorry.  I
didn’t offer you anything.  You want something to drink?  It’s cold out. 
Freezing in fact.”

“No. 
I’m OK, thank you,” I say as I wave my hand in an overenthusiastic but negative
fashion.  A moment of silence falls upon us and we both feel out of place and
awkward, and I wonder again why it was that I came.  I grip my arms in my hands,
hugging myself, and realise that there isn’t really any reason to be here.  I
just sort of arrived without purpose or intent, and now we are both feeling the
awkwardness of having nothing to say.  Even Stephen. 

“I
should go, you have work to do.”  I attempt to get up from my chair, and this
pushes him into action.

“No
sit.  Sit.  I insist.”  He gets up, pours me a black coffee and then sits on
the edge of the desk on top of numerous house brochures.  “It’s just a surprise
to see you that’s all.  A nice surprise,” he adds in at the last moment.  He
smiles at me, revealing a big set of overly white teeth.  But it’s a warm
smile, cheeky almost, and I find myself giggling without any real reason. 

“Smells
good,” I say as I bring my cup up to my nose. 

“You
still don’t take milk, right?”  There is a moment of concern but I shake my
head and confirm that he got it right.  “Ah, good.  It’s good to see you,
Charlotte.”  His eyes rest upon me as if he is studying my face, and like an
oil painting hung at a gallery I feel on display.  But his critique appears
appreciative, as if he is looking at every brush stroke, every misplaced drop
of paint, every imperfection, and finds the beauty in the overall composition. 

“I’m
not sure Phillipa and Martin were that pleased to see me.”  He laughs.  “I
guess once you have been mental……”  I leave the sentence unfinished but bring
my fingers up to my temple in a circular motion which infers irrationality in
my behaviour and that I might be completely mentally warped.  I shake my head
back and forth, further imitating my insanity, but he has stopped laughing and doesn’t
seem to see the funny side and instead just looks at me.   He feels sorry for
me that a joke has been made at my expense, even though I made it. 

“It’s
got nothing to do with that, Charlotte.”  I feel an urgent need to change the
subject, or get out of the office, and he recognises it because he does so on
my behalf.

“It’s
a shame we have lost you.  You were good at your job.”

“Thanks.” 
I look down at my lap and stare at my hand but I feel no urge to pick at it in
this moment.  I take a sip of the milk-less coffee without a second thought.

“Is
it better?”

“Is
what better?” I ask, confused.

“The
hand.  Remember, the other day.  You were bleeding.”  He points at my hands.

“Oh,
yes.  It’s fine.  It’s nothing.”

“It
didn’t look like eczema.”

I
put down my cup and push my hands under the desk, and then slide them under my
legs.  Their being on show is no longer acceptable, even through the gloves. 
“It’s nothing, honestly.  I didn’t do it.  Maybe I picked it a bit, but I
didn’t do it.”  My confession surprises me.  I am speaking to him as if he
knows me.  As if I need to explain my actions to him.

“You
never did, Charlotte.  You never did anything.  It all just, sort of happens
around you.”  I don’t feel like we are still talking about my hand.  “But I
guess that’s none of my business anymore.  What’s happened has happened.  You
have everything you wanted now.”  He nods to my stomach.  “Husband, nice home,
baby.”

“Apparently
so.”  In the moment of silence that follows I remember what he said the other day
whilst we were sat in the conservatory.  I look up at him and ask, “Is that why
you said that I never wanted to leave, because I wanted to give up work, stay
at home, and have a baby?  That’s what Gregory told me I wanted.”

“What
I meant, Charlotte,” he began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.  The
person on the other side didn’t wait to come in and a woman with long dark hair
waltzes through as if the office is her own.  She is wearing a beige woollen
coat and a brightly coloured scarf with zigzags on it.  She, and the scarf,
look expensive.

“Charlotte,”
she says, as if she knows me.  I follow the features of her face.  Her hair is
black, and her eyes match.  Her cheekbones would be suitable for a high fashion
magazine.  She doesn’t seem familiar.  “You…..are here.”

“Charlotte
was just leaving.  She came to formally hand in her resignation.”  As Stephen
makes his announcement I stand up out of the chair, aware that my presence is
no longer welcome.

“Oh
really?”  She looks at me, up and down, my coat, my gloves, my make up free
face before smiling at me through pursed lips.  “How are you, Charlotte?”

“I’m
fine, thank you.”  I answer her without any clue who she is.  But she knows me,
and it is further damning proof that I have lost so much memory that I no
longer have any real idea of how I got here today in this position and in this
life.  My memory is made up of fragments, of voids that I need to fill in.  My
past is an open book with blank pages, waiting for strangers to mark it with
their version of my truth.

“You
don’t remember me, do you?” she says to me, without trying to hide the grin
that is appearing on her face.

“No,
I’m sorry.”

“Isabella. 
Stephen’s wife.  We met at the Christmas party, last year.”  She holds out her
hand and I take it, and despite the fact that she has just pulled off her
leather glove, I keep mine on and feel better for knowing my disinfectant wipes
are close by.  “If you remember, I had to go home early, our son had been
sick.  I left you all there.  Together.”

“I’m
sorry.  I don’t remember.”  She doesn’t answer me.  Instead she hands Stephen a
set of keys which she tells him he left behind that morning.  Apparently he
would never have got in their house later on without them as she herself was
going out.  He takes them.  He puts them in his pocket.

“Anyway,
I really must go,” Stephen says.  “Charlotte, thanks.  All the very best of
luck.”  He ushers us both out of the door. 

“OK,
bye.  Bye Isabella,” I say as I turn around whilst walking through the door. 
My scarf slips through my leather gloves and as I lean down to pick it up my Triquetra
necklace falls free, swinging out in front of me like a pendulum.  I stand back
up, tuck it in and drape my scarf across my shoulder.

“Beautiful
necklace,” Isabella says, staring at my now covered neckline.  “Isn’t it,
Stephen?”

He
nods as I say, “thank you.”

“Where
did you get it from?  It looks local,” she says.

“No,
it isn’t.  My father gave it to me.  It’s very old.  I always wear it.”

“I
could have sworn I saw something similar in the window of the jewellers just the
other day.  I must be wrong,” says Isabella, smiling again.  I say my goodbyes
and leave without looking back.

I
walk back to my car and sit inside.  The sips of coffee have left a very strong
taste in my mouth, and I can feel it furring up on my tongue with each breath I
take.  Just as I was about to drive away I hear a tap at the window.  It is
Stephen and I nearly jump out of my skin, but he doesn't seem alarmed at all. 
I press the button and the window disappears into the door.  He is staring
straight at me, as if taking a mental picture, reading me for reactions, but he
doesn't wait for me to speak and he doesn't apologise for startling me either.

“I
meant that you never could do what you wanted.  That you never found the courage
to leave him, even after what he did.”  He looks away from me, shakes his head. 
“If ever you do,” he says as he reaches into the car to touch my cheek, “call
me.”  With that he leaves, and even when I call out for him to stop he continues
to get into his car.  By the time I open my door and get out to ask him what he
meant he was already driving away, and he didn’t turn to look at me again.  I
drove to Dr. Abrams wondering what the hell had just happened between us.

The
waiting room at Dr. Abrams office is small.  It is perhaps three meters square
in both directions and painted in daffodil yellow so that in here it is a
perpetual spring, the season that brings new life and a second chance.  It is a
cross between a waiting room and a home, designed so you feel like you belong,
which is strange, because most people in here probably don’t feel like they
belong anywhere.  I know I don’t, even though the snow is melting from my boots
and into the carpet.  I can see small frost crystals forming in the drips of
water, trying to anchor me to the floor.  I shuffle my feet and they break,
setting me free.

There
is a stone fireplace with three ornaments on the mantel piece, an owl, a vase
with red fake flowers in, and a small trinket box.  The owl sits in the middle,
staring back at me with a near human quality.  The owl is the perfect night
hunter, its life lived out in the shady conditions of night.  They can sit for
hours, stationary and camouflaged, waiting and stalking.  Their awareness of
their surroundings is acute, well trained.  I asked Dr. Abrams about the owl during
one visit.  I asked him why it was there.  He told me that owls are wise, an
invisible see-er of all things, even when the dark and the shadows cloud the
vision of others.  He told me it represented him, and this is how he would help
me, to see in the dark when I could not.  He wanted to be my eyes and my ears
so that I could see life in the way he did.  I told him that the owl is also
the bringer of death, the night-stalker who swoops without warning, a
connection to the underworld.  That when it was dark it was the owl that would
find you, finish you off, and that no matter how much you tried to hide, your
undoing would be inevitable.  He hadn’t considered this.

I
sit in the pink chair, waiting.  There are four other chairs here and only one
of them is being used.  In it sits a child, no older than ten years old.  Her
feet dangle over the edge and she is swinging them back and forth.  Her hair
has been pulled back into side bunches, high up, and too childlike for her
age.  She smiles at me.  It is the smile of an adult, a smile which says to me
that she understands why we are here.  She knows the part she plays in this. 
We both hear the mumble of voices on the other side of the wall and then the
door opens and a woman who I assume is the child’s mother comes out.  She is
jittery and quick in her movements, her head never coming upright.  I smile at
Dr. Abrams and then look back to the child.  Her smile has gone, and she offers
out an arm for her mother to hold.  She takes it, and the child helps to steady
the woman as they leave.  The child doesn’t look at me.  There are no more smiles. 
Instead, she slips back into her real life, the one outside the office of a
psychologist, the one that will change her as she grows, and to the one that
will deliver her back here in this same office when she is my age. 

“Good
afternoon, Charlotte.”  He stands in the doorway, his shoulders slouched, his
posture loose.  Unthreatening, waiting for my lead.  I stand, a smile on my
face.  I am pleased to see him.

“Good
afternoon.  How are you?”

“Well,
I’m fine.  Come in, take a seat.”  I assume the position of patient and sit on
the designated settee, cream, soft, the kind that makes you want to put your
feet up.  He takes a seat in the chair opposite, and only then does he ask how
I am today.

“How
has your week been?  In fact, less than a week.  I was a little surprised to
see that I had you scheduled today.”  The office is feminine.  I know he is
married, happily so – whatever that means – and I imagine that it was she who
designed the office.  Everything is just a bit too soft around the edges to be
designed by a man, not functional enough, too tactile.  I think she only
allowed him to select a few things, like the owl, his books, and the gramophone.

“OK,
alright.”  That doesn’t really feel like the truth, but I suppose that it is. 
Nothing bad happened.  Nobody died.  Not yet, anyway.  “It’s been OK,” I
repeat, making sure I put the full stop at the end of my words.

“Good. 
Tell me, what have you been doing?”

“Normal
things.  Household things.  Normal life.”

“What
does that mean?” he asks.  I take my coat off and loosen my scarf.

“I
had Ishiko cut some roses and they look good.  I gave them to a friend.”

“Nice. 
You have been taking your tablets I hope.”  I smile and nod. 

“I
went out for lunch with Gregory.”

“Really?” 
He seems surprised.  “Can we talk about that?”  He is trying not to show it but
I can hear it in his words. 

“Yes.”

“Where
did you go?”

“To
the hotel.  The new deck.  The one he says he built for me.”  I can hear the
scraping of a shovel outside.  Somebody is clearing the pathway.  It’s scraping
against the gravel, metal on grit, grinding.  I move about on the cushion
trying to get comfortable, trying to find a position where the scraping doesn’t
bother me.  I lean forward and straighten up the items on the occasional table
in front of me.  They are so untidy, he must have done it on purpose before I
came here.  He doesn’t push me to continue.  He just waits.  I take my gloves
off even though I don’t want to and place them in my lap.  “We ate chicken.”  I
sit back and the shovelling continues. 

“Is
that bothering you?”  He points outside.   I shake my head and lie.

“He
has changed his mind, like you said he would.”

“About
what, Charlotte?”

“The
baby.”

“What
did he say?”

“He
said that it is me, him, and the baby.  That he was being unfair on me.  That
he wants us to build a future, together.”  Silence.  Sometimes I forget that he
is not here to give me the answers.  “That now it’s about the future, not the
past.”

“How
do you feel about that?”

“I
wanted him to want the baby.”

“And
so, how do you feel?  Happy?”

“Yes,
I guess so.”  He sits staring at me.  I know I am lying and I know he can see
it.  My lips move up and down, mouthing the first syllable of the truth,
waiting for the courage to bring forth volume and to say it out loud.  “I’m angry. 
I’m angry that it took so long.  I am angry because I don’t believe him.  I am
angry for many reasons and it scares me that he is all I have.”

“Why
don’t you believe him?” 

“It
doesn’t seem real.  Who wouldn’t want their baby?  Why wouldn’t he talk to me
about it at first?  Why won’t he tell any of our friends?  Why isn’t he taking
pictures of me as my stomach grows?”

“We
all behave and respond in different ways, Charlotte.  It doesn’t mean that he
doesn’t care.”

“But
he doesn’t.  I know he doesn’t.”

“Perhaps
you should broach the subject of your sleeping arrangements.  Perhaps it would
help for you to feel closer to him if he was sharing your bed.”

“He
is.  He came back.  We,” I feel embarrassed as if this may have been the talk I
never had with my parents when I was a teenager.  “We made love.  Kind of.”

“Kind
of?”

“Well,
we made love, just, it was without the love.”  Now it is his turn to shift in
his seat. 

“This
is a positive step.  You may not have felt it, but he chose to be there with
you.  To connect.  It must have been very hard for him over the last few months
to be separated from you.”

I
cannot stand to hear how hard it must have been for him, and how he is
supposedly trying to connect with me, bless his heart, when he is all over her
whilst I am in the shower.  That's it.  I can't take the pretence any more.  I
cannot listen to another justification offered on Gregory's behalf and so I
say, “He is fucking Ishiko.”  He doesn’t flinch.

“What
has happened to make you believe that?”

“I
saw them having sex.  I saw him doing it to her.  He was snatching at her, like
she was something precious but disappearing and he had to devour what was left
of it.  He doesn’t touch me like that.”  Dr. Abrams stood up from his seat,
placed his notes file down on the chair.  One hand was on his hip, the other
was brushing through his beard.   He took several steps before turning back to
look at me.

“If
you believe that Gregory is having an affair with the maid who lives in your
home, you must be feeling very hurt.”

“Yes,
I am.  I am hurt because he doesn’t want me.”  I am aware of how Gregory hasn’t
touched my face like Stephen did when I believe if he loved me he would have. 
I am aware that I can still feel Stephen's fingertips on my cheek even now,
half an hour later, and I have no idea what that means.

“And
you think he doesn’t want you because he would prefer that Ishiko be his
partner?”

“That’s
obvious.  He waits for her to get near him and starts fussing over her.  The
other day he had me hold a bowl of Dettol to clean the cuts on her arms.”  I
realise he has no idea what I am talking about and that
cuts on her arms
means something entirely different to Dr. Abrams than the truth in this
situation, so I clarify.  “She cut the roses.  She got cut on the arms and the
face.  Dr. Abrams, did I want to leave Gregory?”

“So
he tended to her?”

“Yes. 
Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,
I heard you, Charlotte.  I don’t know if you wanted to leave Gregory.  I met
you after your accident.”

“Maybe
I did.  Maybe I wanted to leave him.”

“Why
do you think that?  You haven’t asked me that before.  You have never told me
you wanted to leave.”

“Maybe
I’m looking in the wrong place for the answers.  Maybe I just wanted to leave
him?”

“You
mean before the accident?”

“Yes,
wait.  Dr. Abrams stop calling it that.”  I move forward in my seat.  “I set
fire to the boat and overdosed.  It wasn’t a fucking accident.  It was
suicide.”

“You
seem very angry,” he says.  I think I am crying.

“It
wasn’t an accident, that’s all.  I did it on purpose.  Anyway, he had me hold
the bowl whilst he wiped at the cuts.  He made such a fuss.  He even wanted to
use a pair of my latex gloves.”  I say this much more bitterly than I intended
to.  I make an effort forwards so that I can align a pile of magazines in front
of me but realise at the last moment that I am not wearing my gloves and so
instead return my hands to my lap.

“I
might have got this wrong, but wouldn’t that be something reasonable to do?  If
she cut her arms?”  He sits back down again, attempts to cross his legs before
changing his mind.

“You
don’t understand.  This is just one thing.  One element of it.  I ruined his
plans.  This is why he doesn’t want us and why I don’t believe him when he says
he wants a fresh start.”

“Let’s
just deviate a moment.  You said you took the flowers to a friend.  Who is
this?”

“Marianne.” 
He waits for elaboration.  “She is our neighbour.”  I decide to leave out the
details.

 “Do
you spend time with this Marianne?”

“A
bit, why?”

“Well
we talked extensively in the past about your level of social isolation.  Your
social circumstances are changing with the arrival of this baby, and it is
important for you to find ways of coping with the external pressures.   Having a
friend is a very important element of that.”

“This
is beside the point.  I was talking about Gregory.”

“Ok,
sorry.  Tell me more about what happened this weekend.”

“Ishiko
told me that I couldn’t remember the past.”

“Your
memory problems are well documented, Charlotte.”

“But
it was the way she said it.  Like, to remember would be dangerous.  Like only
then I would understand.  And then what Stephen said.”

“Who
is Stephen?”

“My
old boss.  I saw him just now.  It’s like what they both say is connected. 
Like they are trying to force me to remember things, and I have no idea if
these things are true or not.”

“A
threat?”

“No,
a warning," I say as I wipe my face.  "Like they know something that
I don’t.  Like Ishiko could harm me if she wanted to.  She told me to beware
the truth, or something like that.”  I turn around and the man who was
shovelling the snow has stopped.  He is staring at me instead, waving.  His
face looks almost transparent and he begins to beckon me over.  I try to ignore
him, but he whispers my name.  I turn away but feel obliged to look at him
again, but when I do he has gone.  I think Dr. Abrams must have disturbed him.

“But
that’s why we are here, Charlotte.  That’s what
we
are piecing together
in these sessions.  Perhaps these people are trying to offer you something from
the past.  A memory together, something helpful.”  My nose is running and I
wipe it with one of the wipes from my handbag.  I take another out, wipe my
hands.

“That’s
another thing.  Gregory doesn’t want me to come here anymore.  He thinks
remembering the past is harmful.  He says that it is unnecessary.”  Dr. Abrams
puts his pen down and watches me for a minute, as if he is giving me a chance
to alter my statement before he questions it.