PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller

by Michelle Muckley

  “My necklace!” I panic. It has slipped into my clothes and I stand up to catch it. He cups his hands at my waist and seizes the necklace as it succumbs to the call of gravity through my clothes.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. I ignore him, as if I haven’t even heard him.

  “Why did you take that off?” I ask as I straighten out my baby blue jumper, holding out my hand for him to return it. “Why?”

  “Because I have replaced it. Replaced it with a new one.” He says, slipping the Triquetra into his jacket pocket. He pushes my expectant hand away. “Which I might add is much nicer and likely to be more expensive than this.” He pats his pocket, smoothing it shut.

  “But I always wear that necklace,” I say as I clasp my palm to my chest, comforting its loss. My words are weak because I know the battle has already been lost. “You knew that.” I can feel the wound on my head pulsating and I want to rip it open just to feel another kind of pain, something other than the pain of loss.

  “And now you wear something else.” He closes the box by gripping his hand together in a fist, and he stands up and walks back over to the table, setting it down. “I thought you might like to put a picture of me and the baby in it. Of us.” He is oblivious to my sense of loss and sees nothing of the pain he has caused. He sees only what is in his eyes the inappropriateness of my reaction. He is hurt, like he has all the right in the world. Anything is excusable, as long as its explicable.

  My hand investigates the new necklace, and I try to accept that for now my Triquetra is gone. I look at the pocket that he placed it in as if I can feel it, as if it too is calling out to me in pain like a newborn baby to its mother. “I’m sorry, but you surprised me. You know how I am with surprises. I have my routines.”

  “Yes, I am well aware.” He is not facing me, and instead is tapping the table, rhythmically like the second hand of a clock. For some reason I feel scared, but have no idea why so I begin counting to the same beat of his fingers, telling myself to breathe. I get on my feet, approach him.

  “It’s nice. It’s lovely,” I say as I touch him on the shoulder, light as a chance breeze that crept underneath the door. He turns to me with a satisfied smile on his face, wide eyed like a child at Christmas, his cheeks pinker now, more lifelike.

  “It looks exactly what I wanted it to look like.” He kisses me on the nose. That is the only compliment he gives me.

  That night I go to bed early. After removing the necklace and leaving it on the bedside table I sit watching the flakes of snow settle in small drifts on the window frame in complete and beautiful silence. Gregory is downstairs finishing his brandy after gifting me a rare moment of solitude. I take out the drawer and count the tablets. Ishiko’s torn picture is there waiting for me, but tonight I ignore it. I count the tablets again to be certain. Fifty three. I check the windows are locked. The freezing temperatures radiate through the glass, windows that have not been replaced in almost a century. The sky looks like a swollen belly, pregnant with snow. I try to cover the wound by my thumb with a plaster. I consider the need to put on latex gloves, and whilst at first I decide against it, I get up only a minute later and put a new pair on. I have only one pair left. I decide to check the engravings on my stomach and find that they have dried up and they are no longer painful. I measure them. I have grown. It reminds me that the knife I stole from the hotel is still in my handbag and so I take it out and hold it for a while. I think about making fresh cuts, and perhaps adding new ones to my thighs, but in the end I decide against it, perhaps because of another wave of cowardice and so I put the knife in the drawer space with the other items that are already hidden there. When there are no more thoughts in my brain, I slip between the sheets with one hand resting on my empty neck.

  Chapter twenty eight

  On the way to the hospital I receive three compliments about my love heart necklace. The first was how well it matched the colour of my skin. My skin is a shade of white, and if I were a hue of paint I would be Dover White, chalky like the cliffs. The colour is broken up in only three places besides the obvious locations of mouth, hair, and eyes. These places include a mole on my left cheek, small and discrete and close enough to my cheekbone to appear cute rather than ugly. The second is a mole on the top of my bottom, which you could almost call the base of my back. The final place is a cluster of thread veins on my left calf which I developed during a particularly dedicated period of exercise, and which I happened to notice have dramatically increased in size since the onset of pregnancy. Accordingly, I have also begun measuring this, and so have included a new column on the chart which I now keep behind the sink. The necklace is silver and I see no particular reason why it would offer a greater match to my skin tone as opposed to that of Asian or African skin. I have always felt that Gregory was inherently racist and I take this comment as further proof of my earlier judgement. It also matches, according to Gregory, my hair colour and the neckline of my dress which is a sweetheart neckline. This final compliment, I have to say I agree. However, the dress is merely a dress and has nothing to do with me.

  When he tired of discussing me and the necklace he turned his attentions to the scenery. Such is the extent of his delight that it seems he might never have travelled on this road before. He is in awe of the trees, the way the sun is melting the ice on their branches, the craftsmanship of the wall, and the blah blah blah. The journey is slow, and we are driving at no greater than a blisteringly depressive ten miles per hour and I know that the journey will take us the best part of two hours at this speed. At thirty minutes into the journey I try to zone out, the same way as I did with Stephen Jones when he was aimlessly talking about nothing of importance, but Gregory is determined, and continues to drag me back into the conversation like a shark attack victim, and no matter how much I flail and fight to claw my way out from the water, he pulls me back in. By the time we have arrived it feels as if he has severed all of my limbs, and torn my body to shreds like a scarecrow.

  In public he likes to create a show. It is another of his characters. He was raised to believe that he is better than most people, and that they are best served to remember that. Therefore, his voice is always raised a notch to ensure that people can hear him. He will make sure that he always refers to the car as The Jag, or in polite company, The Jaguar. I have noticed that his keys never quite make it to his pocket, they are always left out or jangled so that people will notice the silver cat key ring, just in case they missed what he was saying. He also talks of The Maid, asking me what we should have her cook, when will The Maid collect the dry cleaning, that he hopes The Maid has cleaned up properly this time. His intention with this last comment is to ensure that people understand that we also have our problems. That having a maid is not the luxury you might think it to be and that life for the served of the world is also fraught with difficult situations which he must strive to overcome. We have our problems too, you know. What a trooper he is. It’s his way of connecting with the lesser people. Of dumbing down. He thinks it’s endearing.

  “Good morning to you both. Nice to meet you, Mr. Astor.” The doctor holds out his hand. He looks a mess, like he probably worked all night delivering other more fortunate children into the world. “I am Dr. Jenkinson.”

  “Good morning.” Gregory holds out a limp hand and Dr. Jenkinson takes it but seems bothered by Gregory’s lack of effort. He lets Gregory’s hand go as if he had touched something unpleasant, which of course he did. We enter the room and we all sit down. A nurse comes in and offers Dr. Jenkinson a coffee. He agrees like she has offered the very nectar of life, relief consuming him, and I notice that he play acts a little bit to show how tired he is. Whilst we wait for the coffee to be made we chit chat about the weather and how he has been stuck here all night because it snowed so heavily at 2 AM that he couldn’t face the idea of going home at that time. We agree it must have been treacherous at that time with no other cars on the road. The nurse returns with a steaming cup of coffee which she sets on the desk
by leaning across Dr. Jenkinson, one hand resting on his shoulder. The way she touches him makes me think that he has probably fucked her. Or at least, that she would like to be fucked by him. Or vice versa. Maybe it happened last night.

  “We’ll be in the house within the next two weeks,” Dr. Jenkinson says to me with a big smile that stretches across his face. He takes a gulp of his coffee, burns his lip at the same time. “Hope the weather has cleared up a bit by then,” he says, dabbing at his scorched lips. Dr. Jenkinson puts the mug back down on the desk on top of some notes and I see that some coffee has escaped down the side of the mug. A ring forms underneath the cup, permanently marking them. Gregory seems confused before he finally understands the connection. He seems mildly impressed that I may have sold a house to a doctor.

  “That’s good,” I say.

  We discuss how I have been feeling and if I have had any physical problems. No bleeding, fluid leakage, vomiting, or abdominal pain. Yes I am taking my tablets. And yes I am OK. And no, no more thoughts about ending it. These are his exact words and I am surprised because we haven’t discussed anything about my mental health before. But he seems to know all about it. He fumbles his way around a psychiatric assessment in typical amateur fashion, stating at the end how wonderful it is that I now have something to live for. It seems I really was nothing before this baby. Perhaps he thinks that all childless people should consider suicide.

  After the discussion I remove my clothes as instructed, wear the gown, and lie back on the bed. Gregory remains on the opposite side of the curtain. When Dr. Jenkinson lifts the gown to measure my stomach I am aware of his surprise at the wounds that segregate my stomach into four quarters. He has also noticed my gloves are still on, but this fact seems to pale in comparison to the cuts on my stomach. What he hasn’t noticed is that the box of gloves on his examination trolley is noticeably emptier than it was five minutes earlier, and that my pockets are noticeably fuller.

  “Measurement lines,” I whisper, and he nods his head to agree, but he seems uncertain because the creases on his forehead have deepened and his smile is forced, suggesting to me that he finds my efforts less than normal.

  “Well,” he continues, steeling himself with a big inward breath, “you are about twelve centimetres, which is absolutely normal for this stage in the pregnancy.” He uses the measurement line that I have created to take his readings and I can tell that beyond his shock he is impressed, or at least assisted by my rekindled ability to cut my own skin.

  “Twelve centimetres?” I am alarmed. “But this morning I measured five hundred and fifty two millimetres.”

  “It would seem that I measure rather differently to you.” I was grateful of the ambiguity that the curtain offered Dr. Jenkinson’s words, and I pulled my gown down to signify that the discussion was over. He did pull it back up a little to do an abdominal examination, but I could tell he wanted to end it quickly. I pretended that he was hurting me and he seemed to work faster the more I winced, even though it didn’t hurt at all. He was probably wishing that he had spent a bit more time on the psyche evaluation. Then he used his machine and a blob of jelly, which without prompting he assured me was clean, to listen to the heart rate of the baby. Gushhush gushhush gushhush gushhush. After thirty seconds or so, I see Gregory appear at the edge of the screen, his face washed out like a fresh sheet hanging on the line. I have never seen him look whiter, with perhaps the only exception yesterday evening.

  “What was that?” he asks. Dr. Jenkinson smiles, knowing that the time has come. This is his glory moment, the reason he does this. The chance to show a parent the life that they are bringing into the world.

  “That, Mr. Astor is the sound of life. That is the beating heart of your baby.” Dr. Jenkinson seems as proud as if it was his own child, but Gregory doesn’t say a word. He just stands there. His shoulders have rounded in on themselves, and his lower jaw has dropped slack as if a chain holding it up had disintegrated and fallen away. He catches my eye and takes a step towards me, rests his hand on my shoulder and I adjust the gown so that he cannot see anything that he shouldn’t. He is actually resting it on me, full weight, like without my shoulder he might just melt into the ground and disappear like the snow from my shoes in Dr. Abrams’ office.

  “The heart beat?” He repeats the words of the doctor in disbelief. “You can hear it like that?”

  “Yes,” the doctor says, laughing at Gregory’s shock. “Here.” He takes Gregory’s hand and guides it onto the probe which is resting on my stomach. He is fortunately fully engrossed in the moving image and so pays little attention as the probe rocks over a scabby line of measurement. Gushhush gushhush gushhush gushhush. Gregory is somewhere between tears and laughter, and I believe for a moment it will come out as both. He looks down at my face, really looks at it, his eyes never leaving mine. It is as if behind the blue of my irises he has felt life for the first time in the whole time he has known me. In this moment, when another person stands between us and we are linked by nothing more than a machine, I am to him a living being with a future and with hopes. I cannot help but smile, and for a moment I forget that I am married to a liar who has done something worthy of abandonment.

  “So, we will see you in about six weeks,” Dr. Jenkinson says as I am getting dressed. He is already closing my notes and standing up. He is satisfied, and Gregory is silent. He has been stunned.

  The journey back to the house is also completed in near silence. There has been a higher volume of traffic on the road during the two hours that we have been at the hospital, and the sludge has started to melt, meaning that at least we can travel at a more reasonable speed. When we get home Gregory parks up on the driveway, sits back in his seat as if he has no intention to exit the car. I go to open my door and as I do I hear the crunch of the leather as he moves towards me, his big woollen sleeve resting across me. I turn to face him and his eyes are watery which could be from the cold, but I am not convinced. A soft flurry of snow has just started, and outside the car the daylight appears brighter, like somebody turned on a lamp.

  “Charlotte.” He waits. Thinks. “It is really quite a wonderful thing. It is a miracle. Something that you cannot imagine until you hear it like that. An actual life.”

  “It’s called pregnancy, Gregory,” I say with a sad little huff. “It’s been happening for about twelve weeks now.”

  “Yes. And I haven’t been there for you. Things have been,” he pauses, “wrong. I haven’t done this properly.” Beyond my wildest imagination I think there might be hope in his voice. But I don’t know if it is enough for the both of us.

  “Well, there are still twenty eight weeks left to get it right,” I say, trying to sound positive.

  “We have to get this right, Charlotte. Like I said. It’s us now. We will make some changes around here. But to do so, we both have to let go of the past. I am going to do it. I have decided. If you will do it too, we will be OK. No more thoughts, no more therapy to remember. This is day one of the future. Can you do it? Can you let go?”

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t know if that’s the truth, but I know that it is what I am supposed to say, so I say it.

  He kisses my cheek, but his smile remains unconvincing. He gets out of the car and I follow. We both take small snow-cautious steps towards the house. As we enter the house I go upstairs, telling him that I will rest whilst he tells me that he will light a fire. As I reach the top of the stairs, Ishiko is coming out of her bedroom, her face flushed pink, her pupils mere dots, like ships on the edge of a crisp horizon.

  “I have lost something,” she tells me as she pulls the door to her bedroom tight shut behind her.

  “Well, then I suggest you look for it,” I say, and I take another step towards my bedroom.

  “But where should I look for it, Mrs. Astor?” Her words are sharper than any I have heard come out of her mouth before. Sharp like the knife I have hidden away especially for her.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

 
; “Why don’t you tell me?” she spits out as I feel her hand reach out for my arm. I am still wearing my coat and she doesn’t get a good grip, so as I pull my arm away I easily slip through her grasp.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Ishiko?” I have never seen her like this before. I have seen quiet, serene, intense, sarcastic. Never angry. Never a fighter.

  “I think you took it.”

  “Took what?”

  “A photograph. And a CD. They’re mine. I want them back!” She is gripping at my arm again, and this time she has caught it and as much as I pull back she has got me. I am wishing that the knife was still in my handbag. If it was I would cut her open like a pig’s carcass, piss all over her and burn her until she was nothing but charred cremation dust.

  “Why don’t you look for it at the hotel,” I say as I reach into my handbag and shuffle around until I get hold of the magazine, “where you left this.” I throw the magazine down and she lets me go. She reaches down to pick it up and I take the chance to get into my bedroom. I drag the nearest chair and shove it under the door handle and turn .....

  .....being tested from the other side, but the chair holds firm and the door stays shut. I take out the drawer. I take each tablet, not ordered and in turn, not counting them down like I should be. There is no more time for preparation or thought. I sweep my hand over the shelf and collect all of the tablets that I can in one go into a cupped palm. I see Ishiko staring back at me, the image of her cleaved head encouraging me to follow my plan through, daring me to do it. To teach them the lesson they need. This is day one of the future, I hear Gregory say in my head and I know I have to end the past now so that we can start again. I stuff the tablets into my pocket and I slide the drawer back in place and it looks as if I was never here.

  I stand up and face the window, the sun shining brightly outside like molten steel flowing through a refinery. It warms me. After something like ten minutes I remove the chair from behind the door. I open it. Ishiko has gone, no doubt back to her room. The house seems darker, but there is a stutter of light coming from downstairs, shadows flickering onto the wall of the stairs. I creep towards it, following the light. I move like a ghost, certain that another person could see through me. As I reach the bottom of the stairs I see Gregory hunched over the fireplace, his movements so small he appears like a great statue, crouching like a bronze of the human form. His shoulders are bunched over the kindling coals, and so I slip through the front door unheard. The snow is falling on Marianne’s car, burying it deep, building its grave. This will be its final resting place.