Psycho - Three Complete Novels by Robert Bloch

house—her own room was always neat as a pin—but Norman always took charge of the kitchen. Not that he ever said anything to her, outright; he just took over.
    She never questioned him, either, and he was glad of that. Things had gone along for a whole week now, since that girl had come last Saturday, and they hadn’t discussed the affair at all. It would have been awkward and embarrassing for both of them; Mother must have sensed it, for it seemed as if she deliberately avoided him—she spent a lot of time just resting in her room, and didn’t have much to say. Probably her conscience bothered her.
    And that was as it should be. Murder was a terrible thing. Even if you’re not quite right in the head, you can realize that much. Mother must be suffering quite a bit.
    Perhaps catharsis would help her, but Norman was glad she hadn’t spoken. Because he was suffering too. It wasn’t conscience that plagued him—it was fear.
    All week long he’d waited for something to go wrong. Every time a car drove into the motel driveway, he just about jumped out of his skin. Even when cars merely drove past on the old highway, it made him nervous.
    Last Saturday, of course, he’d finished cleaning up back there at the edge of the swamp. He took his own car down there and loaded the trailer with wood, and by the time he’d finished there wasn’t anything left that would look suspicious. The girl’s earring had gone into the swamp, too. And the other one hadn’t shown up. So he felt reasonably secure.
    But on Thursday night, when the State Highway patrol car pulled into the driveway, he almost passed out. The officer just wanted to use the phone. Afterward, Norman was able to laugh to himself, yet at the time it wasn’t a joke at all.
    Mother had been sitting at her window in the bedroom, and it was just as well the officer hadn’t seen her. Mother had looked out of the window a lot during the past week. Maybe she was worried about visitors too. Norman tried to tell her to stay out of sight, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain why. Any more than he could discuss with her why he wouldn’t permit her to come down to the motel and help out. He just saw to it that she didn’t. The house was the place where she belonged—you couldn’t trust Mother around strangers, not any more. And the less they knew about her, the better. He should never have told that girl—
    Norman finished shaving and washed his hands again. He’d noticed this compulsion in himself, particularly during the past week. Guilt feelings. A regular Lady Macbeth. Shakespeare had known a lot about psychology. Norman wondered if he had known other things too. There was the ghost of Hamlet’s father, for example.
    No time to think about that now. He had to get down to the motel and open up.
    There’d been some business during the week, not very much. Norman never had more than three or four units occupied on a given night, and that was good. It meant he didn’t need to rent out Number Six. Number Six had been the girl’s room.
    He hoped he’d never have to rent it out. He was done with that sort of thing—the peeking, the voyeurism. That was what caused all the trouble in the first place. If he hadn’t peeked, if he hadn’t been drinking—
    No sense crying over spilt milk, though. Even if it hadn’t been milk.
    Norman wiped his hands, turning away from the mirror. Forget the past, let the dead bury the dead. Things were working out fine, and that was the only thing he had to remember. Mother was behaving herself, he was behaving himself, they were together as they always had been. A whole week had gone by without any trouble, and there wouldn’t be any trouble from now on. Particularly if he held firm to his resolve to behave like an adult instead of a child, a Mamma’s Boy. And he’d already made up his mind about that.
    He tightened his tie and left the bathroom. Mother was in her room, looking out of the window again. Norman wondered if he