PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller by Michelle Muckley

time has passed of which I have
not been party to.
    “Sorry,
Marianne.  I got distracted.”
    “Are
you sure you’re alright?”  She looks concerned now.  She placed the keys in her
pocket and she is moving closer to me to get a good look at me as if my
problems might be visible, something you can route through like old records
until you find one that you want.  I take a step back and look lively.
    “Yes,
yes.  I’m fine.  Sorry.  What did you say?”
    “I
was saying that we could go into town instead?  Or drive out to Ambleside, to
one of the hotels.  Daffodil, perhaps?”
    “Isn’t
it a little far away in this weather?”
    “Oh,
it’s not far, besides, the lounge area there is very nice.”  It came as a
surprise to me that she would consider it, my need not to be near the lake.  I
know she thought about the Daffodil hotel because it has a lounge that fails to
benefit from any view of the lake.  Perhaps it was some sort of self
preservation method, that if she had to go out with me, the least she would do
was to ensure she had done all she could in advance to make sure it went well. 
And without incident.
    “I
think the lake is quite beautiful today.  I can barely see it.”  I laugh and
she seems a little uncomfortable but offers a pathetic effort of a smile. 
“I’ll see you at Lakeside at four.” 
    With
the exception of Gregory and Dr. Abrams people are very anxious around me now. 
They are over friendly, eager to please, as if my mental stability all depends
on their latest meeting with me and should it fail now the burden of blame will
fall at their feet.  They are desperate to appear happy, bright,
accommodating.  Only last week Dana Sedgwick cancelled an appointment with her
hairdresser so that she was able to fulfil my invitation to help me arrange the
winter roses that I had asked Ishiko to cut.  At first she said she couldn’t make
it, but quickly realised who she was talking to and within ten minutes she was
in the house, flustered and out of breath from the dash up the private road as
if my life, or perhaps hers had depended on it.  Admittedly, I may have sounded
a little anxious on the telephone but it is true that flowers start dying from
the moment they are cut and she is the chair of the horticultural society and
of all people I would expect her to realise the urgency even though she was
going to ignore such a responsibility and go to the hairdressers anyway like
what I had asked of her was some sort of casual afternoon activity.  I had already
washed the stems and cleaned the leaves in anticipation and if she hadn’t
attended it would have been a waste and surely have resulted in a complete
devastation of the roses and I honestly don't know how she would have been able
to forgive herself but I know I would have been OK.  Marianne must be wondering
what she has done to deserve a coffee break with me at the side of the lake. 
She’ll learn.
    Coming
back inside, it was a complete accident that I brought leaves in on my shoes,
and most convenient.  I called to Ishiko and she came through with a brush and
dustpan to clean up.  I moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge.  Inside,
I found the soup that had been planned for our lunch, Winter Vegetable, and
with a gloved hand and a cup I ladled a portion out.  I waited for Ishiko to
return to the kitchen, and as she did I passed her with the cup hidden in my
coat and headed upstairs.  It was ten minutes until two o’clock.  Gregory would
be home in less than that, according to Ishiko.  I crept into the bedroom,
listening for the sound of tyres over gravel.  I poured some of the soup into
the toilet in our bathroom and some into the sink.  I threw the soup like an
artist might throw paint at a canvas, splattering it against the ceramic white
bowls.  I washed the cup in the shower, and tucked it behind the lamp on my
bedside table.  I removed my soaked leather gloves and threw them in the bin.
    “Ishiko!”
I