PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller by Michelle Muckley Page A

screamed.  Loud and shrill like the scream of a victim.  A call for help.  It
sounded desperate, and she came running.  I heard her feet gaining up the
stairs.
    “Mrs.
Astor?” she said as she knocked and opened the door simultaneously.  I was sat
on the edge of my bed, a tissue held up to my mouth, a finger wiping away a
false tear.
    “Ishiko,
I am sorry but I have been unwell.”  I pointed to the bathroom and she peered
inside, seeing the soup stained sink.
    “I
will clean it up,” she said, but I was already on the way out of the bedroom. 
I moved as quick as a rat, downstairs and straight into the kitchen.  The lamb
chops were cooking and smelt delicious.  There was a small bowl of mint sauce
prepared at the side.  It smelt like Sunday, and family, and I almost felt
sorry for what I was about to do.  I turned up the flame to full.  It didn’t
take long before the edges started to burn and the first signs of smoke
appeared.  I closed the doors behind me and took a seat in the television
lounge next to the conservatory.
    It
was Gregory that I heard first.  I closed my eyes and rested my head down onto
a pillow.  I allowed my facial muscles to slacken, my cheeks sinking inwards,
mouth turning down.  Asleep.
    “Ishiko!”
I heard him scream.  It was a scream mashed together by rage and concern, the
kind you might utter when you drown under a wave of utter disappointment. 
“Ishiko!”  I sucked in a few deep breaths to ensure that I could not smell the
burning meat, the smouldering of herb and fat.  I heard feet on the stairs, a
pitter-patter of urgency and then the muffled anger of a voice under restraint
as he asked for her version of the truth.
    At
this point I cannot hear what is being said.  I can only hear Gregory and his
voice is controlled and hushed, trying not to billow over into the anger that
his first cries of Ishiko promised .   With no other sound around
me I think only of her name leaving his lips.  Ishiko.  Ishiko.  I wonder how
many times he has said her name aloud, screamed it at her when I have been out
of the house, whispered it into her ear in the middle of the night.  I remember
the first time he said my name.  I heard him say Charlotte, his eloquent voice
making me sound like something.  Like anything.  Charrrrrllllotte, he said as if
testing it out for the fit.  After that, even a simple task such as passing the
newspaper brought with it a formal address and the use of my name.  Pass the
newspaper, Charlotte.  I am going to kiss you now, Charlotte.  I love you,
Charlotte.  How could you, Charlotte.  I’m sorry, Charlotte.  Forgive me,
Charlotte. Breathe Charlotte, for God’s sake Charlotte, breathe!
    I
hear the door open and then I feel the concern as he gives me a shake.  I
imagine his eyes popping open in desperation and I have to put all my effort
into not cracking a smile.
    “Wake
up, Charlotte.   Are you alright?”  I pretend to rouse from a deep afternoon
nap, and I pull up my eyebrows in theatrical fashion as if I am trying to pull
open my obstinate eyelids.  I take a deep breath pretending to yawn and then
wince, my mouth screwed up tightly as I take in the smell of my own creation.
    “Whatever
is that smell?” I ask.
    “Burnt
lamb chops.  Why was she upstairs when she was cooking lamb chops, I'll never
know.”  It wasn’t really a question for me to answer, just flippant
exasperation as his arms flung up in the air before freefalling for his palms
to slap against his thigh.  “I have opened the windows to let it air.  What
will we have for lunch now?”  Not even this question was for me.  Gregory often
does this, asks questions with no particular audience.  Half of his life is
rhetorical.  It is his way of demonstrating that the world doesn’t understand
him, that he was forced into the unwelcome situation of asking questions of
nobody because there was nobody capable of answering.  I think it makes him
feel