PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

outside again, which made me feel both
exhausted and thankful that I had lit the fire, because each time she swung
through the French doors the wind whipped through the house like the flight of
an eagle.  They wanted to get a feel for the place, they said.  When your
client is paying almost one million for a property you let them.  If they need
a couple of hours to get a feel for the place , you give it to them.  If
they want to see how it feels to take a shit in their potential new home, you
open the door and offer them the toilet seat.  It is my misfortune that this
actually happened.
    It
is exactly this element of my job which bothers Gregory.  He finds it demeaning
that his wife does this.  As far as waiting for somebody to defecate in
something that is neither public nor theirs, I would have to agree with him,
although I argued against it when Gregory questioned my sanity in accepting
such behaviour.  This was shortly before our wedding.  He wouldn’t question my
sanity now.  But this is the thing with the rich.  They are generally rich
because they are eccentric and stood out from the crowd.  The rich like to be
different, it sets them apart from the rest of society which conforms.  I
imagine the man who used the toilet in the house that was neither public nor
his, enjoyed that experience immensely.
    Gregory
too is eccentric.  He is the man who goes out to shoot pheasant wearing tweed, trousers
tucked into his socks to avoid the undergrowth on a dew soaked spring morning. 
He wears a flat cap with flaps that cover his ears and carries the shotgun in
his hand, tucked up into the crease of his arm, even in the house whilst he is
preparing himself and getting into the character of The Hunter .  He has
many characters.  Sometimes I used to wonder if he was pointing the shotgun at
me, just to tease me, to taunt me with it to let me know who holds the power
and to see what I would do.
    Gregory
decided not to come with me to my hospital appointment today.  He provided me
with a loose and somewhat transparent excuse about a busy schedule and a
renovation to oversee when I questioned him a few nights ago.  My first
instinct was to be annoyed, and for a day or so as the fact of his not coming
lingered with me I placed a degree of pressure on him, the gentle sort like a
child’s fingers as they prod at you to investigate the alien changes of
adulthood.   At first he tried reassurance and repeated his story of renovations
and prior engagements.  But after a while he became frustrated and on the last
occasion that I insisted he rearrange a few things in order that we might make
the trip together he simply didn’t answer.  I took this as a sign and resigned
myself to going alone. 
    I
had forgotten the beauty of the southbound A592 from Bowness to Barrow.  It
narrows delightfully as the trees cluster into the road to share secrets with
those opposite.  Occasionally the trees give way to hedgerows or
higgledy-piggledy walls which border land and join up with the stone walls of
roadside farmhouses.  There is a frost which appears to have been sprinkled
across the slate rooftops and it glistens under an uninterrupted winter-blue sky. 
As the trees recede the land opens up, and as I follow the road I also follow the
lake as it narrows into a river.  Here there is space, air, open land, and no
constraints.  Here, for a brief moment pleasure in life feels possible and I
reach down and stroke a hand across my stomach.  But soon I realise I have been
swallowed up by the reality of the journey and am once again sucked into the
town and as I look down I find both hands on the steering wheel.
    The
doctor’s waiting room is small and smells like antiseptic.  I assume it is
clean and so I sit down, but I do not remove my gloves.  Opposite there is
another couple, young, and beyond any doubt here as the result of an accident. 
Her stomach is swollen, the shape of an egg, cradled in smooth protective hands. 
She