Fog Heart (12 page)

Was he supposed to dig up Fiona now? Unbury his only child for the purposes of some impossible dialogue? That woman, Oona, had been a startler. Not really a fully grown woman yet, more of an idiot-child. Either that or a bloody clever schemer. It was enough to make you want to lash out and strike back at any person who trifled with your heart like this.

Let the dead lie sleeping in their graves.

He pushed the book aside on his desk and heard Jan pottering about somewhere in the apartment. Literature ultimately lets you down. Life, too. Everything fails you, and that is probably why you ultimately fail yourself. Was
that
the sin?

Oona. He wanted to think that she'd rigged the whole thing. Perhaps she had hired a detective to dig up the sorry details of his life. But why? It couldn't be the money, he had very little of that – and what else was there?

Afterwards he'd discussed it with Malcolm and Maggie, sopping up large quantities of Moselle as he related his meeting with the two young ladies of Westville. Maggie was all the more convinced that he was on to something and that Oona was authentic. Malcolm was intrigued, though still cautious and noncommittal.

It was time for decisions, Charley knew. This was about his daughter, who was dead and buried in a mossy old churchyard in a small town in the far west of Ireland.

When he considered it later, what had unsettled him so much was that Oona could only have been a small child herself at the time of Fiona's death, two or three years old, and Rosalind not much older, not enough to make a difference. They could have been in Scotland or Ireland and perhaps even have heard the news. But would it mean anything to them? Could they have retained the story and kept it in mind ever since? It was so unlikely.

And their paths cross all these years later in Connecticut, where they somehow notice that Charley happens to be a visiting lecturer at Yale, and that he's the father of the child who died long ago and far away? No, surely not.

Charley picked up the telephone and hit the numbers. A ring and an immediate pick-up. At her desk.

‘Hello.'

‘Is that Rosalind, or—'

‘Yes.'

‘Ah. Charley O'Donnell.'

‘Oh, good,' she said blandly. ‘I'm glad you called.'

No doubt. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and exhaled, a sigh of distaste. To be doing this.

‘I'd like to fix a time.'

‘Of course. I was going to call you.'

‘Why?' As if he didn't know.

‘Two things. Oona wants you to know that when you come next time you must bring your wife with you.'

Out of the question. ‘That's not on,' he told her.

‘Please think about it,' Rosalind said. ‘I know it might be difficult and painful, but without your wife's presence the whole thing would probably be pointless.'

‘
Might
be difficult and painful for her?'

‘Please think about it carefully.'

‘What was the other thing?'

‘Oona has received another image.'

Oh, yes, as expected. They hadn't heard from him, they were afraid he hadn't taken the bait. Set the hook again, deeper.

‘What do you mean, an image?'

‘She's sure it has to do with your daughter.'

‘What is it?'

‘Everglo.' A slight pause. ‘Everglo,' Roz said again, as Charley's vision skittered wildly out of focus. ‘Does that word mean anything to you?'

*   *   *

Let him be drunk for this, let him be good and stocious. It was the only sensible policy. It would blunt the force of Jan's inevitable reaction, and it might also distract her an important little bit from the full force of his message.

Well, it was a theory. Charley went to work on it, and when he was happily buzzed and no longer felt terrified at the idea of talking to Jan, he went looking for her.

She was in the bedroom, propped up, watching the usual late-night talk-show rubbish. The paperback in her hand was as thick as a brick, and on the cover it showed one of your Spaniard-type chaps out of the Middle Ages. He was leering down the admirable cleavage of a dark-haired sloe-eyed buxom wench. Nice position to be in, Charley thought wistfully.

‘Jan.' She looked at him. No expression. Good. ‘We have to talk, love.'

She tapped the remote, turning off the television. A little too quick at it for it to be a good sign. Never mind. He eased himself down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He rubbed it gently. Poor woman. Long-suffering. Norwegian stock. From the flat heartland of the country, like himself, but very much in the dolorous Irish tradition of womanhood.

‘I hate to even bring it up,' he said.

‘What is it?'

‘Something's happened. I think.'

‘Tell me.'

Concerned, a hint of anxiety, but still so eager to hear the worst. Women couldn't wait to get to the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth part. He stroked her hand lovingly.

‘It's about – first, let me explain something.'

‘It's about Fiona.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Because I heard from her.'

Oona? Rosalind? If they went behind his back and spoke to his poor wife, by God he'd murder the pair of them.

‘Heard from who?'

‘Fiona,' Jan said flatly. ‘I've heard from Fiona.'

Sentenced

‘I want the four of them together.'

‘Why?' Roz asked absently.

‘Not the first time but at least once,' Oona said. ‘Maybe the second session.'

‘Why bother doing them as a group at all, then?'

‘To see what it sparks. These four people are special, they seem to be connected in some way. I don't know how or why yet, but they are. Put them all together, and it should stir up a lot of psychic motion. I want to try it.'

Oona slid down in the tub until all of her was submerged in the hot water beneath a layer of fragrant bubbles, except for her face. The room was full of steam, and moisture trickled down the mirror. Roz sat on the floor beside her, back to her, with her head resting on a thick towel that cushioned the lip of the large old bathtub.

The water felt so good, you could lose all awareness of your body in it and drift like a spirit. Almost. Water was, somehow, her destiny. Sooner or later. A foot of it in a bathtub was all she was allowed, after what had nearly happened last summer.

How on earth had she lived so long? Lack of trying. If she really meant it, if she made a serious effort, the results would be different. But something kept her alive, and only part of it was herself. People. The people who drove her to despair also kept her tied to life.

You don't mean it, you know you don't. You think you want to get away, but you'll never let go. You have it too cushy, for one thing. Dying is hard, that's another. If you need more, try this: the pain can be sweet. Enough said.

‘He's going to get me.'

‘Who?'

‘One of those two,' Oona said. ‘I'm not sure which yet, but one of them will do it.'

‘Must we discuss this?' Roz asked with weariness. ‘You want every man who comes along to murder you.'

‘I'll be right one of these days.'

‘You won't because it's not about them, it's all about you. You may see things hidden or buried in other people's lives, but you have a blind spot about yourself.'

‘You could be right.' It was a thought.

‘I know I am.'

‘Maybe.'

‘About me, as well. Thank God.'

‘Oh, I know things about you.'

A laugh. ‘Such as?'

‘Wouldn't you like to know.'

‘If there was anything.'

‘You're not my real sister.'

‘Oona. Look at my face some time, and then go take a peek in the mirror. Let me know the results.'

‘That might not mean anything.'

‘Where do you get such foolish ideas?'

‘The telly.' They both laughed. Then: ‘He asked me, did I have a boyfriend.'

‘Who?'

‘The man. Spence.'

‘What did you tell him?'

‘I always tell the truth, you know that.'

‘So?'

‘Nothing. Just so you know.'

‘It's not as if you ever wanted one.'

‘No…'

‘Did you?'

‘Not a boy, no.'

They both laughed again, and Roz sat up to turn round. She used a fingertip to splash a couple of drops of water onto Oona's face. Oona smiled but said nothing. Her eyes were shut, and her face was like an island floating in the suds and blue water.

‘So pretty,' Roz said softly.

‘Just pretty?'

Another splash, another smile. ‘You're starting to get all waterlogged and rubbery. Time to get out.'

‘In a minute.'

‘It's bad for your skin, love.'

‘Everything is. Light. Water. Heat. Cold.'

‘Not everything.'

‘Yes, it is.'

Roz slid a hand into the water and ran it lightly along the inside of Oona's thigh. ‘Not everything.'

‘Mmmm.'

‘Come again?'

Oona could tell Roz was grinning. ‘Mmm-hmm.'

‘First, the shaver.'

‘Again, already?'

‘Just a touch.'

Oona got up and stepped out of the tub. While the water was draining, she turned on the tap and quickly washed her hair. Roz towelled her down and applied a few smears of shaving cream. Oona sat on the edge of the tub with her legs wide apart and worked on her hair with a brush and dryer.

‘So pretty.'

‘Just pretty?'

‘Beautiful…'

Oona smiled. ‘Which part of me do you mean?'

‘All of you.'

Roz gave her a teasing lick. They went into the bedroom and Oona stretched out face down. Her hair was fluffy, though still moist in places, and it reached nearly to the base of her spine. Roz carefully moved it aside and rubbed Oona's back and legs and arse with witch hazel. It evaporated quickly, but it had a very pleasant tingle and it cooled her skin. Roz followed it with a woodruff-scented herbal cream. Followed that with her tongue, in deeper but still-teasing exploration.

Oona rolled over, hair across her face and tumbling over the edge of the bed. She let Roz make love to her. This is how the angels make love. It is pure and beautiful and should never end. If only it could be the two of them – far away from anywhere and anyone. A cottage in the Highlands, the distant north, and close to the sea. There would be a coastal village, very small, where they could get food and supplies, but they wouldn't be a part of village life. People would be polite and friendly when they went to town but otherwise would leave them alone. Surely they could afford that now. A lot of money had come their way over the last couple of years, and all thanks to her.

If they lived that far away from people, there could be no intrusions. Her mind and heart free of it all. It was a little like trying to imagine heaven. Why not? Why was she here in the crowded north-eastern corner of America? It was all wrong, it did her no good, never would.

Because you can't go back.

She wasn't sure she believed that any more. Besides, it must be better to die at home than in some foreign place.

Roz worked her with tongue and lips and teeth, and Oona gave herself to it. Thought dissolved, a kind of release, and it was good, very good. But, as always, sex was a kind of parole that in due course would be revoked. The hazy glow faded and you found yourself back in the same old prison, body and soul. What was my sin? Where did I go wrong? But she knew, she knew.

As always, Oona cried. She showered Roz with kisses of pure affection, feeling as if her heart was laced through with rivers of happiness and sorrow, bewildered.

A drink, a smoke, Chrissie Hynde singing – Roz's choice, and Oona would follow it later with the Battlefield Band, the blessed sound of crazy Scotsmen wailing.

The Highlands were so empty. They had to find a place there some day. Let me live in the heather and peat and misty rain, and one day let me fall down and die there. Let the kelpie take me, and God forgive me for my sin.

A cloud of spices hit her nostrils, strange, unfamiliar and burning. Her eyesight was jarred, her mind swam in a fog of dark colours. The glass slipped out of Oona's hand, thumping distantly on the carpet. She tried to hold onto her cigarette, shovelled it blindly towards the ashtray when it burned her skin. She tried to stand but everything was aswirl and she dimly felt Roz taking her naked body in her arms, trying to lead her down and onto the bed, to settle her. It was the same old thing.

‘Ah – ah – ah – agghhh—'

Struggling just to gasp, because the air wouldn't flow into her and her body wouldn't draw it. Teeth chattering, and just as quick as that she was drowning on air, sucking it in like a river or an ocean. It tasted silvery, ran like mercury in her throat. Oona's fingers fluttered uselessly, she wanted to hold Roz close to her but her hands wouldn't work.

‘When the Laird – when the Laird—'

Roz had her on the bed now, but Oona's body shook and jumped uncontrollably and Roz had to lie on her, containing her to some extent with the naked warmth and strength of her own body.

‘Okay, it's okay, love,' Roz crooned comfortingly. ‘Here I am, right here, right with you, love. Can you feel me?'

‘Went to – went to – wentto wentto—'

‘I know, I know.' Stroking Oona's face and hair.

Bam bam bam, a man's face poking into hers, her eyes and brain, like shards of glass lancing into her, the taste of blood on her tongue and the heat of it on her lips, Roz clamping a hand between her teeth to keep her from biting.

The man's hands around her throat
—

His head seems to be inside hers, crowding her brain to the corners of her skull, crushing the awareness out of her until it is reduced to a dark, reptilian glimmering. It goes on this way, and he hammers her into a dull, sensate residue, a thing consigned to the mud, barely alive. He leaves her there, as if she were an abandoned house in some remote glen of the Highlands, leaves her to crumble and collapse in on herself.