‘No, I—’ But he stopped. Surely not.
‘Oona,’ Rosalind said. ‘Mr O’Donnell.’
‘Ah.’ Oona smiled. ‘At last.’
‘Mr O’Donnell has lost a friend.’
Rosalind’s words sounded flat and faintly silly, as if only last week he’d misplaced a body around the house.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ Oona continued. She seemed to be speaking to a hitherto unknown part of his brain.
‘We were discussing a possible appointment.’
‘Of course he’s coming,’ Oona said, without turning her eyes from Charley. ‘But it’s not his friend.’
‘It’s not?’ Rosalind didn’t sound surprised.
‘No. It’s his daughter.’
He was aware of his mouth opening, but it took ages for any words to emerge. ‘How do you—’
‘It happened long ago and far away.’
His chest heaved, and the inrush of oxygen brought with it fear and anger. Fear that this was real, too real; anger because it had to be a clever trick, somehow.
‘How could you know that?’
‘She let me know—’
‘Oona, please,’ Rosalind cut in. ‘Now’s not the time.’
‘It’s all right, love,’ Oona told her.
‘I just finished hearing that you don’t deliver messages to or from the dead,’ Charley said.
Oona perched on the arm of the loveseat, away from Rosalind. ‘People expect too much,’ she said. ‘So we have to let them know that they will probably never find what they want. But there are times when it seems to work, and I receive knowledge that’s clear and direct. It’s not an everyday thing, but it does happen.’
‘Who told you about my daughter?’
‘You said it was a he.’ Rosalind, mildly reproachful.
‘That’s all right,’ Oona told her again. She fixed Charley with a look of understanding and sympathy. ‘As I just told you, it was your daughter who made herself known to me.’
‘When was this supposed to be?’
‘A while back. Not long ago.’
‘Why didn’t you call me and tell me about it?’
‘I had no idea who you were.’
‘She didn’t give you my name?’
‘No.’
‘What about her own name?’
‘Fiona.’
Dear God. Even if he told himself that Maggie or Mal had to have revealed it to her, somehow it didn’t help at all. His daughter’s name hit him like a jab in the throat.
‘Do you know how old she was?’
‘Just a baby. I’m sure that she’s trying to reach you. She has knowledge she wants to share with you.’
‘Knowledge from an infant,’ he said.
‘Our notions of time and age don’t count for much when we get into this area.’
‘Where is she?’
‘There. Here. It’s all the same. You can think of her as somewhere out in the reaches of heaven, if you want. Or here in this room with us. Both may be equally true. But it’s best not to think in terms of a particular location. You’ll never get to the bottom of it and it doesn’t matter anyway.’
‘And you can get in touch with her whenever you want?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Oona replied, with a short laugh and a shake of the head. ‘It’s a difficult process to describe. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. But your Fiona is trying to help from her side, and now that we’ve found you it may be a good deal easier.’
Charley still wanted to feel angry, but it had seeped out of him. He felt bewildered. He had expected some pudgy, middle-aged pudding of a woman, not this tasty little nymph all decked out to wow the boys at the mall and give dirty old men like himself warm and liquid dreams.
‘How much does it cost?’
Oona instantly looked disappointed in him.
‘If you want to make a gift, you may,’ Rosalind said. ‘But it’s not expected or required. This is not a business.’
‘You have to invest yourself in it,’ Oona added. ‘Money is of no consequence in these matters.’ She came around the coffee table, and stood closer to him. She smiled forgivingly. ‘I know what you’re thinking about me, and I have a fair idea what you’re going through over your daughter. You’re not ready, but you will be soon. Come back and see me then.’
‘Maybe,’ Charley said, his voice dry.
‘You must,’ Oona told him, as she turned and started to leave the room. ‘I’m the only one who can help you.’
8
The interval didn’t last. After Carrie met Scott Crawford, she decided to wait a day or two before doing anything, to think about it some more. She wasn’t sure quite what to make of him. Crawford believed in parapsychology and the paranormal, he took Carrie seriously, and he had been helpful. But he’d also tried to discourage her.
He was probably right. You could get your hopes up too high and spend a lot of money for nothing. It could turn into an unhealthy obsession, an endless quest that never pans out. Scott wanted her to understand that. Fair enough.
The suggestion that these experiences could have their roots in a personal matter, that it could all be in her head, still bothered Carrie. It had to mean some sexual problem between her and Oliver or, even less likely, something between her and Daddy dating back to childhood.
Carrie could understand why Crawford considered this angle, but it was wrong. It had no basis in fact, so it could not be an explanation for the apparitions she’d witnessed. Her father was a fine and honourable man who had never done anything improper in his diplomatic career, let alone with Carrie. And as far as her marriage was concerned, she decided to confront Oliver about it. Just to make sure.
‘What was that?’ He was reading And England’s Dreaming. He peered at her over the top of the book.
‘Is there anything bothering you?’ she repeated.
‘No, not at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Why do you ask?’
‘Is there anything you’re not telling me?’
‘Oh, lots. My other wife in Cleveland, the secret jobs I do for the CIA. But nothing important, no.’
Carrie smiled. ‘And you’re happy with our marriage?’
‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘Our relationship? The sex is still good for you?’
‘You’re terrific, love, you really are.’ He placed the open book flat on his chest. ‘What’s this all about anyway?’
‘I just needed to hear it.’
‘Something’s bothering you.’
‘Not really. It’s just that thing with my father, you know, and it got me wondering about me, and you, and I wanted to be sure there wasn’t some problem we need to face.’
‘It says here there isn’t.’
She felt a little better. ‘Same here.’
Maybe Scott Crawford was right. Maybe it was just a one-off thing that had happened to her. Two-off, to be exact. It had lasted less than ten seconds, combined. Maybe that was all there was to it, over and done with. One of those things, odd and mysterious, but ultimately meaningless.
So Carrie decided to hold off on consulting that woman up in Connecticut. A day. Two. The interval went on. Oliver seemed more attentive and considerate but without making her feel as if she were some kind of a mental patient who required special care. They had a wonderful Indian meal at the Ooti, went to see Albee’s Three Tall Women, and had some cherished evenings staying in – watching movies, playing cribbage, listening to music and making love.
Carrie continued to have breakfast coffee and evening tea in the nook, and to use the living room as always. If she came home and found that Oliver was out, she felt no great rush of anxiety. She was home. Her home, where she belonged.
Carrie also thought that she had learned something from the two incidents. What had frightened her most about them was the unnaturalness – they were freakish and wrong, and they didn’t belong in the order of everyday things. So when they had happened,
she was shocked and deeply disturbed.
So much so that perhaps she had been unable to take in fully what had really been happening. What had she missed? If it happened again Carrie wanted to control herself, to study it closely, as calmly as possible. She wanted to learn from it, rather than just react instinctively against it. She would have that chance.
* * *
Annemarie Clement, who was now the Contessa di Lamborghini (as they liked to joke), and who was also an old college friend, recommended Carrie to a cherubic Belgian gentleman with an empty apartment in Yorkville and heaps of money to spend fixing it up. Annemarie and Carrie still talked regularly on the phone, though they no longer moved in the same circles. Annemarie was married to some phoney Italian count, charming Euro-trash who dabbled in Formula One racing, and her picture could often be found in the social columns. Carrie was quite fond of her.
Monsieur Chauvet had a certain dubious charm of his own. He kept apartments in Ghent and London, and now had acquired the place just off York Avenue. It was large and had potential, but it had been left in bad shape. Carrie would have to start from scratch. Which was ideal.
She saw the place once with him, and they agreed to terms. He was in a state of exhaustion, he explained to Carrie, although he seemed to her to be as relaxed as a sandbag, and he was about to spend a month resting in Menton – poor man. He gave her the keys to the apartment. She went back to it after lunch one day to see how the rooms handled sunlight, take some measurements and photographs and sketch the existing layout.
The doorman admitted her and checked her ID carefully, which was good to see. It was obviously an expensive and secure building. She took the elevator to the fourth floor and entered the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind her. She went through all the rooms once, a quick tour to confirm that she had the place to herself. It was empty, stripped, the air stale and sticky-warm. Carrie put her things down on the bare floorboards and went to work.
She was there for nearly an hour and a half, clicking off photographs, jotting down numbers and scribbling several pages of notes. Good, it was all good. She had a crowd of ideas. It was a great place and it was begging to be reborn. One wall could be removed in the long corridor that ran the length of the apartment. Carrie picked up her things and glanced again down that corridor before leaving. It was dark and tunnel-like, a dreadful design job.
She didn’t even notice him there at first, but then she did – a man standing at the far end of the corridor. A silhouette, with the late-afternoon western sun falling aslant in geometric lines through the window behind him.
Think, don’t panic.
It must be an intruder who had somehow got in through a window without making any noise. Carrie could try to unlock the door and get away, but she calculated that he would probably be on top of her before she managed to stick her head outside and scream for help.
Her hand was shaking, but she reached into her bag and found the canister of pepper spray. She had never used it before but she knew that the police did – so it must work. She held it up, moving her eyes quickly to make sure the nozzle pointed in the right direction. Now, if she could only remember, were you supposed to shake it? Were you supposed to fire it when your assailant was six feet away or ten?
He just stood there, apparently staring at her for what felt like a very long time. Carrie didn’t bother attempting to speak to him. Her free hand started for the lock.
He came running. One instant he was still, the next he was flying at her silently. She remembered that. There should have been a lot of noise from the bare floorboards, even if he’d been wearing sneakers. But there was no sound at all. She let go of her bags, stiffened her stance, snatched her free hand away from the door and used it to brace the arm with the pepper spray. The man swept down the corridor towards her. She fired once. It had no effect on him.
He emerged in the brighter light of the entry foyer, and she could see him clearly for the first time. She fired, and clamped her finger to the button now for continuous spray. It seemed to pass right through him. He was greyish-brown from head to foot, a sepia figure with remotely humanoid features that seemed to be twisted and smeared into themselves so that his face was hardly recognizable as human. A grotesque echo of a man. He was going to crash into her, Carrie realized dimly. There was nothing she could do about it, she was frozen to the spot.
His body flew into hers, his face into hers, a glimpse of an unbearably elongated eye rushing directly into hers. It felt as if she had been hit by a wave of frigid moisture, so shocking to her system that it nearly knocked her out, and at the same moment she could hear him shriek in agony – from within her body, the awful noise filling her, seeming to swell her brain and resound in the chambers of her heart, devastating her with shared pain.
She tottered, then something smashed her knee and the back of her hand banged against the floor. Carrie slid down onto her side. She was stunned but still conscious. She saw the floor and the walls. She felt incredibly weak, her arms and legs as useless as string. She wondered if she were dying, and already half-way out of her body. There was a lingering clamour in her ears – but no, not just her ears. It was fading away on the inside of her flesh and bones. Beneath her clothes she felt damp and chilled. Her knuckles were scraped, a headache began to drum at the temples, and she saw the canister of pepper spray on the floor several feet away. Carrie turned to look around. No one. Nothing. She was alone, the apartment still locked.
I’m not going crazy, she told herself, because it doesn’t happen like this. Does it? Carrie struggled to her feet. She reeled precariously, as a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness hit her, and groped for the wall to steady herself. It took a few moments for her vision to clear and her breathing to settle down somewhat. Her heart was still pounding fearfully.
Okay, she thought, okay.
You have my attention.
* * *
Oliver listened patiently to her story. He had no idea what was going on any more. Carrie still seemed to be herself, steady and sensible, but what she was saying was the stuff of fantasy or mental illness. He had written off the first two incidents as transient aberrations. Now this. It wasn’t her father this time. It was something else, an escalation.
The supernatural cut no ice with Oliver. Other people could believe in it, of course, and he would never consider that reason enough to doubt their sanity. Unless it went too far, and became irrational, obsessive.
‘What do you think it was?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I honestly have no idea at all.’
He couldn’t get over how composed and self-possessed Carrie was as she spoke. She appeared to have digested the experience and come to certain conclusions about what she intended to do in response to it. The rest of the story dribbled out, and Oliver was less than pleased. The gay guys had passed her along to some enthusiast in such matters, who in turn had redirected Carrie to a medium in Connecticut.
Now Carrie wanted to go to Westville and discuss it with the woman. He voiced no objection. What was the point? She was the one who was undergoing this experience, whatever it was, and she was the one who would have to work her way through it. He could offer sensible advice, but he knew that Carrie wouldn’t listen to it until she was good and ready.
If it began to get out of hand and Carrie showed any sign of becoming erratic in her behaviour – well, then, Oliver would have to step in and find her some professional help. He couldn’t let this become a threat to his marriage. He was comfortable in it and he had a strong aversion to any upheaval.
‘Will you drive me on Saturday?’
‘Are you sure—’
‘It’s okay if you don’t want to. I can drive myself, or get the train and a taxi.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ he said reluctantly.
* * *
‘Nice car.’
Oliver looked up from the book and turned his head slightly. He was sitting back against a cushio
n wedged in the corner on the passenger side, his legs stretched across the front seat. He had the roof down because it was such a glorious day, quite warm for the first week of June, with low humidity and a caressing breeze. It was a kid, a teenage girl, apparently on rollerblades.
‘Thanks.’
Her dark hair was braided and pinned up in coils. She had a sweatband around her forehead, two more on her wrists, and a thin silver chain that hung close to her throat. She wore opaque blue sunglasses and an oversized Yale T-shirt. Pretty. She hovered, edging closer to his jade Saab.
‘So, what’re you doing here?’
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he said.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘You from England, or something?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Thought so. You have an accent.’
‘So do you. Where are you from?’
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, and he figured that she had been trying hard to lose her accent.
‘Canada. Very boring.’
‘Do you live around here now?’ She nodded twice. ‘Do you know the woman who lives up there?’ He gestured back towards the house on the knoll. She glanced at it briefly.
‘A little.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘There’s two of them.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Kind of weird. They keep to themselves.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Not much that you see.’
‘One of them is supposed to be a psychic.’
‘Is that where your wife is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Having her fortune told?’
‘Who knows?’ he said, with a frown. ‘Does she seem to have a lot of visitors calling?’
‘You see cars here.’
‘Every day?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Three or four times a week.’
‘What do the neighbours think of her?’
A bored shrug. ‘They don’t care, long as she doesn’t bother them or create a nuisance with the traffic.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Oliver.’
Fog Heart Page 8
