Fog Heart (10 page)

‘I called a few days ago? Charley O'Donnell.'

‘Oh, yes. I'm Rosalind Rodgers. Do come in.'

Charley followed her into a front room just off the entrance hall. She shut the door behind them and they sat down on either side of a large glass coffee table.

‘How can I help you?'

Charley perched on the edge of the armchair and cleared his throat. ‘Well, somebody suggested that I get in touch with you. I need some advice. I lost someone. A dear friend,' he added, on an impulse. ‘He may be trying to reach me or he may need my help in some way. I'm not sure, and I don't know about these things, but if there's a chance that you – or Oona, is it? If she can help me I'd be very grateful.'

‘Yes, Oona.' Rosalind nodded once. ‘When you say that you've lost someone, I take it you mean he died.'

‘Yes.'

‘Because we get both kinds of cases. Runaways, abductions and others presumed still living, as well as the dead.'

‘I see. No, this person is dead.'

‘All right.' Another brief nod. ‘I'd better explain a few things so there's no misunderstanding. Oona doesn't claim to conduct conversations with the dead. She isn't a channel, in the sense that most people understand the term.'

Charley nodded. Her eyes were flat blue, almost slate, and she had three jet studs in one earlobe.

‘Oona has a very special talent,' Rosalind went on. ‘In the right circumstances she can open new lines of understanding, and that can make a profound difference to the people involved. It's often a difficult process that takes time, but it can also be as brief and inexact as looking through the window of a train as it speeds by. And that may be all you ever get.'

‘That would be something.'

She was studying him carefully. ‘But you may come away with less than you thought, or in some way be the worse for it.'

‘How could that happen?' Aside from losing money.

‘You may think you know what you'll find on the other side, but you're never sure until you actually do it.'

‘Yes, well, I'm quite prepared to come away empty-handed, if that's the way it is. But I have to try.'

‘It can be painful.'

‘A little pain's good for the soul.'

‘I mean, very painful. I mean, deeply disturbing – in ways that could change you and stay with you permanently.'

‘What's the worst that can happen?' he asked. ‘That I learn my friend has been sent to hell for eternity?'

‘No,' she said. ‘That's not the worst—'

The door opened at that moment, and a younger woman stepped into the room. Young enough to pass for a high school senior, Charley noted. A cut-off Morrissey T-shirt, Spandex racing shorts, knee socks that were bunched up around the high tops of her sneakers, and an astounding flame of thick black hair that shot out and down and away from her head. Slimmer, not as tall, and yet there was a facial resemblance. The kid sister, most likely, and an eyeful at that.

‘There you are,' she said to Rosalind. But then she noticed Charley. ‘Oh, sorry.'

She started to back out of the room but stopped, looking at him intently. She came closer and Charley felt unnerved suddenly by the ferocious hunger in her eyes. It was a peculiar look that made him think she might be marginally deranged, and all the more disconcerting on such a lovely face. The closer she came to him, the more she seemed to fill the room and crowd him. His thoughts appeared to be fraying visibly around the inner circumference of his eyeballs. Now he could see that her eyes were a very intense blue, deep enough to approach dark purple. Charley could imagine a pinhole of light burning through his forehead, then out through the back of his skull. Himself leaking away.

‘You've come to see me, haven't you?' she said.

‘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.