Fog Heart (13 page)

Then he is gone and she is not. Her body hums down to a low vibration, quivering. Her skin itches and she feels as if things were growing all over her, invading her – moss, lichen, spider's web, snail's slime. Skin flaking like rust. She can breathe but the air is like fine dust, all dust in her.

‘Aaaahhhhrrrrgggghhhh—'

Blood bubbles in her nostrils, life bitterly storming back from the inside. Such a disappointment. Oona gasps now, getting hold of her breath again, cycling down. A gentle voice drifts into her awareness. Roz.

‘All right now. It's all right now.'

‘Unh … unh … unh…'

‘You're all right, love.'

Oona tried to force a smile but had no idea whether her face complied. The usual calamity, nothing special. Roz had a bit of a smile, the signal to her. They had been through this a million times, they knew the drill.

Long ago and far away some men had put her brain under a big microscope and taken a peek. Had given her all these tests. Told her it was nothing. That is, it was something, to judge by all these events – but nothing they could find. No temporal lobe thingy. No organic fruit-bruises. Electrical system, check. Blood, same thing. Chemical, spot-on.

Even the shrink said she was a sweet lass, an angel, weally. It was all dweadfully stwange. Perhaps she would outgwow it. If not in this lifetime, maybe in the next.

Oona still missed Dr MacLeod, thought of him every now and then. She had told him one day that he gave her a metallic feeling, most peculiar. He laughed. Died in a motor crash a month later. All these years since, and never a glimmer from him. Which, by now, was a pretty bad sign.

It wasn't Oona's fault, and she didn't blame herself for it. That one wasn't her doing. The damage had been done long before then, but it was the first time Oona noticed – all of the things she noticed.

Someone would have to end her life to right the wrong she'd done. That much was certain. She couldn't do it herself, or she would have long ago. A man would have to come and do it. And it would involve water.

Roz led her slowly into the bathroom. Oona saw herself in the mirror, her face covered with freckles of blood, her skin streaked and blotchy with shades of pale. Eyes lost, but coming round again. Too bad. Roz ran warm water and washed her with a face cloth. Oona felt like putty.

‘Better?'

‘Oh, sure,' Oona replied. She gave a bitter laugh. ‘It was just a light brush, that time.'

PART II

10

‘You have to hand it to the Germans,' Oliver said, stopping long enough to glance at the CD case. ‘Even when they sing love songs it sounds like they're putting the boot in.'

‘It does not,' Carrie said, smiling.

‘I'm going to shower and change now.' He started up the stairs to the master suite. ‘You're not ready, are you?'

‘Yes.'

‘What, already?'

‘Yes.'

He checked his watch. ‘You're not in any great hurry,' he said, with good-natured sarcasm. ‘I'll be down in about twenty minutes.'

‘Fine.'

She thought Oliver was taking it fairly well. He had agreed to drive Carrie to New Haven and participate in the first session with her. He didn't like the idea very much, but he was trying to be a good sport about it.

Carrie had taken an immediate liking to Rosalind – which had soon become Roz as the two of them talked at the first meeting. It might be a bit of an act but Roz came across as concerned and eager to help. She seemed familiar with some of what Carrie had been experiencing. No question, it was all part of Oona's territory.

That meeting with Roz was a help in itself. Carrie felt as if she had someone on her side now, someone who knew about these matters. Something unique had intruded into her life. It was frightening, disturbing, threatening, disorienting – and more. It had the potential to unravel the whole fabric of her everyday life, but Carrie was not about to let that happen. She would do whatever it took to resist, and understand.

The session was scheduled for four in the afternoon, and Roz had told her that it could be as brief as half an hour or that it might run on into the evening. Carrie had no idea what to expect but the edginess and anticipation she felt was good. If she were to do nothing else, at least she was going on the offensive for once, and there was a measure of satisfaction in that.

*   *   *

It was madness, but hopefully of a trivial and passing kind. Oliver believed that all of life, to some extent, was a matter of consenting to the illusions of others while still inhabiting and preserving your own. Carrie saw herself as a designer whose work was useful and, in some way, important to people. Oliver regarded himself as a discoverer and developer, whose work had some social or cultural role, clothes being a small but important element in human behaviour. Even the psychic Oona probably believed that her trade was a vital service to needy people, quite apart from any cosmic significance she undoubtedly attributed to it.

None of it really matters in the long run, but … These are the kind of illusions we all carry around with us, so that we can continue to do what we do and somehow make it from one day to the next. People need a rationale.

But Oliver didn't want to see this nonsense become the focal point of Carrie's life, the central illusion. He couldn't put up with that. It would be the same as losing her.

He and Carrie didn't talk much on the way. Traffic was light and they made good time along the Connecticut coast. They were early enough to stop for a snack. They sat out in the car with the roof down. Carrie had a large cup of ice cream, Oliver iced tea and a cigarette.

‘Oliver, you're not going to say anything, are you? I mean, if you see something that's obviously wrong or kind of—'

‘Faked?'

‘Staged. Yes.'

‘Cheesecloth dangling from a bent coat hanger, a skip in the tape-recording of eerie sounds and mystic voices?'

‘You won't point it out and make a fuss, will you?'

‘That would be bad form.'

‘We'll talk about it later, when we're alone.'

‘Of course.'

‘I'm not saying don't look for that, because I will. If it turns out to be hokum, you know I'll drop it.'

‘That's the attitude, ducks.'

He had the right attitude as well, Oliver thought. Tolerant and sympathetic, but occasionally amused or embarrassed by it, he would show no hint of belief. The more Carrie persisted in this, the more awkward she would feel. Sooner or later, she would snap out of it.

*   *   *

‘Oliver, isn't it?'

‘Y-yes.'

He was seldom caught that unawares. Hard to believe, but he could see that it was true. The rollerblading dolly who'd spent ten minutes chatting with him the last time was Oona, the medium. Oliver had to smile, and she returned it. She didn't let on that they'd already met so he didn't say anything either.

Clever, amusing, but a bit too much. If he had been on his guard when he entered the house, he was doubly so now. People who play little games like that need to be watched.

So did the other one, Roz. She was in on the joke, he could see that at a glance. Sisters, and Roz the older by two or three years, he would guess.

Oona wore a long, loose-skirted dress, mossy green. She was barefoot and had a thin piece of braided black leather wound tightly two or three times around one wrist. Another strip, like rawhide or a bootlace, circled her throat. No jewellery, though he couldn't see her ears for all of the hair – unpinned now, it was a wide black river flowing from her head.

Roz, in contrast, wore industrially faded blue jeans, plain loafers and a white oxford shirt. An opal ring, a clutch of very small hoops in each ear. Fiery auburn hair.

He hadn't expected anything like these two. But he was fast at adjusting, and now he felt alert with curiosity and suspicion. They might be a visual treat but that was all the more reason to be wary and watchful. He wouldn't trust them for a minute.

The women were chatting earnestly but about nothing of any importance. Oliver followed them into a large L-shaped room with the short foot along the back of the house. Glass doors opened onto a small patio. The ceiling and bare walls were matte white, the floor glossy oak with a few expensive oriental rugs scattered about. There was very little furniture, a couple of torchères, some floor mats and a lot of plants in stands and urns, artfully arranged.

The main portion looked like a chapel or meditation room. There was no altar or shrine as such, but a shallow stone basin of clear water placed in a large bed of black sand apparently served as the visual focus.

The windows faced south and west, and at present were shaded with thin curtains that admitted soft light. Roz was talking about people who blocked out any light and took all kinds of odd steps to avoid so-called interference with psychic vibrations, which she and Oona seemed to find amusing as well as unnecessary.

Oliver scanned the room carefully, but there was hardly anywhere to hide props or electronic devices. They might have tiny mikes or camera lenses planted where he wouldn't spot them. They could have speakers mounted flush to the floor, under the rugs, or behind painted-over paper spots in the walls. If so, he was confident he'd notice when they were used.

They went to the smaller side area at the back of the house. It was separated by a half-wall topped with a full-length planter overflowing with graceful arcing ferns and vines that trailed to the floor. Inside, there was a raised platform along three sides of the walls, covered with thick mats. Oona's place was in the corner, diagonally opposite the narrow entrance: it was a couple of inches higher. There were two more stone basins, though much smaller, built into the platform in the other two corners; each one contained fine white sand that had squiggles or lines drawn in it but no water. The open floor in the centre of the area was covered with deep green carpet.

Oh, yes, it was all very California. Not quite what he had been expecting, but in its own way certainly no surprise.

Roz drew the curtains across the large glass doors. They were of the same thin material as on the other windows, and the afternoon sun showered the secluded area with a diffuse golden light. Must be a bit drab and grey on rainy days, Oliver thought, but then he noticed some short fat candles strategically placed.

‘Would either of you care for something to drink?' Roz asked, as they sat down on the platform.

‘No, thank you,' Carrie answered.

Oliver shook his head. ‘Can I smoke?'

‘Sure you can,' Roz answered. ‘Move one of the candles, and use the glass dish as an ashtray.'

‘I smoke,' Oona said. ‘Some people will tell you that drink or tobacco will get in the way of a successful hearing like this, but I don't find that to be the case. Anything that helps people to relax helps the process.'

‘What about disbelief?' Oliver asked. He saw a sudden flash of alarm on Carrie's face. Good God, she's probably thinking, We haven't even started yet and he's at it. ‘I just thought I ought to let you know ahead of time that I'm pretty sceptical about all of this, and if that's going to jeopardize—'

‘It's no problem,' Oona said, smiling. ‘That's another of those silly things you might hear. You'd think we were using a delicate little radio set that has to be tuned just right. But if a person or spirit wants to communicate with us from another level of existence, it won't be blocked all that easily.' Oona glanced at Carrie. ‘You've learned that already.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, good,' Oliver said drily. He offered Oona a Senior Service, and she took it with a grateful nod. She reached out to touch his hand lightly as he lit it for her. Oliver was seated to her left and Carrie to her right, while Roz had taken a place somewhat removed from them, near the entrance. She had a notepad and pen, ready to jot down vital messages from Beyond.

‘I like to start by telling people that I really don't have a clue about this,' Oona went on. ‘We use terms like
spirits
and
communication
and
levels of existence,
but we honestly don't know what they mean – or if they mean anything at all. I don't have an answer to the question of life after death. I could claim that I do and make one up for you, but you would never know for sure if it was true or not. I don't want to mislead anybody.'

She sat cross-legged, and she rocked forward and back again very slightly as she spoke. Her hands moved in small, restrained gestures that demolished the thin plume of smoke rising from her cigarette. She puffed quickly, didn't inhale, and soon tapped it out in a glass dish. Her voice was clear and well defined, with the echo of an accent that Oliver remembered.

‘Now let me tell you what little I do know,' Oona continued. ‘I seem to have an ability to
sense
or to
receive
and
relay
bits of
information.
' One hand opening and closing tightly, accenting the words. ‘Some of it may mean something to you, but most of it probably won't. You have to watch and listen carefully, because figuring it out later is the tricky part. It usually seems to be about some person who is dead, but again you'll have to make what you can of it. I won't sit here and tell you it's a real message from a departed soul, because I just don't know whether it is. I don't know why or how this happens, or what it is. I can't turn it on or off, it happens or it doesn't, but it usually works best in situations like this. I need to be close to certain people. The women are more sensitive to it, and that helps, but it's also passive. The men seem to be the enablers. That's why I like to work with couples. It's even better with two couples, but this is your first time.' Then Oona stopped, and appeared to smile at herself. ‘I should tell you that this part is still guesswork, based on my experiences with a lot of people. I've been this way a while now.'