Fog Heart (14 page)

That last was an odd throwaway that didn't sound like part of her regular patter. Oliver was struck by the offhand note of regret in it.

‘Now, I also have to warn you that you might see some things that disturb you. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. You won't cause any harm if you interfere, but it isn't necessary. If you have any concern, look at Roz. She's been through it all before. Of course, that doesn't mean you're stuck here. If you choose to leave, you're free to do so at any time. Okay?'

They nodded. The look on Carrie's face was a bit worrying. She appeared to be buying into it in blocks of shares. He didn't like that.

‘Any questions?' None. ‘Now the embarrassing part.' Oona took Oliver's hand, held it in both of hers, and began rubbing it lightly, the way a blind person would explore something without seeing it. ‘I need to feel and touch you. Just a little, not in a naughty way,' she was quick to add, grinning. ‘Something about the contact, and the feel of your pulse – ooh, there's yours, so strong – somehow it seems to help.'

The warm-up was over and she was getting into it now. There was more liveliness in her eyes – Oliver took notice of them, as if for the first time. A beautiful shade of deep blue, they were of ordinary size and shape, with fine lashes and no make-up. She had a way of letting the eyelids droop partially closed as if she were about to doze off, then swiftly opening them very wide – at which point her eyes appeared to flare with light and hunger. Oliver knew that look, and began to feel intrigued.

‘So much, very fast,' she said, still rubbing his hand. Her eyes moving about, fixed on nothing. Her delicate touch moved up his wrist, under the cuff of his jacket. ‘Very strong.' Now her eyes locked on his. ‘So many rich moments.'

Oliver wondered how to take that. Oona slid closer to him and began to feel his face, again very much like a blind person. She seemed to be looking into herself, or some invisible point in the air. His forehead, eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, lips – she roved down his face. Oliver gave a tiny wink to Carrie, who seemed to find all this perfectly valid and even fascinating. It was much too fashionable for Oliver, touchy-feely nonsense. But he could enjoy the softness of her touch, the texture of her skin on his. Another time, another place …

‘None of it's clear,' Oona said, somewhat like a tour guide describing things the passengers couldn't see. ‘But there is so much and it has such density.'

Yes, yes, Oliver thought impatiently.

‘Immense, immense.' It was almost a gasp.

Oona suddenly swung round, and repeated the entire process with Carrie. There was something approaching a smile on her face now, as if she found Carrie a more agreeable subject, easier to read. She took Carrie's hand and rubbed it against her face. The incipient smile vanished, a look of uncertainty taking hold in her features.

‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. Women are so sensitive, they carry all of it around with them all the time.' Oona was talking rapidly, without focusing on anyone in particular. ‘Sometimes I can get a little carried away at this, so if it starts to bother you, just push me off like you would a puppy who's too friendly. It won't bother me or ruin anything. But saying something to me might not work, the noise is starting to come into me and I probably won't hear you soon.'

Oona's hands were exploring Carrie's neck and throat, and it was as if she had never encountered that portion of human anatomy before. Very small, tentative touches, slowly moving over every inch from the collarbone up to and along the jaw. Carrie blinked a couple of times and held herself rather stiffly, but she didn't appear uncomfortable.

‘So much noise,' Oona said plaintively. There were signs of distress emerging on her face. ‘It's like a wave, and you tumble into it. The sea.'

Oona nearly pulled Carrie over, placing her hand on her own chest. Carrie's eyes widened at this more intimate move, but she didn't resist. Almost immediately Oona let go, and turned again to Oliver. She did the same thing, grabbing his hand and holding it flat to her chest. He couldn't feel much of her breast but he knew at once why Carrie had looked so startled. Oona's heart was banging at a gallop. It actually worried Oliver. The girl had a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead now. Her eyes were wide open and as brilliantly vacant as polished gemstones. She rocked back and forth, more energetically now. Oh, there – his hand slipped in her grasp as she moved and he had a brief sense of her breast, petite and girlish. Oona pulled his hand to her side and held it very tightly; she did the same with Carrie on the other side, the three of them linked now with Oona in the middle.

‘The sea, the sea, the sea…'

Over and over again, like a mantra, but uttered with a voice that was low and urgent, as if she were repeating instructions to herself. Her hands might be small and delicate, but there was tremendous strength in her grip – and even as Oona squeezed, her thumb moved about in a tight circle and stroked his skin as if it were a lucky penny.

‘The sea, the sea … Coming, coming…'

Well, if it's good for you. Oliver's mood was switching off and on now. He was alternately engrossed and indifferent. Oona certainly put herself into the performance, say that for her, but he still couldn't help thinking that that's all it was. A clever performance.

She let go of their hands and slid back against the cushions as if she wanted to sink into them. She squirmed to one side and then the other, as if to shrink away from something. Her eyes fluttered in bursts, and fell shut more often than not. What she said now was an indistinct blur of words, a garbled drone with a harsh edge. Her hands lay at her sides, shaking helplessly. The fingers moved slowly, numbly, in empty gestures.

Then she let out a frightening yelp and her hands shot down between her legs, buried in the folds of her loose dress. Oliver noticed her toes, stretched rigidly and twisted. Her body quaked and the rough drone had become a prolonged whimper. Her mouth hung open and her chin was wet with flowing saliva. The cords in her neck stood out sharply, her jaw shuddered. The words came, a rapid staccato, heavily accented, yet disjointed.

‘Hie to moorish gills and rocks prowling wolf and wily fox hie you fast he wants nor turn your view he wants he wants though the lamb bleats you you you to the ewe he wants oh couch oh couch your trains he wants he wants your flight your safety parts with parting night on distant echo borne the pilgrim on his way comes the hunter's early horn he wants you wants you wants you the the the the torch the torch that cheats benighted imp and fay is done is done is done—'

It was cut off violently. Oona recoiled as if she had just been slapped hard. Her mouth was open, jaw rigid. Her nostrils pulsed and her breath was loud and ugly. She seemed to be in the throes of hyperventilation. Oliver's eyes glanced briefly toward Roz but she was writing a note, unconcerned.

A roaring gasp, and then Oona rolled over and threw her arms around Carrie's waist. She pressed her face to Carrie's hip, her eyes moving frantically.

‘The sea, the sea, the sea…'

Her hands patted Carrie's arms, and she began to pull away. She slid across the cushion until the top of her head bumped into Oliver's leg. She was on her back, fists held together over her breasts. Her legs were somewhat apart, and her body rocked from the waist down. The bottom of her dress had risen to her knees, and her slender calves and small feet looked oddly vulnerable as the muscles in them strained and contracted. Her hair fell over most of her face now. The voice that came through it was deeper, huskier, almost masculine.

‘The torch the torch the finger flames flames fingers he has to kill me kill me kill me come to kill me come come come hie now to moorish kills hie now to empty spaces FATHER come to kill come come come close to me now now father what father what father what he wills kills fingers flames neck—'

She stopped suddenly, eyes bulging open. She resumed almost immediately, but her voice was completely different.

‘No no no you don't want Chik Pavan sir that is not for you dear sir that is singing and dancing and wasting all of your time sir you want Ballapul dear sir that is the very place—'

Oliver pressed a hand to the back of his neck.

Oona seemed to collapse into herself, gasping, trembling and murmuring. A little-girl voice that said nothing and trailed off in tiny sobs. Tears filled her eyes and she curled up weakly in a foetal position.

No one moved. Everybody was silent for perhaps a couple of minutes, sensing that it wasn't over yet.

Oona slowly raised her head. She was chalk-white, her eyes still staring into space. Without using her hands, she sat up in a slow but fluid motion. She didn't seem to be breathing at all. Her hands open, palms up, as if in a question. Oliver saw blood, tiny red crescents where her nails had cut into the flesh. Then he saw a trickle of blood appear in one nostril. It ran down to her lip and into her open mouth. She didn't move her mouth, lips or throat, and yet more words came, like breath, and they bubbled the blood. The bubbles burst and then reappeared. The voice was male, rich and resonant. Familiar.

‘He turns back rushes back to you wants you watch out watch out child he turns bad rushes bad to you in the compound bad the compound he turns bad runs watch out – CHILD—'

Oona lifted one hand to her mouth, as if in shock and fear at the sight of something unseen. There was blood all over the lower portion of her face when she began to gag. Her tongue came out a little, her throat stretched tight and choking sounds barked out of her heaving body. Oliver felt a drop of blood land on his hand, but he didn't move or take his eyes from Oona. She reached for a cushion, as if to steady herself, and then lowered herself to it. Curled up. Eyes closing.

Carrie looked utterly stricken.

Roz gestured for them to follow her.

Yes, Oona would be fine, Roz assured them when they were in the front room. Oliver accepted a glass of Scotch and knocked it off quickly. He smoked a cigarette and stood close to Carrie and Roz. They were talking about words like
father
and
child.
Maybe they were important, maybe others were important. But these were just Roz's impressions. Carrie should think about everything she had heard. Words didn't always mean what they appeared to mean, and it usually took repeated sessions for their true significance to emerge clearly.

‘I've never seen her go into it so quickly,' Roz was saying to Carrie. ‘She usually meanders all over the place for a while before she finds her way into it. But today she got on track in no time at all. I can't get over it.'

Oliver walked in short circles, impatient. He wanted to get out of there, and return home. Call Joe Barone on the telephone. There were things he needed to know, and do.

How did she get the blood in her nose? Was it something she did when her face was down, out of sight for a second?

How did she speak without moving her lips or mouth or any of the muscles in her throat? A speaker in the rug beneath her? He could swear the words came from her but …

There were tricks, there were ways to do all kinds of things that looked amazing at first. But …

What about her heartbeat? Oliver wished he could have taken her pulse towards the end, when she was really flying. But there were even ways to do that too. And yet …

None of those things mattered.

Because at certain moments Oona had found the correct voice. The exact voice of …

‘My father,' Carrie was saying. Her eyes shiny. ‘He called me
child
like that when I was very young. I know it sounds stiff and impersonal but it wasn't, not the way he said it…'

Carrie wiped her eyes and looked away. Roz rubbed her back comfortingly. No doubt Roz had seen this many times before. She would be experienced in pushing all the right buttons. The touch of sympathy, the look of concern, the assurances—

‘That was
his
voice,' Carrie repeated, almost as if she were arguing with herself. But as happy as she was stunned.

Yes, it was the old boy's voice. Uncanny, but somehow true. Now it was too late to nitpick their techniques. Oliver went to the window. Grey dusk outside. A cigarette.

It wasn't that Oona might be genuine – he could see that in some way or sense that had to be the case.

So it didn't matter.

It wasn't that she had somehow conjured up the very voice of Carrie's long-dead father, astounding as that was.

He didn't care much about that.

It was the other voice that had risen from Oona's throat. A voice from Bombay. It was another lifetime. No one in the world knew that voice, except Oliver. That was what mattered.

That was what had terrified him.

11

‘What do you mean you heard from Fiona?'

‘It was in a dream.'

Charley stared at her. Jan didn't handle it very well. She appeared visibly to be losing confidence in her own words as soon as she spoke them. She blinked a couple of times and looked like she wanted to say more but couldn't find anything.

‘You saw her in a dream,' Charley prompted.

‘Not exactly.'

‘What then? Just tell me the whole thing.'

‘I saw her pram,' Jan said falteringly. ‘I know it was hers from the rattles and plastic doodads that hung across it, for the baby to look at and touch – remember?'

‘Yes.'

‘The sea was in the background, like at the house. You know how you just know some things in a dream?'

She was looking hopefully at him for confirmation of almost every sentence. ‘Yes.'

‘Well, I knew it was our house, even though I didn't see it. The pram and the view of the sea were exactly the same. And the sky turned very black.' That was enough to summon tears to her eyes, but Jan blinked them back and continued. ‘And I heard her voice. She said it was all right.'