Fog Heart (17 page)

‘I don't know.'

‘Surely not my husband,' Carrie said flatly.

‘No, I don't think so.' A pause. ‘But the sense of danger is all around both of you.'

‘You mean he could be in danger too?'

‘Yes, or instead of you.'

‘Oh, God.'

‘Carrie, all it means is that you should pay more attention to things. Be aware. Think about where you're going, how you'll get there, who you'll be with. Things like that.'

‘Yes.'

‘It doesn't mean that anything is going to happen. It's not a direct indicator. It may only mean that your emotional balance could be thrown off by something. It may only mean that your job or personal life may be disrupted by argument or confrontation, a disagreement. Things like that.'

‘I see.' It sounded a little better.

‘The sense of danger can mean physical harm, but that's only one part of it. Most of the time it means some kind of a threat or hazard in your mental and emotional life. You shouldn't take it lightly, but you don't have to panic about it.'

‘Okay. I understand.'

‘But whenever I get this sense, I have to tell the person as soon as I can because it wouldn't be fair to wait until the next time we meet.'

‘No, of course not. I'm very grateful.'

‘Talk about it with your husband, and—'

‘He's in Europe. On business.' There was a silence lasting long enough to make Carrie wonder if they'd been cut off. ‘Oona? Are you still there?'

‘Sorry, I was just trying to figure that in. How long is he going to be away?'

‘Until the middle or the end of next week,' Carrie answered. ‘But I'll see him this weekend. I'm flying – whoa! Hey. I was going to meet him in Switzerland for the weekend. Do you think I ought to risk flying?'

Not long ago such a consideration would have seemed utterly absurd to Carrie, but now it felt natural and important.

‘See, I've got a problem here,' Oona said, sounding girlish and embarrassed. ‘I don't know what to say because I don't know the answer. Most of what I get is non-specific so I can't start telling people what to do or not to do.'

‘I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that.'

‘I don't want to ruin your—'

‘No, of course not. It's not your decision.'

‘A weekend in Switzerland. I mean, wow.'

Carrie laughed. ‘Well, I'll see.'

‘You could have a great time,' Oona went on. ‘Or you could have a bit of trouble. But the same goes if you stay home.'

‘I understand.'

‘Carrie.'

‘Yes?'

‘Did Roz tell you it was okay to ring me?'

‘Yes. She said if I had to, I could.'

‘Right. Well, I just want you to understand. It's usually better if I don't see any of the people I'm working with between their regular appointments.'

‘I know. Roz explained.'

‘I just want to make sure you know that you can ring me up if you need to, any time. If I'm busy with someone I'll get back to you as soon as I'm able. If you have another incident, or if you decide to stay home this weekend and you feel uncomfortable on your own, give me a call. It'll be okay.'

‘Thanks. Maybe I will, if I'm here.'

‘Good.'

*   *   *

The tea was cold. Carrie threw it down the drain. She had to have something with a little more bite to it now. She nursed a vodka cooler. She had to think. Danger. But it was hard to know exactly what Oona meant by danger.

If Carrie had an argument with Lorraine at work and Lorraine stormed out, would that be it – the moment of danger? And if it was, then once it happened would that be the end of it? Or would the danger linger on, like a stalled weather system?

A plane crash was easier to reckon. It would seem cowardly to cancel Lugano just because of a vague warning, especially when Oona had said that Carrie could be equally in danger by remaining in Manhattan. But an aeroplane flight was an obvious risk, in the circumstances. Oliver would be a little upset about it. But why tempt fate? Carrie would not let this thing beat her.

How far she had come in such a short period of time – a few weeks, barely a month. But what a month. It was hard to take in all of it, and understand. Hard to believe. Still, it would now be far more difficult for Carrie
not
to believe.

Her life was changed. She had seen enough. It was as if a new dimension of existence had been revealed to her. But Carrie instinctively felt that it was a dubious privilege at best, more likely to bode ill than good. There was no sense of the divine in what she had experienced, no feeling of heavenly presence. It was wrong. It threatened her in some way.

Her only hope was to learn how to fight it and survive. It was not something to be ignored – once you see it, you can never turn away.

Oona was the confirmation. It made perfect sense to Carrie that certain individuals would have the ability to gain partial access and serve as conduits. There had always been prophets and seers, people with a special gift.

She had expected all kinds of arguments from Oliver, but he had fallen into a quiet, subdued mood. He didn't argue, he knew. As Carrie did. There was nothing remotely vague about the sound of her father's voice. The rest of the session was powerful and persuasive, but the voice was sufficient in itself. There was no way to doubt it or explain it away.

It was the scariest thing. To see and hear it – you could never be the same person again.

Carrie put on Grover Washington, Jr, and let the silky music settle around her. Poor Oona. She was like a child possessed by something monumental. A great gift, but a terrible one as well. It simply devastated her when she tapped into it, like a furious storm raging within her. So important, so terrible.

She was a young woman, of course. Eighteen, nineteen, maybe even twenty. But it was hard not to think of Oona as a child who needed comforting and loving care. Your heart went out to her, you wanted to shield and protect her. Imagine what her life must be like. Had she endured this since early childhood?

It occurred to Carrie that Oona's telephone call might have been about more than warning her of possible danger. There was a sense of loneliness in Oona's voice. Thinking back on it again, especially the end of the conversation, it seemed to Carrie to be the voice of a girl rather than a woman, a little girl – a child in need.

*   *   *

Rain so light it was almost a mist, but thick in the air. A familiar crowd – it seemed as if he knew them all. Silly thing to think, but he often felt that way. It was the anonymity. The miraculous way a city throng could feel like family.

Oliver stepped on his cigarette butt, moved further down the walk and lit another one. He'd been there a while already but he didn't mind the wait. Sometimes it helped.

Talk about going to great lengths, foolish errands. But why not? If you don't do these things in life you diminish yourself, you regret it. There are occasions when failure itself is a kind of prize, and success – oh, success can be too sweet for words. Either way, you're better for it.

Hanover Square.

Well past an hour. She finally emerged, same clunky walk and father-rigged posture. Still looking for her own body. She headed towards the Oxford Street tube station. He caught up, and fell in step beside her.

‘Becky.'

Turn. Look. Stop. ‘Oliver…'

‘Hi.' Said that just right.

‘Hello.'

Very cool. Weeks had passed and he had never called her on the phone or even sent a postcard. He'd warned her that it might be like that, and Becky hadn't been surprised when it was but she had nursed a tiny hope. Now she didn't want to show him how she felt inside, at least not so soon. But he knew. Becky was grateful, deeply grateful.

They always were.

13

Charley sloshed around the last of the Jameson's in the glass. Malcolm topped it up with another healthy dollop.

‘Thank you, squire. I seem to be soaking up rather a lot of your booze lately.' He turned again to Maggie. ‘The thing of it is, Jan seems to mean it literally. Fiona has come to get us for what happened to her. To avenge her death.'

‘Oh, that's taking it too far,' Maggie replied.

‘Of course it is,' Malcolm agreed.

‘Crazed ghost-child seeks revenge,' Charley muttered. ‘It's Hollywood tabloid gothic.'

‘It doesn't worry you, does it?'

‘What, the revenge part? No, of course not. But I have to live with Jan, and she's good and hooked on it now. I'm worried about her. I'd just as soon stop this whole business and forget about it. But that might hurt Jan, too.'

‘That's right,' Maggie said. ‘It sounds as if she needs to have this contact, to get whatever she can from it.'

‘So, no matter what I do I'm stuck.'

‘But there are signs that you're making progress.'

A believer, Maggie. However much she may couch it in terms of sceptical, rational study, she was a believer at heart.

‘Progress. Your woman put on quite a show, but it doesn't mean anything as far as I can tell.'

‘You've only been to one session.'

Charley sighed with exasperation. It was raining outside. They were in Malcolm's library. Other people may have a study or a den, but Malcolm had a library. Oak shelves, floor to ceiling, and french windows to a secluded side garden. More books than Charley, many more. Lovely. The trees and lawn were very green, and with the drizzle coming down the whole place had the lovely feeling of an Irish country house and idle days of the landed gentry.

‘It doesn't hold up.' Charley had already explained to them his thoughts about how certain words could be easily mistaken and invested with false significance. The Brownes agreed there might be something in that, although Maggie didn't believe it important enough to change the overriding significance of Oona's abilities. ‘The text is faulty,' Charley continued. ‘The more I think about it, the more I'm sure there's something wrong with it.'

‘Don't try to force conclusions before you have enough to go on,' Maggie told him.

‘Can either of you remember anything else Oona said when you first heard the words Fiona and Ravenswood?'

Maggie shook her head, looking regretful. ‘Those two words didn't mean anything to me at the time, and it's hard to pick any one area out of the whole flood of words and images.'

Malcolm nodded. ‘I was struck by the words immediately, but my impression is that they popped out by themselves, unrelated to anything else being said. It was like a voice on the outer edge, trying to get into – the rest of it.'

‘Yes,' Maggie said. ‘I got the distinct feeling that there were several – presences – struggling to get through. That's a fairly common phenomenon, by the way.'

‘Well, she only spoke with one voice at a time when I was there,' Charley said. ‘Some of it sounded distinctly old-fashioned and almost literary. It bothers me.'

‘Can you remember any examples?'

‘Oh, sure. I've been fiddling around with it for days now, but it makes less sense than an Ashberry poem.'

Charley reached into his jacket pocket and took out a couple of folded sheets of paper. After he had given up trying to talk reasonably with Jan the night of their session with Oona, he had retreated to his desk in the hope of finding something useful to do. Instead of classwork, he ended up jotting down anything he could remember Oona saying. It didn't amount to much, but Charley had been studying it in his spare moments ever since.

‘Here,' he said. ‘Try this. Moorish gills. Bird of omen. Bats and crows and owls. Bogs and fens, the kelpie's flow.'

‘Sounds like Scottish folklore,' Maggie said. ‘But you need more. You can't isolate a few simple words and phrases, you have to find the larger pattern of meaning. By the way, you know what a kelpie is, don't you?'

‘Rings a bell.' Charley shrugged.

‘It's a spirit or demon that haunts rivers or lakes,' Maggie explained. ‘They would try to drown any person that comes along. The bog and fen are appropriate.'

‘All right, let's see. Next, the last laird of Ravenswood.' Charley glanced up. ‘I thought Oona was referring to me when she said that. The last laird of Ravenswood went down to Ravenswood to marry a dead maiden. It sounded almost like part of a ballad or a poem. The dead maiden – was that supposed to be Fiona? But then the marrying part is hard to figure.'

Malcolm sat forward. ‘“The laird of Ravenswood to Ravenswood did ride. To woo a dead maiden for his bride.”'

‘That's exactly right,' Charley said. ‘That's the very same cadence and rhyme as well – hey, how did you know that?'

‘Because I bloody well know it from somewhere,' Malcolm said distractedly, as he tried to recall the source. ‘Scott.'

‘Scott?' Charley echoed.

‘Scott.' Malcolm got up and went quickly to one section of the bookcases that lined the room. ‘Sir Walter Scott.' He found the volume he was looking for, and took it down. He began to flip the pages as he returned to his chair. He glanced up at Charley and asked, with a smile, ‘How's your Donizetti?'

‘Still functioning, thanks.' Malcolm loved opera. Charley didn't. ‘How's yours?'

‘Donizetti's
Lucia di Lammermoor
is based on the novel
The Bride of Lammermoor
by Sir Walter Scott.'

‘Yes,' Charley said. ‘And?'

‘Okay, listen now,' Malcolm went on. ‘I knew I knew this.' He began to read from the open book.

‘“When the last Laird of Ravenswood to Ravenswood shall ride,

And woo a dead maiden to be his bride,

He shall stable his steed in the Kelpie's flow,

And his name shall be lost for ever more!”'

‘That's it,' Charley said promptly. ‘That's exactly what I heard Oona say. She cribbed it. We've found the little darling out, is what we've done. Here, give us a peek.'