Fog Heart (18 page)

Charley took the volume from Malcolm and gazed at the quoted passage. By God, they had her. No question. Oona had taken the four-line lyric from Scott, played around with it a bit, adding a few other words to break it up, and then fed it out as if it were some oracular vision or message from beyond.

He held out the book to Maggie. ‘Here you are.'

She leaned forward to look at the quatrain, but didn't take the book from him. She nodded. ‘Yes. So?'

‘So?'

‘So what does that mean to you?'

‘It means she cobbled together her little
recitativo,
using Scott and who knows what else. She did it, obviously, to create something that would sound suitably strange and disturbing. So a poor fool like me would think there was some hidden significance in it. That's what it means.'

Maggie shook her head. ‘Charley, remember one of the first things that puzzled you? How could Fiona know English?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, this poem from Scott is the same sort of thing. It's the language of the medium. Oona must have read this and it has remained in her memory. So it's a part of her mental vocabulary. If it came out in a session, it was because the words were useful to her as a way to convey some other meaning or message.'

‘I hear what you're saying, Maggie,' Charley allowed. ‘But it could just be part of her technique.'

‘Perhaps, but I still think you're trying to take the easy way out. You ought to focus on what's relevant to you in these words, not where they came from.'

Charley nodded politely, but it didn't matter. Now he had something tangible that he could show to Jan. If he could just discredit Oona, then Jan might stop chasing and being chased by the dead. It was worth a try.

*   *   *

A cup of tea at the kitchen table. Bewley's own, which he hoarded for special moments; its use now would not escape Jan's notice. How many wonderful mornings had he spent in that café on Grafton Street, poring over the
Irish Times
or some obscure Irish literary journal? Endless pots of tea, lashings of warm buttered toast. Glorious. He could suffer that life again.

‘Jan.'

‘Yes?'

‘About – here, your tea's ready,' he said, pouring. ‘About Oona. I've been thinking about it. Reflecting.'

The right word. Jan nodded approvingly as she took her seat at the table. ‘Good.'

He lit a small mild cigar.

‘The thing I don't understand is, before we went there you were convinced that Fiona had spoken to you in a dream, and that she said she forgives you – us. Everything was all right.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘It was nobody's fault.' Jan nodded at that, but with less conviction. ‘Then we go to see Oona and she does her thing, and I saw and heard the same things you did. I didn't get any clear sense or meaning from it, but you apparently did. You now appear to have changed your mind around, one-eighty, to where you think Fiona has returned to punish us in some way.'

‘Yes,' Jan said simply. She sipped her tea and gazed at him with calm, very sad eyes. ‘In a way.'

‘Why?' Charley asked. ‘I don't see where you get that from. What did Oona say to give you that idea?'

‘It was – everything.'

‘Everything in general?'

‘The overall sense of it, yes,' Jan replied. ‘But also in a few of the specific words she used.'

She was trying to be reasonable, bless her.

‘Do you mean things like the laird of Ravenswood?'

‘Yes.'

‘And the dead maiden?'

‘Yes.'

‘I can see why you might think those words apply to us, but I don't see the threat in them.'

‘It isn't a threat.'

‘What else could it be, then?'

‘Resolution. Completion.'

‘But where did you hear that?' Charley pressed, trying not to sound angry – though it did anger him.

‘It's hard to say,' Jan told him. ‘But it's there.'

‘Don't you think that maybe you could be reading a bit much into it? You don't know for sure how it was meant.'

‘I do.'

‘Fiona has come back for us. We have no choice, and that's all there is to it.'

‘That's right.' Almost cheerful.

‘And what does she intend to do with us?'

Jan suddenly couldn't speak. Tears welled in her eyes. She turned away from him. Charley was miserable. All of this murky nonsense, Oona and the paranormal, was so useless. You could bat it around for ever but never get anywhere, and the worst part was that you could convince yourself that you did understand it – which state Jan seemed to have achieved.

He took the two sheets of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded them on the table. He pushed them across to her.

‘I wrote down some of what Oona said. You probably remember parts of it better than I do.'

Jan looked at the paper, and nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘You remember those words?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Good.' Charley opened the volume of Scott that Malcolm had loaned him. He turned it round so that Jan could read the open page. ‘Now, look at this,' he said quietly, as if sharing a cute secret with her. ‘I found the same words, exactly. She got them from
The Bride of Lammermoor
by Sir Walter Scott. She broke them up a little bit, but they're the same. As you can see.'

Jan studied the page, glanced again at Charley's notes and then looked back at the book.

‘So?'

That again.

‘So? So the use of Ravenswood doesn't have to have anything to do with us. It comes from a novel written more than a hundred and sixty years ago, set in Scotland. I don't know why Oona used it, but she did, and there it is.'

‘Oona didn't choose it, Fiona did.'

‘Jan, really. Think about what you're saying. I've put the evidence right in front of you and you're trying to rationalize it away. But you can't.'

‘Think what you want, Charley.'

‘Jan, please. This is not about us. It's bogus.'

‘I'm sorry you think that,' Jan said, in the same maddeningly calm flat-line voice. ‘It is about us. It's all about us.'

Charley controlled himself, just. He left the notes and the book on the table and went into his study. He had a study, not a library. It could be a small library, if he ever got round to organizing it properly. But when you know you're going to be on the road again next year, what's the point?

There was nothing he could say to her, nothing he could do. He felt useless, and he wasn't sure he cared any more. What's the point, Charles? He could let her go to Oona alone while he kept out of the whole unfortunate business. But that would be petty, and it was probably not a good idea to leave Jan to a fate she so fervently wanted. Someone had to protect her, and that was his job. He went back into the kitchen to let her know that he would be there with her, however foolish he thought it was.

Jan was standing in the middle of the room, holding the large bread knife. She appeared lost, gazing down at her hands. Then she gave a startled glance in his direction. Charley forgot what he was going to say. He tried to hide the alarm he felt.

‘What're you doing with that?'

‘Putting it away.'

The heel of yesterday's loaf was buried in the trash where he'd thrown it that morning. Neither of them had bought a fresh loaf since. Had the knife been left out? He wasn't sure.

‘See that you do.'

14

‘Oliver.'

‘Hmm?'

‘I know I shouldn't bother you about things like this, but I do think we ought to … think about them.'

‘What is it, pet?'

They were sitting next to each other on the bed, against the veneered headboard, both naked. Becky had the sheet pulled up to her neck. Oliver was drinking her white plonk and smoking. Her garden flat in Maida Vale. For all of the neat furnishings from Heal's and Harrods, no doubt bought by Daddy, the place had a glum and grey feeling about it. He had so many flats like this in his past, so many of these women with lousy plonk …

‘I was so happy to see you yesterday,' Becky said. ‘It was a wonderful surprise. I wasn't sure I'd hear from you again.'

‘I told you I'd be in touch.'

‘I know, but people say things.'

‘I meant it.'

‘I know, and it's great to have some time with you,' Becky said. ‘I just wish we had more of it.'

‘I know.' What the hell? Say it. ‘So do I.'

‘That's what bothers me.' Hesitant, anxious. ‘I guess I'd like to know how I should think about – us.'

‘Fondly, I hope.'

A brief smile. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘I do what I can, love.'

‘Oliver. I know you're married and all that.'

‘Rather.'

‘And you have a lot of business interests that take up your time. I do want to see you – don't get me wrong. But I don't want to be … just … the one in London.'

A mild show of principle. He liked that. Of course, it was totally meaningless. Fuck me all you want, but please don't take me for granted.

‘I understand.'

‘I mean, when you're not here—' But Becky didn't seem to know the rest of her thought.

‘You have your own life to live,' he said helpfully. ‘And I hope you're getting on with it. I don't want you sitting around and waiting by the phone, or anything like that.'

‘No, well … I don't. But I'll be thinking of you, and that does affect what I do and who I see. You know?'

‘You just carry on as you see fit, love,' he told her. ‘The fact is, I have no hold over you.' The reverse of that obviously could go without saying. ‘And the next time I'm in London, if I ring you up and you tell me you can't see me again because you've fallen in love with this smashing bloke from the City, well, then, I shall adjourn to a pub and have a quiet drink, and feel rather sad about it. But I'll be happy for you as well, and I'll think about the very splendid moments we spent together.'

Dear God, what utter rubbish. It must have worked, though. Becky didn't seem to know what to say, poor inarticulate child. She was gazing down at her hands, looking a bit wistfully pleased with herself.

‘Well…'

‘Look, Becky,' he said amiably, ‘why don't we give ourselves a little time, and see how things work out?'

‘Yes, I think we should.' No hesitation now, a quick lunge for the status quo.

‘Good, so do I.'

Oliver got out of bed and crossed the room. He scanned her paperbacks and compact discs, but was not really interested. He put on Des'ree, just to hear something besides Becky.

Oliver was aware of her eyes on him. Evidently Becky didn't have many naked men walking around her flat. Too bad, you should get laid more.

‘Come here.'

‘What?'

‘Come over here,' he said firmly. She started to reach for her dressing gown. ‘No. Just bring yourself.' Slow, stiff and uncomfortable. When she was still several feet away from him he held up a hand to stop her. ‘Becky, love. You're gorgeous. But I want you to put your shoulders back and stand straighter.' She did so. ‘That's better. Now let your arms hang naturally, don't hold them by your side like that. Better. And lift your head up a bit. Chin out. That's it, that's it. Now stay like that when you walk, and come here.'

‘Yes?' Shy, compliant. Expectant.

‘Great,' he told her. ‘Now you're walking and standing like a
woman.
Don't you read that magazine of yours? Doesn't it give you tips like this?'

‘I guess.' A nervous giggle, and then she started to slouch and fold up into herself again.

‘No, no,' Oliver said. He put the palm of one hand over her chest, the other in the small of her back. ‘Pay attention, don't collapse into that slouch again.'

Becky was responding to the closeness, and his hands on her. He was beginning to enjoy it as well. Oliver's hand slid up her throat and adjusted the line of her jaw. He started to kiss and nuzzle her neck.

‘You know,' he said, ‘I'll be in Germany a lot this summer and autumn. I have a major project in the works. I was thinking we could meet there some time. You know, for a long weekend, hire a car, see some of the Bavarian countryside.'

‘That'd be great.'

‘If you want.'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘If you can get a few days off work.'

‘I'm sure I could.'

‘Do you like my mouth on your body?'

‘Yes…'

‘My tongue?'

‘… Yes…'

The muscles in her rump and thighs were taut, and her hands lightly touched his shoulders.

‘Nobody talks to you like this, do they?'

‘No…'

‘Nobody does this to you, do they?'

‘… No…'

‘Do you want me to?'

Fingers pressing on his shoulders. Tentative at first, as if she would hardly dare to convey a natural desire. But then a little stronger. The body always wins out.

‘Tell me.'

‘Yes –
yes
—'

With pleasure. He loved women, he loved the way their minds worked, which was unpredictable; and he loved their bodies, which were delightfully different.

Afterwards, he had to carry Becky back to bed, and they fell together in a tangle of arms and legs, drifting along in a lovely post-sex fog, blitzed with pleasure and half asleep. Even so, he remembered that he had to ring Carrie.

Oliver put his head between Becky's smallish breasts and she flopped a weak arm over his shoulder. She was in a light sleep, stirring a little whenever he moved but unable to open her eyes. She had such fine, pale skin.

The thought of ringing Carrie depressed him. Oliver had to, he wouldn't be able to get through another day without knowing if she was all right and what she was doing. It was a silly control thing, he supposed, but he couldn't avoid it.