Fog Heart (23 page)

‘I suppose you're right.'

‘What do you want to do about it now?'

‘I don't see much point in further action,' Oliver replied. ‘Do you?'

‘Frankly, no. It's your money, and if you want me to I'll keep on digging. But it doesn't look very promising.'

‘I appreciate what you've done.'

‘No problem.'

‘There is one thing,' Oliver said.

‘What?'

‘I'm going to be in England again next month. I might just check first-hand to see if there's anything obvious on the record there. If I have the time.'

‘Want me to find you a local guy to help out?'

‘Well, don't set anything up because I may not even bother with it. But if you can give me the name of someone reliable, it might come in handy.'

‘Will do. Give me a day or two.'

‘No hurry.'

*   *   *

It was a couple of days after Oliver's return before Carrie consciously thought about it and realized that they had not made love since he got back. It was usually one of the first things they did after being apart for any length of time. It disturbed her that Oliver had not arrived home hot and hungry for her. It disturbed Carrie even more that she had taken so long to notice. She had not been waiting for him with her usual urgent sense of need and desire. It seemed as if they were both, separately, different now in some way, and when she realized this she didn't know quite what to make of it.

Was it because of the latest incident in the apartment? She had been afraid to mention it to him. It was so graphic and terrible, he might begin to think that she really was in the process of a breakdown. But Carrie couldn't keep it secret, and when she did tell him about it Oliver reacted calmly. Almost too calmly. He made sympathetic noises and raised his eyebrows, but said very little. It was as if he were preoccupied, and had been from the moment he had walked through the door.

He had bought one cover at Lugano, but when he showed it to her he didn't seem very enthusiastic, and then he locked it away with the rest of his collection. That, too, was a change in the pattern of normal life since Oliver usually left a new purchase on display for a while, to be adored and savoured.

He told her that his business had gone well and that he had sorted things out with Marthe, but he didn't really explain it to her and she sensed that perhaps the important decisions had been deferred. Oliver was quite capable of brooding about things like that for days on end before snapping out of it and knowing just what he intended to do.

But Carrie hadn't pressed him about anything. It scarcely occurred to her. The interest was missing. She had her own set of concerns to deal with and they were more vital to her than the tedious details of fabric production and commerce. It did worry her a little that she felt this way.

When she told Oliver that she had stayed overnight with Oona he tried to mask his disdain. She knew he didn't care for Oona. Oliver had acknowledged the voice of Carrie's father, but in the days afterwards he began to suggest that it had been a similarity at best, and that they had both been overly influenced by Oona's theatrics. Oliver didn't want to believe.

Carrie didn't have the luxury of choice. She knew what she had experienced on four separate occasions and what she'd heard emanate from Oona's throat. As if all that were not enough, she had also heard Oona, in her sleep, summon up the memory of an old friend of hers, Franny Hagstrom. And it had taken Carrie a while to understand just how eerie
that
was.

None of these things could be explained away or ignored. It was evidence, it was real, and what it all amounted to was a form of unknown truth that had to be faced. The alternative, Oliver's attitude, seemed to be wilful ignorance.

Carrie tried to be alert to everything around her, while not giving in to paranoia. She drove back to Manhattan on the Sunday afternoon and went to work as usual on Monday morning. She took care, but went about her business. Nothing happened. Oliver got back from Europe on Thursday, was out for a while on Friday evening but otherwise busied himself at home. All fairly normal, and yet somehow different. Both of them were different.

She didn't call Oona during the week. There was no need to consult her, and Carrie felt somewhat confused about her personal relationship with the girl. That Sunday morning Oona had woken up slowly, clinging to her. She was groggy, her limbs loose and floppy, almost like a narcoleptic. At times she would put her hands on Carrie's breasts or around her hips, and would plant tiny kisses on her throat. There was something undeniably sexual about this, and there were a few brief moments when, against her wishes, Carrie felt aroused by it. But it had happened largely in Oona's sleep, and it also seemed in some way to be essentially babyish, innocent in nature. Oona clung to her and touched her as an infant does its mother, seeking the protection of her embrace and the deep warmth of her body. Whatever sexual dimension there was to it seemed incidental and beside the point.

Mam.
Oona had murmured and mumbled it again many times that night. It took a while for Carrie to understand it, but when she finally grasped its true significance it explained a lot. She'd thought that Oona was saying
Ma'am,
which seemed oddly formal and unnecessary, but then it dawned on Carrie: the word was
Mam.

She knew from her years in England that it was common usage in the north and in Scotland for Mom or Mum – for Mother. Then she realized that Oona was clinging to her only as an infant did to its mother. Carrie felt relieved at first, but also troubled and deeply saddened for Oona.

Hadn't Roz warned her?

It was difficult to know what to do. Carrie admired Oona as a person with miraculous abilities, and looked to her for crucial help and guidance. How could she, at the same time, treat her as a forlorn child in need of love and mothering? In any event, she simply couldn't play the mother. It wasn't possible. She had a life in New York, a husband and a career.

Fortunately, Oona appeared to know that there was a natural limit to the situation. When she finally had awakened that morning she was friendly and as girlish as she'd been the night before, but ever so slightly distant. She was re-establishing the proper balance and space between them.

Carrie felt relieved, but also freer to show her affection. She gave Oona a big hug and a kiss on the cheek as she was about to return to New York. The good feeling stayed with her through the week.

Until Oliver arrived home, at which point a sense of nervous anticipation began to take hold. By Saturday the mounting unease had reached the point where Carrie felt she had to do something. Tomorrow was Sunday, and she still wasn't sure if Oliver intended to accompany her to New Haven for the second session. He'd only promised to go once.

Things unspoken, things still undone – Carrie realized that they hadn't made love since before his trip, and suddenly she had a rush of desire, a need for her husband. She wanted to put her arms around him, to feel safe within his embrace, and to have him fill her with his strength. She wanted to know that there was no distance between them, that everything was all right.

Carrie put on her navy-blue Wakefield pyjama top. It was a size too large, loose and rather boxy, but it hung beautifully on her and she knew that Oliver liked it (if the number of times she had to resew buttons on it was any indication). They settled in on the couch with drinks and a movie –
La Femme Nikita.
It held no surprises any more, since it was one of Oliver's old favourites, but Carrie didn't really mind seeing it yet again.

By the time the film ended they were into some heavy petting and deep kissing, but it didn't last long. Oliver wriggled out of his pants as he rolled her onto her back, slid between her legs and then into her, and it was all over a minute later. She felt disappointed, not so much because the sex was unsatisfying but because she had wanted the intimacy to be prolonged, to form a cosy cocoon around the two of them that would last for the rest of the night.

But Oliver had a cigarette lit and was channel-hopping with the remote while she was still catching her breath and struggling to sit up. Face it, you just got fucked. To be fair, it seldom happened like that.

‘Oliver.'

‘Mmn?'

‘Are you going to New Haven with me tomorrow?'

‘Oh, shit.' Annoyed, but not angry.

‘You don't have to if—'

‘Never mind. I'll go.'

‘I don't want you to if you're going to resent it.'

‘I don't resent it,' Oliver said, unconvincingly. ‘But I do think it's a waste of time.'

‘After what we heard the last time?'

‘
Thought
we heard,' he corrected.

‘I know what I heard,' Carrie insisted quietly.

‘Well, we differ on that point.'

Carrie frowned. Nothing would be resolved, they would argue politely and then just set it aside. She hated that. But Carrie hated even more the thought of going to sleep with unhappiness or anger lingering actively between them.

‘If you don't believe any of it, why bother?'

‘For you,' he said. ‘Because I love you.'

But then Oliver stayed up, drinking single malt and smoking, flicking aimlessly from one channel to another, while Carrie went to bed. She felt cold. She got up to put on the pyjama bottoms, but they didn't help. She felt cold and empty and alone.

18

Dunsany was right, the world was a very queer place. But it was no comfort to think that there were other levels or realms of existence beyond the one we currently inhabit. It filled Charley with dread. The idea of life after death troubled him.

‘I mean,' he said aloud, ‘what's the point?'

‘What?' Heather asked. ‘The point of what?'

‘Going through all this, day after day, night after night, weeks, months, great bloody years of it. What's the point if, at the end of it all, you have to start mucking about all over again on some other plane of being? Act Two, life goes on, but without the humble pleasures of your poor old body.'

‘Ah, Charley.'

‘It's enough to give you the willies.'

He slammed his empty glass down on the table, and then went to the bar. They were in Gene's Tap, and had been for two hours now. Never mind, there was still light in the sky outside, which meant it was still quite early. Charley felt all right, whatever dark considerations nagged at him, but the drink was beginning to show in Heather, who had consumed three absurdly pastel daiquiris that had no place in a place like Gene's. Charley glowered at George, the barman, who smirked as he served a fresh round.

‘I don't think I want another one,' Heather said foggily, as he parked the vile concoction in front of her.

‘Just nibble at it around the edges, then.'

‘Charley, I don't like sitting around and drinking like this in the middle of the day.'

‘It's almost night,' he pointed out.

‘I mean it. You don't take me seriously.'

‘I certainly do, love. I depend on you.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means that my life is in your hands,' he told her. ‘You keep me sane. I live on the edge, and—'

‘What's that mean?' she cut in. ‘You live on the edge. You told me that the first time we met, and I still don't understand what it means. The edge of what?'

Everybody was so damned literal these days. ‘Heather, it's just an expression. The emotion is what counts.'

‘I don't feel happy. I ought to be happy when I'm with you. But I'm not happy.'

Oh dear, this was serious. He had another six months in New Haven and it would be a shame to lose Heather this soon. Perhaps he ought to take her out to dinner – for a change.

‘Darling, I—'

‘I want to go home.'

‘Well, of course.' Even better: home to bed.

But back at Heather's apartment, she wasn't having anything of the sort. Charley was affectionate and attentive, to the best of his ability in that direction. He listened dutifully to some of her favourite racket, which he could not quite bring himself to consider music. He spoke fondly of Heather's many virtues and qualities, while taking care not to mention her breasts. She was in no mood to be reminded that naughty sex was at the centre of their relationship.

But Heather ignored his soothing words. She sat planted in an old armchair, knees locked together tellingly and feet splayed apart. Charley recognized that pose from his high-school years. It was a position adopted by good young ladies at a certain time of life. It meant: access denied.

‘Charley, I just want to go to bed. Alone.'

‘Ah, Heather…'

‘I mean it. I'm tired and I want to be alone.'

‘After I send you wafting off happily to dreamland on clouds of bliss and tingly little wavelets of joy.'

Heather screamed.

‘What is it, love?' he asked, with concern.

‘Alone.' She gave him a hard stare.

Apparently Heather wasn't having any. Perhaps the time had come to pull out all the stops and tell her about Fiona. That would surely dampen her eyes – those wayward orbs currently frosted with a rosy shade of pink that somehow suggested certain laboratory animals. If necessary, he could even mention Oona and all that recent misery – though Charley was trying hard not to think about Oona.

‘Heather, I never told you this but—'

‘Alone. Now.'

*   *   *

Sex isn't everything, Charley thought morosely as he re-entered Gene's Tap and made his way to the bar. George soon caught sight of him, and sauntered along with an excessive look of sympathy on his face – but amusement in his eyes.

‘Back already, Professor?'

‘I forgot something.'

‘And what would that be?'