Fog Heart (26 page)

‘Oh, Jesus, I don't believe it,' Oona said to herself, as she clamped her hands on the edge of the table. ‘The river's swollen today and we're at the rapids.' She smiled wanly, and for just a second her eyes caught Carrie's. ‘Hold on, folks. This is going to be sort of like putting my head in a blender.'

‘Will it be all right?' Roz asked loudly.

That alarmed Carrie. There seemed to be an undercurrent of tension and danger in the air, and for Roz to ask a question like that only made matters worse. The last time, she had acted as if nothing could possibly be a serious problem, even in the moments when Oona had been obviously in extreme pain.

‘Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah…'

‘Oona, are you sure?' Carrie asked.

‘Surrrrre…' Oona's body swayed. She reached out, bumped Carrie's arm and fumbled at it as if her fingers were useless and beyond control. ‘Make love to me like the angels, honey, can you save me save me save me
save me…
'

Her hand fell away from Carrie's arm. Oona began to pat and clutch at herself, as if to make sure that her own body was still there. Her hands went up to her face, then down along her throat and finally took hold of her shoulders. She continued to sway, rocking her upper body in a roughly circular motion. Sounds that meant nothing came from her mouth. Suddenly she stopped, leaned forward and threw her arms across the table on either side of the stone basin, her forehead pressed to the wood. She began to talk in a voice that was almost normal, but seemed about to cry.

‘Touch me touch me please touch me now…'

Carrie didn't hesitate. She put her hand on Oona's arm, and the others followed her example. Some of the urgency went out of Oona's voice, but she continued to repeat the same words. She stayed that way for about a minute, and then slowly sat up. She gently pulled her arms away from them, and smiled. She looked at each of them, nodding as if pleased. For a moment Carrie almost thought it was all over.

‘Wild,' Oona said, a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘It's so wild today. This is something else.'

‘Oona,' Carrie said.

‘Mmmn?'

‘Are you sure you're okay?' Oona gazed at her. Moistened her lips. Said nothing. ‘Oona?'

‘She's fine,' Roz noted, a mild scold.

Oona was still moistening her lips with her tongue, and then she began to move her jaw as if trying to speak. But no words or sounds emerged. This seemed to bother her. An anxious look clouded her face, and her eyes were restless, fearful. She worked her throat as if she had a thin fishbone stuck in it. She began to gag, or was trying to cough, but still made no sound. The colour was gone from her face – but soon came back as a ghastly creeping blueness. Her eyes widened in panic.

The incident disappeared. Oona gave Carrie a startled look, and then began to cry. The sounds of weeping were normal, though babyish, and she appeared to have no more difficulty breathing. There were no tears, and she stopped crying a few seconds later. She looked lost and forlorn, like a child left alone suddenly for a few minutes in some unfamiliar place.

‘Save me save me save me aaaahhhh save me love me love me oh love me like the angels honey…'

Her voice low, as if trying to remind herself of something, and also seeking an elusive rhythm. Oona shook her head, unhappy about something. She's still only on the edge of it, Carrie told herself. Oona pulled her knees up close to her body and wrapped her arms around them, still rocking herself tightly. The words gave way to unformed grunts and abortive shouts. Her eyes locked onto some invisible point in the air.

‘Don't leave me don't leave me Daddy Daddy Daddy Mam Mam Mam Muh-muh-muh-muh oh shit oh shit oh shit hey you hey hey you there come here then come here yeah you hey fuck me too lick me love me love me love me like the angels—'

Oona's voice deepened and speeded up sharply.

‘He stops he turns he runs to you runs runs runs to you runs to you to kill you he kills you kills you kills his hands on your throat squeezes the life out of you into his eyes eyes eyes I I I I can't save you save you save me save me oh save me please don't go don't leave me again oh no oh no oh no oh mother father sister daughter save me oh no he says child he says child I can only try to tell you child he says this man will kill you too too too two times then oh yes he says oh yes oh yes oh yes I can I can only try to save you save me save me don't go again—'

Oona stopped abruptly, her eyes fluttering, her mouth open as she gasped for air. Then she tilted her head to one side, and her eyes narrowed. She looked as if she were trying to overhear something, but was having difficulty. A moment later, she began to speak in a normal voice – but it was amazingly like the voice of Carrie's father.

‘You only have to look at him.'

Oona started rocking again. The man's voice trailed off in a prolonged whine. Carrie sat back against a pillow. She didn't turn her head, but her eyes glanced towards Oliver. He caught her look, and smiled reassuringly at her. He nodded, as if to say he had recognized her father's voice too, but he raised his eyebrows to indicate that he had no idea what it meant.

‘He used to be a sweet boy.'

Oona's head hung forward, as if she were drowsy and couldn't keep her eyes open, but her face was hidden behind her hair. The voice continued after another pause.

‘But that was a long time ago. You only have to look at him now to see. Something went—'

Hesitation. Carrie looked down. Everyone was still and the room was silent except for the sound of the rain on the windows. Carrie had the profound sense of being in her father's invisible presence, and of being close to understanding what he wanted to say to her. Very close, but still not there.

‘Used to be a sweet boy, but something went wrong. You only have to look at him to see. Sweet boy, something went…'

Carrie started to glance towards Oliver, but stopped herself. She looked up, deliberately turning to Oona again.

Oona was motionless and silent for what seemed like a very long time. Then she raised her head, and some of her hair fell off to the sides of her face. She was trembling, her eyes tight and her fists pressed together at her throat. Suddenly, a scream exploded from her, so loud and violent that everyone else at the table recoiled.

‘Mr Oliver! What are you doing?'

The voice was perfect. The bitch had it word for word. She was something else. Oliver felt as if his body had turned to sand and was blowing away grain by grain in a rising breeze. As if he were beginning to disappear. But he wasn't, couldn't.

The voice changed, low and racing.

‘He stops he turns he looks back he starts to run run runs back to the bed where he has fucked you he takes you rolls you on your back takes you takes your throat he is between your between your legs again his hands take the breath from you sucks you into his eyes eyes eyes I I I oh you can save me save me save me oh no oh no in Ballapul it is in Ballapul I die I die I die—'

The voice trailed off briefly, but then returned once again as the miserable little man Oliver knew too well.

‘Mr Oliver! What are—'

Oona stopped abruptly, as if frozen. She made a sharp noise with her tongue that sounded like a stick breaking. She repeated it several times, at regular intervals. Oliver nearly smiled, it was so incredibly accurate. The neck snapping. He felt bemused, and oddly distant from himself. He sighed impatiently, a gesture of false indifference, but no one was paying any attention to him. They all stared at Oona.

To this day, he didn't know why he had stopped and returned to the room. Flipped the whore, knelt on her and killed her. It was the heat, the place, the cheapness of life, the sheer vacancy and meaninglessness – but these were retrofit elaborations, spun from the missing core of the act itself. All he knew for certain was that he had done it, and that he had killed again a moment later when his little guide blundered into the room.

He had wanted to see Chik Pavan, one of the places where the young prostitutes were kept in cages. Supposedly notorious. He thought it was probably designed that way to appeal to foreigners on the prowl. But he never got there. The man persuaded Oliver to go to Ballapul instead.

Ballapul was a crumbling tenement complex that had gradually been taken over by the sex business. There were four buildings around a ratty central courtyard, where people cooked over charcoal fires and kiosks sold murky potions in unmarked bottles. Music blared from every apartment, all of it different but all of it jarringly shrill and loud.

The four cement buildings were connected by internal halls and outdoor balconies and porches. The entire compound was thick with people, some of them Westerners like himself. Oliver paid off the man who had brought him there, agreeing that they'd meet later, and for a while explored the place on his own.

There were three floors to each building, and it looked like each apartment ran into the next so that the total effect was of wandering through a vast maze, a warren of cramped passages and stark little cells that were painted a claustrophobic deep blue, from the scabby floors to the cracked ceilings.

It was frightening, in a way, perhaps because it was so dark and utterly alien. You really felt that you could die there, and no one would notice. Part of that was true.

Some of the young girls were pretty, darkly exotic with eyes of astonishing depth, though many were unattractive, tubby, garishly made-up and with repellent faces. The one Oliver chose had a heart-shaped face and large shimmering eyes. She was short and petite, though her nipples were large, dark and womanly. He paid the fussy madam, who stayed in the front room, and the whore led him to a cubicle at the end of an interior hallway.

The sex was uninteresting and soon done. But, then, it had not cost very much. That should have been the end of it, fifteen minutes from door to door, and it nearly was. But something made Oliver stop while he was in the corridor on his way out, and then he turned and dashed back into the tiny room. No passion, anger, nothing caused it. But he wanted to do it, however reckless and suicidal it seemed – and he truly did have the sense of gambling his own life on a throw of the dice.

Perhaps that was it.

The woman out front was a problem that could be avoided, for a short while anyway. Oliver had already noticed another exit to the landing at the end of the corridor. But he hadn't counted on the guide, the enterprising fellow who'd brought him there in the first place. They were supposed to meet later by the gate at the front of the compound.

But Oliver should have known better. He was the man's ‘job' for the evening, his source of income, and he wouldn't let Oliver get away until he'd extracted every rupee that he possibly could. There were other gates, many ways in and out of the compound, and he probably feared missing Oliver later. So he'd tagged along at a discreet distance, keeping a proprietary eye on Oliver, and as soon as enough time had passed for the usual fast fuck, he'd come down the corridor to make sure Oliver didn't choose to leave that particular area by the other exit. The poor devil didn't want to lose a customer, was all.

Said, ‘Mr Oliver! What are you doing?'

The only thing Oona got wrong was the scream. In fact, that exclamation had come in the form of a shocked gasp, not much more than a hoarse whisper. One quick step, and Oliver had him. Then he shoved the bodies behind the bed, where they might not be seen at first – he was sure that every second mattered. The corridor was empty, and Oliver hurried silently out of the other door to the landing. Slipped into the passing crowd. It was night, and that helped, although he still hadn't heard any outcry by the time he got to the gate and left the compound.

He walked a fair distance before flagging down a taxi. That was the worst of it, to be alone in the dark in some unknown part of Bombay, fleeing a crime scene. He was sure that his life was effectively over. He would be caught and sent to prison. Oliver vowed to kill himself as soon as he got there, rather than rot in some Indian pesthole for the next thirty years.

He took the taxi driver's advice on a good nightclub, had a strong drink, and then walked back to his hotel. Sipped his duty-free Scotch, smoked cigarettes until dawn, and waited for a knock on the door. It never came. He checked out later and caught his flight to London. There was no trouble, no suspicious looks, not a single awkward question. And, to Oliver's very great relief and surprise, that was the end of the grisly interlude.

Sort of.

Oona seemed to be in one of her temporary lulls. She rubbed her face, smiled hazily and burbled meaningless sounds. Whatever came of this, the only thing he could do was deny it. Dismiss it with a laugh. Nothing could be proved, after all. Two anonymous natives had died in a Third World slum a long time ago. But even that much could not be shown. Not now. Not by anyone here. The best Oona could do was raise the subject, not the dead.

Oliver smiled again a moment later when he glanced at Carrie and saw that she was looking at him.

*   *   *

‘Bird of night bird of prey ravens crows and corbies blacken the sky in the middle of the day it was the day it was the day we played oh no oh no don't leave me please don't leave me there oh no oh no the barn the birds of night the birds of prey the day we played not the barn—'

Here we go again, Charley thought. Oona was shaking and her voice was a useless drone, like an engine idling. He glanced at Jan, and felt a stab of concern. His wife looked terrified. Her eyes were wide open and she was frantically wringing her fingers. Calm down, girl. He tried to get her attention, but Jan was not to be distracted. She was locked in on Oona now.

‘Fon Fon Fon Fon Tayna Fontayna Fontana—'

‘Yes,' Jan murmured anxiously.