Fog Heart (11 page)

She didn't even notice him there at first, but then she did – a man standing at the far end of the corridor. A silhouette, with the late-afternoon western sun falling aslant in geometric lines through the window behind him.

Think, don't panic.

It must be an intruder who had somehow got in through a window without making any noise. Carrie could try to unlock the door and get away, but she calculated that he would probably be on top of her before she managed to stick her head outside and scream for help.

Her hand was shaking, but she reached into her bag and found the canister of pepper spray. She had never used it before but she knew that the police did – so it must work. She held it up, moving her eyes quickly to make sure the nozzle pointed in the right direction. Now, if she could only remember, were you supposed to shake it? Were you supposed to fire it when your assailant was six feet away or ten?

He just stood there, apparently staring at her for what felt like a very long time. Carrie didn't bother attempting to speak to him. Her free hand started for the lock.

He came running. One instant he was still, the next he was flying at her silently. She remembered that. There should have been a lot of noise from the bare floorboards, even if he'd been wearing sneakers. But there was no sound at all. She let go of her bags, stiffened her stance, snatched her free hand away from the door and used it to brace the arm with the pepper spray. The man swept down the corridor towards her. She fired once. It had no effect on him.

He emerged in the brighter light of the entry foyer, and she could see him clearly for the first time. She fired, and clamped her finger to the button now for continuous spray. It seemed to pass right through him. He was greyish-brown from head to foot, a sepia figure with remotely humanoid features that seemed to be twisted and smeared into themselves so that his face was hardly recognizable as human. A grotesque echo of a man. He was going to crash into her, Carrie realized dimly. There was nothing she could do about it, she was frozen to the spot.

His body flew into hers, his face into hers, a glimpse of an unbearably elongated eye rushing directly into hers. It felt as if she had been hit by a wave of frigid moisture, so shocking to her system that it nearly knocked her out, and at the same moment she could hear
him
shriek in agony – from within her body, the awful noise filling her, seeming to swell her brain and resound in the chambers of her heart, devastating her with shared pain.

She tottered, then something smashed her knee and the back of her hand banged against the floor. Carrie slid down onto her side. She was stunned but still conscious. She saw the floor and the walls. She felt incredibly weak, her arms and legs as useless as string. She wondered if she were dying, and already half-way out of her body. There was a lingering clamour in her ears – but no, not just her ears. It was fading away on the inside of her flesh and bones. Beneath her clothes she felt damp and chilled. Her knuckles were scraped, a headache began to drum at the temples, and she saw the canister of pepper spray on the floor several feet away. Carrie turned to look around. No one. Nothing. She was alone, the apartment still locked.

I'm not going crazy, she told herself, because it doesn't happen like this. Does it? Carrie struggled to her feet. She reeled precariously, as a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness hit her, and groped for the wall to steady herself. It took a few moments for her vision to clear and her breathing to settle down somewhat. Her heart was still pounding fearfully.

Okay, she thought, okay.

You have my attention.

*   *   *

Oliver listened patiently to her story. He had no idea what was going on any more. Carrie still seemed to be herself, steady and sensible, but what she was saying was the stuff of fantasy or mental illness. He had written off the first two incidents as transient aberrations. Now this. It wasn't her father this time. It was something else, an escalation.

The supernatural cut no ice with Oliver. Other people could believe in it, of course, and he would never consider that reason enough to doubt their sanity. Unless it went too far, and became irrational, obsessive.

‘What do you think it was?' he asked her.

‘I don't know,' she replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I honestly have no idea at all.'

He couldn't get over how composed and self-possessed Carrie was as she spoke. She appeared to have digested the experience and come to certain conclusions about what she intended to do in response to it. The rest of the story dribbled out, and Oliver was less than pleased. The gay guys had passed her along to some enthusiast in such matters, who in turn had redirected Carrie to a medium in Connecticut.

Now Carrie wanted to go to Westville and discuss it with the woman. He voiced no objection. What was the point? She was the one who was undergoing this experience, whatever it was, and she was the one who would have to work her way through it. He could offer sensible advice, but he knew that Carrie wouldn't listen to it until she was good and ready.

If it began to get out of hand and Carrie showed any sign of becoming erratic in her behaviour – well, then, Oliver would have to step in and find her some professional help. He couldn't let this become a threat to his marriage. He was comfortable in it and he had a strong aversion to any upheaval.

‘Will you drive me on Saturday?'

‘Are you sure—'

‘It's okay if you don't want to. I can drive myself, or get the train and a taxi.'

‘No, I don't mind,' he said reluctantly.

*   *   *

‘Nice car.'

Oliver looked up from the book and turned his head slightly. He was sitting back against a cushion wedged in the corner on the passenger side, his legs stretched across the front seat. He had the roof down because it was such a glorious day, quite warm for the first week of June, with low humidity and a caressing breeze. It was a kid, a teenage girl, apparently on rollerblades.

‘Thanks.'

Her dark hair was braided and pinned up in coils. She had a sweatband around her forehead, two more on her wrists, and a thin silver chain that hung close to her throat. She wore opaque blue sunglasses and an oversized Yale T-shirt. Pretty. She hovered, edging closer to his jade Saab.

‘So, what're you doing here?'

‘I'm waiting for someone,' he said.

‘Your wife?'

‘Yes.'

‘You from England, or something?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘Thought so. You have an accent.'

‘So do you. Where are you from?'

She pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, and he figured that she had been trying hard to lose her accent.

‘Canada. Very boring.'

‘Do you live around here now?' She nodded twice. ‘Do you know the woman who lives up there?' He gestured back towards the house on the knoll. She glanced at it briefly.

‘A little.'

‘What's she like?'

‘There's two of them.'

‘What are they like?'

‘Kind of weird. They keep to themselves.'

‘What do they do?'

‘Not much that you see.'

‘One of them is supposed to be a psychic.'

‘Is that where your wife is?'

‘Yes.'

‘Having her fortune told?'

‘Who knows?' he said, with a frown. ‘Does she seem to have a lot of visitors calling?'

‘You see cars here.'

‘Every day?'

The girl shook her head. ‘Three or four times a week.'

‘What do the neighbours think of her?'

A bored shrug. ‘They don't care, long as she doesn't bother them or create a nuisance with the traffic.'

‘What's your name?'

‘What's yours?'

‘Oliver.'

‘Hmmn. You don't look like an Oliver.'

‘What do I look like?'

‘I don't know. A Michael, maybe.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘My middle name.'

She grinned. ‘Wow. Lucky guess.' She parked her hip along the side of the car, as if she were thinking about hopping up to sit on the fender. ‘Oliver's okay too, you know. It's got kind of a roll to it.'

‘Well, I'm used to it.'

‘You ever been to India?'

That caught him up short. ‘No. Why do you ask?'

‘Just curious. I want to go there some day.'

‘Why India?'

‘I don't know, just to see it,' she said. ‘I saw some movie on TV that took place in India and it looked kind of interesting. I mean, you hear the name of a city like Bombay, and you think it must be incredibly different. Exciting, exotic, dangerous. Know what I mean?'

‘I suppose.' Bombay. ‘Are you in school?'

‘Not any more.'

‘So what do you do now?'

A shrug. ‘Not much.'

‘Got a boyfriend?'

‘No.' One slow shake of the head, looking away.

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘Me too.'

‘You didn't tell me your name.'

She had her hands on the fender, as if she were about to hop up on the car, but then she pushed off and skated in a tight loop that took her behind him and quickly back again. She braked next to him and leaned very close.

‘Gotta go. Nice talking to you, Oliver Michael.'

She had lovely teeth and lips. He thought he caught a whiff of spearmint in her breath, and something else –
Muguet de bois?
He couldn't make out her eyes. She was smiling.

His face tingled. ‘You too.'

She spun around. ‘Later,' she called back, as she sped away down the sidewalk. He watched her in the side mirror. She went into a low crouch as she approached a sharp bend, and then rose as she sailed into it. The last he saw of her was a slender leg sticking straight out behind her as she whipped around the curve and out of sight.

*   *   *

Carrie didn't say much about her meeting, but she seemed satisfied. She had been in there a little over an hour. They stopped for something to eat before driving back to New York.

‘How much did she charge you?' he asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘Do you really think you'll get anything out of this?'

‘Yes.'

Just that. ‘Well, good.' She was upbeat, positive. It was as good a time as any. ‘Carrie.'

‘Yes?'

‘I've got to pop back to Europe.'

‘When?' The usual hint of resignation and disappointment in her voice.

‘Towards the end of the month.'

‘How long will you be gone?'

‘Ten days or so.'

‘What for?'

‘There are two auctions I'd love to attend, one right after the other. Kohler in Wiesbaden, they've got some Prussian covers and multiples that are staggering. And Craveri in Lugano, a Saar Occupation collection that sounds quite impressive.'

‘Have Ivy & Mader bid for you, like they usually do.'

‘I'd really like to see these items,' he explained. ‘There won't be any more major events until the summer's over. Besides, I have to stop in Munich and finalize things with Marthe.'

‘Oh.'

‘Listen, love. Wiesbaden's boring but Lugano is lovely, and I'll be there on a Thursday and Friday. Why don't you come over and we'll have a dirty weekend in the Italian Alps?'

‘Oh.' Much brighter. ‘That would be great.'

‘Good.' If it meant putting Marthe off for a few more days, so be it. The bitch would wait for him. ‘Let's do that.'

Carrie nodded, but was quiet for a few moments.

‘Oliver.'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm going to see this woman again and I'll have to schedule it for when you're here.'

‘Why? Just take the car,' he said. ‘Or—'

‘Well, no,' Carrie interrupted gently. ‘The thing of it is, she says that you have to be there too.'

9

He'd read it a hundred times, give or take a few. It was so important to him, had been for years. But exactly how many years was it? Ten, certainly. Fifteen, most likely. Twenty? No, not that far back. Well, maybe. That was about the time when he was just beginning to discover Dunsany, and the enchantment took firm root in Charley's soul.

It was a short story called ‘Where the Tides Ebb and Flow'. In it, a man has done something so terrible he is denied a proper burial on land or sea. He doesn't know what his offence was, but he knows that he did it. His friends slay him and carry his body to the banks of the Thames in London. They put him in a shallow grave, so that the mud covers everything but his face.

He must lie there and observe the desolate houses along that stretch of the river. The tides come and go. The County Council discovers him and tries to give him a Christian burial, but his friends dig him up again and return him to the shallow grave along the Thames, his face exposed to the world.

Time after time, over the years, people attempt to bury him in the proper fashion, but his friends always dig him up and take him back to the edge of the river. Finally, he seems to achieve peace when a savage storm comes along, and scatters his bones far and wide among the isles down the estuary. But the tide gathers him up and returns him to his place in the mud.

Centuries pass this way, and the city of London itself dies. The buildings around him crumble, and there's nothing left to see but a few birds that sing to him.
He only sinned against Man, it is not our quarrel,
they say of him. He thinks he can see one of the gates of Paradise, and he weeps.

So did Charley on more than one occasion when he reread the story, though always with the help of a suitable libation. The poor bastard never did find out what terrible thing he had done. And why were those men who punished him called his friends? But these were just the sort of little mysteries that Dunsany loved to create, and never explained.

When
was
the first time he read it? Was it before Fiona died or after? The question seemed important, although Charley couldn't say why. Couldn't answer the chronological question either. He had certainly read Dunsany's work before Fiona was born, but that story? Impossible to say.