Fog Heart (25 page)

He smiled to himself when they were introduced to the other couple. The woman seemed to be in a trance, but jumpy as a bird. The husband was obviously a drinker, with a washed-out face and a bleak, tired look about the eyes. Somehow they struck Oliver as exactly the kind of people who would seek out Oona – people who went through life already half haunted by their own neuroses and inadequacies and were looking for spiritual rescue.

‘Charley O'Donnell,' the man muttered.

‘Oliver Spence.'

O'Donnell had a clammy handshake. He knocked back a Scotch and steered Oliver to the sideboard where the drinks were set out on a silver tray. He helped himself to another, and didn't offer one to Oliver.

‘Have you been to these sessions before?'

‘Yes, but just one,' Oliver replied. ‘And you?'

‘Twice. What do you think?'

They spoke in a low tone, but Roz and the two wives were busy chatting on the other side of the room while Oona had yet to put in an appearance.

‘It's all a bit strange, really.'

‘Are you English?'

‘Yes.'

O'Donnell nodded approvingly. ‘Strange is right. You know what I noticed the first time?'

‘What?'

‘You won't believe this. Some of what Oona was saying came straight out of a novel by Sir Walter Scott.'

‘You're joking.'

‘No, really.
The Bride of Lammermoor.
'

‘You're sure of that?'

‘No doubt about it. I looked it up.'

O'Donnell seemed quite pleased with himself. It could be an interesting piece of information, if true, although Oliver didn't see any special significance in it at first glance.

‘Well, well. Did it mean anything to you?'

‘I thought it did,' O'Donnell replied. ‘But when I realized that it was Scott, I knew it had nothing to do with us.'

Not very convincing. Probably what he wanted to think, but couldn't quite accept. Otherwise, why come back?

‘Do you think she's – all there?' Oliver prompted, knowing that O'Donnell was only too eager to talk.

‘No.'

‘Ah. You may be right.'

‘But I also think she's genuine. In some peculiar way.' He finished his drink and gazed longingly at the sideboard.

‘It's still early days for us.'

‘I see.' O'Donnell glanced at the women and decided that it was safe to snag one more drink. ‘I told her, you know,' he said, as he took another quick splash of Scotch. ‘Oona started to come out with more of the same thing during our second session, so I jumped right in and finished it for her.'

‘What, the passage from Scott?'

‘Yes. I recited it out loud. The whole thing. The sister gave me a dirty look but it stopped Oona dead in her tracks for a minute. Then she went off in another direction. Still, it makes you think.'

‘It certainly does.' The bold fellow. ‘Well done.'

O'Donnell managed a grim smile. The poor sot, all he wanted was a bit of approval now and then.

*   *   *

Jan O'Donnell was in bad shape. From the moment they met Carrie could see that. The woman tried to smile, and nodded as Carrie and Roz chatted, but she barely spoke. There was a hollow look in her eyes. She was so timorous that Carrie was sure she'd been hurt repeatedly, beaten down, either by her husband or some element in the paranormal process. And the husband didn't make a very good impression when they were introduced, merely grunting at Carrie and then lurching off for another drink.

Carrie had sympathy for the woman, but also felt relieved in some way – and then, immediately, guilty about
that.
It was a little like being in a doctor's waiting room and noticing that the other patients were worse off than you were. She wondered if, after several visits to Oona, she was going to end up looking like Jan. What if the incidents became more graphic and unbearable but Oona was unable to provide any real help?

She didn't want to think about it. Fortunately, Roz was in a talkative mood, friendly and upbeat, so Carrie could drift along with the small-talk and avoid her worries.

A short while later Oona entered the room, providing further distraction. She looked nearly angelic, a Pre-Raphaelite vision of girlish beauty, with long, flowing black hair, alabaster skin, and deep, piercing eyes. She wore a light summer dress of slate blue and ivory, with a fine floral print, a shirred empire waist, and front buttons from the scooped-out neckline to the middle of the calf. The top button was undone, as were the rest from just over the knee down to the hem. Oona also had on espadrilles with long ties cross-wound several inches up past the ankle.

She appeared to be brimming with confidence and excitement. She went straight to Jan, took the woman's hands in hers and spoke a few quiet words to her. Jan smiled faintly. Then Oona turned to Carrie, put her hands on her shoulders and hugged her, giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

‘My friend.'

‘Hi,' Carrie said. ‘It's great to see you again.'

She meant it. Oona's presence had boosted her spirits in an instant. She was amazing. How did she get herself up for the ordeal and actually seem eager for it? Once again, Carrie felt a rush of respect and affection for her.

Oona went to the seedy Mr O'Donnell next, pausing just long enough to say something and rub his forearm – he was wearing an old cotton shirt that was a bit frayed at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up.

Then she turned to face Oliver, and did the same thing with him. Just a few words that Carrie didn't catch. Rubbing his arm below the short sleeve of his Madras shirt. Oona started to turn back toward the women, but then stopped and took Oliver a few steps away. She spoke to him again. The exchange lasted for one or two minutes. Oliver gave a short laugh, but his jaw clenched and his eyes were cold and narrow as Oona turned away from him.

Carrie wondered what that had been all about.

*   *   *

The smarmy English bastard. They think they own the bloody world. And what does he do? He peddles clothes. Typical. Just another ragman. Clever, of course; bazaar-smart. He had spotted Charley for an academic quickly enough, and no doubt regarded him with similar contempt. Spence would think that he dealt with the real world, whereas Charley hid out in an ivory tower. The usual stereotype. Well, chum, I can tell you I've had a little contact with your so-called real world, and literature has it beat hands down. Money-grubbing, no-taste git. Wouldn't know a work of art if it ran up and bit him on the ankle.

Jeans, for Chrissake. Denim. Ugh. Charley, who stuck with his faithful corduroys right through the summer, was not impressed with Mr Spence. Charley had made an effort, had tried to talk to the man and even tell him a few things about Oona, but it was like poking rubber. Spence had nothing to say. He nodded and murmured without moving his lips, and stood there with an air of bland certainty.

Never mind. Charley was in a good mood, surprisingly so. A few hours ago, all was hell. Jan catatonic. Himself scared down to the crap-smeared soles of his feet. He'd been in a sorry way, no doubt about it. Fretted and stewed for some little while, and Jan mewing forlornly by herself like a crazed kitten.

Crows. Or ravens. Charley couldn't have told the difference if his life depended on it. It was frightening, of course, kind of like waking up and finding yourself in an out-take from the movie by Hitchcock. But that wasn't Tippi Hedren in bed with you. And the damn birds hadn't actually menaced them – they merely seemed menacing by the simple fact of being there. It had to be a very bizarre coincidence. Unusual behaviour for animals, yes, but city birds were known to be rather bold.

When Jan finally began to speak again, she had been convinced it was a message from Fiona. Ravens from Ravenswood. Predictable, and apparently logical in a highly irrational situation. But Jan had no answer to his simple question: what if he had not opened the screens in his tipsy state the night before? Obviously, the birds could not have got in and the incident would never have happened.

Charley knew how eerie it was, but he refused to jump to the most extreme conclusion about it. That was unnecessary.

Still, at the time he'd felt fairly shattered.

But the whisky had steadied him in due course – and had held off any hangover that might have chimed in for good measure. He had regrouped himself and scraped up a little more strength. The usual miracle. That was the key to life. Evil doesn't last. It goes away. It will come back and have another go at you, you can be sure of that. But in between the evil times, you can recover. You can convince yourself it's all still worthwhile.

Sure it is.

You'd think it was a party they were throwing this time, the booze out in a help-yourself mode and ersatz music playing on the stereo. Some mind-dulling New Age rubbish.

Oona came in, sparing Charley any further duty on the social front with the Englishman. She was quite the darling today, with her skin polished and buffed, her hair magnificent and a lovely dress that clung lovingly to the parts of her tender body that it didn't leave exposed.

‘Thank you for coming today,' Oona said, when she got to him. She stroked his forearm pleasantly.

‘I wouldn't miss it for the world, my dear.'

‘You're teasing me.'

‘I'm trying.'

‘I think it's going to be very special today.'

‘Be gentle with me. And yourself as well.'

She laughed at that, patted his arm and turned to the Spence character. Charley savoured the last of his drink, in case it was a while before he got another.

The smug Englishman fancied Oona as well, Charley could see that at once. Probably did well with the ladies, him being a man of the world with all that rag-trade money and a veneer of Anglo-Saxon self-assurance.

Charley's eyes moved to Mrs Spence. Did she see any of the same things he did in her husband? Probably not. Or maybe she was an oh-so-sophisticated type who didn't mind turning a blind eye to the minor human foibles, as long as she was well provided for and the proper public image was maintained. She was rather attractive in her own right, tall and adequately fleshed with the kind of elegant facial features you might see on a delicate cameo. But you married a bounder, gel. Comes from not reading Arnold Bennett early enough in life.

Roz went into her squadron-leader spiel. Charley paid little attention. Let's have another drink, he thought, or let's get on with it. Oona drifted closer to him, close enough for him to notice now that she smelt wonderful. Sort of woodsy, minty. Something abstruse and herbal, no doubt.

Then they began to move to the other room. She stepped in front of Charley, who had taken up the rear. She slowed up, and he had to stop or step around her. He stopped, and she turned to face him. Aha, the vixen had a flirty smile for him.

‘Charley.'

Her voice was low and conspiratorial, definitely arousing. She leaned closer, and Charley instinctively bent down as if to kiss her. He felt himself going all soft and fuzzy at the edges, like the first time he'd met her. It was the kind of dizziness you want very much to give in to, because you know the fall is bound to be worth the price. Watch it, mate.

‘Yes?'

‘You may have to do something for me.'

‘Anything. Anytime.'

‘Thank you.' Pleased. Her hand on his arm.

‘What is it?'

‘I don't know yet.'

*   *   *

‘Oliver.'

‘Hello.'

‘I'm glad you came.'

‘It's important to Carrie.'

‘And to me,' Oona told him.

‘Nice of you to say so.'

‘No, really, it is.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I know about you.'

‘Oh? And what do you know?'

‘You want to kill me,' Oona answered. Her eyes were fierce with excitement, as if she were relishing a reckless dare.

‘Is this one of those psychological games?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Thought as much.'

‘But you know I mean it. Don't you?'

‘Hardly.'

‘And you know it's true.'

‘What on earth gives you that idea?'

Oona stepped closer to him and began to rub his arm. Oliver wished he'd left his jacket on. Oona gazed up at him. She had a way of creating a zone of intimacy with someone, as if she had pulled a bell-jar down over them. She was still smiling.

‘Becky.'

It had been a long time, years, since Oliver last felt as if his knees had dissolved. His body held up, of course. He didn't flinch, although he thought he felt a bit of colour rushing into his cheeks. Oona was watching him so closely that he felt naked. He felt as awful as he could ever remember feeling.

‘Pardon?'

‘Becky. The name seems to mean something to me,' Oona said. ‘Does it mean something to you?'

‘'Fraid not, no.'

‘Ah, well. It's all right, Oliver.'

‘What is?'

‘What you want to do,' Oona told him. ‘When the time comes, I might even help you get away with it.'

*   *   *

The room had been changed somewhat. They were going to use the main area, not the small alcove at the back. Plant-stands at the four corners of a large Saruq, a wide array of pillows around a low mahogany table, and in the centre of the table a dark stone basin the size of a garden birdbath. It was full of clear water, with a thin layer of fine white sand on the bottom.

Carrie saw that it was still pouring outside, sheets of rain slapping against the windows as the wind gusted. The room lights were off, but two or three dozen short fat red candles had been lit and strategically placed, including some between the planters on each side of the rug.

They took their places, Roz directing. Carrie and Jan were to the right and left of Oona respectively, Charley and Oliver at the bottom arc of the round table, their backs to the window. It was about to start happening fast, Carrie realized, with a feeling of vague concern. Oona lowered herself to the pillows in a very wobbly manner, and her eyes were already beginning to roll around without focus. There was apparently no need this time for her to warm up and ease herself into it. Roz quickly stepped out of the immediate area, sitting by the wall, notebook and pen ready.