Fog Heart (33 page)

Oliver sipped his drinks, smoked his cigarettes, and watched the dancers stripping. A fair crowd for a week night. He felt a growing sense of confidence and certainty. He was touching down, feeling solid ground beneath his feet again, and it was good. He was lost in the club, the crowd, the babble and music, the bodies and heat, the joyful pointlessness of it all – all of which, for reasons he never understood, made him feel safe.

*   *   *

Alone, later in his hotel room, he took out the photograph of Oona. Slum goddess of the far north. Oliver could love her, she was perfect: ordinary but fearless, damaged but pure. Oh, yes, he could save her, and love her, and they could go on to write their own occult history between the lines of life. But that was only a dream. A connection missed. The beautiful terrors never to be achieved. Oliver's heart ached. Too bad. But fuck fuck fuck it all anyway. Oona had challenged him.

*   *   *

‘This floor is cold.'

‘Why not?'

‘What do you mean, why not?'

‘It's a floor. All floors are cold.'

‘A mattress would help.'

Marthe snorted. ‘Too soft.'

‘Well, some extra blankets, then.'

‘If you want.' Obviously she didn't.

‘I love you,' Oliver said.

‘Jerk-off.'

‘Fuck you, bitch.'

‘Yeah, yeah.' Bored.

‘Shit-eating cunt.'

She smiled. ‘Yes?'

‘Why am I being nice to you?'

‘Because you're stupid. Asshole.'

‘Arse.'

‘Stupid.'

He pushed the second vibrator into her, ramming it with the heel of his hand. Marthe winced and let out a squeal. ‘This is your
arse,
' he said, slamming it again, forcing another yelp from Marthe. ‘Understand? Not your ass, your arse.' She was down on her belly, hips raised. He reached under to make sure the other one wasn't going to slide out. Then he crawled around, kneeling in front of her. He grabbed her by the ears, twisting her hair, roughly yanking up her head at an uncomfortable angle. ‘You were saying? Eh? What were you saying, cunt?'

‘Faggot.'

He almost slapped her. ‘No, no,' he said, grinning.

That annoyed her. ‘English faggot.'

All right, bing, a little slap, a teaser. Then another one, harder, and again and again, and so on, until he forced her mouth open and she loved it. Ram on.

He liked her purple eyes. Marthe had taken to using coloured lenses ever since that time he came on her face and it burned her right eye so painfully she had had to go to the doctor. Burning the eyes was not a very good idea.

The body, yes. Later he would kiss her scar tissue. Three horizontal lines burned into the skin between her tits. Six more down the lower left side of her back. Four on the right shoulder and two on the sole of each foot. Oliver had done them, branding Marthe with the fire of love. She liked it – no, she loved it. The searing, the stink, and then the splash of Cristal to purify the wound. But where next? Perhaps the back of her neck, or the soft skin behind the ears. Just above her bush, or maybe beneath each tit. There were so many possibilities. Marthe would choose the site. It was her body; it was her rite.

*   *   *

He always felt strangely sad when the time came. It wasn't because he cared. He did, but not very much. Oliver felt that it had something to do with the underlying tidal sadness of life itself. The usual thing.

He was already rehearsing the phone call.

The fucking floor was so cold. He pushed up from the ratty blanket and poked Marthe. Enough of this dozing in the post-fuck haze of temporary respite. The energy was coming back to him now and he needed to move, do, make happen.

‘Are you ready?'

‘Sure, why not.'

Oliver picked up the knife as he got to his feet. He took a few steps to the chair where Becky was bound hand and foot, waist and neck, the ball gag tightly in place. Her eyes were open wide and she looked like a manic animal. Oliver hadn't seen her blink once since she got there. Quite right, too.

Marthe got in place on her knees in front of Becky. Oliver knew exactly where to slide the blade so that it went in quickly, straight to the heart.

Becky-Becky Something-Something.

Marthe gasping and chirping in the spray.

Oliver went to the telephone and tapped out a long series of numbers. Bing bing pop bang click click click ding dong. To his great delight, the voice that answered was Oona's.

‘Oi,' he said. ‘Do you know me?'

Hesitation. ‘Oliver?'

‘Very good. I take it you're all rested and recovered now, after your recent ordeal.'

‘How's Germany?'

Oliver laughed. ‘You tell me.'

‘Someone is dead.'

Good. She knew, but she didn't know.

‘You seem to be functioning quite well.'

‘Who is it?'

‘It would be easier to list the living.'

‘What do you want?'

‘Is Roz there?'

‘No.'

‘Great. This is for you alone.'

‘What?'

‘Do you understand? You alone.'

‘Yes. What is it?'

‘I know all about you.'

A very long, very gratifying pause at the other end.

‘No.'

‘Yes. It's quite a story, isn't it? The whole world would love to know. But I can save you from all that. We have to talk. In person. Alone.'

At Swim

Oona hung up and looked down at Roz. ‘He knows.'

Roz had a dab of shaving cream on her nose. ‘And I suppose he wants you for himself.'

‘Something like that. But he's got it all wrong.'

‘That doesn't matter.'

‘He wants me to meet him at Heathrow.'

‘You can't go there. I'll see to it.'

‘But I want to.'

‘Don't be a fool,' Roz said. ‘You couldn't do it. You have no idea how to negotiate with a man like that.'

‘You mean any man.'

‘You mean you care?'

Oona shrugged. ‘No, not really.'

‘All right then.'

‘Roz.'

‘What?'

‘Don't go.'

‘Better than waiting for him to come here.'

‘Don't leave me alone.'

‘Only for a day or two.' She kissed Oona's belly. ‘You'll be fine, you know you will.'

‘Not alone, please.'

‘It'll be all right. You'll see.'

‘No, no, no…'

‘Ah. You want his wife to stay with you.'

Oona smiled.

*   *   *

‘It doesn't feel like it's over,' Carrie said. ‘It's been a while since the last event, but I don't have the feeling that I have come through something and understand it.'

‘Because it's unfinished.'

‘I think so,' Carrie said. ‘That must be why.'

‘I'm sure you're right.'

‘What does it all suggest to you?'

‘We do this through you,' Oona said, looking sad. ‘What do you think it could mean?'

‘At first I thought it was about my father, or Oliver. But the next events didn't have anything to do with them.'

‘No?'

‘Until our last session with you,' Carrie said. ‘Then, what you were saying matched the previous incident. I heard my father speak again, but most of it seemed to be about Oliver.'

‘Yes.'

Carrie frowned. ‘Was it something that happened in the past or something that could happen in the future? Was it literal, or metaphorical? A warning, in general terms.'

‘It could be just as it seems.'

‘Can you tell the difference?' Carrie asked.

‘Sometimes.' Oona lit a long thin cigarette and took a sip of her vodka. ‘You know inside.'

‘I don't.'

‘Maybe you do.'

‘Oona, I'm just not sure about it.'

‘What did Oliver say to you after the last session?'

‘Oh.' Carrie looked embarrassed. ‘He said that some of the things you said were lines from songs by Morrissey, and maybe the Sex Pistols. And that Mr O'Donnell had told him that some of it came from a book by Sir Walter Scott.'

Oona laughed. ‘I bet they're right. What else?'

‘He said that he'd been to India before we were married, and he had an argument with some man, but that's all there was to it. He never went to those places you mentioned.'

‘He really was in Bombay.'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think the rest of what he said is true?'

‘I don't know.' Carrie looked quite forlorn. ‘No.'

‘Neither do I.'

‘But if he did something terrible, that was a long time ago. What could it mean now? Why would it come up at all?'

‘The past is always part of the present,' Oona said. ‘It's always with us. It's not something separate.'

‘I know,' Carrie responded. ‘I do understand that. But how does that part of Oliver's past connect with me, now?'

‘What kind of a man was your father?'

‘He was a good man. A good husband, a good father, a man of kindness, humour, intelligence.'

‘Was he honest?'

‘Totally,' Carrie said. ‘He hated politics, but he believed in the importance of public service, and in all the years that he worked in the diplomatic corps he never compromised his integrity or took advantage of his position. In fact, it probably hurt him in a way because, aside from one brief period in London, he never got the plum postings he should have had.'

‘Was he there for the family?'

‘Always, no matter how busy his schedule might be. If he was needed at home, he found a way to be there. Birthdays, or school events, all the things you want your dad to be there for, he was there. Never missed one that I can think of.'

‘Sounds like you were very lucky.'

‘We were. My mom was great too – she still is.'

‘Is that right.' Oona crushed out her cigarette and reached for another one. ‘Let's stay with your father. What I'm getting at is, the qualities you associate him with in your mind are love and faithfulness, integrity, goodness – things like that.'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘And your father meant a great deal to you.'

‘Oh, yes. Yes.'

‘All right,' Oona said. ‘When you began to experience these strange events, the very first image you perceived was?'

‘My father.'

‘And the one thing you understood him to say was?'

‘Something about Oliver.'

‘And how did your father appear to feel on the two occasions when you saw him?'

‘Unhappy. Sad. Sorrowful. In pain.'

‘Okay, good.'

‘But we've been over all this before,' Carrie said. ‘What's it supposed to mean? That the ghost of my father was warning me about Oliver, in some way?'

‘Maybe we shouldn't think of him as a ghost. Maybe he was a kind of language for you, like the lines from songs or books were for me. He was your image of goodness and truth, and he appeared to you in sorrow and pain, bearing the name of your husband. You have been trying to tell yourself something.'

‘You think I imagined all that?'

‘No, no, no.'

Carrie was upset now. ‘I was knocked down and strangled the last time. Was that a hallucination?'

‘No, those things were real,' Oona said. ‘But they're real on different levels and in different ways. They will lead you to an inner truth. Inside you.'

Carrie gazed bleakly at her. ‘What truth?'

‘Are you a happy woman?'

Carrie was about to answer with something predictable. Yes, she was happy in some ways, unhappy in others. That's the way it is with people. Nothing is ever perfectly good or perfectly bad, and blah blah blah. But Carrie stopped herself. She looked down at the bedcover she was picking at with her fingers.

‘No…'

‘When was the last time you were a happy woman?'

‘I … I don't know…'

‘Okay,' Oona said. ‘It starts there.'

*   *   *

She liked Carrie, liked her very much. Carrie would make a good mother, if she ever got around to it. Why on earth did she waste her time designing rooms for rich idiots? The money was part of it, but that wasn't much of a reason. It was what Carrie did, to express and define herself. As if an East Side apartment suite were more creative and definitive than a child.

Ah, well, people find their way, somehow. But as much as she liked Carrie, she couldn't feel sorry for her. Carrie had plenty of time. She could save her life thrice over and still find new opportunities and new futures, new happinesses.

Oona had seen so many people like that. They came to her to have the truth revealed, for help and guidance. They lacked only the wit to see around the scariest corners inside of themselves. Too bad, but that was everything.

Their lives crowded in on her. They killed her, but somehow always kept her alive to crush her and kill her again, and again. The truth about being Oona is it's impossible to live, impossible to die. This is the truth, ha ha, poor me.

Oliver was in love with her. Or
the idea
of her. This was the corner Oona could not walk Carrie round. Carrie would have to find her own way, if at all.

Men always want the one thing they can't have. No one could have her. Ever ever ever. The price was too great.

Carrie came out of the bathroom, wearing a long flannel gown, prim but somehow fetching. Victorian? This is what I can't ever ever ever have. But the rest was nearly better, the comfort, the closeness, the warmth. Carrie was a good person.

‘You didn't look at my scar.'

‘Oh, I never even noticed it.'

Carrie sat down beside Oona and leant close. Minty breath, clear skin, bright eyes, lovely clean lady. Hold me. Carrie ran one finger across Oona's forehead.

‘See it?'

‘No.' Perplexed. ‘I don't.'