Fog Heart (5 page)

‘So, have you decided what you're going to do this summer?'

‘Staying on a while, I think. It looks as if that Hamilton job might be put back to the spring semester.'

‘How are you getting on in the department?'

That was interesting. ‘No bother at all,' Charley replied. ‘You have a dreadful infestation of multiculturalists, but I try to keep a civil tone with them.'

Malcolm smiled. ‘I might have a summer course available, if you want it.'

‘That'd be great.' Indeed.

‘It's just your basic English comp.'

‘A breeze. Consider my ankle chained to the galley.'

‘How's Jan?'

‘Oh, fine. She quite likes New Haven.'

‘Good. You must come up to Wellfleet this summer. Stay for a weekend. We'll have piles of fresh seafood, kegs of cold beer, and we'll play the Pogues all night long.'

‘Sounds great. We'd love it,' Charley said, with enthusiasm. To be fair, a whole week had been a bit much to hope for. ‘How's Maggie these days?'

‘Very well, thanks. In fact, that's a part of what I wanted to talk to you about.'

‘Oh?'

Malcolm looked about as close to embarrassment as he could ever get. ‘I think I mentioned to you once or twice before that Maggie has this – special interest.'

‘Yes.' Tentative. He seldom thought of Maggie. Wife of a good friend, full stop. Ideal mate for a professor at a place like Yale: good-looking, charming, bright and social. Charley always felt vaguely scruffy around her. Jan and Maggie got along with a functional neutrality, as many wives do when they have no great interest in each other but are occasionally thrown together because of their husbands. Maggie was quite pleasant to Charley, no complaints on that score. ‘Folklore, wasn't it?'

‘That was her field of study at UCD,' Malcolm said, ‘Gaelic folklore. And, in a way, I guess that was what led to this other thing. Psychic phenomena, the paranormal.'

‘Oh, Lord, yes,' Charley exclaimed, suppressing a chuckle. ‘That's right. Mind-readers and fork-benders.'

Malcolm smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. It seems a bit silly, but she's serious about it, and I must say she approaches the subject with a healthy scepticism.'

‘Good.'

‘And, in all fairness, there are a great many incidents that appear to defy reasonable explanation. People do witness strange things, some very strange things.'

‘Yes, no doubt about that.'

Poor Malcolm. Maggie must be going overboard on this hooey, and it could get awkward if word leaked out. New Haven was small enough as cities go, Yale a bloody hothouse of jockeying egos. A typical Parnassus, slippery when wet or dry.

‘I don't even know if I should be talking to you about this. It's so preposterous and – painful.'

‘Come on, mate. Out with it.'

‘Maggie insisted that she needed another body, someone to be at the table with them. I had no interest in it, but she dragged me along to see this woman who's supposed to be psychic.'

‘A medium, a channel.'

‘Sort of. Have you ever been to anything like that?'

‘Not really,' Charley said. ‘A few years ago, at the Yeats Summer School in Sligo, I sat in with a group of people who were fooling around with a ouija board, but all they did was use it to make lewd suggestions to each other. That was the year Ned Brady lost his thumb in the rope-pull at the farewell party.'

‘Oh, yes. Well, anyhow.'

‘Your woman.'

‘Yes. So I went along, and it was quite a show. There were none of the things you might expect. No table-rapping, no Indian warriors, no eerie lights or bits of cheesecloth. This woman sat there, and these voices seemed to come from – inside her.'

‘An actress, yes.'

‘Different voices.' Malcolm was so caught up in it now that he appeared to be looking directly into his own memory. ‘And the thing is, you could hear two or three different voices coming out of her
at the same time.
I mean, you really could.'

‘That wouldn't be hard to do.'

‘Possibly, but it looked and sounded real,' he said. ‘But it doesn't matter how she did it or where the voice came from. It's what the voice said that concerns me. And you.'

‘Oh? What was it?'

Malcolm's eyes dodged around nervously. ‘One of the voices sounded very small, very young,' he went on. ‘And several times it said
Fiona.
'

A small hole opened in Charley's stomach. ‘Yes?'

‘And,
Ravenswood.
The two words alternated,
Fiona
and then
Ravenswood.
I heard them both several times, very clearly.'

The hole got much larger. The panatella stub slipped in his fingers, and without looking at it Charley put it in the ashtray beside his hand.

‘That can't be.'

‘It happened,' Malcolm insisted. ‘I was there.'

Charley felt a flash of anger, which dissolved at once. He never thought about this, never. He had put it away long ago, in a precious box at the bottom of a trunk at the back of his brain, locked away for ever. Because it could only hurt.

‘It must have been Maggie,' he said.

‘No.'

‘She must have let on.' Malcolm shook his head. ‘She might not even know she did,' Charley persisted. ‘These people have a way of getting things out of you. They can take the fillings out of your mouth and you don't even notice until you get home.'

‘Maggie doesn't know.'

‘Of course she knows.'

‘Charley, listen to me. Maggie and I barely knew each other at the time it happened. We didn't start going out seriously for another year or more, and it was a full year after that before we got married. Remember?'

‘But she knows.'

‘She knows that you and Jan lost your only child, of course. But she doesn't know her name was Fiona. I never had occasion to mention that. It's not a happy subject, and I've never gone into it in any detail with anyone, not even Maggie.'

‘But still, it must have slipped out. Sometime.'

‘What about Ravenswood?'

It was the name of the house outside Galway where they had been living when it happened. ‘Same thing,' Charley said. ‘You mentioned it to Maggie somewhere along the line.'

‘I know I never did. Later, when we were back home, I asked Maggie what the names Fiona and Ravenswood meant to her, and she had no idea. Nothing. She says the woman picks up all kinds of things, and you have to tune in to the ones that seem to relate to you. Maggie never thought twice about the references to Fiona and Ravenswood because they had no meaning for her. Do you see what I'm saying?'

‘It's got to be a con of some sort,' Charley said.

‘But why? This woman doesn't know you. She doesn't even know you're living in New Haven, or living at all, or that you're a friend of ours. None of that.'

‘I don't go for this sort of thing,' Charley muttered.

‘I just thought I should tell you. At first I wasn't going to, but then I realized it wasn't for me to decide. If there was one chance in a million that it was real, then you had a right to know about it and make your own decisions.'

‘Real? Real
what?
'

‘A real message, I suppose.'

‘She was three months old, Mal.'

‘I know that.'

‘Am I supposed to think that when she got to the other side she grew up and learned English, and now, after all these years, she decides to drop by and have a chat? Fuck it.'

‘I'm sorry. I knew it would distress you but…'

‘You did what you had to. It's all right.'

‘We both could use another.'

While Malcolm went for the drinks, Charley sat and stared at the nicks in the tabletop. Fiona. Ravenswood. She never had a chance to grow up. Never learned to speak. When death came, her age was only three months.

It always would be.

*   *   *

He was not wearing well but, then, who does? Life catches up with you. So? If he made it to sixty-five and then dropped dead from the booze and smokes, so be it. Amen, thanks for the crack, it was fun while it lasted.

Chapel Street, he noticed.

Some little time had passed, no doubt. Malcolm went home, after being assured that Charley was okay and could safely manoeuvre the walk to his apartment off Orange. Where Jan was waiting. Bugger that, he wasn't in the mood to face her yet. Poor fragile Jan, a decent woman. Not exactly a brick, though, more like a piece of very thin glass. Always ready to break. It was Charley's job in life to see her through it. Occasionally to reach for the bottle of glue and put the pieces back together.

Howe Street. God put it there so Heather would have a place to live and fuck. Charley made his way up one flight and knocked on her door. She looked lovely, short skirt and elegant blouse, ready for action. She was not, however, happy to see him. Never mind. He swept past her, into the living room.

Oh dear, she already had company. More of her young college friends. Dreadful. Some hideous sounds emanated from the stereo system. Bloody musicologists with their wretched atonal rubbish. They were drinking some foul-smelling brew, as well.

‘I suppose that's herbal tea,' he snarled at one of the twee guests, who clutched his stoneware mug protectively.

‘What are you doing here?' Heather was fuming.

‘I'm not doing anything at the moment.'

‘Then please leave. Immediately.'

He turned to face her. ‘I told you, a minute of Arnold Bax is worth a year of Stockhausen. A minute of Stockhausen is like a year, and that's a kind of immortality in itself, but—'

‘I told you not to come around here like this,' Heather said, in tones of cold fury. ‘Unannounced, as if you own the place and can come and go as you please.' To her guests, ‘I'm sorry about this. He'll be gone in a minute.'

‘Don't count on it,' Charley told them. ‘Believe it or not, this is foreplay.'

‘Charley.' Heather grabbed his arm. ‘Get out, now!'

‘I need a place to throw up.'

He looked around the room, and that scattered them. Then, a lot of movement seemed to be taking place. He found himself with his face in the toilet bowl, the water tinted Yale blue. Or near enough. His body heaved. A little liquid came up, nothing else. A good pisser carries no baggage. The shame of it – Charley was not even drunk. Not quite, not yet.

He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, put the toilet lid down and sat on it. Began to cry, couldn't stop. Heather edged into the bathroom and stood in front of him. She was still sore at him but had realized by now that something was wrong, and that it was not just the usual foolish carry-on. Took long enough for the penny to drop, darling. She brushed his hair from his face, and with her thumbs wiped tears from his cheeks.

‘What is it, Charley?'

Subdued, still resentful, but concerned. Put-upon once more and resigned to it. Poor Heather, God love her. Charley didn't. But Heather and women like her offered consolation to all of the bruised boys who would never grow up. Like me.

‘I don't know,' Charley said, amazed at how puny his voice sounded. ‘I don't know.'

‘You'll be all right.'

‘Think so?'

A wan smile. ‘Yes, I do.'

‘That's the first good news I've had today.'

Heather laughed. He held her tightly. He breathed deeply, exhaled. Steady again, close enough anyway. Shut the door, make today yesterday and try to forget all about it.

A message from the dead cannot be real.

Must not be answered.

4

Marthe was tied to the hard wooden chair, her wrists to the flat arms and her ankles to the spindly legs. She was naked but for the torn stockings and the leather band that held her neck to the high slats. She kept her eyes down. There were spatter marks of vegetable dye on her face and breasts and arms.

Pick-up at the other end. About time.

A breath of hesitation. ‘Hello?'

He noticed at once that she sounded almost afraid to speak. And it had rung a long time before she answered.

‘Carrie, it's me.'

‘Oliver.' Relieved – too much so? ‘Hi.'

‘Where the hell have you been?' The more annoyed Oliver was, the blander his voice sounded.

‘Oh … In and out.'

‘I was getting worried about you. I've been calling you for the last couple of days and all I get is the damn machine.'

‘I picked up once, but it was too late.'

‘Are you all right, love?'

‘Well … yes.'

‘Well, what? What does that mean? What happened?'

‘No, really. I'm fine.'

‘Carrie, I can tell something's bothering you.'

‘I just miss you, is all.'

‘I'll be home tomorrow. Late afternoon.'

‘Great. How's your trip going? Business good?'

He glanced at Marthe. Her eyes were down but her head gave a slight twitch that meant she'd been sneaking a peek at him. He would remember it.

‘Yes, fine. Now tell me what's the matter.'

‘Nothing, not really.'

Carrie couldn't lie to save her life, bless her.

‘Something upset you,' he said, forcing a calm tone. ‘Just tell me what it is, and we can talk about it. Otherwise I'll be worrying about you until I get home.'

They had a very clear line. She sounded as if she were in the next room, and Oliver could almost hear the silent heave of her chest as she took a deep breath. He could see her frowning, and rubbing her forehead – as if that would put her brain back on track and make it easier to talk.

‘I saw Daddy.'

She said it so quickly that he wasn't sure what he'd heard.

‘You saw what?'

‘Daddy.'

‘Your – father?'