Fog Heart (8 page)

Aha. ‘If you like that Teutonic look. Strong features, but a little too strong, if you ask me.'

Carrie smiled. ‘Can you trust her?'

‘I hope so. But I don't know.'

‘How did she discover this process of hers?'

‘Pure luck, I think. I guess no one ever bathed and poached linen in the same acids she uses. And the rinse is important as well. I have no idea what's in it, but it finishes the job. And then there are the weaves – she's developed a new set. It's incredible, the whole thing.' He poured more
vinho verde
for both of them. ‘Anyhow. I probably ought to stick to what I do best, which is buying and selling. Find a big producer, sell the rights and let them take it from there. Right?'

‘No. You're very good at buying and selling,' Carrie told him, ‘but what you do best, and you're really very, very good at, is discovery. Finding people and things, seeing their potential and knowing what to do to fulfil it.'

Oliver liked hearing that. In fact, it was what he tended to believe about himself. Some people make, others find.

After they left the restaurant they walked around aimlessly for a while. It was a balmy Sunday afternoon, and it was pleasant to be out on the streets of Manhattan. He put his arm around her shoulder as they strolled along.

The way Carrie's body nestled lightly against him reminded Oliver of the first time he met Marthe – at the textile fair in Frankfurt. They had bumped into each other as they leaned closer to peer at some fabric samples on a display stand. It was really nothing, an accidental bump of no significance. But a few seconds later, she had definitely nudged him aside. Maybe it was the crowd in Halle 5, the stale air and the sweaty heat, or the lousy German food he had eaten. Oliver was annoyed, and he elbowed her immediately in return. Most untypical of him.

Then he saw the look on her face, the fire and hunger in her eyes, and he realized that none of it had been an accident. Then she astonished him. She took a pale scrap of wrinkled cloth from her pocket, rubbed it slowly across his cheek and said, ‘Have you ever felt anything like
this
before?' No, on all counts. Oliver brought her straight from the Messegeland to his room at the Park Hotel. The feel of that cloth on his cock made flannel seem like barnyard denim. She was a scrapper, a rough-and-tumble lover who liked to be pushed around and handled. Marthe. An event waiting to happen. Now in progress.

Remembering that day and the next few days that had followed it, Oliver realized he was getting an erection. Not a good idea, at the moment. He steered Carrie to an outdoor café, where they had a liqueur. He lit a Senior Service, tapped the box lightly on the table, and wondered what Ian Brady and Myra Hindley might be doing just then. The Moors murders. Must be getting close on thirty years ago now. O England, my England.

Carrie was in good form, he thought. Considering how she'd sounded on the phone the day before, Oliver had half expected her to be in a wobbly state of mind. But when he arrived back at the apartment yesterday she had been fine. Very calm, settled, as if she had already worked out the whole thing for herself. That was the Carrie he knew and respected. Loved, yes; loved.

They'd barely even mentioned that business about her father. A drink, a cuddle, great sex, and then the jet lag caught up with him and he slept right through the evening, the night, late into Sunday morning. It was always like that when he returned from a business trip overseas. Being away, if only for a week, made you quite horny for the one at home.

‘So,' he said, ‘you're all right now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. And what did you finally conclude about that curious incident you had the other day? Whatever it was.'

‘I saw my father,' she said flatly.

‘Oh.' So it wasn't a dead issue yet.

‘Can we talk about it now?'

‘By all means.'

‘I had my doubts. Even when I told you on the phone that it was real, I still had doubts about it. But then…' Hesitation as Carrie's eyes locked on the glass of Cointreau she held. ‘Then I saw him again yesterday morning.'

‘Yesterday?' Mildly surprised. ‘A second time?'

She nodded. ‘It was late morning. The apartment was full of sunshine, all lovely and bright. I was having a cup of tea, and I looked up and he was sitting there, across the table from me in the nook. As close as you are now.'

‘Your father. You're sure about that?'

‘Oliver, of course I'm sure. It was Daddy.'

‘How clear and – solid – was it?'

‘As clear and solid as you are.' Her throat tightened. ‘It was just for a few seconds, but he was so vivid and real. I even noticed the grey hair on his chest, and his skin was so loose and saggy. And grey. Oliver, it was … awful.'

‘God, you must have been absolutely shattered.'

‘I was, for a while.'

‘But you seemed fine when I got home, and that must've been, what, just a few hours later?'

Carrie nodded. ‘It took me a while to get over it, but then I accepted it.' She looked so earnest now. ‘I
had to
– it was so … undeniable. I had no choice.'

Oliver didn't know what to think. It all seemed so foolish, and yet at the same time it was worrying. Carrie had no history of anything remotely like this nonsense.

‘Was he talking about me again?'

‘No. I think he tried to speak, but couldn't. He stared at me. Oliver, he looked so sad and anguished. It was awful to see in somebody you loved. I felt so helpless, so useless to him.'

‘Carrie, you have nothing to blame yourself for.'

‘I know, but that doesn't make it any easier.'

‘What did you do?'

A sheepish smile. ‘I went to Zabar's and bought some food. And by the time I got back to the apartment I felt better. I was okay about it. Not exactly great, but okay.'

He patted her hand and smiled with affection. ‘Funny how a spot of shopping will put a person right.'

‘Oliver, what do you think?'

‘I don't know,' he replied. ‘I just don't know what to say or think. I mean, you hear of things like that happening, but it all seems so – unlikely.'

‘I know.'

He shrugged. ‘Besides, what can you do about it?'

‘I have to do something. It isn't over.'

Suddenly Oliver felt weary. He said nothing, but he frowned dismissively. He wanted to leave the café. He was tired of sitting out on the sidewalk. The people passing by were vaguely menacing in their breezy cheerfulness.

‘You'll be all right,' he said perfunctorily.

‘Does it bother you?'

‘It's all right, love.' Gently, patiently.

‘And when it happens again?'

‘
If
it happens again, I shall have a word with your dear old dad, man to man sort of thing. Set him straight. He's not behaving like a proper gentleman.'

Carrie laughed and squeezed his hand. ‘I love you.'

‘Then take me home and pamper me.'

‘You got it.'

*   *   *

Nothing happened. It was a relief, in a way, but she had to fight off an odd feeling of anticlimax. Work kept her busy every day, and Oliver was with her at home every evening. Her life was back to normal, more or less. At any moment Carrie expected to see her father again, but for the next week there were no shadows, glimpses or full-blown visitations. She had Saturday brunch with Jeffrey and Mark at a brasserie near the Lincoln Center.

‘Maybe that's the end of it,' Jeffrey said.

‘But why?' Carrie asked, puzzled.

‘To see you,' Jeffrey went on. ‘And the second time did the job. Finished it.'

‘Just to see me?'

‘And to have you see him. The second time was to make sure you knew that it was real, and that closed out the episode.'

‘The psychotic episode,' Mark said, with a grin. ‘Don't worry, darling, we all have them from time to time. Life just wouldn't be worth living without them.'

Carrie gazed at her rocket salad, wondering why she had ordered it. She didn't much like rocket and there seemed to be about five pounds of it on her plate.

‘But even if that's true,' she said, ‘I still don't know why it happened. I mean, why now? I don't understand.'

Jeffrey shrugged helplessly.

‘You missed your man,' Mark said. ‘That's all it is. Since Oliver got home and started sleeping in his own bed again – I mean your bed, of course – everything's been fine. Right?'

But Carrie knew there had to be some other reason behind it. Oliver was away on business regularly, and she had got used to that long ago. Nothing strange had ever happened before while he was gone. Until now. What did it mean? Carrie had been given a definite message, and had to decode it.

Jeffrey gave her Scott Crawford's telephone number. He was the editor of a line of books on the paranormal and other New Age topics – they'd mentioned him to her that night Carrie had crashed out at their place after the first visitation.

A few days later, working up her nerve, she called him and tried to explain briefly what had happened. She wanted to learn more about these things, and wasn't sure how to go about it. She wondered if he could give her some advice. At first Crawford sounded wary, but as soon as he understood that she was a friend of friends and not looking for a quick book contract, he agreed to see her. They met after work at the bar in the Royalton.

‘Mrs Spence?'

Carrie turned towards the reedy voice. ‘Yes?'

‘Scott Crawford.'

‘Thanks for meeting with me.'

They shook hands, sat at a small table and ordered a couple of white wine spritzers. Crawford was fortyish, with thick curly hair that was expensively styled, a suntan and a custom-tailored linen suit. He was a bit short and didn't look at all bookish or editorial. A prosperous travel agent, perhaps.

‘Well, then,' he said. ‘Tell me about yourself. Background and so on, and then exactly what happened.'

Carrie gave a brief recital – growing up in various embassy enclaves, college, London, Oliver, New York, her father's death, and then the recent visitations she had experienced. ‘You know,' she finished, ‘I never believed in anything like this. I believe in it now, but I don't know
what
to believe
about
it. And that's what's really bothering me. I want to know what it meant and why it happened. I want to understand it.'

Crawford nodded, fingers steepled at his chin. ‘You have no idea how many people go through something like that. Millions of them, and it changes their lives for ever.'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, the obvious explanations. You probably won't like to hear it, but they're often true. You
could
have imagined seeing your father. You
could
have had a kind of waking daydream. It's a very common occurrence and sometimes we don't even notice it or remember any of the details. So, it
could
be a random event that replayed itself once in your mind, and is over. In which case it has no real meaning or importance, and the best thing to do is to forget about it.'

Carrie nodded. ‘I understand, but it was far more real than a daydream. I remember all of the details so vividly.'

‘Right, yes,' Crawford agreed. ‘The next thing you'll have to consider is that these incidents were merely the symptoms of a personal crisis. Some trouble at work or at home, and the stress builds up inside of you, and you may not even realize how much it's beginning to affect you.'

‘I've thought of that,' Carrie said. ‘I really have. But I just don't see how that could be it. My work is going fine, I've got plenty of it and I enjoy doing it.'

‘Good, good.'

‘And at home, Oliver and I have no problems. Nothing of any consequence. I mean, we seldom even disagree about anything, let alone quarrel.'

‘Is there anything that the two of you avoid discussing? An unpleasant subject you both find easier not to mention?'

‘No.' Carrie shook her head. ‘Honestly.'

‘Could your husband be having an affair?'

‘No.'

‘Could he be having sex with somebody else?'

Carrie faltered slightly. ‘I have no reason to think he is. None at all,' she added, regaining some confidence. Crawford had mentioned the one thing she hadn't yet seriously considered, but she was not afraid to face it. ‘Certainly not here in New York. Oliver does travel a lot on business, and what he does when he's away, I have no idea. But if something did happen then I think it would most likely be a one-night stand, and frankly I wouldn't feel terribly threatened by that kind of thing.'

‘Well, good.'

‘I'd be hurt, of course,' Carrie said quickly, thinking that she might have sounded too reasonable, ‘but I don't think I have any reason to worry about it. Honestly.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Crawford said, smiling. ‘I'm sorry to hit you with such personal questions but it often turns out to be a marital problem and not a genuine paranormal event. So, you do have to explore that possibility.'

‘I understand.'

‘Telekinesis, poltergeists, demonic possession, hauntings – in many of these cases, when you look carefully at them, you will find a teenager at the centre of it, usually a girl, and usually going through puberty. They're often disturbed or abused in some way. Most of the time it's personal and psychological.'

‘But you do believe that sometimes…'

‘Oh, yes, of course,' he said. ‘But before we get to that, I must ask you if you take any drugs or medication.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘What about alcohol?'

‘I'm a light social drinker,' she told him. ‘I did have a bit of liqueur that night, the first time, but not much, and the second time was mid-morning and I was drinking tea.'