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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Stranded
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Sentenced
Part II
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
At Swim
Part III
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Also by Thomas Tessier
Praise
Copyright
for Veronica
and in memory of
our friend
John Goodchild
1937–1990
Fog land have I seen
Fog heart have I eaten
Ingeborg Bachmann
Stranded
Oona didn’t think of it as suicide, exactly. She wondered what it would be like to drift away and never come back. This time make it real. Water lapped gently around her ankles. Was there a tide, a current that would take her?
She wondered where she would go, what would happen. Would her thin little body wash all the way down Long Island Sound to New York City, bobbing in oily refuse? Perhaps she would thump against a gleaming yacht at the Greenwich marina. It might be best if she only floated a short distance, to the middle of the Sound, and then sank to the bottom of the channel, to rest there in silence. Silence – yes, that would do.
The water was cool but not unpleasant. Still, most of the people stayed on the beach, content to take in the sun and enjoy the fresh air. It was quite warm, in fact, and the air had a familiar marine tang. But the people. There were too many of them. There always were. They didn’t particularly bother her, at the moment.
Oona waded a few yards, dragging her feet through the sand. She glanced back at the beach and spotted Roz in the crowd. She was still sitting on that colourful towel, her feet crossed at the ankles, arms propped straight behind her, sunglasses on, her dark auburn hair hanging loose. A model, nearly.
Beside Roz, the red and white cooler containing bottles of cranberry lemonade, the holdalls with their clothes, tapes, snacks, Oona’s copy of The Heart of Mid-Lothian, sunblock, skin cleanser, combs, brushes, flip-flops, a rumpled Register, an old Walkman with a new battery, everything as it was. So many things to be counted and forgotten.
Roz saw Oona looking at her, and quickly flashed one hand. Oona wriggled her fingers in return. Dear Roz, I’m writing this to say … I don’t know what to say.
Oona slipped into the water and began a lazy crawl, but soon rolled over onto her back and floated. She steered herself to get in position so that she could see only the sky. Funny how you begin to see things that aren’t there as soon as you look up at the empty sky on a day when it’s such a brilliant blue. With no hint of land, no clouds. You see odd shapes and weird things, images that exist only in your eyes and head.
Water, flow into me.
This is the Atlantic, Oona reminded herself. An arm of the Atlantic, anyway. Like the North Sea, like the Firth.
You’d never make Leith from here. Why would you want to, anyway? There’s nothing for you there. You brought it all with you, long ago. Scene of the crimes, real or fanciful. It would be of no use. How little is!
In the bonny cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane and twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.
Oona rubbed her arm. Her skin was pale and burned easily, so she’d put on plenty of lotion. She could still feel it, slick as slime. Meet your new skin. It had the feel of something that had settled into the pores for the duration, like guilt.
She swung her feet down: they barely touched sand but Oona could tread water. The water didn’t scare her, though she never felt at home in it. She was an adequate swimmer at best. There were so many people. One thing about them, they were easier to take at a distance. You’re just not a people person, Oona.
Ah, but she is, you see.
She kept expecting to drift into a current that would carry her away, but she felt nothing. Just chilly water, no pull. She would have to do all the work, if it was going to be done. Think of it as making love. That would be a first. You want to do it gladly, if at all. Think of it as going home. But what on earth is home?
The people looked a bit smaller, she thought, but not small enough. Roz was still visible on the towel. There was something about the way Roz sat that suggested alertness. Lie down, girl, do us a favour. Close your eyes and daydream. That was what Oona wanted to do, at sea.
– A man’s hands around her neck –
No, not again, no more, never. Kill me, for a change. Make it real this time, make it real, make it real.
By moving slowly, casually, by swinging around this way and that in lazy arcs, Oona was able to put a lot of distance between herself and the shore without causing alarm. At least, she heard no whistles or shouts. She heard nothing at all, and that was very nice indeed. The crowd was beginning to blur.
Roz at the water’s edge, waving.
Oona righted herself and waved back, trying to make it look as if she were happy and relaxed. She wagged her head, splashed water, and then did a quick surface dive. She came up a few yards away, further out, and flopped onto her back. She floated nonchalantly, trying to make it look as if she were in complete control and didn’t have a care in the world. As if she actually knew what she was doing.
You do, don’t you?
The crowd was a narrow band of mixed colours and shapes, with no definition any more. Good, but don’t look any closer or you’ll see something you don’t want to see. And that was it, of course. The thought itself was more than sufficient. Oona suddenly knew that Roz was swimming towards her now, that Roz wanted to catch up with her and make sure that everything really was all right, and take her back to this miserable land.
Oona turned away and cut into the water. She swam hard. She cupped her hands, digging into the waves and kicking her feet as forcefully as she could. Such a puny creature am I. There was a sensation of steady movement, but not of speed. The sea wants to take me, and I want to go. Let it happen.
Her strength disappeared quickly. Her arms began to burn at the shoulders, her fingers splashed rather than scooped, and her feet began to slap weakly behind her. I want to sink, my body is ready, let me sink like sinking into exquisite sleep.
She caught a glimpse of the shore, the people, and all of it seemed far enough away at last. No, don’t bother to say goodbye. The hardest part was to make your body let go, to allow the water in without fighting it. Hard, but worth it.
Greyness invaded her. Oona gagged.
Her body resisted, and that made her feel angry and useless. She began to cry as she choked, tears lost in seawater, still caught at the surface, her body refusing to sink, to yield to the sweetness she so dearly wanted. It was as if she could feel her fingertips brush against
it, but could not take hold of it. What does it take to make death take you?
A presence near her. Oona tried to force herself down into the depths, but it was no use. Roz’s arm looped around her neck and locked her chin in the crook of the elbow.
‘No,’ she sputtered feebly.
‘It’s okay,’ Roz said, sounding very calm. ‘Don’t worry, I have you. You’ll be all right now.’
‘I’ll never.’
‘Sure you will. Don’t try to talk.’
Now – oh, sure, now – Oona’s body relented completely, and Roz towed her along easily like an inflated toy. Always too far, never far enough. Living doesn’t work, dying doesn’t work. A moment later Oona felt the sand beneath her. Her stomach hurt and her mouth tasted awful. She spat several times.
Roz draped an arm around her shoulders and steered her to their beach towel. Oona crossed her arms on top of her knees and rested her forehead on them. Her breathing was still ragged; her body trembled and occasionally shuddered with a gasp. Maybe she had come closer than she thought.
‘Do you want to go to the ladies’ room?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’ll be all right.’
Oona sipped a little juice. She lit a cigarette with some difficulty, her hand shaking. She coughed sharply a couple of times and couldn’t inhale deeply, but as always the smoke was a vague comfort. Roz placed a dry towel around her shoulders and stroked her back soothingly. ‘Poor thing, you must’ve been terrified.’
Oona looked up at her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not in the least. I wanted it to happen.’
When she saw the tremor of pain in Roz’s face she was almost sorry she’d said it. But Roz understood. Had to.
‘Oona.’
‘I mean it,’ Oona said, a bit loud.
Roz sat close to her, holding her, speaking in a low voice. ‘But, darling, why?’
‘You know well enough.’
‘You can’t just turn your back on it and give up.’
‘I can try.’
‘You can’t do it,’ Roz insisted, her voice almost regretful. Oona put her head down and began to cry again, silently, still shivering. Roz gave her a hug and rocked her comfortingly. ‘Look, never mind about that now. Do you want to go home? We’ll put our feet up and have a drink. What do you say?’
Oona nodded. ‘Yes.’ Sounding every bit as small and frail and miserable as she looked and felt.
‘Sounds good to me, too.’
They gathered their things, wandered back to the car and got on the highway for New Haven. Oona found a Mozart violin sonata on the FM. She clutched her book tightly in her hands and tried to let the music fill her head. It was perhaps as dark as Mozart ever got, and it seemed to help.
At home, Roz put her in a warm shower, gave her a shampoo, towelled her down and carefully combed the snarls out of her hair. Oona had masses of long black hair, and it took a while. But Roz always had time for things like that. She could be the perfect attendant, a lady’s lady. Oona sipped icy vodka from a crystal tumbler, and smoked long cigarettes. The acceptable vices. She felt better now, like a pouty child who is being over-compensated for a minor deprivation. She would let herself enjoy it.
‘Oona.’
‘Mm?’
‘Did you see –’
‘No.’
‘– anything?’
‘No.’
‘You weren’t in any real danger, then.’
‘I was nearly there,’ Oona corrected her.
‘You’d’ve seen something.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘You weren’t close enough.’
‘That’s the truth.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’ A mild reproach.
They went into the living room. Oona stretched out on the long sofa, settling herself among loose cushions. Roz sat on the carpet and leaned back against a heavy armchair, nursing the only glass of Scotch she would have all evening.
‘Roz.’
My banes are buried in yon kirkyard
Sae far ayont the sea,
And it is but my blithesome ghaist
That’s speaking now to thee.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Next time…’
‘Don’t ask that.’
‘Please. Roz…’
Why is it so easy to beg for what you know you’ll never get? The sheer perverse pleasure of being refused. You’re always safe in choosing the pain you know.
‘Don’t ever ask that of me.’ Roz swirled her drink. ‘Your talent is special. Exceptional.’
‘It’s not a talent.’ A shout, but plaintive, and the fight was gone by now. ‘I don’t want it any more.’ A whimper.
Roz let it pass and they were silent for a while.
– Her throat, tightening –
‘I felt him,’ Oona said suddenly. ‘A man’s hands around my neck. He was strangling me. I don’t know who he is. That was the only thing I did feel out there in the water, and it happened again, just now.’
Roz stirred with interest. ‘He was strangling you?’
‘I believe so, yes.’ Oona shrugged. ‘Someone.’
‘You’re making it all up,’ Roz decided impatiently. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do this to me, Oona. It’s so distressing.’
‘Sorry. But it’s real enough to me.’
‘This whole thing, it’s what you think you’d like to happen, because you didn’t make it today.’
‘True.’
‘Honestly, you can be so hurtful.’
‘I don’t mean to be.’
‘Little sister…’
Roz didn’t sound bitter or angry, but stoical, pained. Oona was sorry she was doing this to her. The vodka helped her feel a lot better, quieting her mind, but it also made it easier for her to say certain things she otherwise wouldn’t.
‘I don’t mean to be anything.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
Oona sipped her vodka and lit another cigarette, loving the way they made her feel – and not feel. It must be said, you do have this talent. Not for living, not for dying – just a horrid little talent. So be it. But the time will come when …
The glow-worm o’er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing,
‘Welcome, proud lady.’
PART I
1
The show was a bit of a disappointment, but Oliver always enjoyed being back in London. There were no real beauties to be had and he couldn’t find much that he felt utterly compelled to get. No surprise: he knew that the best stamps always went to auction, and three or four times a year he had his dealer in New York buy or sell a truly special item for him.
Stamps were only a sideline with Oliver. But they had an aura of beauty and serenity, and to be surrounded by them in a place as large as Olympia was soothing indeed. The show just happened to coincide with a visit on other business, and he couldn’t pass it up. Besides, the pleasure of the hunt was rich in itself, and did not always have to culminate in a rare find or a spectacular catch.
Oliver checked his watch and made his way to the bar, which was starting to fill up. He had a large Dewar’s. He felt edgy in a good way. He was back in his city again. After Cambridge, he had come to London, managed a band that became a fair success for a year or two (he still received modest royalty cheques), invested in a label that continued to prosper, imported American jeans and selected lots of clothing that sold well, and in time he got into several other business ventures. Some were a little less profitable than others, but none lost money. He had a good nose for a fair risk.
Oliver was still, essentially, a maverick, an inspired dabbler who got by on his instincts, but by now he could not conceive of giving up his freedom for a more predictable and secure business career. Besides, he didn’t need a regular paycheque.
Now he wanted to do something. There was a party for the Limehouse Knights, a fairly new non-retro neo-post-ska ska band, c
urrently on a roll in the UK, which should be fun – but that was later in the evening.
Oliver finished his drink and left Olympia. It was only a short walk back to the house. He let himself in. Nick and Jonna were off somewhere in the Camargue, supposedly scouting out locations for television ads. Which they were undoubtedly doing now and then, in the odd moments when they weren’t busy eating, drinking and screwing their creative brains out. Lucky old Nick and Jonna – well, Nick anyway.
It was a shame to miss them this time around. He liked them both very much. They were long-time friends who ran a successful little film production company. Oliver had the use of their home in Kensington while he was in London. It was on a short terrace, set back from the High Street, overlooking Edwardes Square at the rear. It was actually the kind of house Oliver had wanted to own years ago, when he lived in London.
Now that he could afford to, of course, he didn’t. He lived in Manhattan on the Upper West Side, nice enough, admittedly, and New York was a useful base for his many activities. But whenever he was at home for any length of time Oliver found himself trying to come up with reasons to be somewhere else.
Life on the road, no doubt a throwback to those crazy eleven months he’d spent driving the Bombsite Boys around Britain in the van, a different venue every night, dance halls, raucous pubs and grungy rock bars from Glasgow to Portsmouth. Rotten food, empty sex, endless drink, constant bitching, ego wars, troublesome cops and stroppy club owners who invariably refused to pay in full the agreed amount. Crewe, Derby, Slough, Blackburn, Cheadle, Poole, Brighton, Wolverhampton, Cardiff and too many others – oh, yes, Oliver could still remember every wretched stop on that hideous, never-ending tour.
Best year of his life, really.
He called Carrie, but she was out of the office. Lunchtime in New York, and so to be expected.
Oliver took off his shoes, sat in the large leather armchair and watched the lines of traffic down on the High Street. Should he get another Scotch? Nick had an excellent selection of single malts. Later. He shut his eyes and slept for exactly forty-five minutes, an old trick he had mastered on the road trip.
He took a hot shower, dressed and then tried Carrie again. Now it appeared that she would be out of the office on business for the rest of the afternoon. No matter. He should try to get on better terms with the receptionists there, but they stayed for only a month or two and then left. Hopeless.
Fog Heart Page 1