London has become an insufferable furnace. Owen studies the sky, searching for rain clouds, and is sobered by the unvarying blue. The sun is gradually beating city dwellers into submission. Where once they marched the streets like soldiers, now they loll idly outside pubs, frosted glasses in hand. It is over a fortnight since the abortion and much to Owen’s alarm, Naomi continues to be depressed, taciturn, lethargic. She has no appetite, no zest for life. She does not bathe. Her hair looks flat and greasy. Her face is puffy and there are give-away dark smudges under her eyes, indications, if Owen needed any, of her insomnia. As far as he can see, she sits in the chair by the window all day, would probably sit there all night, too, if he did not steer her to bed. He does not know what to do for the best. He does not have the maturity or experience to guide him. She shows no inclination to return to work either. And Sean has not come to the flat since the night of their bitter fray. They seem, all three, to be in something of a stalemate.
Besides this, the remission from his nightmares is over. The Merfolk are back. Sarah ghosts him constantly, her hair wet and streaming. And when he quickens his strides to escape her, she reappears ahead of him. She smiles as the gap between them closes. ‘Don’t leave me, Owen,’ she says. She chants this until the words muddle up, and it feels as if he is going mad, has gone mad.
This evening he sits with Naomi on the settee. They hug mugs of coffee, and talk to each other between sips. They are listening to a Jimi Hendrix record, Are You Experienced to the track ‘Foxy Lady’.
‘In a previous life, I lived in a camper van travelling from concert to concert, chasing the music,’ she says suddenly, unexpectedly. Her unique eyes look into the middle distance, as his light up with interest. ‘I saw Jimi Hendrix perform this live.’
‘Where?’ Owen wants to know.
‘The Isle of Wight Festival, 1970.’
‘You were there?’
She nods. ‘31st of August. He wore this psychedelic pant suit. Orange, pink, yellow. Very bright. Flares. Big sleeves.’
‘Wow.’ He is trying to place her there, Naomi, among the crowds of people, dancing, as Hendrix gyrates on the stage, as he makes love to his electric guitar. ‘Who did you go with?’
She does not answer this. ‘You know, he was dead only weeks later,’ she says enigmatically.
‘Who was?’
‘Jimi Hendrix.’ He has had enough of death. The magic has gone. She sets down her mug, crosses to the open window and leans out. Today she is dressed. Jeans. A smocked blouse. She pulls at the neckline. ‘It’s scorching,’ she says.
‘I shouldn’t lean out so far,’ he cautions, rising from the settee and moving towards her. Naomi, braced on her straightened arms, hands gripping the base of the sill, cuckoos out her head still further, and peers downwards. ‘We’re three floors up, remember. Please don’t!’
At his imploring tone she pulls back, straightens up, and fixes him with her perturbing eyes. ‘What’s the matter, Owen? Are you frightened of heights?’
‘No . . . no, not of heights,’ he falters, taking an involuntary step back.
‘Then of what?’ she smiles encouragingly. ‘Of something, yes?’
‘Of something, yes.’ Owen echoes dully. He wraps his arms protectively about his torso. She nears him, pauses. A long beat. ‘Of water. I’m frightened of water,’ he confesses quickly, wanting to get it over with, like pulling off a plaster.
‘Of water?’ she quizzes, her tone high with disbelief.
‘Of lots of water. Of the sea. Of swimming pools.’ There is a quaver in his voice, and his heart is jumping. Although his stomach is empty he wants to retch. And because his legs are going to crumple under him any second, he goes to the settee and sits down heavily. ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Oh, is that all,’ she laughs. She is beside him now, putting an arm about his shoulder. ‘I love swimming. I will teach you, Owen. And then we will go to the coast and swim like a pair of dolphins in the sea.’ He rears back, then leaps up, shaking his head violently.
‘No. No, Naomi. I can’t even bear to talk about this any more,’ he says. ‘Please, can we just forget it?’ He is breathless, panting. He can feel the pinpricks of sweat dewing his brow. She is bemused, but does not argue. Nor does she argue when, a little later, he opts for an early night.
Asleep or awake, he is not certain which, when the image sharpens into focus before him. A dark mass. An orange glow. There is something, someone, in his room with him. A sideways glance and his alarm clock confirms it is 3 a.m. He leans over and switches on his sidelight. Naomi is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees bent, feet planted apart. She is wearing a baggy shirt, long sleeves rolled up, not one of his this time. She is smoking a cigarette and staring at him. She is framed like a painting by two pillars of cardboard boxes, the striped shadow of the taller seeming to sever her face in two, one side lit, one side dark. The curtains, a thick weave in dirty green, billow in the hot draught from the open window.
‘Can’t you sleep, Naomi?’ he asks in a voice throaty with slumber. His heart is drumming and his skin is slippery with sweat.
‘You were having a bad dream. I heard you whimpering,’ she whispers. Tiny circles of reflected lamplight jewel her eyes. ‘I came and you cried out the name, Sarah, in your sleep. Who is Sarah, Owen? Is she a girlfriend?’
His mind is all confused, and her tone is so soothing and caring. But he does not like to see her mouth close on his sister’s name. ‘It was a long—’ He breaks off to give a heartfelt sigh. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry if I disturbed your night.’ He sits up in bed and pulls the sheet over his bare chest. He is in his customary nightwear of boxer shorts, and feeling her eyes on his partial nakedness, he has the self-conscious desire to cover up.
‘Don’t worry. I was awake as well, Owen.’ There is a pause. Into the silence comes the light ‘tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack’ of his clock. He glances at the framed photograph on his bedside table, the one of him with his mother standing proudly beside their snowman. He thinks about the Water Child imprisoned inside the frozen white flesh. She draws deeply on her cigarette, funnels her mouth and blows the smoke out in one steady stream. ‘We both have secrets, don’t we, Owen?’ He says nothing. A papery ‘phut’ as she sucks again on her cigarette. It has burnt down almost to the filter. She laughs softly and grinds the stub of it out in a saucer by her side. The acrid smell, heightened by the sensory deprivation of the night, bites at the back of his own throat. He traces the last fraying tail of flint-grey smoke.
‘My sister drowned,’ he tells her. He stares at the boxes piled one on top of the other, like a brick tower. He traces the writing on one of them, an obscure code printed in red. ‘She was four, nearly five. I was supposed to be minding her. I . . . I wandered off. It was my fault.’
She keeps very still as she listens. Then she climbs to her feet and comes to his bed. She leans over him and draws him to her. After a second she pulls back and smoothes his hair off his forehead. ‘You weren’t to blame. You were only a little boy yourself. It was an accident, a tragic accident.’ He wants to believe her. But it is not her that he seeks forgiveness from.
‘Thanks.’ He says this not because he means it, but because he feels that he ought to. She gives a fleeting smile. ‘Perhaps we should get some sleep.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asks.
‘I’m fine.’
At length she gets up and goes to the door. ‘And that’s why you’re frightened of the water? You think that you’ll drown too?’
‘Something like that,’ he mutters.
‘We should help each other,’ she remarks cryptically. Then, before he can question what she means, ‘Goodnight, Owen.’