Monday, 9 August
2 a.m. In Owen’s dream he is standing on the empty beach squinting at the sparkling sea. Beside him on the sand is Sarah’s coffin. It is small and neat and white as alabaster. The pink petals of the rosebuds it is wreathed in are crimpling and browning in the scalding temperatures. He looks down and traces the letters of her name engraved on the brass plaque. ‘S . . . A . . . R . . .’ But the sunlight bounces onto it, dazzling him, so that he does not get any further. When he turns back to the water he sees what looks like a porpoise swimming towards him. It ploughs a creamy furrow as it nears, and he realizes that it is not a fish after all, but a mermaid. She has long wavy black hair, and a tail covered in shiny scales. She swims into the shallows, and he sees her hair moving like the purple tentacles of a jellyfish under the crystal water. Then she fountains up, her tail splitting into legs, into gleaming tin legs, her arms reaching for him.
‘I am the lady of the lake,’ she calls. ‘I am your lady of the lake.’ Her eyes are shut tight but now they twitch open, one after the other. First blue, then brown. As her slimy wet body envelops him, she coos into his ear, ‘Please stop crying, please stop. I have to make you stop.’
And Owen is awake, sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat, his ears pricked. He can hear a voice rasping in the still dark flat. His heart feels as if it is in his mouth, so that it is hard to breathe. He gets up, turns on his bedside light and pulls on his jeans. He tells himself that it is only Naomi sleep-walking again, that all he has to do is guide her, meek as a lamb, back to bed. He has done it before many times. But if this is the case, then why is he so petrified? Why does the primeval terror that has stalked every age of man have him in its clutches? Terror of the unknown, of monsters too ghastly to contemplate, of Merfolk with lips chiselled from ice and bottomless oceans squeezing the air from your lungs, of the blackest of black interminable nights. He steps into the corridor, cocks his head, listens. The drizzling taps wheeze like heavy smokers. He knows this game of hide-and-seek, knows where she hides and where he must seek for her. She is scrunched up in the cramped space between the settee and the wall. Always the same spot, naked, digging at the plaster. He pushes aside the beads carefully, stills the swinging strands with his hands. For a moment he waits. Trapeziums of moonlight fall through the open windows onto the floor, illuminating a settee armrest, the rug, a corner of the coffee table. The fridge in the galley kitchen hums a single note. There is the faint aroma of burnt toast on the air. She is clawing the wall, the sound frantic, like a trapped animal trying to dig its way out.
‘Stop the baby crying. Please, stop the baby crying. It makes my head hurt so. Make it be quiet, Miss Elstob. Make it shush. Baby’s hot. Poor baby. Baby can’t sleep, she’s hot. Poor, poor baby. I shan’t scream. I shan’t. I’ll keep the scream in my head, splitting in my head.’ Her voice is light and childlike.
Two of her nails are bleeding a little, he sees, when he takes her back to bed. And the name ‘Mara’, carved into the wall, is no longer indistinct, for now the plaster is stained with blood. In the morning she tells him that she needs another week before she will be ready to come back to the market. He looks in on her before he sets off for work, and is pleased to see that she is sleeping peacefully. As he steps onto the street the heat seems to crackle up from the pavement.
London has become a coastal resort, but without the sea. Beachwear is de rigueur. Calamine lotion vies with suntan oil for record sales. Bodies of every shape and size litter the yellowed grass of parched parks, enjoying the latest craze, sunbathing. Sunburn and prickly heat are the most common complaints in the chemists. Ice cream and cold drink vendors in white coats wield more power than men in suits. Barbecues have replaced meat and two veg for the evening meal. Fractious residents pull their mattresses onto patios and balconies, and sleep under the stars like desert kings. The government is advising people to put bricks in their toilet cisterns, to share baths, to use the leftover water on their dying gardens. The traffic snake’s true colours are unrecognizable, dulled down by layers of choking dust. Biblical plagues of ladybirds and aphids have been unleashed. And in the market the most popular T-shirt has the slogan, ‘Save Water, Bath With A Friend’ printed on it.
On his way into the market, Owen thanks Enrico for arranging their stay in his father’s cottage, and tells him what a lovely week they had there. For the duration of their exchange, Enrico struts like a cockerel, delighted at the compliments, unaware of the dark ramblings harassing Owen’s mind. While he prattles, Owen relives their last night and recalls the part he had to play in the unfortunate turn of events. He makes his excuses, not wanting to be reminded about what has passed between him and Naomi. ‘We’ll talk more later. I can see Sean getting impatient, so I’d best go.’
‘I’m disappointed,’ Sean tells Owen, when he is given the news that he is quitting the market. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose you. But I can see you’ve made up your mind.’
‘Naomi should be back next week. At least she says that’s what she intends,’ Owen says, trying to muster up some enthusiasm for arranging fans of decorative hair slides on the mirrored counter. ‘I’ll try to hang on till then. I don’t want to leave you short-handed.’
‘That’s good of you.’
Owen is surprised by how well Sean is taking it. He was worried that after their desertion to Tuscany, giving his notice would earn him a prolonged tongue-lashing. But he seems unperturbed, preoccupied, so that Owen ponders if he has really absorbed the information.
‘And how is the lovely Naomi, after her Italian retreat?’ Sean inquires, drawing the blade of a penknife down the taped seal of a cardboard box.
‘She’s good,’ Owen lies. He is becoming adept at lying. ‘She loved Italy, but I think she’s glad to be back.’
He nods, snapping shut his penknife. ‘That’s great. I told you she’d get over it. Sunglasses for the kids. What do you think?’ he says desultorily, leaping seamlessly from the topic of abortion to novelty goods. He holds up a miniature pair with Minnie Mouse pirouetting in a spotted frock around the rims.
‘Fantastic! The kids’ll love ’em.’
‘Exactly what I thought,’ Sean tells him, pleased. For the next couple of hours they are both occupied with the brisk morning trade. But by lunchtime things have quietened down again, the nigh-on-torturous heat putting punters off. They both feel too hot and sticky to eat, but Owen forays above ground to buy iced lollies and cans of Coke.
‘Orange or lime?’ he offers on his return.
‘Orange,’ Sean grins. ‘I could do with the vitamin C.’ He sits on the stool, Owen leans back on the counter, and like schoolboys they give their sole attention to licking and sucking the sugary ices. Owen becomes aware that he is sucking in time to the beat of disco music. When he is down to the stick, Sean, who made short work of his, begins talking.
‘You know, if you could do me a last favour before you take off, I’d be eternally in your debt.’
‘Like what?’ Owen rejoins easily.
‘Oh, not much, not at all. It’s only that I need to be away till Thursday. I know it’s asking a lot, without Naomi giving you a hand, but d’you think you could cope for a few days alone?’ The orange pencil of a moustache fringes his upper lip.
Owen sucks his cold teeth before replying. ‘I don’t see why not.’ He shrugs. ‘If it’s only a couple of days I can manage.’
‘Thanks.’ Sean’s eyes are over-bright, as if he has not slept and is forcing himself to stay alert.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, nowhere interesting. Not off to Italy on my hols, that’s for sure.’ He picks his Coke up off the counter, and tugs the ring-pull. A hiss and coffee-brown froth bubbles out. He raises it to his lips, and Owen can see the serpentine movement of his throat as he drinks. ‘Thirsty weather, eh?’ he says when he has almost drained the can.
‘Mm . . . Is there some place I can contact you if need be?’ Owen pushes.
‘I’m on the move, you know. Here and there. But like I said, I’ll be back on Thursday.’ Owen nods. ‘My luck’s changing. I can feel it. The Midas touch.’ He takes a last swallow, then looks far off, far beyond the concrete walls of the market. ‘I don’t plan to stay here much longer myself. It was only ever a stopgap. One day soon I’m going to have that picture-perfect house for Catherine, with a paddock for Bria to keep a pony in. You wait and see.’