Free Fog Heart by Thomas Tessier

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.
    â€˜So,’ he said, ‘you’re all right now?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Good. And what did you finally conclude about that curious incident you had the other day? Whatever it was.’
    â€˜I saw my father,’ she said flatly.
    â€˜Oh.’ So it wasn’t a dead issue yet.
    â€˜Can we talk about it now?’
    â€˜By all means.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Your father. You’re sure about that?’
    â€˜Oliver, of course I’m sure. It was Daddy.’
    â€˜How clear and – solid – was it?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜God, you must have been absolutely shattered.’
    â€˜I was, for a while.’
    â€˜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