The Water Children by Anne Berry

Author:Anne Berry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter 12

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.

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