An ultimatum from Lilian forced Eoin Keogh to salvage what was left of his marriage. At the airport he thumped Jake’s shoulder then bear-hugged him. He had been crying, the pouches under his eyes more pronounced, his bombastic personality subdued.
‘I have to admit I didn’t think your marriage would last a year when I first laid eyes on you,’ he said. ‘But you’ve shown a different side to your character. My daughter’s lucky to have you.’
‘I’m lucky to have her. We’ll come and visit you and Lilian when she recovers.’
‘I’ll look forward to the day.’ Eoin sounded too hearty to be convincing. ‘Keep the faith, man.’
The morning post was lying in the hall when Jake returned from the airport. The Wharf Alley Art Exhibition was opening next month. He had been invited to attend.
Today was special. Sara Saunders was coming home. In Mount Veronica she lay on the pillow beside Nadine. Red hairs tangled in her tiny fist. Ali began to cry, even though she had psyched herself against disappointment, when Nadine’s only response was an involuntary eye movement.
Chapter 68
Names. Jake…Ali…Brian…Sara…cockatoos…Sara…tiny? Why tiny. Pulls my hair. Tiny fists… Not Jessica comes…
‘Do you feel anything? Is your mind a stone or a sponge? When you blink are you warning me to be silent or twitching in the abyss? I believe you blinked a few times today. Are you listening, Nadine? I know you can hear me. Blink once for yes.’
Blink.
Help me… help me… tell them!
‘Two for no.’
Blink… blink.
‘Jake is going away with me. Brisbane. You’ll be dead by then. All it takes is a flick of a switch. Like your mother. Imagine. A flick of a switch and all his troubles are over. He won’t let you haunt him the way you haunted me. Do you hear me? Blink, bitch. You can hear me. You killed my father. Can you hear me? You killed him as surely as if your hands pressed him beneath those waves.’
‘Ah… there you are, Jessica. Cold out there today, isn’t it. I’ll have to ask you to leave now. Nadine’s neurologist is dropping by to see her.’
‘Goodbye Nadine. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. We’re all rooting for you.’
Not Jessica… not Jessica…Tell them… tell them… help me…
Chapter 69
Jake
Wharf Alley Gallery, once a cavernous warehouse, was crowded when Jake arrived. He recognised Chloe, the curator, from her profile photograph on her gallery website and made his way towards her. Chloe’s professional smile faded when he introduced himself. She led him through the throng to Nadine’s paintings. They had been hung with care in a prime space with good lighting. He had expected ices floes, a boat with streams of bunting, gnarled Alaskan faces, Northern lights above snowy mountain peaks.
No mistake, said Chloe when he asked if she had hung the wrong paintings. She had discussed them with Nadine and these were the chosen four. He studied each one. Broadmeadow estuary at dawn; the rim of gold beyond the viaduct splitting night from day. Sea Aster at twilight; swallows swooping, a soft focus painting until he noticed the split in the front wall, the old house riven. She had painted Shard rehearsing in the barn but it was the young Shard, big hair and denim, sullen Eighties cockiness. The final one was harsh and edgy. An easel with a painting displayed on it. A nondescript study of fruit diagonally slashed, a silver blade on the ground. Jake winced, as if the blade had pressed too deeply into his own skin.
People stopped to discuss her paintings. Jake drank tepid wine and listened to comments about texture, form and theme.
‘It’s good to see you again, Jake.’ Aurora rushed through the crowd and greeted him warmly. ‘Nadine’s paintings are splendid. But sad, too.’
‘Sad?’
‘She is showing us the split in life that changes everything.’
He knew what she meant. The painting of the band, he decided, was the only one where there was no sign of a sundering. But he was wrong. He saw the dark frame of the barn window and the motif beyond, almost indiscernible. That fall of red hair she could never tame. Nadine and his future, waiting.
‘How is Nadine?’ Aurora asked.
‘She’s stable.’
‘No sign of an awakening?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’ Reluctant to continue this discussion he moved on to the next painting.
‘Where is Michael?’ She lifted a glass of wine from a tray and followed him.
‘Michael?’
‘Archangel Michael.’
‘On my dashboard, keeping me safe.’ What a pity his protection had not included Nadine. He stopped the words in time, reluctant to hurt her feelings.
She held out a small gift bag with ‘Not Seeing is Believing’ emblazoned on the front. ‘This is Paschar, the angel of the veil,’ she said. ‘Our link between the conscious and unconscious. She’s my gift to Nadine.’
For an instant Jake cast his doubts aside, banked down his scepticism. ‘Will Nadine come back to me?’ he asked.
Aurora shook her head. The overhead spotlight revealed her sparse hair and pale pink scalp. ‘I don’t know, Jake. The angels only bring messages from those who have passed.’
Her glib response infuriated him. As an atheist his view of life and death was unflinching. Death was the end. Those who claimed otherwise were delusional or, worse, exploitative.
Oblivious to his annoyance, or undaunted by it, Aurora explained how she was a conduit for angel messages beyond the grave. He was furious with himself for having sought comfort, in a moment of weakness, from this charlatan. He should have followed his instincts the first time they met and dumped her tacky little angel in the rubbish where it belonged. That was exactly what he intended on doing with the contents of her gift bag.
‘The woman says she’s not frightened anymore,’ she said. ‘She’s happy now and at peace.’
Startled, he glanced sharply at her. Her broad forehead was puckered with concentration.
‘Her name begins with C… Carol… no… do you know someone who’s passed called Carol?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m not into this psychic stuff.’
Aurora shook her head, as if a fly had flown too close to her face.
‘Not Carol… Cora. She’s handing you a beautiful white feather.’
She cupped his elbow. He was hardly aware of her grip yet he was moving back to stand before the Dawn Above the Viaduct painting. She stared at the road Nadine had painted. A squiggle leading to the jetty where he had sat one morning watching the sun rise. Aurora pointed at a lone swan swimming away from the jetty.
‘Cora wants you to know she’s not afraid of the swan anymore.’ The pace of her speech had quickened. Perhaps the wine was going to her head. Jake was unnerved by her vacant stare. How on earth did she know Cora’s name? She must have read about the accident in a newspaper or online.
Unwilling to listen any longer to such vapid nonsense he glanced across the room in the hope that Chloe would intervene and rescue him but the curator had her back to him. In a gallery full of interesting strangers he was stuck with this crazy charlatan.
‘She was blinded by the yellow light,’ Aurora said. ‘Summer was resting on the tide and the air was filled with musk.’
His stomach turned queasily, the tepid wine souring in his mouth. The floor seemed to shift under his feet. He knew the signs. Focus… focus. He stared at the blade in Nadine’s painting, small, sharp, deadly. Gradually the dizziness passed, the black spots faded. Was that how angels appeared to Aurora, quivering against the blank canvas of space. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, terrified he was going to cry in this crowded gallery.
‘Excuse me. I need to go outside.’ He was shaking uncontrollably when he reached the exit. He had to sit down somewhere before his legs gave way. He leaned against the railing until the trembling stopped. Good guesser, that’s what psychics were. They read faces like a map―islands of loss, mountains climbed, bewildered pathways― and exploited people’s emotions with this knowledge.