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Mortal Ghost is a serialized novel by L. Lee Lowe. The novel is posted on Lee's blog in weekly installments, a chapter each Friday. Afterwards a PDF file of the entire novel will be available to download.
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By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 11/17/2006
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and a small winged dragon curls herself into a ball as a foot comes down and kicks her and her cries slice through his head into a jumble of limbs and grunts while wake up he tells himself it’s a nightmare of pounding music and slick bodies dancing writhing with the hot smell of sweat running shrieking into the flames and their screams always the screams wake up before they die this time wake up wake up wake
Jesse gasped and tore open his eyes.
‘No don’t,’ he said, his voice cracked and peeling.
He lay still while the images from his dream loosed their stranglehold. He’d been sweating, and heavily; he could feel the sheet sticking to his skin. Then he shuddered and held his breath – this was more than sweat he smelled.
Jesse found Finn at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee, a dictionary, scribbled sheets of paper, and a scattering of pens at hand, and his laptop open in front of him. He looked up as Jesse came into the room.
‘You’re awake,’ Finn said. ‘How’s the cold? Still feeling feverish?’
‘Where’s Sarah?’
‘She’s gone to an exhibit in the city,’ Finn said, disconcerted by the abruptness of Jesse’s manner.
‘Call her mobile.’
Finn stared at him.
‘Now!’
Jesse’s urgency was beginning to affect Finn. He rose and fetched the phone from the worktop, punched a couple of keys. He listened for a moment.
‘It’s ringing,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘She picked up, but we were disconnected.’
‘Try again,’ Jesse said.
Finn pressed redial and let it ring for a while. ‘Unavailable.’
They looked at each other.
‘Tell me what this is about,’ Finn said.
Jesse put a hand to his head. Suddenly he needed to sit down fast. He pulled out a chair and sank into it, lowered his head to the table. Finn came over to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘What is it, Jesse? Dizzy?’
‘Sarah’s in trouble. What are we going to do?’ Jesse muttered.
‘How do you know?’
Jesse raised his head. Finn was shocked by the look on Jesse’s face. He’d seen that kind of despair before, in far too many places. In the mirror.
‘While I was sleeping –’ Jesse floundered, unable to formulate a coherent explanation. He grimaced as though Thor were using his skull for hammer practice. ‘I don’t know how I know. I just do,’ he finished lamely. It was becoming a familiar refrain.
‘I’m going to ring Meg.’
‘Meg. Yeah, ring Meg. I hadn’t thought of that. She’ll know if something’s happened to Sarah, won’t she?’
Finn hesitated. Jesse’s faith in Meg’s abilities, though touching, was misplaced. A mind like Meg’s couldn’t be switched on and off like a light bulb.
‘It doesn’t always work like that, you know,’ Finn said.
Some colour had returned to Jesse’s face. ‘Stop wasting time. Ring her!’
To his surprise Finn reached Meg at once. She listened, then asked to speak with Jesse. The conversation was very one-sided, Jesse answering mostly in monosyllables.
In the meantime Finn used his own mobile to try Sarah again. He’d feel much better if he knew that she was really all right. Which was not only unnecessary but clearly obsessive, wasn’t it? He reminded himself that anxiety was contagious. Sarah had only switched off her mobile. He’d done the same a thousand times over while in a meeting or during a shoot.
Jesse had known about kwakabazillion.
‘Meg wants to speak to you,’ Jesse said.
He handed Finn the telephone. Jesse had got his face under control, but not his eyes. Finn thought that Jesse would never be able to mask the depth of feeling to be plumbed there.
‘Finn?’ Meg’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Give Jesse two nurofen and see that he goes back to bed. I’ll be home as soon as I can get away.’
‘There’s nothing the matter, is there?’ Finn felt compelled to ask, even though Jesse hadn’t left the room, was in fact watching him from the window to which he’d retreated, squinting as if the light were blistering his optic nerve.
‘We’ll talk about it when I get there.’
Finn’s hand tightened on the phone. Meg spoke composedly enough, but he knew her very well and recognised what he liked to call her shrink voice. She always smiled whenever he teased her about it. Both he and Sarah hated it when she used it on them.
‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Finn, there’s nothing we can do for the moment.’
Now the first stirring of real fear. ‘Meg, don’t do this. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on.’
That was when Finn realised Jesse might be right about Sarah. ‘Where is she?’ he bellowed into the phone.
‘Losing your temper won’t help anybody.’
‘Don’t give me that fucking line of crap!’
‘Finn, listen to me. It may be nothing at all, just fever and bad dreams. Jesse needs you to stay calm. Get him into bed till I come home. I'll try to arrange for David to take over a bit earlier.’
Finn closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and succeeded in holding his fear – and his anger – in check. ‘OK, I hear you. Do you –’
‘Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out.’ And then she was gone.
Finn slammed the phone down. She treated him like an adolescent sometimes, like another of her children. Or a patient. It was intolerable. Hands clenched, he strode to the refrigerator, yanked it open, and pulled out a bottle of lemonade. Jesse watched him without speaking.
‘Want some?’ Finn asked.
Jesse nodded.
Finn poured them each a glass. He drank his at a gulp, the cold making his teeth ache and his throat burn as it slid down his gullet. Jesse sipped his slowly, as if it hurt for him to swallow. By the time Finn had finished his second glass, his temper had cooled. He went to the window and stared out, chewing his lip. For all her gifts, Meg hadn’t been able to help trace Peter, had she?
‘You’d better go lie down. I’ll bring you your tablets,’ Finn said.
After putting his glass into the dishwasher, Finn moved to the table and saved the changes he’d made while Jesse had been asleep. In no mood to work on the bloody translation, Finn wished he hadn’t agreed to do it, even as a favour to his brother.
‘You blame Meg, don’t you? For Peter’s death?’ Jesse asked.
His face savage for an instant, Finn rounded on Jesse. Then, expression softening like wax held too close to a flame, Finn turned away. After a hesitation, Jesse went over and touched Finn tentatively on the arm.
‘You told me yourself it doesn’t work like that,’ Jesse said. ‘Meg’s not a fortune-teller.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with palm-reading and tarot cards and all that sort of crap,’ Finn said.
‘Then tell me why you’re so angry at her.’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’ Jesse paused, then added, ‘I’m just a kid, aren’t I? A fucked-up street kid who’s got no business asking. And who couldn’t possibly understand anyway.’
‘Bollocks. You heard me. I don’t want to talk about it. So zip it.’
Jesse made a noise halfway between a sob and a snarl. ‘And if something happens to Sarah, who will you blame then?’
Finn struck him across the face.
Huddled on the bed, Jesse found himself close to shaking. His cheek didn’t really sting any more, only the memory of the slap. He picked up the top and rubbed it between his fingers until heat began to rise from the wood. The rest of him felt cold. He’d failed Sarah. And alienated Finn with stupid taunts. Jesse laid the top against his cheek. For the first time in years, he’d found decent people, people he could respect. And what did he do? He deserved to be struck.
It’s no good, Jesse thought. Liam was right. Mal was right. Even I was right. I can’t live with them … with anyone. It was stupid to try. Better to be alone than end up like Mal and Angie.
He who is alone now, will remain alone ... will wander the streets restlessly ...
A soft knock, and the door opened. Finn stood on the threshold, his face sombre.
‘May I come in?’ he asked.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Jesse, shrugging. After one quick look, he refused to meet Finn’s eyes.
Finn crossed the room and sat down on Jesse’s bed, careful to leave a space between them. Leaning forward, he propped his forearms on his knees so that his spare tyre rolled comfortably over his waistband. There was a long silence, broken only by the faint snuffle of Nubi’s breathing.
‘I’m sorry,’ Finn finally said. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t hit anyone in years.’ He gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Well no, that’s not quite true. There was this nasty bloke in Santiago last year ... You don’t ever want to punch a policeman in Chile.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Nope. Spent a couple of nights in gaol fending off the cockroaches – the two-legged variety. I’ve even got the release papers tucked away somewhere to prove it.’
‘Is Sarah back?’ Jesse asked, although he knew the question was futile.
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you tried her mobile again?’
‘Three times. Also sent her a text.’ Finn eyed Jesse. ‘I got an answer: be back soon.’
‘Anyone could have sent it.’
‘So you still think something’s the matter?’
‘Yeah.’
Finn looked down at his hands. His wedding ring was a simple gold band which had grown a bit tight in recent years. He slid it back and forth a few times. He wasn’t being entirely honest with Jesse. Of course he knew why he’d lashed out, just as he understood Jesse’s feelings of impotence and frustration. No one remembered better than Finn himself how he’d raged at anyone and everyone in the months after Peter had left. It had been touch and go for a while with Meg. Sometimes he wished there would be public floggings for the mistakes you made in life – for the people you hurt, the kids you damaged.
‘Fear deranges faster than the worst addiction,’ Finn said softly.
Jesse felt even more ashamed of his outburst. ‘I shouldn’t have said that to you.’
‘But you were right. It’s more comfortable to blame someone else than yourself.’ Finn straightened his shoulders and scowled at Jesse with mock severity. ‘And don’t you dare tell me that we all do it.’
‘It would never cross my mind to say anything so banal.’
Finn grinned. ‘Touché.’
Jesse ran his hands through his hair. ‘Meg told me that she’d been smelling burnt almonds all day long. Does that make any sense to you?’
‘Meg usually doesn’t talk much about what she sees. But there are certain motifs that seem to recur. Smells or colours or sounds, anything really. In a poem, you’d call them symbols, I suppose. But Meg says that they’re the mind’s way of processing, of conceptualising the unfathomable. Apparently we don’t learn symbol-making. It’s an innate capacity – a biological function, evolved since god knows when.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Maybe something like the god cells in the brain neuroscientists are starting to talk about.’
‘You still haven’t told me about the burnt almonds.’
Finn began to play with his ring again. It took him a long time to answer. ‘Meg smelled burnt almonds a lot after Peter disappeared.’
‘I’m frightened,’ Jesse whispered. Had he ever admitted that to anyone before? He couldn’t remember.
It was an ephemeral gift, fragile and translucent as a soap bubble, and Finn held it between his hands with surprising delicacy.
‘So am I, Jesse.’
The screen-saver was up – one of those impossible Escher staircases, ascending and descending in a perpetual enigma, which usually amused Jesse but now irritated him. He hit a key, expecting to see his desktop appear. Instead, the image remained in place. Jesse cursed, thinking that the computer had frozen again. Then a flicker under the bell tower caught his attention. A monk was pulling on the bellrope so that a large blue top swung slowly from side to side, the only spot of colour in the entire frame.
Jesse slammed down the lid of the laptop. Cursing himself, he nevertheless groped among the books and odds-and-ends on the bedside table for the top. It wasn’t there.
Jesse sat down with his head in his hands. I’m not mad, he told himself. He knew he ought to forget the top, but instead he searched the bed with care, lifting pillow and shaking out duvet, then dropped to his knees and peered underneath the frame. The effort intensified his headache. When he closed his eyes, a pattern of red and orange sparks fired behind his lids.
‘Sod this,’ he muttered. ‘Who needs a top anyway?’
A strong odour of lavender assailed him. His stomach clenched, accompanied by a renewed feeling of urgency. As he rose to his feet his eyes fell on his pillow. The blue top lay in plain sight, a small length of string dangling from its handle.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 11/10/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Sarah’s mate Thomas dug into the bowl of popcorn.
‘What a boring movie,’ he said.
Sarah switched off the TV. ‘We could try a round of charades.’
Thomas snorted and pelted her with a piece of popcorn. She threw him a kiss in return. Jesse frowned, then rose abruptly, snatching up his cigarettes and the black Zippo Finn had given him.
‘I’m going to read,’ he said.
Sarah and Thomas exchanged glances as Jesse stomped from the room.
‘You never did audition for the easy roles, did you?’ Thomas said. ‘And just wait till Katy gets a look at him.’
‘It’s not like that.’
Thomas did one of his famous eyebrows. He had a long ugly pockmarked face, pale eyes set very wide apart, and bushy hair that was not so much white as colourless; he was an albino. But he had a wonderful hearty laugh and a way of making fun of himself – and everyone else – that nobody could resist. And he did wicked imitations. His caricatures of politicians and pop stars always brought tears of merriment to Sarah’s eyes, though she’d seen his shtik (as he called it) many times before. A brilliant dancer, he was headed for great things. ‘Nobody notices how he looks the minute he comes onstage,’ Sarah had told Jesse before Thomas arrived. He’d just won some huge scholarship to a school in New York, and would be leaving next year. ‘We’ve been mates forever,’ she’d said. ‘I’m going to miss him something awful.’
‘Listen, there’s something I want to tell you now that we’re alone,’ Thomas said.
Sarah sat up straight. She knew that tone.
‘It’s about Jesse,’ Thomas continued. ‘I’ve been hearing things.’
‘What things?’
‘Like he’s a total screwtop just released from a secure psych unit.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Who told you that?’
‘Ben. Aaron. Even Justine. You know how word gets round.’
Sarah’s face was flushed. ‘I’ll sort them.’
‘There’s worse.’ Thomas chewed his underlip for a moment. ‘You’ve got to promise not to do anything stupid.’
‘Thomas!’
‘OK, OK. I met Mick at the Doorstop yesterday, he told me your mum’s got one of her sex offenders in the house, some sort of new pervy treatment programme.’ He hesitated, as if the words might explode upon release. ‘And that Jesse caught him in the loo and tried to bugger him.’
Thomas hadn’t ever seen quite that expression on Sarah’s face before.
Jesse was halfway across the kitchen when he noticed the glow of Finn’s pipe on the patio.
‘You ought to be in bed with that cold,’ Finn said.
‘Just making a cup of tea.’
Finn pointed his pipe at the sky. ‘It’s strange how memory works,’ he said. ‘When Peter was very small, he used to count the stars. He made up his own number for them. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember the word.’
‘Kwakabazillion,’ Jesse murmured before he realised what he was doing.
There was a long silence.
‘Say that again.’ Finn spoke in a voice Jesse hadn’t heard from him before – slow and careful and uninflected – the voice of a cracked bell, of a father opening the door to a constable at three a.m.
Jesse bit his lip and cursed his treacherous tongue. ‘It’s a common –’
‘Try that on the police or a teacher or a social worker, if you must, but not on me. Not on us.’
Jesse sighed and dug his hands into his pockets, encountering Peter’s top. What could he tell Finn? That he had no idea where the word had come from? That it had dropped into his mind without bang or whimper?
‘I just knew it.’ Jesse said. ‘I don’t know how.’
A muscle in Finn’s cheek tightened – even in the dark the movement was visible.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered. It sounded as though he were breathing through a stab wound in his chest.
Jesse rolled the top between his fingers. Who am I, he thought bitterly. Even Finn needs to ask.
Multiple-choice question for Finn. Who is Jesse? (a) a bag of memories; (b) a genetic code; (c) a skinsack filled with soon-to-be-discarded parts (some fungible); (d) an occasional thought; (e) a carbon-based computer; (f) a set of vibrating strings; (g) a murderer; (h) a fiction; (i) a fucking freak … Choose one or more of the above. Or all. Or none.
But don’t forget the feelings.
The next morning Mick answered the doorbell in nothing but cut-offs. His skin was very tanned, and despite herself Sarah couldn’t help following the golden pilgrimage into the waistband of his jeans. He noticed the direction of her gaze and smiled.
‘Sarah. What a surprise,’ he drawled. ‘What brings you out at this hour?’
Sarah ignored his tone, determined not to lose her temper before she began. ‘May I come in?’
‘May you? Allow me to consider. The butler has the day off, but the maid has finished downstairs. And I do believe the cook has already prepared a light repast. So unless you require a five-course meal, I can offer you the hospitality of my humble abode.’ He swept into a bow worthy of a royal audience, his accent perfect.
If she weren’t so angry, she would have laughed. She’d forgotten why she’d first gone out with him – though moody since Dan had left, Mick could be funny and very charming when he chose. And he played sax like a demon.
He took her hand and kissed it, holding it just a little too long. Sarah snatched it away, the joke had gone far enough. She moved past him into the entrance hall. The walls were painted, rather startlingly, a deep sumptuous blue against the polished oak of the floors and banister. His mother’s collection of antique Danish porcelain was mounted along the right wall. Again Sarah was impressed by the subtle good taste which the decor reflected. Mick’s flashy personality seemed out of place here. Sarah had never met his parents, and though he and his brother were identical in appearance, Dan had always been quieter, more self-contained – ‘dark,’ Thomas had said even before the drug stuff. ‘There’s something wrong, he’s way too secretive. And I think he manipulates Mick. Even for twins, it’s a strange relationship.’
Mick crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb to the sitting room, watching her without speaking.
‘Can we sit down?’ she asked. ‘There’s something important I need to talk to you about.’
The skin around his eyes tightened at the stiffness in her voice.
‘Important,’ he repeated. ‘Yeah, OK. Maybe we’d better go upstairs where we won’t be overheard.’ He added at her frown, ‘We really do have a housekeeper, a very nosy housekeeper, you know. Who likes to spy on me and report back to my parents.’
Sarah followed him with reluctance upstairs. Mick didn’t just have a bedroom like most kids his age. His parents had converted the entire upper floor – not a loft, either – into a private suite for their sons, complete with sitting room and en suite baths. Mick had his own study where he kept his piano and saxophones – not just one, of course, but an entire collection, one of which he claimed had been used by John Coltrane. There was even a small workout room, equipped with an assortment of body-building devices. Sarah had tried the treadmill the last time she’d been here, before they had fooled around in the jacuzzi. And his entertainment centre would have been the envy of any pop star. Dan’s bedroom, however, was out of bounds.
Sarah was dismayed to find a stranger lounging in a pair of boxer shorts on the black leather sofa. He was watching TV and smoking. She looked closer, sniffed. Not tobacco.
The bloke was a few years older than Mick, perhaps even in his early twenties. He was as blond and good-looking as Mick, though in a more finished way. The streaks in his hair swaggered across his forehead. As Mick and Sarah came into the room, he clicked off the TV and stood up, oblivious to his state of near undress – no, not oblivious at all, Sarah realised. He didn’t take his eyes off her as they were introduced. Gavin’s green eyes were the colour of mouldy bread and faintly bloodshot.
‘Sarah’s an old flame,’ Mick said.
‘An old flame.’ Gavin said. His tongue curled wetly around the antiquated expression like a French kiss. There was definitely something wrong with his eyes.
‘She’s a fantastic dancer,’ Mick said. ‘It’s a real treat to disco with her.’
Sarah could tell by the way that Gavin glanced at Mick that there was a hidden message in Mick’s words, but she had no idea what it could be. She was beginning to regret her impulse. Seeing Mick on his home ground reminded her of what she disliked most about him. A golden boy who’d never think of anyone but himself. Not someone you could reason with. She turned to Mick.
‘I didn’t know you had another visitor. I’ll go.’
‘I thought you wanted to talk to me.’
‘Alone. It’s a private matter.’
‘Gavin’s a good friend. The very best, in fact. There’s nothing you can’t say in front of him. Or reveal … ’ Lazily he scratched his belly button. ‘Actually, three’s quite a comfy crowd.’
God, he really thought he was being so clever.
‘Never mind, Mick, I’ll wait in the bedroom. Call me when you’re ready.’ Gavin flashed Sarah a brief grin, then flicked his hair back ostentatiously. He gave Mick a long intent look, a look that raised the temperature in the already over-warm room. With spliff and ashtray in his hand, he sauntered into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
‘Come on, Sarah, sit down. I’ll fetch you a coke.’
Mick left before Sarah had a chance to refuse. The air stifling, she thought about opening one of the windows but decided not to bother. She’d drink her coke and go. Maybe Thomas would think of another way to deal with Mick.
‘So tell me, what’s the problem?’ Mick asked, handing her a glass. He sat down next to her, crowding her. She could smell his maleness – disturbing, familiar.
Sarah sipped her coke, both thirsty and glad to buy some time. Ice cubes clinking like hail on a glass roof. Mick lit a cigarette and watched her through the smoke, his gaze knowing. Sarah coloured faintly and shifted a bit on the sofa. Her skirt was rather short, and her thighs were sticking to the leather. Mick moved even nearer, his body pressing right up against hers. She could feel beads of perspiration gathering on her upper lip, under her arms, between her breasts. Mick was so close that it was hard for her to breathe, to think. She longed to shut her eyes. Her heart squeezed against her ribs. She needed some air. Why had Jesse ...
Abruptly she realised what was happening. No. Not again. Not with him, with Mick. She tried to push further into the corner, but there was no place to go. Mick put his hand on her leg, just under the hem of her skirt. She jumped and spilled a bit of her coke. She set her glass on the table.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Mick took another drag on his cigarette and laid it on the edge of the table. He smiled languidly but didn’t remove his hand.
‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘You liked it before.’
Sarah shook her head, pushed at his hand.
‘Oh come on, Sarah. It’s no big deal.’
‘I said no, and I meant it.’
She tried to rise. Mick propelled her back against the cushions with a casual flick of his wrist. He leaned towards her, ready to kiss her.
‘You don’t really mean no. Just relax and enjoy it.’
A tiny corner of her mind couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. How could she want to laugh when his hand was crawling up her thigh?
‘Please, Mick,’ she said. ‘Not now. My period.’
Mick hesitated, then reached for his cigarette, drew on it, and blew a smoke ring. He studied it until it dissipated. Then he grinned.
‘I like bloodsports.’
Desperately she searched for an excuse, something, anything to put him off. ‘Your friend. He’s in the next room.’
‘Gavin? Don’t worry about him. He won’t mind.’ A snigger.
‘But I thought –’
Mick drew back a fraction. ‘You thought what?’
‘That you and he … I mean, the way he looked at you … I thought …’ Her voice trailed off, some instinct warning her that she was making a mistake, that in fact she’d already made it.
Mick’s eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank to pinpricks. He extinguished his cigarette slowly in the ashtray.
‘What exactly did you think?’ His voice was soft, dangerous – a viper’s hiss.
‘Nothing,’ she said as neutrally as possible.
‘Tell me.’
He leaned forward, at the same time moving his hand back up under her skirt.
‘No.’
‘No what? No, don’t touch you here’ – his hand slid to her knickers – ‘or no, you’re not going to tell me what you were thinking?’ His smile was suddenly friendly, teasing. As if he were just messing around.
Sarah swallowed. Maybe he’d let up if she gave him what he wanted to hear. ‘I thought the two of you might be more than just friends. I’m sorry if I got it wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ he mused, as if he were in a classroom and had been just corrected by the teacher. He removed his hand and stared at it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, feeling an immense sense of relief. ‘Not that it would matter. Nobody needs to hide being gay any more. Or bi.’
‘Gay, did you say?’ He was still staring at his hand.
‘Look, Mick, I misunderstood. Dan seemed not to mind if –’
He lunged so fast that the breath was knocked from her lungs. In an instant he was on top of her.
‘Gay,’ he spat. ‘I’ll show you gay.’
He had one hand on her left breast, and the other on her throat. His mouth ground against hers, his teeth cutting her lip. She could feel his erection. She could smell his sweat underneath the musky cologne he used. Her heart was pounding. She managed to twist her head to the side. She thought she would gag. Then she thought she would suffocate. She couldn’t seem to get any air. He tilted her neck back and moved his mouth to her throat. Drawing in a ragged breath, she tasted blood in her mouth.
‘No.’ she croaked.
‘You know you really want it.’
‘No!’
‘Nobody says no to me,’ he said, leaning back just enough to look at her face but no further. His eyes glittered, and his smile was cold; his groin, relentless.
‘No! No!’
Suddenly everything spiralled out of control. Mick was no longer smiling. He was spitting words like cunt and bitch at her. He slapped her across the face. She gouged him with her fingers. He clamped his hand on her wrist. She wrenched it free. He yanked at her shirt and tore it. She struggled against him. He reached under her skirt, hooked his fingers into the thin cotton. She would not let him do this. He was strong, so very strong. Why had she worn a skirt? She twisted, she flailed at him, she bit his shoulder. He grunted in pain and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled it hard to one side. She gasped, and tears spurted into her eyes. She was beginning to pant. To panic.
The door to the bedroom opened. ‘Hey,’ Gavin called. Mick relaxed his hold on Sarah. His eyes followed her gaze. For a moment she thought that Gavin was coming to her aid. Then she saw that he’d stripped completely. Mick stared, then looked away, then back again. He seemed to be having trouble controlling his face.
‘Man, you’ve got one hell of a boner,’ he said.
‘You two are making a lot of noise,’ Gavin said. He walked over and locked the door, picked up the remote, switched the TV back on. Pounding music filled the room. ‘Let’s bring the cunt into the bedroom.’
Sarah sagged back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Snatches of advice ran through her head. Don’t get yourself into dangerous situations. Say no. Kick him in the balls. Scream. Always fight back. Say no. No. God no.
They half dragged, half carried her into the bedroom and dumped her on the white shag rug. Gavin kicked her.
‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Strip.’
She shook her head, knowing it was pointless. He kicked her again while Mick shed his jeans.
‘Not her face,’ said Mick.
And again, in the small of her back. Gavin wrenched off her clothes while Mick watched, breathing hard. He wiped his hand across his face and retreated a step, glancing at a poster on the wall – a photo of Dan and him on a beach, arms draped round each other, sunburnt, laughing – then back at her. In some part of herself – the part that wasn’t paralysed by terror – she suddenly understood the expression ‘time froze’. For it did. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the music seemed to recede to a distant and ghostly place. It was as if the three of them were poised together on the fulcrum of an invisible seesaw. Which way would it descend? Sarah thought she saw something flicker in Mick’s eyes, some warmth, but at that moment Gavin grunted and lurched forward. He grabbed up a leather belt lying on the bed and struck her across the belly. A red mist blossomed behind her eyes, clouding her vision.
Jesse, she thought. Jesse.
She must have spoken aloud.
‘Jesse?’ Mick sneered. Any compassion he might have been feeling vanished. ‘That fucking pervert? Tondi told me all about him. You’ll get nothing from him. He doesn’t like girls.’
Gavin smashed his fist into her breast. She screamed. He clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up,’ he snarled. The music beat against her in huge waves, threatening to drown her.
‘She said we were gay,’ Mick said.
‘Us? Gay?’
They laughed together.
‘She likes gay. Nice. So let’s start with gay.’ Mick bowed, sweeping his arm towards Gavin in a gesture of exaggerated deference. ‘Go ahead. Show her just how gay it can be.’
Gavin rolled her over onto her stomach. Sarah let the music take her. It became a howl, then a savage roar. Jesse, she heard herself cry again as the light gave way; gave way to deep-sea black.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 11/3/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Pleased by Nubi’s quick recuperation, the vet removed the splint.
‘What a clever lad. He’s broken all the rules,’ she said, scratching Nubi behind his ears and feeding him a handful of treats. ‘If it weren’t patently impossible, I’d swear he’s grown younger as well.’
Finn was about to joke about Jesse’s magic touch when he got a glimpse of Jesse’s face.
‘Let’s not bother cooking just for the two of us,’ Finn said as they left the surgery. Sarah had another evening class and Meg was on duty at the hospital. ‘There’s a place near the boatyards I think you’ll like. We’ll see if Matthew’s around. He can join us.’
‘What about Nubi? He’s not allowed in a restaurant, is he?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Hairy Spider’s place?’ Matthew asked when they removed the scraper forcibly from his hand. ‘OK, why not? I suppose my ears can take it for once.’ He went to clean himself up.
‘Hairy Spider?’ Jesse asked.
‘That’s just our nickname for Siggy. The owner.’ Finn grinned but refused to elaborate.
Matthew left Daisy in the boathouse. ‘She’s used to it. Terrific deterrent. Nobody likes to tangle with a wolf. They’ve got no idea that she’s really a marshmallow, do they, sweetheart?’ he said, addressing the last to Daisy.
Finn was regarding Matthew with a strange glimmer in his eyes. ‘You’re looking even stronger than last time. You’ve put on some weight. That new treatment is working wonders.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s still early to speak of remission. But I’m hungry all the time. Mind you, I’m not complaining.’
‘I should hope not,’ Finn said, and left it at that. But Jesse noticed that Finn kept stealing sidelong glances at Matthew as they headed past the commercial boatyard into a warren of small shops and cobbled lanes crowded with street vendors.
Jesse could hear live music reeling them in like a good fisherman, slow and steady, as they turned into a sunny courtyard. Both Jesse and Nubi stopped in astonishment, Nubi’s nose quivering, Jesse’s flaring with equal delight. Every centimetre, every millimetre of ground except for a narrow paved walkway was covered with herbs, some that Jesse recognised and many that he didn’t. Scents dense enough to taste – to spread onto a piece of fresh bread. Slow hypnotic riffs swelled over them – a saxophone was playing hoarsely, achingly. The fine hairs on Jesse’s neck stirred.
The music died away as they approached the door. The restaurant was large and clean and plain, with white plastered walls, a flagged floor, and only a few well-chosen photos of music instruments – not musicians – for decoration. It looked as if they might be Finn’s work, for Jesse could hear the luminous black-and-white instruments begin to sing as soon as his eyes lit on them.
They took possession of a table near the front, where a drum kit and some music stands were set up. A bass waited on its side, a clarinet and trumpet on a chair, and a tenor sax in a stand, but there was no sign of the musicians. After a few minutes, a huge barrel of a man walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray – Siggy, Jesse guessed straightaway. He had a dark tangled beard shot with grey, eyebrows like black loofahs, and a head of kinky hair that charged below his shoulders, tied back with what seemed to be a pipe-cleaner. When he spied Finn and Matthew, he shoved the tray at a young waiter, barked ‘the three po-faced gits near the bar,’ and came rushing over to them, laughing raucously and shouting hello. Jesse understood why they called him a spider: his arms and legs freewheeled wildly as he moved, so that it looked as if he had eight limbs – or even twelve – instead of the usual contingent.
‘You’re going to lose customers if you keep on insulting them, Siggy,’ Finn said by way of greeting.
‘That’s why I’m the businessman an’ you’re the bleedin’ artist,’ bellowed Siggy in return. ‘You don’t understand a thing about runnin’ a good chop-house. The more you kick ’em in the cahones, the quicker they come back. Specially when I feed ’em so good.’ He raised his eyebrows at Nubi, then at Jesse, who stared at them in fascination. They had a life of their own.
‘Siggy, this is Jesse, who’s staying with us for a while, and his dog Nubi,’ Finn said.
‘Nubi, eh? Like that Egyptian bloke who carted away the dead?’ He chuckled when he saw a look of surprise cross Jesse’s face. ‘Big an’ fat an’ hairy I might be, but not dumb. No ways. An’ don’t you forget it.’
Jesse, red-faced, muttered an apology but Siggy only laughed and waved a hand.
Jesse got his second surprise when Siggy told them what to eat. ‘The crab bouillabaisse to start, then the Japanese beef. A special order. Nobody else in the whole country’s got any. Sweet and smooth like your mama’s milk. An’ I’ll chose the wine.’ He grinned at Jesse. ‘Sorry, lad, but I follow the rules. At least most of ’em,’ he said, gesturing at Nubi. ‘But I got a great fresh mango juice for you. At Siggy’s you eat what Siggy tells you.’
‘Any bread?’ asked Matthew.
‘Oh man, have I got bread. Just you wait.’ Then he squinted at Matthew. ‘Two pounds? Nope, three. What they do to you? You’re gainin’ weight.’
‘Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better. What’s for dessert?’
‘For the two of you, the best berry tarts this side of heaven. With crème chantilly. And for Jesse here –’ He paused to reflect. ‘I can see he’s a chocolate man. My own double fudge ice cream, with extra chunks.’
A moan escaped from Jesse’s lips. Siggy laughed again. ‘OK, an extra-large helpin’. I like a man who likes to eat.’
A girl with an alto sax and a skinny kid of maybe eighteen or nineteen rose from a corner table and made their way to the front. Siggy cracked his knuckles and spoke to Finn.
‘You playin’?’
Finn shook his head. ‘Not today.’ He hefted his camera. ‘A few photos, if I may.’
‘Hey, Donna, OK with you if Finn here takes a couple of shots?’ Siggy called out. When she signalled her agreement, he added, ‘But you be careful now, he might make you famous.’
‘Can Nubi stay here?’ Jesse asked.
‘I got a mess of soup bones an’ kidneys just for him,’ Siggy answered. He crouched and eyeballed Nubi, man to man. ‘But you got to be quiet an’ stay in my office, you hear now?’ Rising, Siggy laid his big hand on Jesse’s shoulder for a moment and squeezed. He had powerful fingers. Jesse picked up the paper napkin and began to tear it into strips.
Siggy addressed him shrewdly. ‘I’ll look after him, lad.’
Lips moving in and out, in and out, Siggy combed his beard with his fingers and continued to regard Jesse. The silence at their table seemed to swallow the sounds from the entire room.
Finally Siggy roused himself. ‘Jesse, you need sweetnin’. You got the deepest eyes I seen since the islands. An’ that only ever once.’ He turned to Finn. ‘You look after this boy good. Might be he’s goin’ to do us a few things.’
With a sideways motion of his head Siggy beckoned Nubi, who sprang up and padded after the big man through the swing doors into the kitchen.
Jesse and Matthew listened to the music while Finn photographed. It wasn’t a memorable performance, and Jesse watched Finn more than the musicians. He thought that the girl on alto sax played well enough, though not with the haunting quality they’d heard before. Then Siggy brought the food, and Jesse stopped noticing the music altogether.
‘Like it?’ Siggy asked once he’d served the beef and vegetables and tiny buttery noodles.
Jesse searched for the right words to express his sensations. Finally he compromised with, ‘I never knew food could taste this way.’
A grin split Siggy’s face.
‘Who was playing sax just before we came in?’ Matthew asked, while Finn mopped up the last of the sauce with his bread.
‘A new bloke. Wandered in off the street to ask for a chance to play. Got some real sweet blowin’, don’t he?’ Siggy nodded towards a small table half-hidden by a group of older men, serious eaters from the look of them. ‘Just came back in from the alleyway. Picklin’ his lights a sight tarter than my sauerbraten, the way he smokes.’
Jesse followed the direction of Siggy’s gaze. The lad who was sitting alone, hunched over his plate, seemed to sense Jesse’s interest. He raised his head, and they locked eyes. Jesse could feel the spurt of venom cross the space between them, so blinding in intensity that he grasped the table in order not to jerk away. Against, and despite, and contrary to: it was Mick.
When they returned home, the house was still empty. Finn picked up his trumpet and played for half an hour. Unsettled by the encounter with Mick, Jesse stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, listening to Finn first run through scales and some exercises, then some old mellow favourites, then a bit of improvisation. He finished up with a couple of blues pieces, perhaps sensing Jesse’s mood. Sarah had misled Jesse. Her dad had a real rapport with his instrument. No one would be knocking on his door with a recording contract, but he was more than just a passable amateur.
Finn laid his trumpet aside and sat down at the piano. He played a few chords, then broke off and asked Jesse about a game of chess.
‘Where did you learn to play so well?’ Jesse asked.
‘Hasn’t Sarah told you? I did a couple of years in jazz before changing to fine arts.’
‘Norway?’
‘No, in London. That’s where I met Meg. Now how about that game?’
‘OK, fine with me.’
Finn drew white, and they made their opening moves swiftly. It was soon clear that though Finn wasn’t an inexperienced player, he’d have to work hard to hold his own. There was not much chance of his checkmating Jesse. Finn was relieved that they weren’t playing against the clock.
While Finn considered his moves, Jesse found his thoughts wandering, mostly to the evening at Siggy’s. There was something he was missing. How could anyone as crude, as superficial as Mick play the sax like that? It didn’t make sense. With a reasonable amount of practice it was always possible to achieve competence, even a certain gloss. But not the sound Jesse had heard. To play with such passion and sensitivity – such complexity – required not only serious talent, but an intimate knowledge of the darkest caverns of the self, a journey that Jesse had been certain Mick would be incapable of making.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 10/27/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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‘Ready for your first lesson?’ Finn asked.
‘Lesson?’ Jesse looked puzzled for a moment, then grinned. ‘It’s not too wet, is it?’
‘Just a shower. A bit trickier, but you’ll be fine. The thing is, over the next few weeks I’m going to be away a lot, off and on, so I thought we ought use whatever time we can find.’
Jesse glanced down at his jeans, his shoes. ‘I haven’t got any rain gear.’
‘Come down to my office.’
Sarah had been joking only about the chains. The black leather outfit fitted almost perfectly, as if Finn had measured him in his sleep.
‘I feel –’ Jesse stopped, searching for an adequate description. ‘I feel like a sleek black panther.’
‘Feels good though, doesn’t it?’
‘Better than I thought it would. Much better.’
Finn regarded Jesse’s feet sceptically before passing him a pair of boots.
‘Try these on. They’re the only spares I’ve got, but it doesn’t look as if they’ll fit.’
Jesse unlaced one of his trainers. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t manage to screw his foot inside. He was reminded of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.
Finn must have been thinking the same thing.
‘Just as I guessed. Forget the glass slipper. We’ll have to get you some proper manly boots.’
‘I’ve got big feet,’ said Jesse, wriggling his toes in relief.
‘Immaterial. They only start charging extra when your feet approach yeti measurements.’
Jesse was quiet for a moment.
‘Did you buy all this stuff for me?’
Finn shuffled some papers on his desk, his face suddenly inscrutable.
Finn’s money made Jesse uncomfortable. Not because Finn had it. Not because Jesse didn’t like accepting it (though he didn’t). But because Jesse noticed that he minded accepting it less and less.
‘They belonged to Peter?’ Jesse asked, realisation dawning.
‘Yes.’
They looked at each other, then Finn patted Jesse awkwardly on the shoulder.
‘Go on, get ready,’ Finn said. ‘Take the blue helmet by the front door and leave the black-and-silver one for me. I’ll meet you at the garage. I need to make a phone call before we start.’
‘Where are we going? I’m not old enough to drive, you know.’
Finn didn’t succeed in hiding his smile. ‘You’ll see,’ was all he’d say.
Jeans in hand, Jesse headed for the stairs, then remembered that he’d taken his cigarettes from his pocket while changing and left them on Finn’s desk.
‘Sorry, I forgot my –’ Jesse began, as he opened the office door.
Finn was holding a pistol in his hand. Their eyes locked, then Finn sighed and gestured for Jesse to enter.
‘Please shut the door,’ Finn said.
He stowed the gun in a desk drawer before explaining.
‘I wish you hadn’t seen that, but it can’t be helped now.’ He tugged at his beard. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing with a firearm.’
‘Yeah, you could say that.’
‘I need it for my work.’
‘As a photographer?’ With some difficulty Jesse refrained from a nasty crack about photo shoots.
‘Some of the places I go are dangerous.’ Finn chewed his lower lip for a moment, his eyes on Jesse. ‘OK, it’s obvious you’re not convinced. Let’s just say that photography isn’t my only work.’
‘You mean –’
‘I mean,’ Finn interrupted, ‘that I can’t and won’t talk about it. For a lot of reasons. And I’m relying on you to do the same.’
Jesse ran swiftly upstairs, two at a time. Outside his room he came face to face with Sarah, who was carrying the satchel she used for dance classes. She averted her gaze and walked on past him, then spun round, her eyes chasing the colour of thunder, her voice accusing.
‘Did my father give you those biking clothes?’
He nodded.
Sarah tightened her lips and strode off. Peter’s Harley gear was the one thing Finn had refused to pack up or give away. Now Jesse was prancing around in it. Well, not prancing … he didn’t prance. Not like some, who flaunted themselves at every opportunity. Jesse danced without taking a single step. The black leather was soft and supple – and just a little savage. Sarah ignored the thistle unfurling in her belly, but not the words her treacherous mind was whispering. Damn him. He had no right to look so good. So perfect. So sexy. She could just imagine what someone like Tondi would say – or do.
Jesse watched her leave.
In his room he tossed his jeans onto the bed and rubbed his hands along the sensuous leather of the trousers, whose warmth reminded him of melting chocolate, or Emmy’s fresh-bathed skin. He’d never clad himself in – and certainly never owned – anything of this calibre. Wearing Peter’s garments didn’t make him feel a trespasser, no matter how much Sarah resented it.
Unable to find the elastic for his hair on the bedside table, Jesse went to check his desk. As he shifted the pad of paper he was using for some notes, he caught a whiff of anise and turned to look if he’d left the window open. This time the lad is lying on a rough cement floor, one eye swollen shut, his face a mass of bruises, blood trickling from his mouth. Help me, he says. You’re the only one who can.
Jesse gasps and takes a step forward.
‘Jesse!’ Finn’s voice bellowed from the downstairs hallway. ‘What’s taking you so long?’
The Harley was a monster. A dream machine whose power lay not in cc (1450, and no anti-gravity required for lift-off) nor its size nor its in-your-face design, but in its mystique. Even Jesse felt it as Finn showed him how to check out the simple stuff – the T-CLOCK inspection, he called it (tyres, controls, lights, oil, chassis, and kickstand).
‘Always look your bike over carefully before even thinking about starting off. You can avoid big problems, save yourself a lot of grief that way.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe your life.’ Then he gave Jesse a spare key and told him to zip it into a pocket. ‘I duct tape it to a hiding place on the bike when I haven’t got someone riding pillion.’
He ran through a number of other instructions and safety tips, showed Jesse the controls, explained a few basics about engine, clutch, brakes, gears. He was a good teacher, patient and thorough and explicit. Then he verified that Jesse’s helmet was securely fastened, wheeled the bike out of the garage, mounted, waited for Jesse to hop on behind, started the engine, revved it once – hard – for the sheer wicked pleasure of it, saluted the sky with a gloved fist, and they were away.
The rain was light, the tarmac slick and shiny. Their wheels threw up a fine spray which billowed behind them as the Harley sliced through the outskirts of the city, opening a rite of passage into the hills. Surprised that his visor didn’t fog, Jesse found it difficult to gauge how fast they drove. He was warm, though. Moisture simply beaded on Peter’s leathers, which must have been waxed or treated in some way.
Questions buzzed about in Jesse’s head, but he could do little more than hang on tight to Finn’s waist and wait for them to reach their destination. Jesse hadn’t been sure how he would cope with riding body to body, entirely dependent on someone else’s skill. Perhaps it was their protective clothing, but Jesse experienced no discomfort whatsoever – no uneasiness, no shrinking away. At one point, as Finn strafed sharply into the next corner, Jesse tightened his hold and leaned into the big man’s shoulder. Finn shouted something unintelligible back at him, then slowed a bit, took a hand off the handlebar, and gripped Jesse’s where it lay across his own generous midriff. Jesse straightened with a smile, an indecent sense of gratitude filling his throat for a few moments.
After about thirty minutes, they passed a dip in the road, then a cluster of derelict stone buildings, where they turned off into a narrow lane. They were well above the river now – once or twice Jesse had glimpsed its long sinuous curve and the spread of the city, appearing from this distance to cling like a malignant lesion to both sides of a dark blue vein. Even the Old Bridge had been visible. Finn couldn’t maintain his previous speed, for the lane was overgrown and muddy. The rain had just about let up, and above the trees Jesse could see patches of lighter sky behind swiftly driving gunmetal cloud, though no blue as yet. There were puddles in the lane, some deep enough to reach the axles, but Finn was able to dodge the worst potholes. He maintained an even and alert pace, never once skidding or losing traction.
A five-bar gate barricaded the end of the lane. Private, the sign said. No Entry. Finn pulled to a halt and signalled for Jesse to open it. The lane became a grassy track just wide enough for a vehicle. From the ruts and flattened nettles Jesse could tell that a car had passed through here recently. He slid off a little unsteadily, surprised to see the treetops whipping in the breeze. Once Finn had steered the motorbike across the cattlegrid – though no herd was in evidence – Jesse closed the gate and climbed back on board. Finn followed the track as it skirted a ridge and twisted to the right, then entered a dense wooded tract. After about three kilometres, the track forked, then began to steepen uphill. They needed another twenty minutes to reach a small clearing. An ancient Landrover was parked outside a stone cottage. When Jesse dismounted and removed his helmet, he saw that the track ended here.
‘Go and have a look,’ Finn told him, waving towards the rear of the cottage.
Jesse examined the dwelling, which had been built either by a genius or a madman – or was a joint venture. Two-thirds of the walls were natural stone, more pinkish in colour than common in the area and intensifying in places to a deep salmon; the remainder, cement painted a bright sapphire blue. No two windows were of the same size or shape, and all were asymmetrical. And although Jesse counted the outer walls repeatedly, he came up with a different number each time. There were no 90° angles to be found anywhere, and quite a few bulges and curves. The roof surged and recoiled around an off-centre chimney. And Jesse swore that he saw the fender of a steam engine mortared under one of the eaves.
It was magnificent.
Jesse laid his helmet on the motorcycle seat, shook the stiffness out of his shoulders, and walked slowly around the cottage, skirting a large mound of straw bales. He stopped when he reached the back, and gaped.
The entire rear wall of the cottage was an amber-tinted mirrored façade, affording privacy but providing a breathtaking view. The cottage was built into the bank of a large, stream-fed pond – a small upland lake, really. A wooden deck jutted far out over the water, so that its broad teak planks appeared to be floating free like a raft, and on the opposite shore a waterfall plummeted first into a rocky plunge pool, then spilled into the clear depths of the lake itself. Immediately Jesse yearned to strip and throw himself into the water, swim across to the falls. This was something he understood!
Then he realised that they weren’t alone. Under a large garden parasol a man was stretched out in a deckchair, with a tartan woollen rug tucked round him. He threw off the blanket and rose as Jesse walked towards him, held out his arm, and smiled broadly. A long-sleeved jumper hid his tattoos; one sleeve had been truncated and sewn shut.
‘Welcome, Jesse,’ Matthew said.
Finn was approaching from around the other side of the cottage, a big grin on his face.
Inside they sat down to strong black tea. There was a large tin of homemade shortbread, too, and a fire that Matthew lit in the stone fireplace.
‘Whose place is this?’ Jesse asked, after he’d eaten a frightening number of biscuits and had a chance to look round him. The interior was as fascinating as he’d expected, but scantily furnished. They were seated on very simple armchairs and a sofa – straight clean lines, quiet colours. It was the architecture itself that decorated the room.
‘Mine,’ said Matthew. ‘The land belongs to my family, but I built the cottage myself.’
‘Stone by stone,’ said Finn, ‘when Matthew was stronger.’ He looked at Matthew with a question in his eyes.
‘He knows,’ Matthew said. ‘We can talk about it.’
‘You’re looking better. Much better than last time I saw you,’ Finn said.
Matthew and Jesse exchanged glances. Jesse gave an almost imperceptible shake to his head, then turned to study the trees and rocky outcroppings through the great stretch of glass. The surface of the lake reflected the sombre tones of the sky and the rain-darkened trees, except where the waterfall foamed into its lap.
‘I am feeling better,’ Matthew said.
‘A new course of treatment?’
‘Yes.’ Matthew let it go at that.
‘Excellent.’ Finn addressed Jesse. ‘I thought you’d enjoy this place.’
Matthew indicated his missing arm. ‘Finn helped me build the cottage. That’s why he gets squatter’s rights.’
Jesse must have looked confused, since Finn laughed and explained. ‘I use the cottage as kind of retreat, when I need to do some quiet thinking. I get fed up sometimes with the noise and the stink and the crowds. The carnivorous city. And the telephone. Whoever invented the mobile should be butchered in his own laboratory, or at least made to listen to that infernal ringing day and night, till he goes mad from sleep deprivation.’
‘Use your mailbox,’ Matthew said.
Finn smote his head. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’
Jesse was picturing Finn’s spacious house, his complex of rooms in the basement, and the quiet overgrown garden.
‘I can tell what you’re thinking, Jesse. What have I got to complain about?’
Jesse grinned. ‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘Don’t forget that I grew up with the northern wilderness for my backyard. It’s in my blood, which gets too thin on a steady diet of exhaust fumes and neon lights.’
‘One of the reasons you like to take those long exotic assignments?’ Jesse asked, an ironic overtone creeping into his voice.
Finn pulled his pipe, lighter, and tobacco pouch from a pocket. He spent some time filling the bowl, then clamped the stem between his teeth without lighting up. ‘One of them.’
‘Finn does a fair amount of shooting up here,’ Matthew said. ‘Photos, not wildlife.’
Finn removed the pipe from his mouth.
‘The abstracts in the sitting room were photographed near the waterfall,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot that can be done just within a three-kilometre radius of the cottage.’
‘You didn’t bring a camera,’ Matthew said.
‘Not today. This trip is for Jesse.’ He glanced out the window. ‘I’m introducing him to biking. If it doesn’t start to rain again, I’d like to let him have a go on his own.’ He turned to Jesse. ‘There are kilometres of private road throughout the woodland. It’s a very extensive property.’
‘My uncle’s been having the track near the ancient quarry cleared and widened. There’s a good-sized flattish bit where Jesse could practice,’ Matthew said.
‘Good idea,’ Finn said.
‘Are you going to light that thing?’ Matthew asked, pointing at the pipe. ‘If so, I’ll fetch an ashtray.’
‘Maybe later.’ Finn poured himself another cup of tea from the pot. ‘Driving back tonight?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Or did you want some privacy?’
‘You don’t live here all the time?’ Jesse asked.
Matthew shook his head.
‘Matthew often stays in the city, at his uncle’s boathouse, when he’s not –’ Finn looked down into his mug.
‘When I’m not in hospital.’
They were silent for a few minutes, listening to the low crackling of the fire.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ Jesse asked when the smell of the burning wood became insistent, and uncomfortable.
‘Only in so far as I know what cancer’s like,’ Matthew said. ‘There are faster – and less painful – ways to kill yourself. Pills, for one. Or jumping off the Old Bridge, which would be a touch more melodramatic. And add to the legends whispered about the bridge.’
‘Don’t be so bloody morbid, Matthew,’ Finn said.
‘Morbid? Me? Because I’ve got my pills hoarded? I call it being a good boy scout. Suicide is a perfectly legitimate option … sometimes.’
Jesse hesitated. He’d forgotten how blunt Matthew could be. But Matthew picked up Finn’s lighter and tossed it across to Jesse.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘If you must.’
But Jesse left his cigarettes in his pocket. He was not stopped by the prospect of cancer in some far distant future. Nor was he intimidated by Matthew. It was the flash of grief that he’d seen in Matthew’s eyes, perhaps not for himself, but for all the stupid and senseless and destructive things people do to themselves with the little time they’re given.
And Finn in those few minutes of shared silence had watched Peter sawing planks of wood for Matthew, loping off with his sketchbook towards the lake, throwing a stick to a golden-coated dog.
‘Where’s Daisy?’ Finn asked.
‘Out chasing lemmings,’ Matthew said.
‘Forgot to buy dog food again, have you?’ Finn asked.
They laughed, and Jesse helped himself to another biscuit.
‘Those are Peter’s things, aren’t they?’ Matthew asked. ‘It’s about time they were used.’ Mortality was a fact of life for him, not a nasty little secret to be kept hidden in a cupboard.
Jesse managed not to overturn the motorcycle, and he only stalled the engine twice. Finn had him practice starting till he could do it smoothly; the first few times he forgot about the kill switch, then tried to start the engine while in gear. He had some trouble coordinating clutch and throttle. Eventually he was able to drive in a wide circle without wobbling, though he still didn’t trust himself entirely with the gear shifter. Leaning to make a turn and braking seemed to come naturally to him, but smooth throttle operations were less successful.
Jesse removed his helmet and flicked back his hair. There was a line of sweat along his brow. He’d forgotten what it was like for someone to believe in you.
‘That’s enough for now,’ Finn said. ‘It’s a big bike, and it would have been easier to start out on a scooter or at least a lighter machine. We’ll work on changing gears, then swerving and emergency braking the next couple of times I take you out, before you try to get up any speed.’
Jesse mopped his face with his hand.
‘You did fine, Jesse. Remind me someday to tell you about my first afternoon on a motorbike.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not now. I have to be very drunk to recount the story. Hop on, and we’ll go back to the cottage.’
‘Do you mind if I make my own way back? I’d like to walk through the wood, maybe go down to the lake.’
Finn glanced at his watch. ‘I can’t be away for too long. How about if I run you down to a path that leads to the waterfall, and you walk back along the lake by yourself? Will that do for today?’
Jesse nodded.
‘Good,’ said Finn. ‘There are some things I need to go over with Matthew.’
‘He’s a very unusual man.’
‘How much has he told you about himself?’
‘Very little. We don’t talk much while we work.’
‘That’s like him. He’s as open as can be about his illness, but there’s a lot he leaves out. He was studying architecture when they discovered his cancer. It changed everything for him. His father was devastated. Matthew’s an only child, and his mother died when he was eleven. Of a brain tumour,’ Finn said.
‘Shit.’
‘There’s more. Aside from the arm, I mean. He was living with a woman. It had been a few years, they’d talked about getting married, kids were being mentioned. Within six weeks of the diagnosis, she was gone. Packed her clothes and her books and her cat and moved in with someone else. She couldn’t deal with illness, not serious illness. Fatal illness. In a way I could understand her. When I didn’t feel like throttling her.’ He gave a small flat laugh. ‘Her name was Daisy. To this day I can’t figure out whether it was longing or bitterness that made Matthew name his dog after her.’
‘Or masochism.’
‘Know something about that, do you?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. After a moment Jesse turned and looked towards the open face of the quarry. Not once had he thought to ask Matthew about his life. It would be easy for Jesse to pretend that it was out of delicacy, but he’d be fooling himself. He’d been too preoccupied with his own thoughts, his own issues. He swallowed, his mouth tasted sour. He thought of Mal, who had needed those model ships; the glass bottles had contained a message for Jesse that he’d refused to decrypt.
‘But Matthew adopted Daisy – most people underestimate a husky’s needs, and she’d been turned over to the RSPCA – and started work on the narrowboat. He’s got a little family money and probably not a whole lot of time, but he’s one of the sanest men I know. Dying teaches you how to live, he always says.’ Finn paused for a moment, examining Jesse’s profile, then braved, ‘If I were trapped in a burning building, there’s no one I’d rather have trying to reach me, one arm and all.’
Without a word Jesse strapped on his helmet and went to stand by the Harley until Finn joined him.
It was a struggle not to go for a swim – a struggle which Jesse quickly lost. Ten minutes, he told himself, no more. He looked round, but of course there was no one in sight. He stripped, debating whether to leave anything on, then decided for once against it. He didn’t mind if a trout or badger caught a glimpse of him.
He’d picked a spot where he wouldn’t have to fight his way through a thicket of reeds or clamber over rocky ground to reach the water’s edge. Tossing back his hair, he stepped quickly through the coarse grass at the bank, scanned for underwater hazards, and pushed off from the gently sloping shelf. The lake was cold, but no colder than he was used to.
Jesse struck out for the centre of the lake. He’d have to leave the waterfall for another time. If he swam the circumference of the lake, he could probably locate the outlet, unless it were far underwater. The lake must flow into the river, eventually into the sea. As his arms parted the water with his unhurried stroke, strong and true as an elegant theorem, he pictured the cells his body was right now giving up to the water – a little skin, some sweat, a hair or two, his spit, his pee – and which would in time arrive at the coast. How strange that he might encounter part of himself there, when he finally reached it. And part of how many others, too? He’d never thought of it that way before. What had Sarah said? Some places carry an imprint. Who knew what complex codes were still to be deciphered in the most ordinary stuff ?
He rolled over onto his back. Idly he flicked the water with his fingers. What am I doing here? he asked himself. What are any of us? A few raindrops sprinkled his face, scribbled on the surface of the lake. Jesse laughed: getting wet. The universe’s answer to our frantic scrabble for meaning. He wished Sarah were here to share the joke with him. Then he remembered her scorn – her hurt. He flipped over and slid beneath the surface of the water. Apologise, you fool. The resounding silence of the lake offered no rebuke – but no absolution either.
On the bank Jesse rubbed his hands along his limbs to warm and dry them. He squeezed out the excess water from his hair, combed it back with his fingers. He’d pulled on his pants, though his skin was still a little damp, and was reaching for his T-shirt when he heard a soft footfall behind him. Quickly he turned to hide his back from view.
‘Cold?’ Finn asked.
‘Not too bad.’
Neither spoke for a moment.
‘I reckon you’ve seen them,’ Jesse said. ‘The scars on my back.’
‘From the fire?’
Jesse nodded.
And that was that.
Finn picked up a stone and skipped it neatly across the surface of the lake. Quickly Jesse donned his clothing, leaving the leather jacket unzipped. He checked for the top, then searched the ground. At the water’s edge he found a handful of smooth pebbles.
‘Challenge?’ he asked.
Finn broke into a wide grin. ‘Loser gets to climb up on the roof.’
‘Even as a forfeit that’s rather extreme.’
‘I’m serious, there’s a broken tile to replace before we leave. I don’t want Matthew doing it on his own. That’s why I came to fetch you. One of us needs to hold the ladder.’ He hiked his leather trousers, then rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘I hope you’re not afraid of heights. Years ago I was Olympic gold medallist in ducks and drakes.’ He looked up at the clouds. ‘Come on, it looks as if the sky has got a bellyache.’
‘Prepare for your ignominious defeat,’ Jesse said. He divided up the stones and let Finn choose the pile he preferred.
‘You won’t beat me next time,’ Jesse said.
‘Is that so? Then perhaps a little timely practice might be in order,’ Finn said.
They smiled amicably at each other as they went to fetch the ladder.
‘Matthew! What are you doing up there?’
Matthew jerked at the sound of Finn’s voice, and the ladder on which he was standing wobbled. Then, in excruciating slow motion, exactly as in a film, it began to tilt. There’s one single instant when it seems the fall could be prevented. Loki peers at the board, cradles the dice – he loves to play Snakes and Ladders. And what better chance? Matthew, suspended in mid-air, carried by the sudden breathless silence, the silent breath of wind. Jesse sees the tiny figure clinging with one arm to the Lego ladder. Hovering far above, he sees the toy dog, the bearded man with wide staring eyes and a round O of a mouth, and the blond boy. His merciless vision tells him that even with his speed he cannot reach the man soon enough to pluck him safely from the ladder – from the game. All he can do is adjust, fractionally, the trajectory. And so he flaps his wings, once, and tugs at the air, rises in a fierce steep climb, and is gone.
Matthew landed unharmed in the bales of straw. Once he’d recovered his breath, he stared at Jesse. ‘Just before I fell, I saw you enter the kestrel,’ he whispered.
Jesse closed his book and stretched. Time for a jog in the park, maybe along the river. As soon as Nubi could run properly, they’d go after dark; even better, after midnight. Jesse missed the deep solitude of night, its timelessness; its spatial singularity.
There was a faint but enticing smell seeping under the door. Could Meg be home already? She’d said that she was taking on extra duty in order to have a few days off next week to clear out the attic. A daunting task. He’d stay that long, certainly.
There was still the road, and the sea.
Jesse glanced at Nubi, who was stretched out theatrically with his broken leg on display, and snorted. Another performer. The bandage was past its best by date: grubby and starting to unravel. Nubi wouldn’t leave off tearing at it with his teeth. Finn was taking them by car to the vet day after tomorrow.
There was still the sea.
Nubi would be a good travelling companion. It wouldn’t always be easy to feed him, but people trusted you more readily with a dog – or left you alone.
There was still the sea.
Jesse rubbed a hand across his eyes. Matthew’s face had begun to flesh out already, and to lose its telltale translucence, if not the deep lines of pain. And he was paying Jesse more than he should. It was time to look for a second job, a room (though Finn would be hurt). At least until the primary tumour deep inside Matthew’s head had shrunk.
There was still the sea.
He’d promised himself to swim the lake. Just as Sarah had promised to tell him what Peter had been like. Promises…
And there was still the sea.
Someone knocked, a quiet and tentative sound.
‘Come in,’ Jesse called out.
Sarah opened the door, a plate in her hands.
‘I've baked some brownies,’ she said with a hesitant smile. ‘Want to try them?’
She was dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt, but she looked different somehow – softer, more troubled. There were dark rings under her eyes, and her freckles stood out. She had very long feathery eyelashes, he noticed. Like Nubi’s. He grinned to himself at the comparison. But Nubi had very pretty eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked, seeing his lips twitch.
‘I was just thinking about your eyes,’ Jesse answered. Immediately he wanted to thwack himself on the forehead. What a stupid thing to say.
Sarah didn’t seem to find it so bad. She coloured some, but her smile became less hesitant, and she prodded his chest with the plate. ‘Come on, try one. They’re good.’
‘Mm,’ he said, chewing slowly and luxuriously, his mouth having decided it had arrived at the garden of Eden. Apple? Adam hadn’t had a clue.
‘What did you call them?’ Jesse asked.
‘Brownies,’ Sarah repeated. ‘They’re American.’
‘No,’ he said as he reached for another, ‘they’re Divine.’
They settled on Jesse’s bed, eating without saying much. Very soon the brownies were finished. Jesse picked up the last crumbs from the plate with a fingertip. He sighed and lay back with his arms under his head, his eyelids heavy. Just now he would tell her he was sorry. And maybe he’d wait until later to go out. He was full and warm and a bit sleepy. He could feel his mind slip its moorings, adrift on the wavelets lapping against their old dock. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. Thistle-light it brushed his skin. He opened his eyes just as Sarah touched her lips to his. Her long hair swung across his face like a fresh gust of wind.
Her eyes were wide, liquid. With one arm Jesse reached up and buried his hand in her hair, pulled her into the kiss. The scent of chocolate lingered on her breath. He felt his body stirring. Her small breasts nestled against his chest. He tightened his hand in her hair. She shifted against him, and a line of heat raced from his mouth to his groin. Her heart drumming. A sound like tearing silk in his throat. Could she feel his erection, how did you tell with a girl, if he touched her, would it be springy like Liam’s or more like fine new grass, soft and full and lush they must be to call them lips, warm too, moist there where she’d let Mick ... his mind buckled like a metal girder being torn from its rivets.
‘No,’ he cried. ‘No.’
Jesse pushed her away and sat up. His face was blotched, his breathing uneven.
Sarah rolled onto her side, her face hidden from him. Neither of them said a word. Jesse became aware that her shoulders were trembling. He waited till he could lever himself upright, sat for a moment with his hands between his knees, then rose and went to the window. He gripped the sill, looking out. A few smudges of blue were leaking into the clouds. Briefly a finger of sunlight poked its way through the canvas, gilding everything it touched before being swallowed up again by greyness. He leaned his head against the windowpane, the glass cool on his forehead.
Only when Jesse heard the door shut softly did he realise Sarah had left the room.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 10/20/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Jesse raised his head, but it took him a few moments to bring the room into focus, the place and time. He was kneeling at Nubi’s side. From the doorway Meg was watching them, her face pale and shadowed in the light spilling from the hallway. He remembered now. He’d turned off the kitchen lights to make it easier to concentrate. He laid his head on Nubi’s flank and breathed. He breathed.
‘You’re a healer, aren’t you?’ Meg asked.
He was unable to speak.
Meg crossed the room and crouched at his side, waiting quietly until his face had lost its mottled, watery green tinge. Then she rose again, switched on the overhead lights, and pulled out a chair for him.
‘Come, you need some tea.’ She gazed at him. ‘Some sugar.’
‘Is there any chocolate?’
‘I’ll fetch a box of the Swiss pralines.’
Jesse shook his head. ‘Leave them. It’d be a shame, I’d eat the lot without even tasting them.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve got a small stash of my own.’ She put the kettle on to boil and left the room.
Jesse looked over at Nubi, who was dozing on his blanket. A more complicated break than the kestrel’s, so he was likely to sleep for a while yet. Jesse sighed; he abhorred sedatives. Not even Matthew’s medication had affected him like this. Then he grinned to himself – maybe an allergy?
While he ate and drank, Meg sat with her own thoughts till he’d recovered enough for the trembling in his muscles to cease.
‘Have you done any healing?’ he asked.
‘My gift is different.’ She paused and broke off a piece of chocolate for herself, then pushed the chocolate bar back across the table. ‘There’s not much left. Eat it all,’ she said. ‘I was going to do spaghetti for supper, but if you can’t wait, I’ll make you something now.’
Jesse grimaced. The thought of food made him queasy.
‘No, just this. Sarah’s promised to bring me some chocolate,’ then added in an undertone, ‘I think.’
‘So she knows?’
He shook his head. ‘Only that I had a craving for chocolate.’
A few coarse grains of demerara were scattered near the sugar bowl. Jesse prodded them with a fingertip. An ant would see what? Large craggy chunks of grit? A gift of the Great God Ant? An ecstatic chance? He brought his finger close and stared at the crystals clinging to his skin. He tried to imagine what it would be like not to wonder, not to have a life in his head. It was a damned lonely business, this noisy shuttered skulling. Yet without it … He licked his finger.
‘How did you know I can heal?’ he asked.
‘Because I can follow you in a bit.’
‘You’re always talking in riddles!’ he said crossly.
‘Would you prefer an equation? You, of all people?’
He shrugged.
‘Empathy is not always a gift, you know. Sometimes it’s overwhelming…terrifying. And mostly it’s just frustrating.’
‘Are you warning me off?’ Jesse asked with an edge to his voice. Then he ducked his head and muttered, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, I’ve been known to throw things after some of my worst – well, Finn likes to call them trips to annoy me.’
‘Yeah, I've been wondering whether you use any of the hallucinogens in your little black bag.’
Nonplussed, she stared at him for a moment. Then she chuckled.
‘Compared to you, I’m something like an ant asked to follow Shakespeare. It can crawl between the pages. It can trace the path of the printer’s ink. And it can certainly be crushed if you slam the book shut.’ With the edge of her hand she swept the sugar together into her palm, a movement as sweet and cruel as a sonnet. ‘But it will still find its way to the sugar from far off, won’t it?’ She brushed the crystals off into the sugar bowl.
Jesse felt a crawling sensation along his skin. To hide his disquiet, he broke up the rest of the chocolate and ate it piece by piece, in between sipping his tea. Psychiatrists’ tricks, he tried to tell himself, but wasn’t reassured.
Meg went to the back door and opened it, letting in a gust of cool air. It was still drizzling. The sky was grey and dull and featureless, hours from nightfall. The lights in the kitchen emphasised rather than dispelled the gloom.
‘I’ll cut some sweet peas,’ Meg said. ‘Their scent’s best at evening. The kitchen needs cheering.’
‘Would you like me to do it?’ Jesse asked.
‘No, it’s fine. I like to get out in the garden as often as I can, among things that are growing.’ She smiled. ‘As you are.’
He raised a sardonic eyebrow, but she didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she was amused – quietly appreciative, as though they were sharing a good joke.
‘Give it time, Jesse. You’ll grow into it. The mind has many rooms, and strangely painted doors, which my straighter colleagues think of as mere synapses. Some are bound to be dead ends. And others … who knows?’
She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors.
‘I’ll be very interested to see how you develop. You might not want to hear this, but yours is the most powerful mind I’ve ever come across.’
‘There are lots of smart people out there.’
‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about.’
He ran his hands through his hair, once, then a second time. When he spoke, his tone was convincingly offhand. ‘Will you tell Finn?’
‘About the healing?’ Meg regarded him for a long moment. ‘I give you my word, only if it’s ever absolutely necessary.’
She took down an old, drab olive rain cape from a hook behind the door and shrugged it over her head, then kicked off her shoes. Another person who liked to walk barefoot in the rain. She picked up a basket that had seen years of good use, laid the scissors inside, and hooked it into the crook of her arm. At the threshold she turned back to look at him.
‘Never doubt that the mind is real, Jesse.’
She closed the door with a soft click and walked out into the rain.
‘How touching,’ said Sarah from the doorway.
Seated at the table, Jesse was handing Meg flowers one by one, which she was arranging in a vase. A pot of tea steamed gently in front of him, a book lay open to his left. The kitchen was filled with the rich smell of garlic and tomato and oregano.
Sarah sauntered across the kitchen to lift the saucepan lid, releasing an even greater assault on her empty stomach so that it gave a plaintive growl, and with a wooden spoon stirred the sauce, prolonging the activity with just the right dramatic timing – not too short to go unnoticed, not too long to become absurd – then stomped over to Jesse and tossed her fistful of Cadbury bars onto the table, not caring if they broke into pieces – wanting them to break.
Nubi had raised his head when Sarah came into the kitchen. He seemed much more alert. Still without another word she went to stroke him. To her astonishment he rose to all fours and shook himself. Not only had the sedative worn off, but he was paying no more heed to his injured leg than to his leather collar. She set her chin. She’d be damned if she’d ask him. It would be easy enough to tackle her mother on her own afterwards.
‘How was your class?’ Meg asked.
‘Fine.’
‘Was Thomas there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ll be eating in fifteen minutes.’
‘Not hungry.’
Meg dealt with schizophrenia and severe depression and bipolar disorder and autism on a daily basis. A little temper tantrum didn’t even register on her radar screen.
‘No problem.’ Meg turned to Jesse. ‘Would you mind fetching Finn up from the office?’ She was careful not to look at the intercom.
But Sarah also knew a thing or two about mothers. ‘I’ll do it. I’m going anyway.’
She turned on her heel and left, closing the door behind her. Not slamming it, just letting it make a nice loud statement.
Jesse thought he’d have a look at the games on the laptop before going to check on Nubi. He loaded the chess program and played a few games. Despite his fatigue, he trawled easily through the advanced level but left grandmaster for another time. No matter how much he ridiculed himself, he remained stubbornly loathe to lose to a machine. He had a rapid look at the other games, all pretty much standard fare. He’d have a go at them eventually – he enjoyed a good cop chase as much as the next bloke, so long as it stayed virtual. Smart people didn’t tangle with the police, ever.
Idly he doubleclicked on a last game, then frowned. The screen had gone blank.
Or so it seemed. Reckoning the whole thing was a typical freeze, Jesse was about to soft boot when the screen became a uniform dark purple. His hand hovered over the keyboard. He was curious, but he also wanted to have another look at Nubi – the femur had been in bad condition. Though Nubi could put his weight on the leg now, the healing process would be slow, and Jesse knew he’d have to go back in. It would be foolhardy, of course, to make another attempt so soon. He leaned his elbows on the desk and massaged the knots at the base of his skull. That deathly cold – he shivered, then straightened abruptly. It wasn’t memory that frosted his computer screen, that exhaled a puff of white vapour. He was suddenly afraid.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. The words floated in large shimmering 3-D letters across the display, then disappeared, leaving the screen empty once more. Jesse stared at it in disbelief. Macbeth’s words: had he imagined them? Could he be that tired? Or...? Jesse ran a fingertip across the screen. Cold, icy cold. Even his imagination couldn’t possibly produce the thin scraping of frost rapidly melting on his skin. He shivered again and fetched a jumper from the wardrobe. His curiosity was stronger than his fear now. He might not be able to control what was happening to the temperature, but a computer had never yet intimidated him, nor awed him either.
First he tried the mouse, then the keyboard. No response. The screen remained purple, although the colour shimmered into blue at the edges. The oddest system crash he’d ever seen. He could reboot and try again. But if he wanted to fiddle around properly, he would need some time, probably a lot of time. Jesse drummed his fingers lightly on the wooden desktop. He knew himself. Once he began, he might not resurface for hours. Nubi needed attention – and then there was Sarah. He hoped that she’d calmed down enough to talk to him.
A movement on the screen caught Jesse’s attention. Impossible. The computer had locked down. Chin on his knitted hands, he fixed his eyes on the display, as if by fierce concentration alone he could will the computer to yield up its secrets. He didn’t dare touch the keyboard for fear of interrupting what was unfolding before him.
A small sphere had formed in the exact centre of the screen. To begin with it looked like a child’s blue ball, but under Jesse’s scrutiny, land and ocean and clouds appeared, not all at once but slowly, rising from the depths of the display much like one of Finn’s images in the darkroom. It wasn’t the earth. The shape of the continent on the visible hemisphere was wrong. As the object – planet, he assumed – began to revolve, the continent proved to be the sole landmass. Soon the planet was rotating, then spinning, then whirling so fast that Jesse could no longer make out any details on its surface. Uneasily he noticed that it now looked exactly like Peter’s top. One hand stole into his pocket, where he’d been keeping the toy. It felt warm under his fingers and was vibrating slightly. In his palm it seemed the same as usual, except that his skin was tingling by contact with the wood. Jesse glanced back at the laptop screen. Startled, he dropped the top, which bounced off the desk and fell with a thunk to the floor.
It was very hard for him to believe what he’d just witnessed: cradled by a hand, the blue top on the screen had nova’d in a burst of brilliant bluewhite light.
Now the screen was black, and blank. Like the interior of a camera obscura after sunset, or Finn’s darkroom. The room was warm again, and Jesse’s shivering had another source.
Just before Jesse fell asleep that night, he remembered that the continent he’d seen on the display wasn’t unfamiliar to him. Rendered by geographers and later by computer modelling, it had been named Pangaea.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 10/13/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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One token knock, then Sarah marched into Jesse’s room carrying a mug of tea, a book, and an air of mischief.
‘Wake up, lazybones.’ She settled on the edge of the bed and held out the mug. ‘Come on, drink up.’
Jesse groaned artfully and burrowed further under the covers. Sarah was having none of that. She set the mug down on the bedside table, and with a giggle that hinted at practice, pounced on precisely the right spot to induce a muffled roar. Jesse thrust his head out from under his duvet, pulled her down onto the bed, and began to tickle her till she begged for a truce. They lay next to each other companionably while Sarah caught her breath.
‘Pass me the tea,’ Jesse said as he winched himself into a sitting position, resigned to foregoing his lie-in. It was still a lot better than waking up stiff and hungry on a piece of cardboard. A whole lot better. Had it really been less than a week since he’d slept under a bridge?
‘I’ve brought up Finn’s copy of Rilke.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s in German, so I thought you could find that poem for me. Autumn Day, you said.’
Rather than take the book, Jesse quoted softly. ‘He who is alone now, will remain alone ... will wander the streets restlessly ...’ His voice trailed off, and for a moment he was still, gazing into his mug. Then he looked up to find her eyes on him. ‘I’ll write out a translation for you, if you’re interested.’
While he drank, Sarah tilted her head and regarded him critically.
‘Don’t you want me to trim your hair?’ she asked. He raised an eyebrow so she added, ‘I’m good at it, honestly. Katy and I do each other’s all the time.’
Jesse squinted at her hair in return. Wild tendrils were already escaping from an elastic.
‘Is that supposed to be an argument for or against?’ he asked.
Sarah snorted.
‘Why are you so anxious to hack at my head with a scissors anyway? A Delilah complex?’
‘You’re having lunch in the city with Finn. Have you forgotten?’
‘So?’ he asked, an expression of studied innocence on his face.
‘Well, your hair is just a little –’ she broke off with a glare when she realised that he was teasing her. ‘Right, go around looking like a savage for all I care.’
‘Shall I show you savage?’
At the ensuing sounds Nubi, who’d been ignoring all of the banter up till now, rose and shook himself, padded over to them. His kindly face looked so puzzled that both Jesse and Sarah began to laugh again.
‘Do you want to me to take him for a walk this afternoon?’ Sarah asked. ‘While you’re in the city buying out all the shops? I’ve got nothing to do till my evening dance class.’
‘What time is it now?’ Jesse asked.
‘Just gone ten.’
‘I haven’t slept this long in ages.’ He thought back to his weekends at Mal’s house. On Saturdays he’d been expected to wash the car and sweep the path by noon. They had dozed while he fixed Sunday breakfast before church. Though to be fair, Angie had always cooked a bang-up Sunday dinner – a roast, and pudding too. She worked long hours, he remembered with a flicker of guilt. He was beginning to wonder why he’d resented her quite so much. And she’d taken his side against Mal sometimes – not often, but it mustn’t have been easy to do.
Go and feed Nubi,’ he said, ‘while I brush my teeth. Then fetch your infamous scissors. But I’m warning you, any blood drawn will be taken out in kind.’
‘Just wait and see. You won’t recognise yourself.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.’
Grinning, Sarah took the mug from his hand. Their fingers brushed, and both of them suddenly fell silent.
Sarah could hear his breathing. She could feel the heat rising from his pores and smell his brackish night musk. They stared at each other. Jesse made a small sound at the back of his throat, a sound very much like soft rain.
Like Peter, Jesse had wonderful eyes.
Her family had spent most holidays in Norway, often at her grandmother’s country house. Sarah loved to walk along the beach above the rocky headland – once the sea took hold, it refused to let go. Its colours were subtle, and hoarded pirate treasure, and shifted endlessly, never once the same.
Jesse had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.
‘I want to tell you about my brother,’ she said, trying not to think of the letter. ‘Peter.’
Jesse sat up straighter, and the blue top rolled out from the bedclothes onto the floor. Sarah bent and picked it up, then examined it with a look of disbelief on her face.
‘This is Peter’s,’ she said. ‘He never went anywhere without it.’
‘Your mother gave it to me.’
‘She gave you Peter’s top?’
‘What’s the matter? Why has nobody mentioned your brother?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘You’ve had a haircut,’ Tondi said.
She was wearing a thin floral skirt, cut asymmetrically, and a chaste white T-shirt. Jesse could tell that she’d put on a bra. Her streaked hair was caught up in a clip, and if she wore any makeup it was skilfully applied. She looked clean and wholesome, like a film stereotype.
‘Sarah’s not here,’ Jesse said.
‘I didn’t come to see Sarah,’ she said with a smile. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
Without waiting for an answer, she propped her umbrella against the wall and brushed past him into the house. Jesse followed her into the sitting room, where she stood looking at the framed black-and-white photographs: sensual and somewhat disturbing abstracts grouped along an entire wall. They were extraordinarily beautiful – museum quality, Jesse thought.
‘I’ve always wondered what these are supposed to be,’ Tondi said.
Jesse shrugged, unwilling to engage in conversation with her. She made him uncomfortable. He moved over to the coffee table and began straightening the magazines and newspapers that were scattered higgledy-piggledy across its surface. Finn’s presence hadn’t improved the state of the house – it was rather worse, in fact. He’d brought not just the latest photo journals, but a whole stack of political and economic reviews with him from the airport – in several languages, Jesse noted – along with boxes of Swiss chocolates that were still pyramided on the seat of an armchair.
‘Got a diet coke?’ Tondi asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jesse. ‘It’s not my house.’
‘But you’re staying here, aren’t you?’
Jesse was tempted to tell her to clear off, but he didn’t know just what her relationship to Sarah was. He didn’t like Tondi or the company she kept, nor did he trust her, but if these were Sarah’s friends ... He supposed it would do no harm to fetch her a drink.
‘Yeah, I’m staying for a while.’
‘Are you a relative? You know, a cousin or something?’
‘No.’
‘A friend of the family then?’
‘No.’
‘Something to do with her work? Sarah’s mum, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘A ghost?’ She crinkled her eyes and smiled.
Jesse laughed. OK, he was being a bit of a dickhead. She did have a nice smile, actually.
‘I’ll go and see if there’s any coke in the fridge.’
She followed him into the kitchen, which he’d just finished tidying. The room looked cheerful despite the persistent drizzle. There was a large bunch of early sunflowers in a jug on the table, to which a few drops of moisture still clung. Meg must have cut them before leaving for work. Jesse smiled to himself. The house might be messy and disorganised, but never tawdry. Only the weekly cleaner seemed to touch the hoover. ‘I prefer my spade,’ Meg had said unabashedly. It occurred to him that he would enjoy helping her in the garden. Though he’d resented any of the garden work assigned by his foster families, he remembered helping his grandmother weed the vegetables. He liked the feel of the crumbly black earth between his fingers, the hot sun on his neck.
‘Where’s your dog?’ Tondi asked as she sipped her lemonade. There had been no coke.
‘Sarah’s taken him for a run. And I’m going out soon,’ he said.
‘Any place special?’
‘Not really. Why?’
‘I thought we might go round while Sarah’s with Mick.’ She looked at him coyly over the rim of her glass as she took another sip, then licked her lips. ‘Show you where everybody hangs out.’ She kept her eyes on his face as she finished the lemonade.
Jesse’s heart fisted against his breastbone. Sarah and Mick? Sarah hadn’t said anything. But then she wouldn’t, would she? No wonder she was so keen to get him, Jesse, out of the way. To his chagrin he could feel a wave of heat suffusing his skin.
‘Didn’t Sarah tell you?’ Tondi asked him, her blue eyes wide and innocent.
Tondi was cleverer than she looked. She was enjoying his discomfiture. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her, rid of them all. He felt as though he’d tread in something disgusting. Early on, there’d been mornings when the reek had awakened him, as if the drunks had deliberately chosen to spew up at his feet, to take special delight in debasing anyone at their mercy. A kid, a nothing.
Jesse reached for his cigarettes lying on the worktop. He shook one out and lit it without offering the packet to Tondi. After inhaling a few times to dispel the memory of that sour smell, he stared at her coldly. Then he remembered the no-smoking rule, took one last drag, and pinched the tip out with spit-moistened fingers. He smiled his practised quarter-smile, the one with flared nostrils.
‘Sorry, Tondi, not interested.’
She raised her chin. ‘No problem. It was Kevin’s idea anyway. He’ll be waiting for me.’
‘You’re a bad liar.’
Her eyes snapped with fury. She wasn't accustomed to out-and-out scorn – or honesty. Jesse smiled an openly mocking smile now, knowing how it would inflame her. She was spoilt and transparent, easy to manipulate. He had a lot more practice at dealing with humiliation.
‘If you’re hoping to make it with Sarah, be careful. Mick doesn’t like poaching,’ she said with an attempt at bravado.
‘Mick doesn’t own Sarah. Nor does he scare me. Go back to your toys.’
‘Fuck off. We were just doing Sarah a favour by inviting you.’
‘I’m nobody’s favour, especially not yours. Now get out and don’t come panting round me again. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
She went white with rage. Jesse walked out of the kitchen, not bothering to shut the door behind him.
‘Are you absolutely certain you don’t want another steak?’ Finn asked.
Jesse blushed and dropped the piece of roll with which he’d been mopping up the juices on his plate. He was still not used to having enough to eat. It wasn’t as if he’d ever starved, not like the kids you saw on TV, with swollen bellies and stick limbs and eyes that had given up. In his foster homes they’d always fed him, though it had sometimes felt like hunger. The last few months had been hard – the scrounging, the hunger pangs and stomach cramps, the unremitting dreams of food, the dread – but he’d always managed to find something to eat. A few times somebody had shared a tin of soup or a loaf of stale bread with him, but he’d been unwilling to stick around long enough to form the kind of partnership, friendship even, that sometimes developed on the street. He knew favours had to be paid for. He wasn’t sure he could return to that life.
Finn signalled to the waiter. Over Jesse’s protests he ordered a second steak and the cheese board, from which he helped himself to generous wedges of some very ripe-looking specimens. The red wine was nearly finished, but he shook his head reluctantly when asked about another bottle. It was a working day.
‘Don’t tell Meg about the cheese,’ he said with a grin. ‘She’s a real tyrant sometimes when it come to my diet.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Jesse asked.
‘With my health, you mean? Not a thing. These doctors are all mad about cholesterol.’
‘But Meg’s a psychiatrist.’
‘A doctor’s a doctor. I keep telling her that it’s a load of rubbish. My ancestors have eaten cheese and butter and cream and plenty of animal fat for generations, and not one of them died before ninety.’
‘None?’
‘Well, there was my great-aunt Gerd, who didn’t make it past seventy-three. But I think being eaten by a lion while on safari in Africa doesn’t quite count as diet-related.’
‘You’re dubbing me,’ protested Jesse.
‘Not at all. Like I’ve said, I come from a long line of Norse adventurers. Now eat up while I tell you what I’ve got planned for the rest of the afternoon.’
Jesse applied himself to his steak, which the waiter had just served with a straight face and a little flourish. His eyes twinkled, though.
After a few minutes of silence, Finn emptied the wine bottle into his glass, drank, and hid his belch somewhere between a cough and a snort, followed by a sheepish grin. ‘Too long in the wilderness.’ The chunk of baguette remaining on his plate slowly crumbled under his fingertips.
‘You’re not going back, you know,’ Finn said at last.
‘Back?’ asked Jesse. ‘Back where?’ He had a pretty good idea what Finn meant, however.
‘Back to the street. It’s no solution.’
Jesse put down his fork and knife, took a long drink of his coke; with a forefinger began to connect the dots of condensation on his glass till he caught sight of Finn’s pursed lips and tapping fingers. There were few pictures concealed from Finn’s eye.
‘If I found a full-time job, I could afford a room somewhere.’
‘Just how old are you, Jesse? Last time I asked, you hedged.’
‘Nearly seventeen.’
‘You belong in school.’
‘I’d have to register with the authorities. I’m never going to let social services get hold of me again. Never.’
‘It might not be that bad, if someone like Meg were involved. You’re entitled to support and an education, you know.’
‘The public library will do fine for an education. They can keep their money.’
‘Easy to say when you’re sixteen. Not so easy when you’re thirty and still sweeping someone’s yard for a fiver.’
‘Better that than their mind-fucks and lockups.’
‘Come off it, you’re way too smart to spout that rubbish. The very worst would be shared accommodation, but there are other options. And not all social workers are incompetent. Or sadists. We’re not talking concentration camp here.’
Jesse snorted. ‘You’ve got no bloody idea.’
An expression that Jesse had not seen before crossed Finn’s face. Jesse felt ashamed of himself. He had no right to talk to Finn like that. What did he really know about Finn’s life? He’d lost a son, hadn’t he? Jesse had no patent on suffering.
‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve had my fill of fostering. There are some really screwed-up people in on the game.’
‘No, don’t apologise. You’re right. I was being officious, condescending. I can’t possibly know what you’ve gone through. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.’ A pause. ‘With Peter, Sarah's brother.’
Jesse picked at his leftover chips, now cold and unappealing, before blurting out, ‘What happened to him?’
Finn raised his wineglass and tilted it against the light, studying it for so long that Jesse thought he wouldn’t answer. But the answer, when it came, came all at once, like a bottle shaken, then uncorked.
‘Peter was one of those bright and charismatic kids who seemed destined to sail through life without a squall – good at school, even better at sport, popular, nice-looking, girls, a talented artist. I was away a lot, took it all for granted.’ A few drops of wine dripped onto the tablecloth, and Finn set the glass down. ‘Expected too much from him, too, I suppose.’
It seemed impossible for Finn to have been a bad father. What could have gone wrong?
Finn blinked a few times and continued, ‘I’m not sure exactly when it began to fall apart. He started staying out later and later, missing school, becoming surly and uncommunicative, sleeping for hours at a time during the day. Often not coming home at all. We kept hoping we could cope on our own. It got worse, then much worse. Meg and I – well, no marriage is that impregnable. In the end we knew we needed help. We tried to insist on counselling. There were huge bloodcurdling fights. He broke things. Stole things. One half-term when he’d just turned seventeen he left. We never saw him again.’ Finn took a long draught of his wine.
Jesse spoke softly. ‘How did he die?’
‘I don’t know if you want to hear this. You’ve got more in common with us than you realise.’
‘I want to hear.’
‘Peter was found burnt to death in a squat, along with several bodies. We don’t know exactly what happened, but they were able to identify him through DNA sequencing, though not all of the others.’ Finn was quiet for a moment, his pain louder than words. ‘So tell me, is that what you want? From day to day not knowing where you’ll sleep, what you’ll eat, whether you’ll be beaten or raped or worse by morning?’
The minutes passed as they stared at each other. Jesse dropped his eyes first.
‘No,’ Jesse muttered. ‘No, that’s not what I want.’
‘What happened?’ Jesse asked, crouching down to look at Nubi’s leg.
Nubi was lying on a blanket in the kitchen, his rear left leg splinted and bandaged, his pelvis taped. The vet had administered a painkiller and sedative, so Nubi soon dropped his head back onto his paws. Jesse stroked his bony head, then behind his ears, and murmured ‘good boy’ over and over again.
‘It was my fault,’ Sarah said. ‘I hadn’t bothered with the lead, and he tore across the street just as a car was coming. We were lucky that the driver saw him and braked so fast.’ She took an uneven breath, and Jesse could tell that she was still shaken by the accident. ‘I never realised an animal could scream like that, Jesse. I was so scared.’
There was no point in accusing her of carelessness. She felt guilty enough as it was. Who was he to cast stones anyway? He remembered how he’d tried to drive Nubi off that first morning.
‘Look, it’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ he said, looking up from Nubi’s side. ‘It’s only a broken leg.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘The vet said it’s a nasty break, and she’s not sure if it’ll heal properly. The bone’s in several pieces.’ Her voice roughened on the last words, and she paused for a short while before continuing. ‘She wants to see Nubi tomorrow, after I talk with my parents. They have to agree. Surgery’s needed to put in a metal plate and screws, and it’s going to be expensive.’
Jesse tightened his lips. More debts.
‘Which bone is it?’ he asked.
‘The thigh bone,’ she said. ‘The vet showed me the x-rays.’
‘The distal femur.’
‘Yeah, that’s what she called it.’
‘Any other injuries?’
‘No. In that way we’re lucky. No ruptures, no internal bleeding, no head trauma to speak of. Just a lot of bruising, some superficial cuts.’
Jesse ran his hand lightly over Nubi’s fur while he considered. He didn’t like the tranquillisers, which often had an unpredictable effect on him. But it couldn’t be helped. Since he’d have to wait until they were alone, with no chance of interference, some of the drugs might have worn off by then, or at least diminished in potency. And this time he’d make sure he had something sweet on hand.
Jesse rose. ‘When’s your dance class?’
‘Maybe I’d best skip it.’
‘Go. I’ll stay with Nubi.’
Sarah bit a fingernail. ‘Are you really OK with that?’
‘Yeah. But will you do me a favour? Buy some chocolate on the way back?’ He grinned. ‘Lots of chocolate.’
‘There’s plenty left from Finn’s trip.’ Some of the tension left her face. ‘He won’t mind.’
‘The ordinary stuff will do. Please.’
Sarah stopped biting her fingernails, a smile flirting with her lips. She was standing like a stork, one leg tucked up behind the other. Jesse didn’t understand how she could remain so utterly still without losing her balance. He thought it must have something to do with inner calm, though she was anything but tranquil at the moment. A dancer’s trick, then. He had a momentary urge to touch her, not roughly, just enough to see how well she could maintain the position. He must have made a small movement with his hand, because her eyes flitted towards it, then away again. She turned her head but not before he saw her smile widen, and a flash of pleasure – triumph? – ignite behind her eyes.
He remembered Mick.
‘Where did you go with Mick?’ he slashed, his voice like a jagged bottle. And then drawing blood, ‘Too busy to look after Nubi?’
‘What?’
‘Mick. You do remember Mick, don’t you?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Her raised leg thumped to the floor.
‘You met Mick this afternoon, didn’t you?’
‘What is this with you about Mick? I told you that I’m not going out with him any longer, didn’t I? Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Yeah, you told me all right.’
‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t like being lied to.’
‘I don’t think I heard you right. Try saying that again.’
Jesse felt a flimmer of doubt but it was too late to retract his words. ‘You don’t need to lie to me.’
The contempt on her face hurt, impossible to pretend it didn’t. His suspicion that he might have made a mistake deepened. Tondi had her own agenda, plus a good measure of cunning.
‘Sarah –’ he said, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish. Without a word, she turned on her heel and stomped from the room. He was left with Nubi and the feeling that he needed a very long tiring swim – or a couple of aspirins. Neither of which he’d be able to get if he wanted to help Nubi.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 10/5/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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The sun was hot on Jesse’s shoulders as he walked along the river. It had the same decisive quality as Finn’s arm – it knew its worth, it knew what it had to offer. Jesse quickened his step. He was already hungry, but the lightness was a gift. Thin-beaten as gold leaf, his bones stretched and pulled his flesh into new, daring dimensions. For the first time in months he was not thinking about his next meal, not looking over his shoulder for shadows.
The tiny boatyard was crammed between a much larger operation on one side and a riverside pub on the other. At the entrance Jesse stopped and drank from his water bottle, then combed back his hair with his fingertips, tugged his T-shirt into shape, and wiped his hands on his jeans. This must be the place Sarah meant.
A lone man was at work on an ancient narrowboat, scraping down its hull, while a Siberian husky with startling blue eyes lay nearby in the shade of a beach umbrella. Thin to the point of emaciation and completely bald, the man laboured at his task with a concentration that lit the air around him with a frail glow which brightened when his attention sharpened and then faded again soon afterwards, though never entirely disappearing. He wore only a pair of stained green trousers and sturdy trekking sandals, and his sweat-streaked torso was covered by a mass of tattoos. Jesse watched him for a time, and if the man were aware of the scrutiny, he gave no sign. Jesse couldn’t take his eyes from the images on the man’s skin, for they were composed of words – lines and lines of words – rather than pictures; a kind of living book or journal, which from his vantage point Jesse was unable to read. The man had only one arm.
At last Jesse roused himself to approach. The man left off scraping and observed him without a single word. The dog rose from its belly but showed no other signs of alarm.
Working on the boat was the sort of thing Jesse liked to do – strenuous enough to release tension, yet with an ebb and flow that left his mind free to drift.
Up close, Jesse could see that the man was at most in his early twenties. It had been his air of utter self-containment that had made him appear older – and something in his face, a fine silvering of pain like the patina of weathered teak or poplar.
Jesse recognised only one quotation on the man’s skin – biblical; most of the other tattoos were unfamiliar poems, perhaps composed by the man himself. Jesse tried to read one spectacular text done in reds and oranges and purples, and arranged in a spiral around the man’s navel, but it was difficult to make out all the words without craning, and he didn’t like to appear too nosy. Though the man must surely be used to it by now.
The man waited until Jesse stood right before him. He was neither friendly nor unfriendly, simply patient. Observant. Jesse came to a halt and cleared his throat, uncertain whether to offer his hand or his purpose.
‘I’ve written them myself,’ the man said. ‘Best to get that out of the way, I find.’
‘I expect that’s what most people ask.’
‘Not at all. The few who inquire want to know why I’ve chosen words rather than pictures.’
The man mopped his forehead with a paisley zandana from his pocket.
‘Are you Matthew?’ Jesse asked.
‘You must be the lad Finn sent. Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
Inside proved to be the cool interior of a rather large shed.
Matthew set a kettle of water to boil over an electric ring. ‘All the amenities,’ he said, pointing to a small refrigerator. Jesse’s eyes lit up at the sight of the chocolate gateau Matthew produced. He cut off a thick slice and handed it to Jesse on a plate, then extended a jug of assorted cutlery.
‘Go ahead,’ Matthew said. ‘Milk?’
Jesse nodded. He was becoming used to Matthew’s clipped accents, rather abrupt manner.
There were two folding chairs and a small but handsome wooden table. Jesse took one of the seats and began to eat. Matthew filled a bowl with milk for his dog while the tea steeped.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ asked Jesse when he’d finished most of his slice.
Matthew didn’t answer, just passed him a mug of strong milky tea and another piece of cake. Then he sipped his own tea, taking it black, and regarded Jesse over the rim of his mug.
‘I’m dying, you know. That’s why I’m so thin.’
Jesse choked on his tea.
‘No point in pretending,’ Matthew added.
‘AIDS?’ Jesse finally queried when he realised that his was the next move.
Matthew shook his head. ‘Cancer.’
A short silence.
‘Is this your own boatyard? Finn didn’t say.’
‘My uncle’s.’
Jesse looked round. The workshop was scrupulously clean and tidy, with smaller hand tools hanging from pegs along one wall; ropes, cable, and chains from hooks; and the worktables bare except for one or two current projects. The smell of wood and sawdust and varnish were as familiar to him as his own sweat. A few large power tools stood on stands, and different planks of wood were sorted in specially constructed vertical storage racks. There were shelves for paints and varnishes, bins and cabinets for everything else. At the far end a dinghy shell was under construction. Sink and wood-burning stove. A narrow cleated gangplank led to a storage loft, and a trolley loaded with crates waited to be wheeled up. Jesse could easily imagine working in such a snug place.
‘And the narrowboat?’ Jesse asked. ‘It’s very beautiful.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? I’ve had her since I was nineteen. It’s now or never.’
‘To restore her?’
‘And if I’m really lucky, to take her out and live on her for as long as I’m able. And if I can get away with it, to die on her.’ Matthew spoke in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
‘You seem so –’ Jesse searched for the right word to express his twist of feelings – dismay, pity, bewilderment, awe, fear. He tasted a cold clear mouthful of lakewater, a draught so icy that it burnt like knowledge.
‘I savour my life,’ Matthew said.
‘You’re not afraid ... or angry?’
‘Sometimes. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t.’ He indicated his missing arm. ‘This helped prepare me.’
‘Your cancer?’
‘No, an accident when I was a kid. You learn a lot about yourself then.’
Jesse rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
‘Have you ever worked with wood?’ Matthew asked. Then he grimaced, and a film of sweat sprang up on his forehead, his scalp. ‘Sorry. Wait a moment, will you?’ He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, breathing deeply, his ribs ridging like rocky shoals above the rise and fall of his thin chest. His face had paled. Jesse could hear the air being drawn through his nostrils, the harsh struggle with pain.
After a while some colour returned to Matthew’s face. He waited still longer before opening his eyes, then rose and fetched a bottle of tablets from a shelf above the sink, which he handed to Jesse.
‘Since you’re here, you might as well open it for me,’ Matthew said.
‘Painkillers?’
‘Yes.’
‘They work?’
‘More or less. I’m not quite ready to capitulate just yet.’ A grin. ‘To morphine.’
Jesse stared at Matthew for a moment, not stirring. What harm could it do, he asked himself. He was good with pain. Then he shivered. No. Don’t get involved. It’s too risky. Stick to animals. He felt the first flicker of panic in his gut. No. I can’t. If it goes wrong ...
Matthew raised his eyebrows. ‘If you have a problem with opening the bottle ...’
‘It’s not that.’ Jesse licked his lips. ‘I wonder – I mean, there’s something I could try. Only if you’re willing. It’s been a long time, and I’m not really sure ... OK, it might help.’
‘I’m going to need an interpreter here.’
Jesse laughed mirthlessly. ‘Never mind. It wasn’t a good idea anyway.’
Matthew pulled out his chair and sat down again.
‘What?’ he asked.
Jesse’s eyes fell upon the line tattooed across Matthew’s left breast. He winced, thinking of Finn. There were only a few words, an extract, but enough for him to have identified the source.
Matthew saw the direction of Jesse’s gaze. ‘And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing …’
‘You’re religious?’ Jesse asked.
Matthew shrugged. ‘In my own way.’
‘Then why the quotation? First Corinthians, isn’t it?’
‘You know the passage?’
‘I read,’ Jesse said. ‘All sorts of stuff, including the Bible.’
‘What else have we got in this life?’
‘The Bible, you mean? Religion?’
‘No,’ Matthew spoke so quietly that Jesse had to strain to hear him. ‘Love.’
Jesse’s fist tightened on the bottle in his hand. He could hear his grandmother chuckling softly. Her hands are busy with her knitting, the fine creamy mohair falling from her fingers like knotted dreams. Jesse set the bottle on the table in front of him.
‘I might be able to help you with the pain,’ Jesse said.
Matthew studied Jesse’s face.
‘How?’ he asked. ‘Acupressure, reflexology, something like that? It won’t do any good. I’ve tried them all.’
Jesse shook his head. ‘I can’t explain it. You’ll have to trust me.’
The refrigerator hummed a quickening bass note. As Jesse laid his hands on Matthew’s shoulders, he could smell the sharp resinous odour of new-sawn wood.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 9/29/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Sarah chased her father out of the kitchen with an egg whisk.
‘Jesse and I will tidy up. I know you’re dying to get to work.’
Finn eyed the small pool forming at Sarah’s feet, then chewed his bottom lip without looking directly at Jesse. ‘Well –’
‘Go on, we’ll take care of it,’ Jesse said, reaching for the roll of paper towels. ‘I’m OK,’ he added firmly.
The dishwasher was midway through a cycle, chortling ghoulishly to itself. Nubi had taken one look at the machine and retreated again to the garden. Who knew what it might eat next?
Sarah tossed the whisk into the sink. ‘Let’s just rinse the breakfast things. We can stack them on the worktop till the dishwasher’s empty.’
‘These few dishes?’ Jesse scoffed. ‘It won’t take us more than ten minutes. I don’t fancy leaving the kitchen untidy.’
Sarah could tell from the set of his shoulders that he would do it alone if she refused. And she didn’t care for the impudent glint in his eyes. Think her spoilt, did he? She began to run hot water into the sink, then went to the table to collect plates and mugs.
‘Come down when you’ve finished, and I’ll give you the laptop,’ Finn said from the doorway.
‘Laptop?’ Sarah asked. ‘Not your spare?’
‘I told Jesse he could use it.’
‘Finn! I’ve asked you and asked you!’
‘You know the new PC’s always available,’ Finn said.
‘Yeah right. When Mum’s not hogging it, you mean.’
‘I don’t want to cause any problems,’ Jesse said.
‘No problem, Jesse,’ Finn said.
Sarah flounced to the sink and began to crash plates and mugs together, her plait swinging with petulance. Bloody male bonding. Jesse wouldn’t answer any of her questions about his weird talents, but she bet he’d told Finn plenty.
‘Hold on,’ said Jesse, ‘let me wash. You can dry.’
Finn beat the classic hasty retreat while Sarah and Jesse argued over who was more likely to break things. Once they’d settled the issue, they worked quickly and well together, though the air still held a few more charged particles than strictly necessary. It didn’t take them long to finish. Sarah was filling ice cube trays when Jesse balled the J-cloth he’d been using to wipe the tabletop and tossed it into the sink, just missing the tip of her nose.
‘Jesus! Now my T-shirt’s soaked,’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘I’d hate to see you with a basketball.’
‘If I’d intended to hit you, I would have.’
Arms akimbo, she glared at him for a moment. ‘Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ Then, poised on the cusp of a grin, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Or maybe you did that on purpose. Like Kevin would have, to highlight my nipples.’
Jesse coloured and bent to pick up a stray piece of eggshell, then straightened with an apologetic gesture. ‘Sarah, please don’t be cross with me. I wish you hadn’t seen that business with the fire, but you have, and I can’t change it. It’s just not something I’m ready to talk about.’
Her expression softened. ‘Maybe when you know me better.’
‘Maybe.’ He looked round for a broom. ‘We ought to do the floor,’ he said. ‘It’s full of crumbs and dog hair.’
‘Later. It’s too nice to stay indoors.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Go fetch the damn laptop while I see who it is,’ Sarah said.
Jesse was busy in the office for twenty minutes while Finn cleared some old files and explained how to operate the computer. Jesse listened politely, though it was all patently obvious. Finn’s model was a little outdated, but perfectly serviceable, or would be once Jesse made a few modifications.
Climbing the stairs from the darkroom, Jesse heard low voices and Sarah’s laugh from the direction of the sitting room. Talk slowed to a halt as Jesse entered the room. Mick, Kevin, and Tondi were clustered in a knot around Sarah.There was an awkward pause.
‘Look who’s here,’ drawled Mick, his eyes travelling from Jesse’s bare feet to his tousled hair. Mick winked at Sarah, but his eyes were cold. ‘You didn’t tell us you had company.’
Sarah dropped her gaze and shifted from foot to bare foot, at last arching the left into an improbable crescent and tracing half-circles on the floor with stork-like grace. She couldn’t be clumsy if she tried. Jesse asked himself if she were embarrassed by his own presence or Mick’s taunt. Tightening his lips, he set the laptop on the floor and moved to her side. Though his heart was racing, he forced himself to show nothing but cool disdain. Sarah settled into a quiet stance but kept her eyes downcast, and her discomfiture fuelled his anger. Up close her skin smelled warm and faintly yeasty, like a new-baked loaf. A pulse beat suddenly in Jesse’s throat. He must have communicated something to her, for she stiffened slightly. Her arm brushed his – a prickling of the hairs along his skin.
‘Want to do a little skating?’ Jesse asked in a voice he himself hardly recognised.
Mick grinned but a muscle in his temple jumped. ‘Not today, Jesse boy, not today. We’re going to the club pool.’ His gaze barely flicked towards Sarah. ‘Ready, Sar?’
‘I – I don’t know. It’s awfully early yet,’ she said, her eyes still on her feet.
‘Just got out of bed?’ Mick smirked.
The others laughed. No way, thought Jesse, no bloody way.
‘I’m afraid we’ve got other plans.’ Jesse’s voice was quiet and pleasant and regretful. He might have been refusing an invitation to tea. ‘Another time, perhaps. Like next year. Or next century.’ He spoke without the merest trace of sarcasm. ‘You do know the word century?’
The mocking smile faded from Mick's lips. The room stilled, then shivered; the challenge had driven summer from the air. Slowly Sarah raised her head to regard Mick. Something like pity, something like derision glittered in her eyes. With an oath Mick jutted out his chin, took a step forward, and grabbed Jesse roughly by the arm.
‘Why you little wanker,’ he said. ‘Go back to whatever fucking hole you’ve crawled out of.’
Kevin looked uneasy. He put a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Come on, Mick, chill.’
Mick shrugged Kevin off without releasing his hold on Jesse.
‘Freak,’ Mick spat at Jesse.
The word twisted like a blade of ice in Jesse’s gut. A deep breath, he told himself, take a deep breath. They’re only words. Who cares what these apes think? Let it go. Cunt. Weirdo. Pisshead. You've heard them all. Fucker. Cumbag. The band around his skull began to tighten. Pervert. A sudden weight on his shoulder made him turn his head - Finn’s hand warm and heavy there. Jesse felt himself grow taller, broader.
‘Take your hand off me,’ Jesse said, his voice icy. ‘Right now.’
Tondi watched Jesse with interest, a smile playing on her lips. Even on a hot summer day she wore a shiny red gloss of lipstick, plenty of kohl.
Two patches of red splotched Mick’s cheeks like frostburn. He sneered but a shadow of uncertainty scuttled out from beneath his bravado. Jesse smiled at the sight, he’d had enough Mals to last him a lifetime. Steely, flame blue, his eyes held Mick’s. At first imperceptibly, soon forcefully, Jesse drove a fire-forged tip through the cocky carapace. Mick’s fingers tightened on Jesse’s arm, gouging deep furrows. Deeper still. Mick hissed and dropped his gaze.
The room began to stir.
‘Mick, I think you’d better go,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t want to have to call my father.’
To warm.
Mick flung Jesse’s arm away, swallowing a curse under his breath. He pivoted and left without a backward glance. Sarah said nothing as the others muttered goodbye. In the doorway Tondi turned, hooked her thumbs into her waistband, and flashed Jesse a look which melted the last splitters of ice in the air.
‘You’re going out with him?’ Jesse asked.
Sarah and Jesse were sitting on a grassy embankment by the river. Nubi lay next to them, wet and panting. He swam easily, joyfully, chasing waterfowl and sandpipers in a great thrashing of water, though he came out willingly enough when reprimanded. The sky overhead was a brilliant blue whose glassy clarity magnified the heat.
Sarah took a long sip of her coke. Jesse watched her surreptitiously, enjoying the slender line of her throat as she tilted her head back. Her collarbone seemed sharp enough to tear her thinly gilded skin, and a few freckles chased the swell of her chest into her skimpy top. He averted his eyes, he felt vulnerable at her easygoing attitude towards her body.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Sarah said.
Jesse shrugged, not trusting himself to speak. Sarah and Mick – Jesse had wanted to be wrong. What could she see in someone like that? He turned his head and stared at the river. None of his business, after all.
‘Jesse, look at me.’
Reluctantly, Jesse turned in her direction, combed his fingers through his hair. Sarah thought how fine and silken it looked, like a child’s, and her fingers itched for a hairbrush. A golden mane, streaked with many subtle shadings, and bleached almost to white at the tips by the sun – Joseph’s coat in yellow.
‘You don’t owe me an explanation,’ Jesse said.
‘You’re right, I don’t. But I’d like to tell you, if you’ll listen.’
Jesse emptied his own can of coke, then crushed it in his hand. ‘OK, tell me about it.’
Sarah wrapped her arms round her knees. ‘I went out with him a few times. We weren’t really a couple. I’m pretty sure he was seeing other girls at the same time. He said he wasn’t but you know how it is. He probably thought I’d be jealous or possessive or something.’
‘And you wouldn’t have been?’
‘Hardly. I wasn’t in love with him, nothing like that. I wasn’t even sure how much I liked him.’
‘But you went out with him,’ Jesse snapped. ‘Slept with someone, I suppose, you didn’t even like.’
‘And you haven’t?’ retorted Sarah, stung by his contempt.
‘No.’
Sarah was quiet for a time.
‘You haven’t slept with anyone yet, have you?’
He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. ‘Not in the way you mean.’
Sarah exhaled in a long soft sigh. She shaded her face with a hand and looked out over the river, where the sunlight dazzled the eye through a spell of mirrors. She had to squint to see the boats trawling past. This part of the river was always heavily trafficked.
‘He was my first,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s good-looking and popular, and just about all the girls fancy him. I was flattered by his attention, I suppose. You’ve seen an ugly side of him. He can be very funny … sweet. OK, he’s a bit spoilt, a bit egotistic. So are most blokes with that kind of charisma. And I think there might be something with his father. Mick has a twin brother, Daniel, who got into a lot of trouble over dealing, they sent him off to some uncle or cousin in South Africa to sort him out, he hasn’t been back since. They were always terribly close, Mick and Dan, and Mick changed after his brother left. But he’s usually not quite so nasty. I don’t know what got into him today.’
Jesse snorted.
Sarah ignored his interruption. ‘Why not, I thought. Time to find what everyone raves about. It's not like I'm going to get pregnant or anything. And Mick's the sort to know what he's doing.’ She fiddled with her plait. ‘It seemed smart to have a go with someone I didn’t care that much about, didn’t want to get involved with.’
‘I thought it’s supposed to be the other way around.’
‘Well, believe me, it doesn’t always happen like that.’
‘If you say so.’ Jesse looked away. The pictures in his head were vivid, too vivid. He picked up the discarded can and crushed it even smaller. She was seated close enough for him to smell the lavender on her hair, the not unpleasant tang of sweat, of soap and warmth – of Sarahness. To hear her soft breathing. To see her long limbs, the smooth effortless strokes. Her breasts, nipples puckering in the water. She’s swimming dreamily towards him. Mermaid hair, floating free. A cascade of bubbles from her lips. How close she is, how close. And then thrashing, Mick’s shark mouth, his hands …
‘Was it good?’ The question burst out of him.
She looked at him with an unreadable expression.
‘You said he can be fun …’ His voice trailed off. Abruptly he scrambled to his feet and began to strip off his shoes and socks, then his jeans. Finn had found him old trunks. ‘I’m going for a swim.’
‘What, here?’ Sarah asked, surprised by the sudden change of topic. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? Too polluted?’
‘No. The currents are treacherous. Much stronger than they look. Warnings are posted everywhere.’ Sarah waved her hand in the direction of a signpost. ‘No one swims here.’
‘I’m a good swimmer, I told you.’
‘Jesse, if you really want to swim, let’s go to the pool.’
‘So we can meet Mick?’
Sarah’s spine tillered hard up. ‘That’s low.’
‘Is it? Somehow your version of the story seems rather pat. You go skateboarding with him. He comes sniffing round the house. Looks to me –’
Sarah interrupted him angrily. ‘It looks to me as if you’d better get some real-life experience before you start judging other people.’
They glowered at each other for a moment before Jesse tossed down his jeans and sprinted towards the water without removing his T-shirt. Nubi sprang up and raced to join him. Sarah gnawed her lip, then the tail of her plait. She had something of her father’s quick temper, and more often than not regretted her rash words as soon as she’d uttered them. Which didn’t alter the fact that she was right about the river.
‘Where did you learn to swim like that?’ Sarah asked.
‘I grew up by a lake,’ he said reluctantly. He’d swum in all but the coldest weather.
‘What happened?’ she asked softly. ‘To your family?’
He turned away from her towards the river. She saw the loneliness in the sweep of his eyelashes, the pearly delicacy of his ear, the still curve of his mouth. If she’d dared, she would have put her arms around him. Instead she crossed them over her chest, hugging her thoughts to herself.
‘They died.’ His mouth tightened, and he said no more.
After collecting their things Sarah explained how to get to the boatyard. Then she dug into her pocket for money. Jesse shook his head.
‘Jesse, my mother left it for both of us. Get yourself something to eat.’
He stood mute, his mouth a stubborn slash in his face.
‘Christ, you’re pig-headed.’
‘Finn fixed it that the bloke pays me straightaway.’
‘And you’ll be back for supper?’
‘Your parents really do seem to want me to stay for a while.’ His tone was offhand, and he raised a shoulder as if resigned to the vagaries of adults, but Sarah wasn’t fooled in the least.
She hesitated, then looked straight at him, into that wonderful unsafe blue. ‘I’d like it too.’
Sarah saw the leap of happiness in his eyes before he bent to pull on his jeans. God, but he was a contradiction! A savage tenderness stung her eyes, clogged her throat. What was the matter with people? Why foster someone only to do this to him? She would cheerfully throttle the bastard. And whoever else had had a hand in robbing Jesse of his birthright. He owned so little – only what he could carry about inside himself. She wished she could convince him it was enough, more than enough. She thought of Mick. All his charm – and all the newest gear – wouldn’t cover up his selfishness, his shallowness. Why hadn’t she noticed before?
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 9/22/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Sarah appeared in the kitchen just in time to peer over Finn’s shoulder at the frying pans.
‘Where did you find all that bacon?’ she asked. ‘You can’t have been to the shops already.’
‘Under a bag of chips that’s split its guts. Somebody’s going to have to defrost that deep freeze before we need an axe – or a flame-thrower.’ Finn’s gaze rested on Jesse for a moment as he handed Sarah two plates of scrambled eggs and mushrooms. ‘What are you doing up so early anyway?’ He made Nubi sit for his share of bacon. ‘Turn over a new branch?’
‘Leaf, you mean. As in book.’
‘Nope. Forest, maybe, for the amount of paper you'd need.’
Even Nubi seemed to grin. Sarah snorted and tossed her plait over her shoulder. ‘It’s too early for bad jokes.’
Finn brought Jesse a heaped plate, then sat down and tucked into his own breakfast. It was only after he’d eaten several rashers of bacon and a thickly buttered slice of toast, heavy with jam, that he paused for breath. ‘I’ve really missed good home-cooking.’
‘You’re going to put back all those pounds within a week,’ Meg said drily.
‘Now don’t start with that again.’ Finn turned to Sarah. ‘Heard from Katy yet?’
‘An email a few days ago.’
‘How’s it going?’ Finn asked.
‘Not too bad. Hot.’ Sarah explained to Jesse. ‘Katy’s one of my best mates. She’s working on an Indian reservation in Arizona for the summer holidays.’
‘Native Americans,’ Finn said. ‘Navajo, in this case.’
Meg glanced at her bare wrist, then up at the clock.
‘Don’t forget your watch.’ Finn said.
‘It needs to be repaired.’
‘What have you done? Taken a sledgehammer to it?’ Sarah asked.
‘Just a minor adjustment,’ Meg shot a warning look at Finn, who was about to make one of his comments. ‘Look, I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.’ She addressed Sarah. ‘I’ve left a shopping list and some money. Could you pick up the things we need for supper? We’re going to barbecue. I’ll be back by eight.’ A smile. ‘Truly.’
‘OK.’ Sarah buttered a piece of toast. ‘Anything else?’
‘Tell your father when you go out, and don’t forget your mobile.’
Sarah made a face at her mother.
‘I mean it, Sarah Louise Andersen. You must be the only teenager in the country whose ear is not permanently affixed to the phone.’
‘Think of how much I’m saving you. I ought to get more pocket money.’
No stranger to such comments, Meg wiped her fingers on her napkin and laid it at her place. She turned to Jesse, her voice level, her eyes gentle. ‘Do I need to say goodbye?’
Jesse ducked his head, go and stay chasing round and round in his mind like cat and dog, round and round again. He looked over at Nubi, whose opinion couldn’t have been more obvious: maybe you prefer a bridge, but I’ll take a clean mat and bacon any day. And I’d like another chance at that stuck-up, pampered feline who's begging to be taught a little respect.
Finn intervened. ‘Leave the boy, Meg. He and I have got a few things to sort out after breakfast.’
After breakfast Finn sent Sarah off to the newsagent by bike.
‘Jesse and I will tidy the kitchen,’ he said. When she scowled, he added, ‘Well, you can always do the dishes at supper if you’re feeling slighted. And I think Meg mentioned something about the downstairs loo. A good scrub, wasn’t it?’
Sarah snorted at her father’s perfidy but left the two of them alone.
‘She’s a good kid,’ Finn said after she’d gone. ‘She’ll give us enough time to talk.’
Jesse said nothing.
'More coffee?' Finn asked.
Jesse shook his head.
Finn poured himself another mug, then added cream and a hefty amount of sugar. ‘Meg’s always after me to leave off the sweet stuff,’ he despaired. ‘Just this once.’
Jesse’s lips twitched. He pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll start the washing up.’
‘Afterwards,’ Finn said. ‘This won’t take long.’
Now was the opportunity. Jesse played with the crumbs on his plate, considering how to explain.
‘Let’s start with the fire in my office,’ Finn said.
‘I was just about to tell you.’ Jesse didn’t like the way it made him appear, as if he'd been planning to sneak off like a pathetic coward. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t pretend to be obtuse.’
Jesse stared at his plate for a long time. ‘I guess you’re not going to be satisfied with something like spontaneous combustion,’ he finally said.
‘Good guess.’
Jesse shrugged. ‘I can’t give you an explanation.’
‘It’s happened before?’
‘Yeah.’
In the lengthy silence Finn wondered whether Meg had ever run into this sort of thing. And there was that research project he’d heard about, the one Ayen was directing.
‘How long have you been on the run?’ Finn asked.
‘I’m all right. I don’t need any help.’
Finn tilted his chair back onto its rear legs, folded his hands across his midriff, and regarded Jesse soberly, without a trace of pity. ‘That’s not what I asked you.’
‘A few months.’
‘A police matter?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ He saw Jesse’s grimace. ‘I have some experience with the police. They don’t always get things right. How could they? But it makes things a lot easier if they’re not involved.’
‘I’m not wanted for anything criminal.’ Mal would never have reported the damage to his models. Not after Jesse’s phone call.
‘How old are you?’
‘Old enough to decide where I want to live, what I want to do with my life.’
‘Which is?’
Jesse didn't answer.
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s everyone’s problem. A society is responsible for its kids.’
‘An activist,’ Jesse sneered.
‘I’ve been called worse.’ Finn kept his temper. ‘You’ll have to do a lot better than that if you want to rock me. Do you have any idea of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen?’ Only the sharp scything motion of his hand revealed the depth of his feelings.
Jesse hunched his shoulders. There was a long deep scratch, almost a groove, on the tabletop in the shape of an irregular z, as though a child had tried to carve a lightning bolt. Jesse traced his finger along it – back and forth, back and forth.
‘You know, Jesse, you’re young and smart, with all your parts in working order, while I’ve seen kids with half a face, kids crawling on legs stunted by polio – polio, for god’s sake, in this day and age – kids orphaned and emaciated by AIDS. And most of them tenacious little buggers who, despite having been dealt a bloody lousy hand, don’t give up.’ Finn gestured towards Jesse, a knife thrust. ‘Look at yourself. Take a good hard look. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you’ – he couldn’t miss the contemptuous expression that crossed Jesse’s face – ‘your whole life, and I don’t mind repeating it, no matter how trite it sounds, because it’s obvious you’ve no clue where to go and what to do. You’re running like a car on empty. Have you got any idea – any idea whatsoever – what’s likely to happen to you if you keep going?’
Jesse’s chair screeched. ‘I’m not going to –’
‘Sit down!’ Finn’s voice cracked over Jesse’s head, while his chair thumped back solidly onto all four legs.
The clock ticked as Jesse hesitated, a low steady pulse.
Jesse sat. Sometimes it was easiest to wait things out. He didn’t have to listen – he’d heard it all a million times before.
But Finn had finished. He drank his coffee. He went to the kettle and filled it, plugged it in. He fussed with coffee beans and electric grinder and filter. He began to wash the frying pans. The smell of fresh coffee wafted across the room. Jesse looked through the open kitchen door to where Nubi lay on a sunny patch of lawn, gnawing on a stick. The sundial winked from its pool. It took Jesse a few minutes longer to work out that Finn would clean the entire kitchen, if necessary – and paint it too – before saying another word. An unusual man, Jesse had said to Sarah. He wondered if she understood just how unusual.
‘Finn?’
Sarah’s father brought the coffee pot to the table and sat down. This time Jesse accepted a refill.
‘I’d like to hear what you have to say,’ Jesse said.
Finn leaned his elbows on the table. He took his time, tapping his fingers against his lips and staring off into space. Liam used to do that – retreat into his own head at odd moments. It was one of the first things Jesse had noticed about him, and in time Jesse had come to understand how painful – physically painful – the world of assessments and bureaucracy and parents and sarky kids and pretence could be for him. In his blackest moods Liam had said that sex was his only release, his sole escape from himself. They had never spoken of love.
Then Finn asked an unexpected question. ‘Have you ever ridden a motorbike?’
Jesse shook his head.
‘Would you like to learn?’
‘I’ve never really thought about,’ Jesse said warily. ‘I suppose so. Why?’
‘Motorcycle journeys have a way of travelling into the past as well as the future.’
‘Pirsig. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.’
Finn whistled in appreciation. ‘You really have done a lot of reading.’
‘An old paperback I picked up somewhere.’
Finn tapped some more with his fingers. ‘Tell me, Jesse, just how good is your memory, exactly?’
There was no point in false modesty with this man. ‘Good.’
Finn picked up his mug and swirled the hot coffee round, blew on it, but set it down again without drinking.
‘Pirsig has his flaws, but I like the motorcycle metaphor, and some of the fundamental questions he raises haven’t changed. Maybe they never do. Meg thinks me mad, but I find biking exhilarating – empowering even. I get most of my best ideas when biking. If a really tough problem is plaguing me, I try to get out on my Harley.’ Then he grinned. ‘Of course, it’s also great fun.’
Jesse visualised a beach, seabirds, waves. ‘Do you ever go as far as the coast?’
‘It’s not even a hard afternoon’s ride. Longer, of course, if you want to enjoy the beauty of the countryside.’ Finn chuckled. ‘Pirsig’s secondary roads.’
‘I was planning to make my way there. I’ve never been to the sea.’
‘That can be arranged. I’d love to introduce you to biking.’
Jesse drank some of his coffee, uncertain how to react.
‘Look, here’s our proposal,’ Finn said. ‘Stay the rest of the summer with us. We’ve got plenty of room. It’s only a month or so till school begins. Take some time to think about who you are, what you want. No strings attached. You’ll be free to come and go as you please – well, within the normal limits of a home.’
‘You don’t even know me. Why would you offer me something like this?’
Finn’s gaze shifted inward for a moment. Then he sighed, blinking rapidly. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Because you need it.’
Jesse waved a hand towards the kitchen door and passage beyond. ‘I don’t see a whole lot of other indigents lodged here.’
Finn stared unflinchingly at Jesse, who suddenly found he couldn’t look away. His hands began to tremble, so that he was forced to grip the edges of his chair seat. Finn leaned forward and still would not release him.
‘What will it be, Jesse? The future or the past? You’re going to have to chose. Sure you’ve had a tough time. Anyone can see that, not just Meg. But it’s not a life sentence. Or it doesn’t have to be.’
With an effort Jesse averted his eyes. An unbidden picture of his family, their last meal together. One of his mother’s roast chickens. He can taste the crisp brown skin that Emmy won’t eat. He can taste the cold lager with its head of foam from which he’s allowed to sip. And the other taste, the one mingling with the smell of sweat and the sound of harsh loud breaths, hot against his neck. Again, and again. Will it never end? Pain – hot and fierce – flays his back, his shoulders, his throat. Jesse! Where are you? It’s hot. Jesse!
‘Jesse.’
Jesse tore himself away from the memory. ‘I can’t –’ His voice splintered. Then brokenly, ashes of the past clogging his throat, dry chalky whispers, ‘There was a fire.’
‘I thought there must have been.’
‘You’ve got no idea. None at all!’ Jesse cried. ‘I killed them …’
Finn’s sea-blue eyes washed over him with unbearable kindness.
‘I killed them …’ The anguish in his voice sliced through the slowly rising waves like a dragon-head.
‘It hurts, I know.’
The bone-cage tightened around Jesse’s head. He gasped, then his throat and lungs constricted. All colour bleached from the room, and the room began to pitch. Air. The garden. He rose, grasping the table for support. Breathe, he told himself. There was no air. His face was cold. He floated outside his skin. He saw himself start to slide, saw Finn stand and catch him, saw them enter the whiteout together.
Jesse opened his eyes to find Finn sitting next to him on the bed, looking worried.
‘Jesse?’ Finn said. ‘Are you all right? You gave me a bit of a fright.’
Jesse scanned the room – no flames, no blackened timbers, no skeletons. An ordinary bedroom – prosaic, safe. The way he’d left it this morning. At the edge of his vision something stirred. His eyes darted towards the corner. No ghosts.
‘What happened?’ Jesse asked. ‘How did I get here?’
‘You fainted so I carried you upstairs.’
‘How long was I out?’
‘Only a few minutes. Sarah’s not even back yet.’
Jesse sank back against the pillow. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight, glad that Meg hadn’t been here to take over. At Finn’s next words he snapped them open again.
‘I think you need a thorough check-up. Just to make sure nothing’s wrong.’
‘I’m not HIV-positive, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
‘That was the furthest thing from my mind.’
‘I’m fine,’ Jesse insisted. ‘I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, I eat.’
Finn smiled. ‘True, you’ve got a healthy appetite. But I’d feel better if you at least let Meg have a look at you.’
‘No!’
Finn regarded him for a moment, then dropped his hand briefly onto Jesse’s shoulder before getting to his feet. A chess player, Finn knew that it was sometimes expedient to sacrifice a piece.
‘Who’s Emmy?’ he asked.
‘How do you know about Emmy?’
‘You said her name as you were coming round.’
Jesse hesitated. ‘She was my sister.’
‘The fire?’
Jesse nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
A burst of high-pitched laughter through the open window, a shout of my turn. Some little girls were playing in the neighbouring garden. Higher, Jesse, push me higher! Jesse swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. His head felt light, but there was no dizziness. He rubbed his hands through his hair.
‘I’ll clear up in the kitchen,’ Jesse said.
‘Leave it for now. I want you to take it easy.’
‘Stop worrying. It was only –’ Jesse broke off, unwilling to continue. ‘Please don’t tell Meg. Or Sarah.’
Finn bent to pick up a jumper that had slipped to the floor. He shook it out slowly and draped it over the foot of the bed.
‘It’s OK,’ Finn said. ‘When you’re ready to talk about the fire, I’ll be there to listen. Be patient with yourself, Jesse. Be good to yourself. You’ve been on the road for a while now. You’re exhausted – mentally, physically. Emotionally. Give yourself the chance to build up your reserves.’
‘Maybe … just a day or two.’
They heard a door slam and Nubi’s welcoming bark. Sarah was back.
‘I suppose Sarah will want to go out. Don’t let her drag you along if you’re not up to it. She can be rather overbearing sometimes. Nobody will mind in the least if you decide to spend the day in bed or lazing in the sun or reading,’ Finn said.
‘I think I’d like to visit a library,’ Jesse ventured.
‘No problem. Sarah can take you.’
‘And maybe ask round for some work.’
Finn looked thoughtful. ‘Let me see what I can do.’ He tugged at his beard for a short while, ten seconds, twenty, then grinned and punched the air like a lad. ‘Got it! Ever seen a narrowboat?’
Jesse marvelled at the ease he felt in the older man’s company. He would have done anything for a foster father like Finn. Then Jesse realised the direction of his thoughts. Shit. He remembered with bitterness the first foster home, then the next. A new start: a kid’s sad little promise to himself. He’d still wanted to make it work in those early years. It had taken him a while, but he’d learned. Altruism was about as likely as time travel. And even kindness had its limits.
So why the fuck was he doing it again?
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 9/15/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Jesse woke to a pale skin forming across the sky. He liked to sleep with open window and open curtains and open nightscape, not that he believed his dream soul wandered to other realms – he’d leave that to the sociologists and shamanic freaks. And no sane person wanted to go where his dreams often took him. But tonight the storm seemed to have washed his mind clean; he couldn’t recall a single dream.
He glanced towards the window. The rain had stopped, and the air swirled warm and sweet and frothy, like the day’s first milking. He’d leave right after breakfast. Hot water, a soft clean bed, and food – always food – how easy it was to become seduced by comfort.
That photograph. Jesse’s thoughts skidded towards it, though he wrenched the steering wheel and tried to apply the brakes – a mistake, as any driver could have told him. He recalled reading that certain cultures wouldn’t submit to photographs: the camera stole their souls. There was a kind of magic in it, he had to admit – the blank sheet of paper floating in a chemical bath, then the image gradually materialising, summoned forth from some incorporeal dimension. But the little girl had not been coaxed to surrender her soul; it had been wrest from her by fire before Finn had ever set eyes on her pitiful corpse.
Now wide awake, Jesse sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to see the photograph again. It was not a good idea – he knew that. But maybe if he steered into the skid ...
Nubi made a half-hearted attempt to accompany Jesse but curled up on the mat at the whispered ‘stay.’ Nubi responded to commands as though trained, and Jesse wondered what stories the dog might have told. At least the Andersens would treat him kindly or, Jesse trusted, find him a good home. Nubi's eyes invited soppy metaphor as they regarded each other for a moment before Jesse slipped barefoot from the room, admonishing himself sternly that he couldn’t possibly manage with a dog.
The house was still. Jesse had no trouble making his way to the cellar stairs, where he paused before descending. Not even a snore. The house could easily have been empty. Jesse shut the cellar door behind him carefully, and with the handrail as guide, groped his way in the dark. Once certain that nobody was in the darkrooms, he’d switch on the light. It would have been simple enough to knock or call out. He couldn’t have explained why he didn’t want Finn to know about his sudden impulse. It felt like a guilty secret, pocket change stolen from a parent’s wallet.
Jesse found the book straightaway. Finn had left it on his desk, as though he himself intended to open it in the morning. If anything, the photograph was worse than Jesse remembered. Emmy had been about the same age when she died – a guess, it was hard to read the glossy corpse. One look, then he thrust the book aside. He wanted to tear the page out, rip it into pieces. He leaned over Finn’s desk, grasping the wooden edge with both hands, gripping until his muscles cramped. He could feel the memories rising, his blood roaring, a river in spate which threatened to burst its banks and engulf him in flame. A hot wind blowing ashes off the roof. He’s running through the garden towards the door, sobs keening in his ears. Jesse, she cries. Jesse! He swallowed, forcing back the vile taste in his mouth. Had he only imagined the stench of burnt meat and charred bone? He could never be certain. It felt like memory.
He reached for the book again and stared at the photograph. He had never got to see Emmy. If there had been anything left to see. He splayed his hand across the page, closed his eyes, fingered the sharp edge of the paper. It won’t change anything, he told himself. You can tear it out of the binding, but not out of your head. But he knew that unless he left, and soon, he might not be able to check himself. His fingers tightened on the paper, sweat trickling down the sides of his chest. It was cool down here. Why was he sweating, for god’s sake? It was just a book.
‘Jesse?’
He gasped. And then that surge of fiery release, so strong that the book before him ignited.
‘Jesse!’
He was fast. In a matter of seconds he’d beaten out the fire with his hands – it had only been a small one, after all. If it weren’t for the faint pall of smoke, not even enough to set off the detectors, and the acrid smell, there would be no reason to imagine a fire. Except for the curled and blackened pages of the book.
Sarah stared at Jesse in utter astonishment. She looked from his face to the desk to his face again. He met her interrogation without flinching.
‘Show me your hands,’ she demanded. ‘Are they burnt?’
He held them out. They weren’t even reddened. It had really been a very small blaze.
‘And the man in the park?’ she asked slowly.
Jesse looked away. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t be reminded of that. He kept underestimating her. What answer could he possibly give her?
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 9/8/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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The darkroom occupied most of the cellar – though in this case the word darkroom was doubly a misnomer, for it comprised some six interconnecting rooms, brightly lit and each with its own function. In the printing room Finn demonstrated the red safety lights, then explained the more arcane pieces of equipment. The office seemed as much sitting room as workplace, with its comfortable leather sofa and armchair, bookshelves, refrigerator, and ultra high-tech espresso machine which could probably produce rocket fuel in a pinch. Cameras, lenses, and filters lay everywhere; several tripods were stacked in a corner.
‘Don’t you do most everything on computers nowadays?’ Jesse asked.
Finn smiled. ‘A certain amount, of course. But I prefer the old-fashioned methods. More subtlety, more depth of expression.’
‘May I have a look at some of your work?’
‘No need to be polite. Sarah hates it if I try to convert her friends.’
‘I really like what I’ve seen upstairs.’
‘OK. How about a coffee first?’
Jesse nodded, and Finn gestured towards the sofa.
‘Espresso or cappuccino?’ Finn asked.
‘Uh … cappuccino, I suppose.’
Jesse watched as Finn played with his machine. The heady smell of coffee soon filled the room. Jesse accepted the overlarge cup that Finn passed him, added several spoonfuls of sugar, and took a cautious sip. One cup should be OK. He was getting to like their bitter brew. It was a little like the Andersens themselves – potent, best in small doses.
Finn rummaged in one of his storage cupboards. ‘Here,’ he said, tearing open a packet of shortbread. ‘Secret supply.’ He patted his stomach.
They drank their coffee and crunched their way through the biscuits in companionable silence. When they had finished, Finn handed Jesse a large book, the kind that people bought as Christmas or birthday presents.
‘One of my last projects. I know it’s a coffee-table thing, but I did enjoy doing the photographs.’
Jesse slowly turned the pages while Finn fiddled with the computer on his desk.
‘Do you mind if I check my email?’ Finn asked. ‘I need to do a bit of catching up.’
‘Fine with me.’
Finn returned to his monitor, while Jesse continued to study the book on his lap. It was demanding, provocative – unexpected. He wondered whose coffee tables it would grace. The photographs were brutal: mutilated bodies, acts of violence, slaughterhouse scenes juxtaposed with sensuous objects – a flower, a stone, a breast. There were abstract elements in most of the photographs, and many of the colours had been manipulated. Some pictures were monochromatic, some in black-and-white, others in full colour. Jesse turned back to check the title of the book: Transitions. There was no text.
One photograph made his heart race: a little girl lying naked on a fold of black velvet. More than half her face was burnt away to the bone, and there were huge blackened craters along most of her body. A glistening seashell had been placed between her thighs, obscuring whatever remained of her genitals. In colour it might have been horrendous, but in black-and-white it shimmered with an otherworldly light.
Jesse closed the book. He looked around the room. The air was cool, the light artificial. It was impossible to tell whether it was still raining, whether in fact it was night or day down here. A faint hum from the fridge and computer were the only sounds he could detect, aside from Finn’s breathing. Even the shadows in the corners of the room didn’t stir.
To take something like that and make it beautiful – his gut twisted at the thought. What kind of man was Finn? A husband, a father, a nice guy. He would never throw stones at a dog, never beat his daughter, never murder anyone. Jesse closed his eyes, but the image waited behind his lids. He could feel the skin on his face grow clammy.
Jesse shoved the book onto the sofa and stood up.
‘I feel sick,’ he said. ‘Is there a toilet down here?’
Finn looked up, his face concerned. ‘A glass of water?’
Jesse shook his head. ‘Just the toilet,’ he gasped.
Finn put his arm around Jesse’s shoulders, which Jesse shook off. Not that, not him. Finn led Jesse to the little alcove under the stairs and snapped on the light.
‘Do you want me to –’
Jesse brushed past without answering and shut the door. He leaned his head against the cool surface of the mirror above the basin, finding that his nausea subsided as soon as he was alone. A little girl no more than five or six years old. Blond hair still intact on one side of her scalp. Pearly fingernails on her left hand, dimpled. The other a blackened stump. Jesse! Where are you? Cries struck from the cold metal of memory. He grasped the sides of the basin. What’s done is done. There are no second chances.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Not a mark on his face, not a single scar anyone would be able to detect. Not that it mattered – all the real ugliness was inside. A fucking monster. How would he get through the next fifty or sixty years?
Finn rapped softly on the door. ‘Jesse,’ his voice muffled, ‘are you all right?’
Jesse gave himself one last mocking look in the mirror. Yeah, I’m all right. He splashed some water on his face and drank a few mouthfuls. Finn would have heard any vomiting, but Jesse wasn’t about to stick his fingers down his throat. He unbolted the door.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It was nothing. Just tired.’
Finn massaged the skin beneath his beard, which in other men might be a delaying tactic, or uncertainty, or even a good way to disguise a stutter like that I’m Philip C-c-canker your new social worker but just call me Phil fool.
‘Come back and sit down,’ Finn said.
‘I’d like to go to bed.’ Jesse found it hard to avoid the implacable shutter of Finn’s eyes. ‘It’s been a long day, and I'd rather get an early start in the morning.’
‘Soon. I want to talk to you.’
Jesse considered refusing. It would be easy enough; he was leaving tomorrow anyway, so what difference did it make? People expected teenagers to be rude and thoughtless, self-centred. And they were shit-scared of the wild ones, the runaways, the kids begging for spare change; scared – and ashamed, too.
Finn waited, his eyes still calm and steady and unreadable. There was nothing scared about him.
Jesse shrugged. He might as well hear what Finn had to say.
‘Which photo was it?’ Finn asked after installing himself in the armchair.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do.’ Finn spoke quietly enough, but Jesse began to suspect that the kindly teddy bear had claws. He should have known that anyone who could create such photographs was no fool, and no wimp either. Yet there wasn’t anything menacing in Finn’s voice.
Finn reached over and handed him the book. ‘Why don’t you show me?’
The photograph had been about two-thirds of the way through the volume. Jesse started on the very first page, turning over each leaf slowly and deliberately as if he had trouble recognising what he was looking for. It did no good. Finn watched him without an iota of impatience, the way he probably watched all the victims of his lens.
When Jesse finally reached the photograph, he was prepared for it, and still he flinched. Finn took the book out of his hands and studied the image. He was quiet for a long while. Then he sighed.
‘I could tell you that the girl’s body was only a computer-generated image, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you?’
Jesse compressed his lips.
‘I sometimes do a spot of work for the coroner’s office and the police. Mostly violent crimes against children. It’s my way of trying to help out, to make people aware of what’s happening, hopefully to change things a bit.’
‘You call this helping?’ Jesse cried.
‘If it moves people –’
Jesse interrupted him. ‘You have no right! It’s a violation, the worst kind. And then to make it so beautiful –’ Jesse stopped, unable to continue. His voice had begun to shake. To his horror he felt the bitterness well, then spill. How could he cry, when all he wanted to do was sneer at this stupid, insensitive man? Finn would think him pathetic. Not that he cared what Finn thought. Jesse bit his cheek, but the more he tried to hold back, the harder it became. He dropped his face into his hands. His lungs and throat and bony shoulders were soon aching from the outpouring of grief, from the savage gale which tore through his frame. He hadn’t wept like this in years.
Swiftly Finn moved to Jesse’s side, the sofa sagging like an old friend under his weight. Once again he laid his arm across Jesse’s shoulders. This time Jesse didn’t push him away. Finn’s arm was strangely light, a featherweight of flesh and bone and salty sweat. Jesse couldn’t have borne a yoke.
Finn said nothing, just let him cry. Finn’s own throat was tight, clogging with compassion for this proud and wounded and magnificent creature – half man, half child. We take the most perfect spirit, he thought bitterly, and flay it, gouge it, twist it until it yields or breaks. What kind of beings are we? what monsters? what hitlers? Very gently he caressed Jesse’s shoulder, his thumb making small circles on the worn T-shirt. It did little to stop the shudders, shudders so strong that they penetrated to his own core.
Gradually the spasms subsided. Jesse raised his head and stammered an apology. Finn removed his arm but remained close. His bulk drew Jesse against him the way a solid mass attracts a passing asteroid in the cold empty corridors of space. Jesse wiped his face with his hand, sniffed. Finn fished in his pocket and brought out an old-fashioned handkerchief.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s clean. Have a good blow.’
After making thorough use of the handkerchief, Jesse crumpled it in his hand, then released his fingers so that the square of cloth unfurled like a crocus in sunlight.
‘I don’t usually do this,’ he said.
‘No, I imagine you don’t. More’s the pity. There’s such a thing as taking reserve too far.’
‘You mean I should always sob on the shoulders of strangers?’ asked Jesse with a hint of a smile.
Finn had a hearty chuckle. ‘Let’s just say that I prefer a man who’s not afraid to show his feelings.’ Then his expression became sober. ‘Ever hear of Janis Joplin?’
‘A blues singer, wasn’t she? Back in the sixties?’
‘Yeah, rock with a heavy blues spin. My mother’s a great fan of the blues. Joplin died when I was a kid but one of her most famous songs has always stayed with me. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose …’
Jesse thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Yeah, I see.’
‘Good, because I would hate for you to go on believing that you don’t need anybody.’
Jesse gazed down at the handkerchief still in his hands. ‘I’m OK,’ he muttered.
‘She overdosed, you know,’ Finn said. ‘She was twenty-seven years old.’
Jesse rose, walked to the nearest bookshelf, and ran his fingers along the spines of a row of books, their comforting voices now muted by a soft prattle from beyond the thick stone walls of the house.
‘It’s still raining?’ he asked.
‘A real keeper. Probably rain right through till morning.’
Jesse turned and looked at Finn, who hadn’t moved from the sofa. ‘I don’t do drugs.’
‘That’s not what I meant. There are lots of different ways to overdose.’
A long silence, interrupted by a ping from the computer.
‘Incoming mail,’ Finn said.
‘You want to get some work done.’
Again Jesse trailed his fingers along the books, lingering over one or two large glossy volumes as though reluctant to leave. Finn yawned, then levered himself to his feet, stretched, and yawned again. He was getting too old for airplanes and time zones and jetlag.
‘Another cup of coffee?’ Finn asked.
Jesse shook his head. The coffee machine gurgled and hissed while Finn waited, his occasional sideways glance as unobtrusive as his profession required, but the boy seemed hypnotised by the row of books. There were still traces of tears on his cheeks.
Once the espresso was ready, Finn crossed the room to his desk, pulled out his chair, and settled down. Through the rising steam from his cup he finally ventured to study Jesse more closely; to admit to himself the direction of his thoughts.
Finn wasn’t a particularly religious man – he just managed Christmas – but his heart was beating with something bordering on hope. Is this what he is? Finn asked himself. A second chance? A way to redeem ourselves – myself? Coming out of nowhere. Homeless, needy. Hardly older than a boy. Nothing left to lose. We’ve tried so hard to make sense of things. To get on with living, the way everyone always says. Does the universe ever throw us a gift? Or does it just seem that way? And what does it matter so long as we get it right this time?
Finn was careful to keep his voice even when he spoke. ‘I think you owe us something for the meals and bed.’
Jesse jerked his hand away from the books as though an electric current had run through his fingers. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he stammered.
‘Don’t look so alarmed. I only want a promise from you.’
‘What sort of promise?’
Finn regarded him shrewdly. ‘Your word that you won’t steal away in the early hours before having breakfast with me.’
Jesse exhaled in relief. He hadn’t been aware of holding his breath.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That I can do.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘How did you know? And how do you know you can trust me?’
Finn ignored the first question. ‘If I didn’t trust you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You only say what you mean, don’t you?’
Jesse ducked his head, inordinately pleased as if he’d just been given a gift, one he’d longed and longed for without the least hope of fulfilment – a little boy who knew there was no way his parents could afford that train set for Christmas.
‘Sarah will probably sleep in, but Meg has to be at the hospital by eight. I usually make breakfast and eat with her when I’m home. Is quarter to seven too early for you?’
‘No.’
‘You needn’t –’ Finn broke off. ‘Never mind, go to bed. I want to finish up some paperwork. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Jesse nodded. He handed Finn his handkerchief, which the older man carelessly stuffed back into his pocket, and made for the stairs. At the doorway he paused, absentmindedly fingered the supple black leather of a motorcycle outfit hanging near the door, then turned round.
‘Mr Andersen –’ Jesse began.
‘Finn.’
‘Finn. The photographs are very beautiful. It’s just that –’ He stopped, wondering how to go on without reopening the wound. ‘The girl. The burn victim. I was wrong. The obscenity is in me, not in the photo.’
Finn was holding a pencil in his hand, an elegant mechanical one. He clicked the feed a few times, pressed the fragile lead back into the body of the pencil, clicked again.
‘I never photograph the dead without a sense of debt, and deep respect. They teach us in a way that the living never can. The police told me something about her history. Her parents –’
‘No!’
The pencil lead snapped.
‘I can’t,’ Jesse said. ‘Not yet.’
Finn laid the pencil down. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he steepled his hands and tapped them repeatedly against pursed lips, a gesture that already seemed familiar to Jesse.
‘Jesse, if you don’t revisit the past, you forfeit the future.’
Jesse looked at Finn with deeply dungeoned eyes. ‘I have no past.’
‘Everyone has a past,’ Finn replied.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 9/1/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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‘May I come in?’
Jesse nodded. The knock hadn’t come as a complete surprise, though he’d hoped to leave unobtrusively. He’d already changed back into his own things and packed his rucksack. Sarah's mother must have ironed his freshly washed clothes, for he’d found them folded neatly on the bed; she’d even mended a hole in the pocket of his jeans. His thank-you note lay on the desk.
Meg closed the door behind her, something which Jesse couldn’t make out cupped in her right hand. In the dim light her face hovered like a bright flame above a long taper. Her white jeans and shirt shone. Jesse glanced at the window. He’d been so engrossed in his churning thoughts that he’d not noticed the change.
‘A storm’s coming,’ Meg said.
The wind was rising, drawing a heavy curtain of cloud across the sky and masking the last twilight. The air crackled with energy. Meg moved towards him and extended her right arm, pearly as the inner skin of an onion. As Jesse reached for the object in her hand, their fingertips brushed. Cool bluewhite tongues flowed across his fingers and up his arm. With an oath he took a step backwards. He waved his arm, and drops of fire splashed onto the floor. His heart began to pound. Wildly, he tried to shake off the flames. They splattered around him. He whirled in panic, thinking to douse them, smother them ... anything.
In the corner an emaciated, naked lad is lying on a mattress with his arm across his face. His long reddish hair is matted and filthy, his body not much cleaner, and he's shivering violently.
‘Jesse,’ Meg said, ‘please stay. It’s not a good time to leave.’
At the sound of her voice the figure disappeared, as well as the flames. Jesse spun back round to Meg, who was bending to retrieve whatever she’d brought with her.
‘Who are you?’ Jesse cried.
Meg went to the doorway and switched on the overhead light.
‘It’ll rain soon,’ she said. ‘A thunderstorm, I think. Where will you go? We’re far from the city centre. Wait at least until morning.’
Slowly Jesse swivelled and examined every corner of the room. All was empty and bright – no deep shadows.
‘Did you see him?’ he asked, his voice urgent.
‘Nobody sees what anyone else sees.’
‘Don’t give me that meaningless drivel!’
‘I can’t help you if you won’t allow me to.’
‘I haven’t asked for your help, and I don’t want it.’
But even to his own ears his protest sounded petulant, childish. He averted his eyes, shocked by the sudden welling of tears. Because of course she was right. Where would he go in the middle of the night? In the middle of a thunderstorm? He swallowed, gagging at the coppery taste.
‘There’s absolutely no shame in accepting help,’ Meg said.
Gingerly he seated himself on the bed and clasped his hands between his knees, bowing his head. He tried to think.
Meg waited a few minutes, then came and stood nearby without crowding him. No matter how grim, he’d always been able to see the irony in a situation. So Meg knew how to handle a troubled adolescent, did she? Of all the places for him to end up … But then she smiled, her eyes compassionate, and he felt the warmth of her empathy. It wasn’t just a job for her. Maybe.
‘Here, I’ve brought you this.’
Nestled snugly in her palm was a blue wooden top, a child’s toy the size of a large chestnut. Jesse accepted it with misgiving. He’d almost expected some kind of handout – clothes, enough money for a meal or two, a referral card, all nothing he’d accept. But a top? What the hell was he supposed to do with a top? And this from a shrink? Vampires, all of them, feeding off other people’s tainted blood. Playing their little games.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Meg asked, indicating the desk chair. ‘My eyeteeth are of normal length.’
Jesse caught his breath. He raised his eyes to Meg’s, which contained nothing more than an amber gleam of laughter. And yet …
He gestured for her to sit, but his gaze returned to the corner of the room. It occurred to him that if Meg hadn’t been here, the lad might have spoken. Then vexed, he shook his head to dispel his own illusions. The figure had seemed so real. Could Meg have had something to do with it? He still hadn’t recovered that chunk of memory after he’d first drunk her brew.
Jesse ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the top. Ash, he thought. The wood was warm, its varnish worn thin in places. The more he rubbed, the more he enjoyed its texture.
‘Don’t give me gifts,’ he said, curt and almost surly. But he didn’t hand it back.
‘You may need it,’ Meg said. ‘It has a habit of returning to where it’s needed.’
She sat down facing Jesse. He soon realised that she had no intention of saying another word till he spoke. Fine with him. Two could play that game. He was good at it.
The curtains at the open window shivered. The air felt swollen, bloated. Jesse held himself stiffly on the bed; he could smell his own sweat. He closed his eyes to find Emmy smiling at him above her glass of milk, the usual moustache painting her upper lip. She licks at it with her kitten tongue. No! Not that road, not here, not now – not ever. Memory’s nothing more than a combination of electrical and chemical codes, with enough effort he’ll delete them. Eventually.
‘Is Emmy a friend?’ Meg asked.
He must have said the name aloud.
‘No,’ he whispered, his voice unsteady.
‘Would you like to tell me about her?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re a psychiatrist.’
‘A punishable offence?’ She smiled.
‘I’m not mad,’ he said defiantly. ‘There was a strange boy in the corner.’
‘You don’t have to prove it to me.’
‘Then you did see him.’
‘There are different kinds of seeing.’
Jesse searched her face, but she seemed perfectly serious.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you?’
‘I think you already know that words, powerful as they are, wonderful as they are, can describe only a very thin slice of our reality – some believe, make our reality. Whatever I said would conceal – distort – more than it would convey to you.’
He jackknifed forward, his body sharp with anger, his words steel-tipped. ‘Typical shrink. Always twisting things. Always wriggling out from under.’
‘Not the first one you’ve met, I gather.’ Her voice, though amused, carried an undertone of regret – apology, almost.
‘I don’t need this.’
‘You’re quite well read – exceptionally so for your age, perhaps any age. Surely you know about the Freudian mechanisms of negation and disavowal.’
Suddenly tired, Jesse dropped his head into his hands. A few fat raindrops splattered against the sill, and through the open window he heard them beginning to spit on the patio roof, still warm from the day’s heat. He dragged his gaze towards the window. While he and Meg had been talking the sky had closed completely. Treetops were bowing – almost cowering – before black thunderclouds massed above the city. The curtains blew inwards like a girl’s long hair. Very soon the storm would break in earnest.
‘Gifts are hard,’ Meg said. ‘Yet for all that –’ she broke off and gazed into the corner where the lad had been.
Jesse stared at her. A chill draught blew across the back of his neck.
‘What do you see?’ he asked.
Jesse couldn’t tell if Meg heard him. A flash of lightning lit the sky, momentarily blinding, followed almost immediately by a loud clap of thunder. From the landing came the sound of Nubi whining, then his paws scrabbling at the closed door, more whimpering. Jesse glanced again at Meg, who hadn’t moved, then went to let him in. Their old border collie Bridget had always crawled under Jesse’s bed during a storm.
And then in one great fall as if the belly of the sky had been slashed open with a sword, it rained. An awesome display of power. The storm strode across the city, its booted feet and balled fists heading straight for this house and this moment and this encounter. Jesse had never been afraid of lightning – its fire was pure, and utterly exhilarating.
Jesse crossed to the window and leaned out over the sill. Rain lashed his face, and the front of his T-shirt was soaked through within seconds. Release had dispelled the heaviness in the air. A heady feeling of elation seized hold of him, and fatigue forgotten, he closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and breathed … breathed. The next fork of lightning split the sky with a jagged shriek. It leaped straight for him. The house shook with the force of its impact. Meg rose with a hoarse cry from her seat, staring in horror as a sheet of incandescent light enveloped Jesse. Dazzled, she was forced to blink.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
Smiling, Jesse gestured towards the sky. He’d turned back from the window. Meg could discern a faint play of luminescence along his skin, like the glittering tracery of a great metropolis seen from the air at night, then a lingering glow, then the sheen of rain. The top lay on his palm, unharmed.
Nubi whined from under the bed. Jesse knelt to coax the dog from his hiding place, stroked him, laid his head on the animal’s quivering flank. Emmy had sometimes fallen asleep next to Bridget. Jesse felt a warning prickle behind his lids.
‘Jesse.’
Meg stood above him. Her beautiful eyes saw too much. He buried his face in Nubi’s fur, ashamed of his weakness. She crouched down next to him, rested a gentle hand over his.
‘Please stay,’ she said.
As Meg headed towards the kitchen to fix a platter of cheese and crackers for everyone, she automatically glanced at her wrist when she heard their grandfather clock strike the half-hour. Puzzled, she came to an abrupt halt. Her watch was solid, self-winding, and Swiss – a gift from Finn to celebrate her MRCPsych. A beautiful timepiece, it was never inaccurate. Sarah joked that they could use it to time the next Big Bang. Then why had it stopped ten or twelve minutes ago? She looked closer, and her fingertips began to tingle. She was wrong, it hadn’t stopped. The second hand was oscillating erratically, like the needle of a compass in the presence of a moving magnet.
Jesse stood on the roofed patio, smoking and watching the rain, which had settled into a steady downpour. It had just gone ten, but Sarah was still talking with her father while Meg frowned over a sheaf of notes, half listening to the conversation. Jesse had tried to read in his room but had been too restless to concentrate. For a while he’d played with the top, not that he believed it would help him to focus his thoughts despite Meg’s claim. He had no use for hypnosis, or self-hypnosis. Finally he’d given up and come down to join the others. He’d eaten some cheese, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, wondering the whole time whether he’d taken the right decision. He considered telling Sarah how annoyed he was at her for concealing her mother’s occupation. But what was the point? In a few hours he’d be gone.
‘All right?’
Jesse turned at the sound of Finn’s deep voice.
‘Fine,’ Jesse said. He didn’t know why he should feel guilty being caught with a cigarette.
Finn pulled out a pipe and filled it from a leather pouch. He tamped down the tobacco with his forefinger. With a large old-fashioned lighter – a really handsome piece, silver, engraved, probably a genuine Zippo – Finn lit the tobacco and puffed with noisy enjoyment.
‘Meg doesn’t care for cigarettes in the house. A pipe she doesn’t mind,’ Finn said, ‘but I got used to an evening smoke outdoors on one of my first expeditions. Even in winter I come outside, look up at the sky.’
‘You’ve been to many places, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, too many, I sometimes think. It must be the Viking blood.’
‘I wondered about your accent.’
‘I grew up in Norway, though I’ve lived in several countries.’
‘What do you mean by too many?’ Jesse asked, curious. He would love to travel, see the places he’d only read about. What he did was not travelling.
‘It becomes harder to look at things with an open mind, to appreciate them. You get inured to strangeness.’ He looked at Jesse. ‘To suffering and poverty too.’
They were quiet for a time.
Jesse stubbed out his cigarette, then bent and picked up the butt. ‘I’ll be leaving in the morning,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. I appreciate it.’
‘Would you like to see my darkroom?’
Jesse nodded, relieved that Finn didn’t press him to stay.
‘Come on, then,’ Finn said, stooping to knock the ash from his pipe into a terracotta pot. ‘Before Meg thinks of something for me to do.’
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 8/25/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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‘You’re not eating,’ said Sarah’s mother.
The three of them were sitting in the kitchen at a battered wooden table. A jug with sweet peas scented the room.
‘Jesse?’ Sarah’s mother prompted.
‘I’m not very hungry, Mrs –’ He broke off, realising that he didn’t know their surname.
‘Andersen. But please call me Meg.’
He glanced at Sarah. ‘We had a late meal.’
‘That reminds me,’ Meg said. ‘Thomas rang. You forgot your mobile again.’
‘Oh shit. I was supposed to meet him in the afternoon,’ Sarah said. ‘He was going make his famous coconut ice cream cake.’
‘He was very nice about it, considering he’d gone to all that trouble,’ Meg said.
Sarah flushed. ‘I got the message.’
Hurriedly she finished the food on her plate and reached for seconds. For such a slender girl, she ate a lot. Nor did she pretend about it. She chewed with gusto – like most things she did, Jesse suspected. Was Thomas the boyfriend?
‘At least try some,’ Sarah said, her mouth around a large forkful of salad.
Jesse took a bite of his quiche. The pastry was rich and flaky – obviously homemade. Sarah’s mum was a good cook. He wished he had more appetite, but his headache, which had toyed with him off and on all day, was now scratching impatiently at the door. It was one of the reasons he had, in the end, gone back home with Sarah. He simply couldn’t face another night on the street.
‘Aren’t you on duty tonight?’ Sarah asked her mother.
‘Not till tomorrow.’
Sarah saw the question in Jesse’s eyes. She was about to explain when her mum’s slight frown checked her. The not yet was as clear as if Meg had spoken the words aloud.
‘I’ll ring Thomas, then how about some TV?’ Sarah asked.
‘Or sleep.’ Meg’s eyes rested on Jesse, who found it very difficult to interpret her thoughts – not that she hid them from view, for her gaze was direct and candid. No, it was far more like watching a school of fish, whose iridescent scales flashed just below the surface, but slipped away as soon as you tried to lower the net.
Meg pushed back her chair and crossed to the electric kettle, filled it at the tap, and switched it on. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said to him.
‘Yuk,’ said Sarah. ‘not that dreadful stuff.’
But Jesse would be glad to drink it, anything at this point to avoid a migraine; nightmares. Then a bath and bed: he shivered with pleasure at the thought of an entire night in comfort and safety. To sleep as long as he liked …
As Meg handed him the mug of herbal tea, she let her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment. Unprepared, he camouflaged his reaction with a neck roll, almost smoothly enough to fool her that his muscles were stiff. A small crease puckered her brow.
Sarah’s voice cut across the open waters between them like the fierce carved prow of a longboat. ‘Are you’re OK? You’re very pale.’
Tomorrow. He would leave first thing tomorrow. He could feel the weight of Meg’s solicitude bearing down on him like a second ship.
Why were they bothering with him, a complete stranger? Nobody just took some kid in off the street. He liked them, but well-meaning people were often the most dangerous sort. With the nasty ones you knew where you stood, had no compunction about dealing with them. But those fools who imagined they knew what was best for everybody else, who were only doing it for your own good – if he heard that phrase one more time – they were the ones to watch out for. You wanted a little relief, you wanted to trust them, and then wham! rammed by a bloody frigate. And the self-righteous never forgave.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sarah persisted.
‘Drink your tea, Jesse,’ Meg said. ‘I’ve added some honey for energy. Then get a good night’s sleep. There’ll be time enough to talk tomorrow.’
At least she hadn’t said that things would look different in the morning, Jesse thought. And then he understood that Meg had reproved Sarah, however mildly.
Sarah rose, collected the plates, and scraped the remains of Jesse’s quiche into Nubi’s dish. The dog didn’t need any prompting when it came to food, and he’d licked the basin clean and bumped it noisily across the floor with his muzzle, trying to get the very last smear, before they had a chance to wonder whether he’d eat French cuisine. They all laughed, even Jesse, and the slight tension in the room dissipated.
Sarah brought out a chocolate mousse and raised her eyebrow at Jesse. He shook his head, then ducked it with a rueful grin. Headache or no headache he could never resist chocolate.
‘Do you have something to sleep in?’ Meg asked him when he’d finished. ‘If we get rain, the temperature will probably drop.’
‘I raided those trunks in the attic,’ Sarah said. ‘I thought it would be OK under the circumstances. But I forgot pyjamas.’
Sarah was studying her spoon from all angles, as if a secret password were etched somewhere on its surface. She avoided looking at her mother. There was a short silence.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jesse said. ‘I can manage without.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Meg said. ‘Would you mind fetching a pair, Sarah? There should be some in the smaller trunk, underneath the underwear and T-shirts. I’ll bring Jesse an extra blanket in the meantime.’
Sarah nodded, and Jesse could see the relief on her face.
A door slammed from the front of the house. Nubi rose from his place at Jesse’s feet and stretched. He padded towards the kitchen door, cocking his head curiously.
‘I’m back,’ a man’s voice bellowed.
‘Dad!’ Sarah whooped, evidently forgetting to use his first name in her enthusiasm.
Even Meg, normally soft spoken, couldn’t repress her delight. ‘Finn!’ she exclaimed.
The next few minutes passed in a jumble of hugs and kisses and parcels and cases and exclamations and cameras and questions and snatches of sentences. Jesse had risen with the others and stood a little apart, watching the effervescence with unexpected pleasure. He couldn’t help being caught up in their excitement. When things had quieted down, Sarah’s father turned to Jesse.
‘And this is –’ he began.
‘Jesse.’ Meg said, her smile drawing him into their circle. ‘A new friend. He’ll be staying the night.’
Sarah’s dad nodded as if this were the most natural thing in the world and extended his hand. Jesse wasn’t used to such courtesy and took a second to hold out his own. Finn noticed his hesitation.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I travel so much that I’ve grown accustomed to greeting people this way.’ His handshake was firm and welcoming. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ Jesse said, touched by the man’s attempt to put him at ease. A handshake was surely normal in the kind of society the Andersens frequented.
Sarah gawped. ‘Sir?’
Her father laughed. ‘Now where did you find him, Sarah? I haven’t been called sir by anyone not hoping for a tip since my military days.’
‘I didn’t know you’d served in the army,’ Sarah said.
‘I didn’t,’ Finn said.
They all laughed. Finn’s face was deeply tanned, his tonsure shaggy, his beard a rich redgold. When he laughed, everything about him laughed – his bright blue eyes, his gap teeth, his belly. He was a large – a very large – man who didn’t seem to mind the roll of fat that drooped over his jeans. Jesse wondered whose clothes they’d lent him. Obviously not Finn’s.
‘You’re thinner,’ Sarah said, jabbing her finger at her father’s stomach.
‘Yeah, short rations and lots of hiking will do that to you.’ He glanced at the kitchen table. ‘Quiche. Quiche. And chocolate mousse. Thank god I’m home before I starved to death.’
He went to the sink to wash his hands, then cut himself a thick wedge and took a bite. He closed his eyes dramatically, smacked his lips, sighed.
‘If they had tasted that at Sparta, they wouldn’t have bothered with Helen.’ He grinned wickedly at his wife. ‘Well, not till they’d eaten their fill.’
Meg blushed.
Jesse exchanged glances with Sarah. She wasn’t even remotely bothered. Was this the way it could be? People spending years – a lifetime – together?
‘Finn, cut it out. You’re too old for jokes like that,’ Sarah said. ‘You’re embarrassing Jesse.’
‘Oh ho, my girl, you’re never too old for foreplay,’ Finn said.
Now it was Sarah’s turn to blush. To cover up her discomfiture, she began loading the dishwasher, but not before shooting a look at Jesse which clearly said: parents!
‘It’s fine,’ Jesse said, a bit shyly.
Finn licked his fingers. ‘Good,’ he said to Jesse. ‘I’m glad to find there’s someone your age who doesn’t think an untimely frost lies upon everyone over thirty.’
‘Shakespeare’s Capulet,’ Jesse said with a grin.
‘An educated man!’
Finn spoke with a trace of accent which Jesse tried and failed to place – not precisely American, certainly not Australian, but what?
‘So, Jesse,’ Finn said, going to the fridge and peering in, ‘is this your dog or have my wife and daughter been busy with a new project?’
Jesse sat down at his place. He shrugged in resignation. ‘Mine. Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
Meg rummaged in a cupboard and brought out a bottle of wine. She added wineglasses to the clutter on the table, a corkscrew. Finn picked up the bottle and scrutinised the label, then tugged his beard.
‘A good red,’ he said. ‘Another gift from a patient?’
‘Patient?’ Jesse asked.
‘Hasn’t Sarah told you?’ Finn asked. ‘Meg’s nearly finished her training at the local loony bin.’
‘Finn!’
‘All right, all right. Specialist registrar at our psychiatric hospital.’
‘A psychiatrist?’ asked Jesse, appalled.
‘Yes, for kids and teens,’ Finn said. ‘Bloody tough work, too. With Sarah growing up and my being away so much, Meg decided she'd stayed home long enough. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s what she loves.’
Finn decanted the wine and poured them all a glass.
‘A toast,’ he said, holding his to the light. ‘To home and family and friends.’
‘I don’t drink,’ Jesse said.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 8/18/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Tondi's body glistened with sweat, her meagre clothes clinging to her skin. When she offered to lend Jesse her skateboard, he mumbled his thanks and kept his head low as she came close, too close. Let her think that he was embarrassed or overcome or whatever. With her board tucked under one arm he approached the ramp.
They wanted to humiliate him, Sarah's friends. They were practised skaters with lots of tricks and manoeuvres. At the skater plaza he'd watched them first on the concrete flat and ramps, then on the steps and rails and ledges, now on the half-pipe. All except Tondi, who skated well but kept in the background. The lads launched themselves from the top of the ramp straight into the air. They hung there, defying gravity, then twisted and flung themselves right back down. Impossible. Only they did it. No one in his right mind started there.
'Come on,' called the tallest bloke -- Mick? -- who had gelled blond hair, hot and taunting eyes. 'It's easy, give it a try.'
Jesse knew it wasn't easy. He wiped his hands on his jeans. He was beginning to be seriously annoyed with himself. At school he'd learned early on to keep a low profile, not to be drawn into lose-lose situations. What did he care what these stupid apes thought of him? He raised the board, about to toss it down in contempt. Sarah would be back any moment now. She'd never expect him to start with the half-pipe.
The sun had slid towards the trees, glazing the leaves with a shiny eggwash of light, as golden as his grandmother's Easter loaf studded with sultanas and almonds. He could taste Mick's mockery. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the packet of cigarettes that Sarah had bought him. He dropped the board on the patch of grass in front of him and put his left foot on the deck, testing its spring. It felt comfortable, right. Jesse lit a cigarette. His mind went back to Sarah's words: stop running.
Sarah rode into sight on Kevin's board, Nubi racing alongside her. Though she'd obviously given it some practice, she wasn't a skater like these four. Jesse could see that straightaway.
Plait frisking behind her, she swerved through the last curve and came laughing to a sudden halt in front of him. She flipped her board up, catching it in one hand. Nubi dropped down at Jesse's feet, panting.
'Don't you want to try?' she asked.
Tondi came sauntering over, Kevin right behind. He was carrying a bulging carrier bag, and his muscles bulged under his tan. Jesse was sure that the cut-off T-shirt he was wearing cost as much as it took to feed a third-world family for a month. Three months.
'Refreshments,' Kevin said with a smirk. No doubt he was underage. He called to Mick and Don. 'Hey, take a break. Lager's here.'
Kevin and Tondi sprawled on the grass. Sarah glanced at Jesse, and he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Good. He'd agreed to go skateboarding -- not to be taken down. Defiantly, he turned on his heel to study the ramp. Mick and Don joined the others, both having worked up a sweat. Mick stripped off his too-tight tank-top, wiped his face ostentatiously, and stretched out with his arms behind his head, midriff ridged and bare and bragging.
Sarah flicked her plait over her shoulder. Brushing damp scallops of hair off her forehead, she took a step backwards. Mick could stand a shower, she thought, a little surprised at her own disgust. She used to admire the view as well as the next girl. Her eyes wandered towards Jesse, who was holding himself stiffly, his back proud and inaccessible under the old T-shirt. He was tall, but not too tall, lean to the point of hunger. He probably had more growing to do; he certainly needed feeding. Although his muscles were as well-defined as Mick's -- his hair as blond, his shoulders fully as broad -- there was something more understated, less showy about Jesse. Subtler, somehow. Even his skin, though tanned, didn't seemed newly gilded like Don's after a week spent sailing the Mediterranean. Perhaps it was that Jesse wore his skin like a promise, and a refuge, reminding her of the exquisite polished surfaces of the Zen poetry they'd done in school last year, poems beautiful in their very impenetrability. His ragged hair hung well below the neckline. It was wild and soft and unruly, for he'd washed it only this morning. She thought that she might cut it for him, if he let her. She watched him a moment longer, then settled onto the ground, taking care to keep her distance from Mick, and accepted a lager. Jesse smoked his cigarette.
'Aren't you thirsty?' Mick asked him.
'I don't drink,' Jesse said without turning round.
'Well, pass us a cig then,' Kevin drawled.
Reluctantly Jesse handed him the packet.
Tondi shaded her eyes and looked up at Jesse. 'Which school do you go to?' she asked, taking another swig from her can.
'I don't go to school.'
Mick raised his eyebrows. 'Lucky sod,' he said. 'Where do you work?'
'I don't work,' Jesse said.
The four friends exchanged glances, while Sarah stared at her can.
'Well, well,' Kevin said. 'A real honest-to-goodness skiver.'
The others laughed. Sarah lifted her chin. Her colour had heightened, and she opened her mouth to speak. Narrowing his eyes, Jesse gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He could take care of himself just fine.
'Do you do anything at all?' asked Mick.
'No.'
'Not even fuck?' Tondi asked, licking a bit of foam from her lips.
Jesse ground his cigarette out underfoot, bent and pocketed the butt, then picked up the skateboard. He strode towards the half-pipe and stepped onto the flat base. In the centre he stood there gazing up at the high sloping concrete walls. He squinted a little, shielding his eyes with a hand. The sun was just visible above the dense foliage of an oak tree. As he watched, the greens brightened to a dazzling emerald intensity. His heart was thudding, all his nerve endings buzzing. His mouth was dry. Raising the board above his head, he felt a spark leap from the sun and race along the board, race through his hands, up his arms, into his shoulders, and he's gripping the deck tightly in his fingers. His body vibrates like a tuning fork to the high-pitched note the board emits. He closes his eyes, and the smell of pine resin fills his nostrils. He drops the board at his feet.
Back and forth Jesse pumps the ramps, back and forth and back again, building up speed through the U-shaped pipe till he nears the coping, where he ollies without rotating just as his front wheels kiss the lip. He rides back down, soon dropping into a crouch but straightening as he traverses the flat. Upon entering the sloped part of the ramp -- the transition -- he flexes his knees once more, then uncompresses them almost immediately. The momentum lofts him upwards on an immense wing of speed. Why has he never skated before? Nothing -- not even swimming -- has felt like this. The board, the pipe, the sky -- all are his; his, the whole universe, and it sings to him. Again, effortlessly, he executes a perfect ollie. On the way down he takes a deep breath and tightens his diaphragm, sharpens his focus, then soars in a fluid line up the wall, lifting his arms, and rises high in an aerial off the vert, very high, then higher still, and catches -- no, embraces -- the unbounded air. He spins to meet the transition. The rush of exhilaration stays with him at re-entry into realtime.
A moment longer on the board, the smell of pine gradually fading. Then Jesse came off the pipe.
'You're right,' he said to Mick, tossing the board at his feet. 'It's easy.'
'It's an analemma,' Jesse said.
'A what?' Sarah asked.
'An analemma,' he repeated. 'The figure-8 path that the sun makes in the sky throughout the year. Have you got a globe at home?'
'There's one in Finn's office.'
'Have a look at it. Very often it's marked. Here Ursula has incised the figure-8 on the inner surface of the sundial.'
'How do you know these things?'
Jesse shrugged. 'I spend a lot of time in the library. Keeps the rain off.' He never talked about his memory -- another of his rules.
The sundial was a dramatic and arresting piece of sculpture, an ellipse of carved white marble mounted on a stone pedestal. Beautifully proportioned, it stood about two metres high in the middle of a terraced plaza, where a group of jazz musicians was improvising to an appreciative gathering. The cellist had disappeared before Jesse and Sarah arrived.
'He's first-rate,' Jesse said, gesturing towards the trumpeter.
'Yeah, a lot better than my dad.'
'Your father plays?'
'A little piano, a little more trumpet. He's always threatening to take lessons again and get really good. If you ask me, he's tone deaf.'
'What else does he do, aside from motorbiking?'
'Plenty.'
Sarah glanced at Jesse, wondering whether to elaborate, whether to suggest that Jesse get to know Finn. But Jesse had moved closer to the sundial in order to read the inscription carved on the pedestal.
Lay your shadows upon the sundials …
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren …
--Rainer Maria Rilke
Jesse read the lines aloud in German, then English. 'From Autumn Day,' he said. 'Fitting.'
'You read German?' Sarah asked, again impressed.
'Some.'
'Is that the same kind of some as in not knowing how to skate?'
'I was wondering when you'd ask me about that.'
He ran his hands through his hair, so that it became even more flyaway.
'Why did you tell me you'd never been on a skateboard before?' Sarah asked.
'Because it's true.'
'Then how on earth could you skate like that?'
'I don't know.'
Sarah snorted. 'Any other things you don't know how to do? Neurosurgery? Piloting the space shuttle? Diamond cutting? Or what about classical Greek? I bet you whip through Sophocles between beers. Oh that's right. You don't drink.'
'Don't exaggerate. I read a bit of German. It's no big deal. I happen to enjoy Rilke.' He looked at her shrewdly. 'You can't tell me that no one in your family opens a book. Your mother quoted Shakespeare to me this morning.'
'You're changing the subject.'
'Yeah, that's another thing I'm rather good at.'
Sarah couldn't help grinning. It was impossible to stay annoyed with him for long.
'Well, I hope you're good at maths too. I could certainly use some help once school begins.'
He frowned and looked away.
Shit, she thought. There I go again. Open mouth, insert foot. She hurried to make up for her misstep.
'Ursula doesn't just make sundials. She lectures part-time at university. Landscape design.'
'Is she from Germany?' Jesse asked.
'Berlin, originally. But her partner's local.' She regarded Jesse thoughtfully, as if to gauge his reaction.
'If you're trying to tell me she's lesbian, I'm not going to fall over in a dead faint.'
'Good. It's sometimes hard to predict how people take it.'
'There's nothing to take. It's a completely personal matter.'
Sarah thought how easy it was to talk to Jesse when he wasn't being secretive, or defensive. Like a brother, almost. Her throat tightened. Then she recalled his earlier comment.
'What did you mean by fitting?'
No answer. He had tilted his head, listening to the musicians and either didn't hear her question, or didn't want to hear. Sarah resolved to locate a copy of the poem at the next opportunity or ask Ursula upon her return. Come to think of it, her father liked poetry. And spoke German. He might know. Autumn Day, she repeated to herself.
But Jesse was right. The trumpeter was impressive. Sarah began to pay attention. She'd had a good five years of piano lessons -- not that anything much had taken -- but as a dancer she'd learned quite a bit about music. She let herself be carried away by the intricacies of the riffs, by the voice of the trumpet rising above the other instruments like an unbroken spiral of sound, keen as a metal shaving, fluid as a river. Vaguely she was aware that Jesse had moved closer to the musicians, Nubi at his side, but otherwise she lost all sense of time and place as the music swept her along. She imagined a few steps, then a dance … in blue …
Sarah felt the touch on her hip at the same instant as she heard the grunt of pain from nearby. She whirled. A man was gripping his right hand with his left, his face contorted. His eyes were wide with shock, and his face greyish white under a rough stubble. Sarah could see the raw and blistered skin on his palm. It might have only been her imagination, but for a moment there seemed to be a faint wisp of smoke clinging to the blisters. The man muttered something unintelligible -- it sounded like caplata -- then turned, pushed his way through the crowd, and broke into a run.
'Are you OK?'
Jesse was addressing her, but his eyes followed the man's flight.
'Yes,' she said, puzzled. 'Did you see what just happened?'
'Not exactly.'
'Me neither. I think that man' -- she nodded in the direction the man had taken, though he was no longer to be seen -- 'I think he wanted to grope me or steal my wallet or something. But he'd hurt his hand. It looked badly burnt. Anyway, he got scared and ran off.'
'As long as he didn't hurt you …'
'No, nothing like that.' But she pulled her bag off her shoulder and looked inside. 'Everything's here. Maybe he just bumped against me with his injured hand. He must have been in agony.'
'Maybe.'
Jesse reached down to stroke Nubi's head, but not before Sarah caught a glimpse of a tiny spark of light deep within his eyes, blue within blue. Then he blinked, and his lashes swept away any trace of flame.
'He never dared to beat me properly,' Jesse said. 'A slap or two, a kick was as far as he went.'
'Your father?' Sarah asked.
'No. Mal, my last foster father. A vicious sod when he drinks.'
Sarah pressed her lips together.
'I left because I was afraid.'
'That he'd hurt you more?'
'That I might lose control and kill him if I stayed.'
For a long time neither of them spoke. They sat at the base of a horse chestnut, leaning against its thick solid trunk. Sarah combed the grass with her fingertips, grooming her flyaway thoughts. Nubi lay at their feet, his ear cocked as a bird scolded her mate in the canopy overhead. The soft light which reached their skin felt as fresh as the fine spray off a waterfall. A few embryonic conkers lay scattered on the ground. Fallen too early, they would never ripen, never be collected for a playground game.
Sorry. The word tasted dry in her mouth, stale. She wished she knew what to say. Something like this was beyond her. Something you saw on TV, something you read about. Unreal. She looked at Jesse, who was staring off into the distance, and noticed a shadow just below the neckline of his T-shirt. She wondered if there were a bruise or birthmark on his back -- not a question she could ask him easily. His hands were gripping his knees hard enough to whiten his knuckles. She would have liked to take his hand. There was a prominent callus on the middle finger of his left hand. Fingers that wrote a lot. Elegant, strong fingers. What do you say to someone who carries this around with him? She had no idea.
Sarah thought about her own father, his booming laugh and laughing eyes. He could roar in anger, and there had been more than enough dreadful fights in their family. But blows? Once when she'd opened his camera to look inside and spoiled a whole roll of film from Manchuria -- she must have been four or five at the time -- he'd smacked her bottom with a slipper and then hugged her afterwards, tears in his eyes. He'd never hit her again.
It had been years before she learned that other men hid their tears. She'd never forget the way he cried during that ghastly time …
'Jesse,' she said, 'talk to my mother.'
He shook his head.
'She'll help you. I know she will.'
Jesse tore his gaze from whatever vista he'd been contemplating. He mustered a smile but Sarah saw the winter in his eyes, and more.
'I'll be all right,' he said.
Jesse laid his head upon his knees and his hair fell forward, screening his face. At Sarah's side lay a conker in its green case, one of several. She picked it up, turned it in her hand -- perfectly formed if tiny. Leaning forward, she whispered Jesse's name and offered him the chestnut. Perplexed, he took the stunted little thing, and for a brief moment her fingers curled around his. Then he pulled away.
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By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 8/11/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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'Here. You've been dying for a cigarette, haven't you?' Sarah asked, laying a packet and some matches in front of Jesse.
'Thanks but no thanks,' he said. 'Don't buy me stuff.'
'Let's get one thing straight,' Sarah said, taking a seat. 'I don't feel sorry for you. And I don't want or need your gratitude. Nor do I have to buy my friendships.'
He pushed the cigarettes across the table to Sarah.
'If you're trying to prove a point, it's wasted on me,' she said. 'I'm not impressed by grand gestures, and anyway, they're just some fags. Mates help each other out when they're skint.'
'I'm not your mate.'
'Right. Then don't smoke them for all I care. One of my mates will be pleased to have them.'
Jesse's lips twitched. She ought to have inherited the red hair.
'OK,' he said. 'But what about the ban?'
She gaped at him. Capitulation was rarely this swift -- it almost made her feel cheated, like her dad she relished a good fight. Jesse continually surprised her, and his mood swings could rival a tempest in sheer strength and unpredictability.
'They look the other way if it's not busy.'
Jesse unwrapped the packet of cigarettes. He was left-handed, his fingers long and fine and articulate like a musician's, and the nails were short and very clean. For someone sleeping rough, he was particular. He inhaled deeply, seemed to be deliberating. When he exhaled, his nostrils flared in pleasure, or secret amusement. Again he inhaled.
'If you inhale like that, you'll end up killing yourself.'
'My lungs are the last thing I've got to worry about.'
'They must be so full of tar that the next time you light a match, they'll burst into flame.'
'Clever,' he said drily.
'If you like fires that much, I can think of better places to start one.'
Something shifted in his eyes, but then he blinked, looked down at the smoke curling from the cigarette in his fingers, and blew on it gently so that the burning tip glowed more fiercely. It must have been a reflection from the fag, Sarah told herself, a trick of the light.
Jesse took another drag on his cigarette -- a deep, ostentatious, provocative drag. 'If you don't think I ought to smoke, why did you buy them?'
Her mouth turned up at the corner. 'I thought they might relax you.'
He wafted back a grin of his own. She was quick, he thought, and not without a sense of humour.
His headache had retreated, but he was aware that it lurked on the fringes of his day. The offer that Sarah's mother had made slid again into his mind. He didn't have to stay for long, did he? A night, two at most. If he could at least avoid a full-blown migraine, he'd able to move on with renewed energy. He was so bloody tired.
Sarah signalled to the pimply waiter, who came over straightaway with an ashtray but barely glanced at Jesse. His eyes slithered along Sarah's body, with the requisite pause at her chest.
'Can I get you guys something else?' he asked.
Sarah looked at Jesse, who shook his head.
'Thanks. Just the bill, please,' she said as she reached into her shoulder bag for her wallet. The waiter flicked a look of contempt in Jesse's direction. Jesse stiffened but waited till the bloke was out of earshot.
'Look,' he said, 'you may not want my thanks but you've got them, and willingly. I was hungry, tired, dirty. I feel much better now. As soon as you've finished your drink, I'd like to go back to your house. I'll be gone before you begin to regret it.'
Sarah looked towards the waiter, who was busy clearing a table near the kitchen door. 'Do you really imagine I care what someone like him thinks?'
Jesse had not expected her to be quite so perceptive. 'It's got nothing to do with him.'
'Please. Give me credit for a little intelligence.'
'OK, not much to do with him. He just showed me a hard truth.' His gesture managed to convey both bitterness and contempt. 'I don't belong here. Not in this posh place, not in your posh house, not in your posh lives. I want to leave as soon as possible.'
'Where will you go?'
He shrugged. 'Does it matter?'
Sarah slammed the flat of her hand down on the tabletop so that their glasses jumped. At a nearby table two women with cigarettes between crimson-manicured fingers, carrier bags fawning at their feet, looked up in curiosity. Sarah lowered her voice but spoke no less urgently.
'Of course it matters. You know how you're going to end, don't you?'
'That's my problem.'
'What are you afraid of?'
'I'm not afraid.'
'Then stop running.'
A series of pictures flashed through his head: a bed without nightmares; a room where he could close -- and bolt -- the door any time he chose; music and quiet voices talking; a chess game; a home. Books, endless books. And the time to read them without worrying about the next meal, the next lonely sod or dangerous piece of goods, the police, the rain, the cold. One by one the pictures faded, leaving at first a ghostly afterimage, and then … nothing.
Once it might have been possible. He had forfeited the right to a normal life long ago. He stared into the bottom of his glass: running, she called it. As if anyone could run that fast.
Sarah's next words scared him.
'Mum's already spoken with Social Services.'
Jesse stubbed out his cigarette. He rose.
'Let's go,' he said. 'I want my gear.'
'Jesse --'
He turned his head away. He didn't want her to see the expression in his eyes. Soon after the fire he'd learned it was better not to show his feelings. Sometimes he even stopped feeling them that way. Without a backward glance he hurried through the café.
Jesse was standing by the bike rack where they'd tied Nubi when Sarah joined him.
'You waited,' she said.
'Tell me what your mother said to the Social Services people.'
'Let's go into the park and talk about it.'
'Don't play games with me, Sarah.'
She stared back at him, not in any way cowed. 'You're overreacting.'
'Just talk.'
'Sorry, but I don't think you're headed for a career in Hollywood.' She narrowed her eyes in appraisal, then allowed a grin to flirt with her lips. 'Nope. Forget about it. Plus you're too blond to be a Mafioso.'
It was not like him to waffle so much. When that bastard had hit him for the last time, Jesse had been gone within the hour. And it would have been sooner if he hadn't waited till Mal went out. Jesse would never forget the satisfying sound of all those bottles smashing, the delicate model ships crunching underfoot. Mal had never built anything in his life. The entire collection had been his father's work, but Mal had come to believe his own lies. He'd loved those ships as if he'd laboured over each bit of rigging himself. Pathetic, really. While Angie was at work -- usually the night shift -- Mal would give the latest woman a proper guided tour. Jesse shivered in spite of the heat. The noise they'd made. Mal hadn't given a damn if Jesse overheard. He'd even been proud of himself, bragged about it, flaunted himself as a proper man. Until the next morning when Angie usually found the wrong cigarettes or strands of hair -- 'do your tarts have to use my hairbrush?' -- once even a pair of knickers. Mal had been good at feeling sorry for himself, and grovelling too.
'Come with me,' Sarah urged. 'Just hear me out. I promise not to stop you from leaving, if that's what you really want.'
As if she could.
She untied Nubi's lead and ran across the street into the park, the dog leaping at her heels. Jesse hesitated, then set off after her. It would be better to know what was happening with the authorities, he told himself.
As soon as Jesse passed the imposing ivy-covered pillars and descended the steps giving on to a wide gravel path, he felt a prickling sensation along his skin, akin to a mild charge of static electricity. He stopped for a moment to rub his arms, and the feeling passed. Calmly replaiting her hair, Sarah was waiting by a fountain -- a massive stone sphinx, her wings spread and her eyes sharp and predatory -- while Nubi drank noisily from the basin. Together they followed the path, which wound in a long sinuous curve and was fretted by mounds of feathery grasses and lavender, interspersed with sharp, almost angry, spikes of red and orange. A distinctive mind had been at work here; the park was astonishing and almost unnerving in its contrasts.
It was much cooler in the shade. The variety of specimens aroused Jesse's curiosity, for most of the trees were mature and couldn't have been planted in recent memory. He supposed a park had stood on this site for many years. Trees had always spoken to Jesse, and he appreciated their disparate characters, their faults: the cockiness of the hazel, needing to compensate for its stature; the stolid slow wit of the oak; and always the beauty and harmony of the willow, whose rooted dance could soothe some of his most turbulent feelings.
Through the branches of an ash, the sun glittered like a finely-cut lead crystal. As the leaves stirred and trembled he glimpsed an ashen face staring back at him from their midst. The notes of a cello floated through the trees, faint but achingly clear. Jesse's throat tightened. He had a sudden urge to turn and run, but then the tree swayed and the face was gone. Only an optical illusion, a pattern of sun and shadow fed by his overactive imagination. He'd be seeing ghosts and demons next. But he could still hear the music. He even recognised the piece.
'Where's the music coming from?' he asked Sarah.
'The cello? Somebody's probably busking near the sundial. Lots of street musicians come here, very good ones too.'
'Another sundial?'
'Not just another sundial. It's one of the things I want to show you. One of Ursula's best. We're heading in that direction.'
'You were going to tell me about your mother.'
'It can wait.'
'No, it can't.'
Sarah studied his face. How strange, she thought. His eyes had become the deep purple of plums, yet as translucent as shadows on water. She might have been gazing into a pool in an ancient forest, her own face reflected there. And a wilderness of thorns.
Sarah gestured with her hand. 'We can sit down over there,' she said softly.
They came to an open meadow-like area. Scattered haphazardly among the high grass and wildflowers was a series of willow sculptures, each unique in size and shape. And grotesque: a man swallowing a child, its legs still dangling from gnarled lips; a headless figure riding a motorbike. After setting Nubi free, Sarah led Jesse to a bench.
'How old is the park?' Jesse asked.
'It's been here as long as I can remember, but they're always adding or changing something, especially in the last few years. Why?'
'Some of the trees are very old.'
'My dad would probably know more about it. He's involved in some city stuff.'
'Friends in high places?' Jesse was a bit ashamed of the mocking note that crept into his voice.
Sarah reached over and feigned flicking something from Jesse's shoulder, though she was careful not to touch him, not even to come too close.
'What was that about?' he asked.
'Getting rid of the chip.'
'That bad?'
'That bad,' she agreed with a grin.
Nubi was racing round the meadow, chasing a butterfly. The brightly stippled insect darted first left, then right, then climbed steeply out of reach, then dropped in a nosedive to hover just above Nubi's muzzle, then swerved again in a sudden feint and sped away to perch upon a bush and flutter her wings like long curled eyelashes. Nubi came to a halt and gazed at her with adoration, and no little reproach. Why was she taunting him? There was no need to keep fleeing. He barked once. The butterfly flew off, with him in pursuit.
Sarah leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes. The sun was hot and brought a flush of colour, a sheen to her face. Jesse thought how vulnerable the tiny beads of sweat above her upper lip made her look. He had a momentary impulse to wipe them away. He turned his face towards the sound of approaching voices, more disturbed than he cared to admit.
'Sarah! We thought you were still on holiday.'
A girl and three boys carrying skateboards came up to them. The lads wore gaily coloured, baggy shorts; the girl, tight striped shorts, very short, and an even skimpier croptop -- she had no qualms about displaying the goods. A market stall, Jesse thought in disgust. Sarah opened her eyes and sat up a little straighter. Her bearing altered subtly, though Jesse would be hard put to describe how. She smiled.
'Hi there,' she said in a lazy drawl.
A lot of talk followed, most of it in a code that Jesse couldn't be expected to crack. He was just thinking of getting up and playing with Nubi when Sarah felt obliged to explain his presence. 'This is Jesse.'
Jesse rose and turned his back on the group. He whistled for Nubi, who came dashing up as if he'd been training for years. Jesse crouched and rubbed the dog behind his ears.
Sarah got the message. Apologetically -- sort of -- she came over. 'They're going skating. We could join them, if you like.'
'I don't like.'
'Come on, it'll be fun,' she urged.
'I thought there was something you wanted to talk to me about.'
The friends looked at each other. One of them, the girl, spoke in a cultured voice that despite its well-rounded, honeyed vowels bit like a dash of sharp vinegar. 'It's OK, Sarah, we don't want to interrupt anything.'
Jesse felt his hackles rise. 'You're not interrupting anything. I was just leaving.'
Sarah's colour deepened. She raised her chin.
'Go on,' she said to the four of them. 'We might join you later.'
Jesse was pleased -- very pleased -- that Sarah had it in her to stand up to her friends. He watched with a hint of contempt, his eyes cool and dismissive, as the kids shrugged, made their goodbyes. The girl looked back over her shoulder as they sauntered away.
Sarah crossed her arms. 'You didn't have to be rude.'
'Those are the kind of friends you've got?'
'Since when is it your business who my friends are? You sound like a mother, but not mine, thank god.'
'No, I suppose your mother's too out of it to notice the types you hang around with.'
'Don't you dare insult my mother! She's a wonderful, generous person. You could show a little gratitude, you know.'
'Oh yeah, here it comes. I've been waiting for it -- the gratitude bit.'
Sarah chewed her lip. At first she didn't reply.
'Jesse, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.'
Jesse strode over to the bench to fetch the dog's lead.
'Look, they're mates from school, that's all,' Sarah said. 'Kids you see in the canteen, kids to go to a movie or drink a coke with. Not worth fighting about.'
'I think you'd better tell me about the call to Social Services.'
'Why are you so anxious about that call? Have you murdered someone?' She was still laughing when she realised that his face had blanched. He gripped the back of the bench with both hands.
'Jesse --'
He looked up, his eyes pleading and frightened, a small child's eyes, clear sapphire, brimming with the no no no no that the world is supposed to listen to but never does. Sarah stifled a cry and took a step backwards.
'Go,' he said, when he could finally speak. 'Please. Just go away and leave me alone.'
Sarah turned and went.
Half an hour later, Jesse was still sitting on the willow bench, back hunched, head in his hands and Nubi at his feet. There was no point in just sitting here, yet he couldn't bring himself to do anything else. He didn't even want a cigarette. He tried to think where he should go.
'Jesse.'
Jesse looked up. Sarah stood with the sun behind her so that he couldn't make out the expression on her face. The light was warm and liquid, dripping redgold highlights onto her chestnut hair. She held out a bag.
'Indian takeaway. I hope you like curry.'
'Yeah.' He gazed at her. He had no idea what else to say.
'Come on, then. I know the perfect picnic spot.'
The small cornfield was hidden behind a stand of trees. Sarah pushed her way into the tall heads, fresh and colourful and heavy with ripening seed. Jesse sneezed once, then a second time. The sound was unexpectedly loud, and both of them giggled as if they were six years old and raiding the biscuit tin. As they tunnelled through the leafy grain they were completely enclosed, isolated from the outside world -- even the sounds of the city had receded to an almost indistinguishable murmur. Occasionally a child's high-pitched voice floated down through the dense matrix, but it was disembodied, androgynous, a reedy dreamtime fragment. Jesse was beginning to wonder if Sarah had lost her way when the corn ended abruptly. They emerged into a grassy clearing. Jesse swivelled, a smile slowly lighting up his face. They were in the midst of a perfect circle.
'Well?' asked Sarah, her eyes zesting with delight.
Jesse gestured with his free hand.
'Who planted all this?'
'No clue. One of the gardeners, I reckon. But it's good, isn't it?'
'Very.'
'I've never seen wheat in these colours before. Must be a special hybrid.'
'That's because it's not wheat. It's amaranth.'
'English, please.'
Jesse grinned. 'Huautli to the Aztecs, who even used it in their religious ceremonies. It's been around for thousands of years -- first known record dates from about 4000 B.C. -- and now grows just about everywhere. Cultivated a lot in India, where it's both a leaf and grain crop. Very high in protein. And very productive. I've read that from one plant you can get 100,000 seeds.'
'Is that so? Then it won't matter that you've harvested several hundred of them.'
She pointed to his head and giggled once again. They had masses of seed, chaff, and torn leaf caught in their hair. A cloud of dust rose when Jesse threshed his own ragged crop with his fingertips, enough for both of them to sneeze.
Sarah picked a spot for them to eat more or less at random. There was no shade, though near the circumference of the circle the tall plants provided a little relief. Sarah knelt, began to unpack the carrier bag, then leaned back on her heels.
'Your memory's starting to worry me,' she said. 'Petabytes beyond industry standard.'
Jesse reddened. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to show off.'
'There might be things to apologise for, but being intelligent isn't one of them.' She handed him a white carton. 'That's for Nubi.'
They ate. Jesse noticed that Sarah wolfed the food almost as hungrily as he did. No fine table manners here. They had plastic spoons to use, but Sarah broke off pieces of the chappatis to dip into her curry and didn't hesitate to lick her fingers. Jesse was more fastidious.
'When's the last time you had a proper meal?' Sarah asked.
Jesse shrugged.
After they'd sated their first hunger, Jesse fiddled with his spoon, turning it this way and that in his fingers. 'Thanks for coming back,' he said at last.
'You scared me.'
'Sorry,' he muttered.
'Not like that. I'm not afraid of you.'
'You ought to be.'
'Do you want to talk about it?'
'No.'
They were silent for a while.
Jesse lay back in the grass and stared up at the cloudless sky. Nubi was busy crunching away at his heap of bones. Nearby Sarah had twined her legs into a lotus, her eyes on the corn, her mind probably elsewhere; her breathing was faint but audible, reassuring. Otherwise, the world was still, waiting for deliverance, or at least a winning lottery ticket. The canopy of heat draped a fine
…
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By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 8/4/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Sarah had bought the dog a sturdy leather collar and lead. 'He's going to need a tag and chip, his shots. And what about his name?'
'I told you,' Jesse said. 'It's not my dog.'
'He is now,' she said. 'What do you want to call him?'
Jesse shrugged. There wasn't much point thinking up a name unless Sarah's family would be willing to adopt it.
'How about Anubis? We did Egyptian mythology last year in school.'
No way, thought Jesse. Even if he named the animal -- temporarily, mind you -- it would be a Harry or Jinx. Simple, ordinary, doggy.
The dog tugged on the lead, anxious to keep moving. They'd walked down the hill from Sarah's house and were now in another part of the city. The townhouses were neat, upmarket, with little front gardens, geranium-filled window boxes displayed like medals on a war hero's chest, and brightly painted doors and window frames.
Sarah indicated a narrow lane almost hidden between two brick dwellings. 'Come on, I want to show you something.'
She led him along the cobbled way towards a small stone chapel which had been converted into a residence and workshop. A stone bench curved round the base of a towering chestnut tree. Mounted on the scrolls of the wrought iron gate was an exquisitely hand-lettered sign: Sundials, it said. They stopped and leaned on the fence while Jesse studied the pieces, each bathed in the astringent green light. Once again he could smell the flush of lavender on Sarah's skin.
'Brilliant, aren't they?' Sarah asked.
'They're wonderful,' Jesse said. 'Who makes them?'
'A friend of my mother's. She's not here at the moment, or we could say hello.'
Jesse pointed to a gilded greenslate sundial mounted on a plinth and set some distance from the others. 'That's the only one standing in the sun.'
'Ursula's partner wanted to remove the tree so visitors could appreciate the sundials better, but Ursula wouldn't hear of it. Most of these are only display pieces, though I think one or two might be current orders.'
'Sundials have to be calibrated for a specific site in order to be accurate.'
'You do read a lot, don't you?'
He appeared not to hear. 'Isn't she afraid someone might steal them?'
'They're far too heavy.'
'Anyone could hop over this fence and vandalise them.'
'More tempting stuff to go after, I suppose.' She gave him a sideways glance. 'Do you always expect the worst?'
'It's best to be prepared.'
Automatically he groped in his pocket for a cigarette, but came up only with an empty matchbox.
'You smoke?' Sarah asked, more observant than Jesse was used to -- more, perhaps, than he cared for.
'Sometimes. Did Ursula make the one in your garden?'
'Yeah. My mother spent hours arguing with her about the design. She can be a right pain in the you-know-what sometimes -- my mum, I mean.'
'Your mother's a very interesting woman.'
'That's what everyone says,' Sarah said drily.
Jesse turned his gaze away from the sundials.
'There are many different kinds of gifts,' he said, then shook his head and ran his hand back and forth over the scrollwork on the gate. 'Sorry, that was really dumb of me. I hate such platitudes.' He continued to rub at the metal with a fingertip, his whole attention concentrated on erasing his words.
'It's OK. I genuinely admire her. Like her, too. It's just that ...'
'Yeah, I can imagine.'
Sarah studied his face for a moment without speaking. When he wasn't frowning, his features had the soft look of an old pair of jeans, familiar and comfortable and worn. Like someone you might have known forever. Even his eyes, when they shed their brittle layer of mica, turned the colour of her favourite stonewashed denim. There was no stubble on his face, but she could tell that he'd soon be shaving.
He turned his head and met her eyes. Caught off guard, she flushed.
'Look, I didn't mean to compare you to your mother,' Jesse said. 'Or to pry.'
'Oh yeah?'
'OK, maybe I am a bit curious,' he conceded. 'Do you blame me?'
Sarah had a mischievous glint in her eyes, the same look he'd seen on a small girl who'd found a stash of chocolate and a single disintegrating cigarette hidden under his mattress. On Emmy. He didn't notice that he was biting his lip till he tasted a trace of blood.
'I'll offer you a trade,' Sarah said. 'One fact about yourself for one about my mum.'
'It wouldn't be a fair exchange,' he said curtly. 'There's nothing worth learning about me.'
He walked away, leaving Sarah to stare after him. His shoulders were hunched as if against a chill wind.
Sarah led them through a cemetery where she stopped to point out a row of small graves whose headstones all bore inscriptions dating from as far back as the 1890s. Though not quite overgrown, the plots were no longer carefully tended, and the sweet smell of the honeysuckle which clambered rampantly through a nearby lilac added to the slight air of neglect.
'I don't know why,' she said, 'but I always like to take this detour. You'd think the sight of these tiny graves would be sad, but it's not. In a strange way they're like children I've met. Sometimes they even seem to be whispering to me. Comforting me when things go wrong, or I'm just lonely and depressed.' She pointed to a crooked headstone at the end of the row. 'Amelia Holland. She was four and a half when she died. I feel as if I know her best. She'd have become a teacher, I think.' She looked up to see that Jesse's face was set in stone. 'Sorry, it's silly, I suppose.'
Jesse shook his head but said nothing. Then he moved away towards the honeysuckle. Head bent, he plucked a handful of blossoms from the vine and crushed them between his fingers, releasing their scent. Without understanding what was the matter, Sarah could tell that she'd made a misstep, that she was encroaching on hallowed ground in some way.
She tried to make amends. 'It's just that it's very peaceful here. Sometimes I bring a book and read.'
Jesse flicked the crushed petals away and brushed his hand off on his jeans.
'It's getting late,' he said. 'Let's go see this park you say is so amazing.'
'Hedgerider Park.'
Jesse lifted an eyebrow.
'That's its name.' She looked down at the dog, who was lying in a patch of sunlight. 'Come on, Anubis.' She grinned. 'Nubi.'
As they walked along, Jesse stole an occasional sidelong glance at Sarah, but either she was unaware of his curiosity, or most likely indifferent to it. A girl like this, he reminded himself, would have no reason to lack self-confidence: intelligent, a privileged only child, plenty of money, decent (OK, fascinating) family, scores of friends, boyfriend too probably, herself nice enough to look at it though nothing special really -- way too thin, too angular, ropy with muscle, even if she did have nice eyes, and that long gleaming hair, and he liked the way her mouth crept slowly upwards in amusement as though she'd found a hoard of beautiful polished stones like the ones he kept in a soft leather pouch and Emmy's eyes shone, her mouth spread in a wide astonished smile when he gave them to her for her last birthday, 'jewels,' she breathed, 'my own jewels'...
Nubi made a choking sound in his throat. Jesse started, he must have tugged too hard on the lead. He slackened his grip, then slowed to catch his breath while he tried to work out why he was still here. His headache was all but gone; his stomach was full; and the sky had cleared. There was no reason to remain, and a lot of reasons to move on. From the outset he'd established an ironclad rule never to stay more than one night in the same place.
Sarah looked at him in concern. 'Should we get a coke or something?'
He shook his head and strode ahead. It was better to keep going. Sarah called out to turn left, and they rounded the corner into a world he knew all too well.
A knot of lads -- hardly older than kids -- were crowded round an object on the pavement. Jesse stopped short. At first he thought they had an animal, a dog or a cat, or even a large sack of spoils, which they were prodding and kicking and sniggering over. Then he heard the sobs and the pleading, and his headache exploded behind his temples, along with his memories. The boy was doing exactly the wrong thing by begging. They would finish him off if he didn't shut up fast. Maggots fed on soft flesh.
There were about six or seven of them, and Jesse spotted the ringleader straightaway: a tall lad with a shaved head, smooth sallow face, and very white teeth. He was standing at the kerb with his arms crossed, enjoying his handiwork without getting his own hands dirty. His eyes glittered with intelligence, and Jesse had the feeling the guy was so stoked on his own power that he had no need of other stimulants. In different circumstances, he'd easily have been headed for a career in politics.
It was a party. Music was blaring from a ghetto blaster, and several of the kids had tins of lager in one hand, though they were certainly underage. Nobody would dare to challenge them. Jesse could smell that particular kind of hot sour sweat which a gang exudes when pumped on drink and adrenaline and bloodlust -- on sheer strength of numbers -- as well as the stink of urine. The poor bugger had pissed himself. He didn't stand a chance.
Sarah came up behind Jesse and exclaimed when she saw what was taking place. She gripped him by the arm, and this time he merely winced when she dug her fingers into his flesh. The dog retreated the full length of its lead, sensing trouble. Jesse grabbed her arm and dragged her backwards while she tried to fight him off.
'Let go of me,' she said. 'We've got to do something.'
Jesse looked round. Far down the street an elderly man was scurrying out of sight into a doorway. A couple of girls were giggling at the next crossing, and casting curious glances at Sarah and him to see if the show was about to get really interesting. Anyone else who might have been prepared to help had disappeared or was keeping a low profile. Even the traffic seemed to have taken an alternate route. Jesse grasped Sarah's arm tighter and slowly hauled her back around the corner before the fuckheads had a chance to notice them. For the moment their attention was still focused on their prey. All except the tall bloke, who had seen them right enough. He'd narrowed his eyes and was cupping his chin with his hand and tapping one long forefinger against his lips, as if weighing the pros and cons of the latest tax proposal.
'Keep quiet,' Jesse hissed at Sarah. She was a city brat. Didn't she have any more sense than this? She must know when to cut and run.
Her face was blotched with rage, and she was shaking so hard that she could barely spit out a coherent sentence.
'Bastard. Get off. Take your fucking hands off. Right now. Now.'
'No.'
She tried to pull away, kicked him, and swung her other arm for his head. She was strong, but he held on. The dog whined and ran round them, tangling his lead about their legs.
Jesse waited until her first fury had passed.
'It's got nothing to do with us.'
'Fuck that.'
'I'm not getting involved in someone else's fight.'
'What's the matter with you? You can't just walk away. There are six or eight of them. They're going to put him in hospital.'
'No, they're more likely to kill him.'
'And that's it? You don't care?'
'It happens.'
'Not if I can help it,' Sarah said.
'You can't do anything. We can't. Now let's get out of here before they invite us to join their little party.'
He flinched at the contempt in her eyes but held his ground. Her eyes filled with tears.
'Have you got a mobile?' he asked with a sigh.
'At home. Forgot to charge it.'
He shrugged. 'Let's go.'
'I'm going back there.'
'Then you're on your own.'
He released her arm. They stared at each other in silence. Jesse could still hear music and laughter coming from around the corner, but his head was throbbing, and it took all his concentration to deal with Sarah. The sun was hot, and the smell of sweltering tarmac and exhaust was making him nauseous and a touch dizzy. Jesse remembered what Sarah's mum had said to him -- had offered him. It had sounded so tempting. A chance to rest. To read and think. To sleep. To figure out where to go, what to do. But it would never work. These people were fools. They seemed to think you could change the world. And what did they want with him anyway? The whole set-up stank worse than a backed-up public convenience. Maybe he was a new kind of school project: get to know the disadvantaged in the summer holidays. Stuff that. He didn't need their philanthropy. Which amounted to what? A few meals, some old clothes they'd have sent to Oxfam before the month was out.
He didn't owe them anything. If Sarah insisted on acting heroic, on getting hurt, he'd find his way back up the hill on his own, he supposed. Stupidly, he'd left his stuff at their house. But he could be there and gone in an hour. Or less.
His headache was making it difficult for him to think.
He hesitated, waiting to see what Sarah would do. When she didn't move, he unwound the lead from their legs and handed it to her. She took it without a word. He could feel her eyes on his back as he bent to stroke the dog's head. The creature was trembling.
They heard a high thin scream from around the corner, which was suddenly cut off. A burst of loud laughter.
With a wordless oath Sarah flung the lead at Jesse and ran.
'Sarah!' he called after her.
Instead of stopping or looking back she began to run in earnest. Her thick plait swung along behind her, stray tendrils already making their escape. She ran the way an animal runs -- fluid, graceful, all its essence distilled in movement. The lasso of her flight dropped over Jesse's shoulders. Tethered, he scooped up Nubi's lead and ran after her.
To his surprise, Jesse found that he couldn't overtake her. She was fast. The sun was still high in the sky, and it beat down upon his head and shoulders. He squinted in the glare from the pavement. Sarah wavered and gradually dwindled before his eyes. He pushed himself harder, faster. Light flashed at him from the metal and glass of the cars, sometimes blinding him. He began to pant. Finally he eased to a walk, then stopped and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Sarah was no longer in sight. He'd lost her. His breathing slowly returned to normal, though his head pounded. He licked his lips. He could use a cigarette; even better, a cold drink. He fumbled in his pocket. Nothing but a few coins. Again he licked his lips, swallowed. What would happen if he knocked at one of these classy doors and asked for a glass of water? He smiled to himself, imagining the response. Then again, maybe he'd actually get his drink. His clothes were clean and respectable. He had a dog on a very handsome leather lead.
Where was Sarah? The city grumbled and shifted around him. He thought of it as a great lumbering beast long inured to the specks of dirt and itching fleas clinging to its hide, probably not even aware of their existence. Jesse looked at the people walking by, seeing them for the first time. The streets weren't overcrowded on this hot summer afternoon, but they weren't empty either. It was unlike him not to have noticed, even more unlike him to outrun his common sense. The street had no tolerance for the weak. And now he had no idea where he was.
Tongue hanging, Nubi -- damn it, now he had started using that name -- waited for Jesse to decide what to do. If only his head would stop pounding…
Jesse stumbled over to the kerb, sat down between two parked cars, and folded his arms across his knees, pillowing his head and closing his eyes. Sweat was still running down his face and chest and armpits, soaking his T-shirt. He could feel Nubi's breath on his neck, then the silly dog's tongue. Only a minute or two, Jesse told himself. He didn't care if anyone gawked, at this point didn't even much care if a driver backed into him. Sarah had duped him. There must be a lesson in this somewhere -- a lesson he thought he'd learned years ago. For the first time since Liam he'd let someone invite him home, and he'd been hungry enough -- naive enough -- to go. What had she expected? A noble savage? Gratitude? Now she had run off and left him stranded without his gear, without money, without even a piece of loo paper to wipe his arse. He ought to be angry or disgruntled or something. All he felt was tired.
'Hey mate, y'OK?'
The speaker was dangling his car keys in his hand. Jesse must have drifted off to sleep for a moment, because he hadn't noticed the man's approach. Jesse shaded his eyes, nodded, and cleared his throat. He rose and dusted off his jeans -- no, Sarah's jumble, he reminded himself -- then regarded the man coolly.
'Fine. Just worn out from our jog.' He indicated Nubi with his head.
'Yeah, too hot for a run.' The man looked him up and down. 'Need a lift somewhere?'
Warning bells jangled in Jesse's head.
'Thanks, but we're OK.'
'Are you sure? You look like you could use a cold beer, maybe a fag.'
'I said we're fine.'
'Look, no offence. Just trying to help.' But he took a step closer.
Nubi growled.
The man retreated behind the protection of his car, throwing back over his shoulder, 'Call off your dog, for god's sake. It was a friendly offer. I don't want any trouble.' He jumped into his car and started the engine. Gears clashed as he pulled out of the parking space and drove away.
Jesse scratched Nubi behind his ear.
'You might just earn your keep,' he said. 'Any suggestions what we should do now?'
A cigarette was OK, but Jesse didn't touch anything, not anything else.
'Does your dog bite?' a voice behind Jesse asked.
Jesse spun round, then grinned. A girl of about four or five was watching him from her doorstep, with what looked like a dead badger -- but probably wasn't -- clutched limply in her hand. Behind her the bright blue door stood half open to reveal a black-and-white checked floor and pale yellow wallpaper.
'Only if you bite first,' he said.
Her eyes opened wide, in the solemn unblinking manner of a small child.
'Penny,' called a sharp voice from inside the entrance hall. 'What do you think you're doing? How many times have I got to tell you not to open the front door?'
A young woman appeared on the threshold. Her cheeks coloured when she saw Jesse.
'Oh sorry,' she said in a milder tone. 'I didn't know anyone was there.' Then she remembered caution. 'Penny, you know you're not supposed to talk to strangers.' But she smiled at Jesse over her daughter's head.
'It's OK. You're right to teach her to be careful,' Jesse said.
'The dog was growling,' Penny told her mother.
'At you?' her mum asked, glancing anxiously at Nubi.
'No, nothing like that,' Jesse reassured her. 'Someone tried to --' He looked down at Penny. 'Someone tried to hurt him.'
'Some people.' Penny's mother grimaced. She turned to go, taking her daughter by the hand. 'Well, bye now.'
'You wouldn't happen to have some water for my dog, would you?' Jesse asked on impulse. 'We've been running, and he's very hot.'
'Of course," she said. 'I'll be right back.' But she closed the door while she fetched a bowl.
'I've brought you a coke,' she said when she returned without her daughter. 'Your face is bright red. You look as if you need it.'
Jesse stammered his thanks, surprised by the kindness. First Sarah and her mum, now this woman. Maybe, just maybe, Sarah only needed to run off her temper.
'Do you know Hedgerider Park?' he asked,
…
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By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 7/28/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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At first they walked back towards the Old Bridge in silence, which was exactly how Jesse wanted it. But the girl had the kind of energy that, like the river itself, would not easily be diverted.
‘My name’s Sarah.’
‘Jesse,’ he offered in exchange for the forthcoming meal.
‘Where did you spend the night?’
Jesse shrugged.
‘You look like you’ve slept under a bridge.’
He gave her a mocking half-smile and pointed towards the Old Bridge.
She was shocked but tried to conceal it. Studying her surreptitiously, he wondered exactly how old she was. With her face so expressive, it was hard to tell. She wouldn’t make a good liar: that smile would give her away, those eyes. There was something about her …
Just before they passed under the bridge, Sarah stopped and gazed up at the stone parapets.
‘Not a good place to sleep,’ she said.
‘There’s worse,’ Jesse said.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Why? It’s a handsome structure. Look at the curved coping stones above the spandrels and wing walls. And the projecting courses at road level. All good solid features typical of the period.’
Sarah was astonished. ‘You know a lot about it.’
‘Not really. Just from my reading.’
She indicated the stone dogs guarding both ends of the parapets with bared teeth. ‘They scare me.’
‘They’re only statues.’
‘Maybe …’ She shook her head. ‘There are too many legends about this bridge. It’s supposed to be unlucky. That’s why a lot of people won’t use it. You wouldn’t get me to spend a night here, alone, for anything.’
Jesse teased her. ‘How do you know I was alone?’
She blushed easily. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean … I mean, I didn’t mean to …’ A futile attempt to hold back a peal of amusement. ‘I’m getting myself all twisted up over nothing, aren’t I?’
He liked her willingness to laugh at herself. ‘I was alone.’
‘All the more reason to find someplace else to sleep.’
‘I can look after myself.’
Her eyes took him in from head to foot, not missing much. ‘Listen, it’s really not a good place to hang out – not alone, and especially not at night. There’ve been several murders underneath the bridge. Just last year someone found the body of a man who’d been beaten to death and left on the bank.’
‘All old buildings – or bridges – have their history.’
‘Not like this one,’ she persisted. ‘My mother says some places are imbued with spiritual energy.’
‘Ghosts?’ he scoffed.
‘No ... no, nothing like that. More like a fingerprint, a kind of emotional charge because a person – or maybe an animal – burned so strongly that everything, even stone, remembers.’
Her clear gaze unsettled him, as if she understood a secret about him. Her scent sprang out at him, clawing at the base of his throat. His grandmother had hung large bunches of lavender in the kitchen to dry, but he’d never met a girl who liked it, a girl like this, and that unsettled him even more. Go, he told himself. Just turn around and leave. There are worse things than hunger. His stomach growled in disagreement, loud enough for her to hear. He hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulder and rubbed his midriff; caught her grin. He could never resist the absurdity of a situation, even his own. His lips twitched, then turned up at the corners.
On the other side of the bridge the dog plunged into the river, paddled in exuberant circles for a few minutes, then bounded back to Jesse and shook itself vigorously.
‘Shit!’ Jesse exclaimed. ‘My clothes were disgusting enough already.’ He glared at the dog.
But Sarah was looking back at the bridge, unable to let it go. ‘It reeks of evil.’
‘That’s a bit strong, I should think.’
‘Don’t be so sure. One of my mum’s –’ She hesitated, then started again. ‘One of my mother’s acquaintances killed herself there not too long ago. She threw herself into the river and drowned.’ Jesse heard the faint emphasis on the word acquaintances. He wondered what she wasn’t telling him, but had no intention of trespassing on restricted territory. He had enough landmines of his own.
He smiled, making it easier for her. ‘I’m not going to throw myself off any bridge, haunted or not. Anyway, I’d never drown.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m too good a swimmer.’
Sarah glanced at him. Jesse’s eyes danced, but his voice was quiet and assured. If anybody else had spoken like that, she’d have sniggered or told him off. This was different, somehow. She had a strong feeling that this lad didn’t brag, didn’t lie – that in fact he had no need to lie. But she knew the bridge. And her mother.
The house was an old and beautiful one, set back from a quiet road on the outskirts of the city. Perched on a hilly prospect with unencumbered views, it had been built perhaps two hundred years ago of local stone. Its exterior walls were a mottled but mellow ochre, like the best vanilla ice cream. A clever architect had brought light and river into what must have once been a dark, even cramped interior. Now it was spacious, sunny, and very untidy.
Jesse had been on street for a few months, yet thought he could still imagine other people’s lives – ordinary people, who lived in flats and houses, who got up in the morning and bathed and ate breakfast and kicked the dog (or the youngest family member) and left for work or school. But entering Sarah’s home, he needed a passport and phrase book.
At the front door he noticed three motorcycle helmets hanging up along with the macs and jackets.
‘My dad’s,’ she said.
Jesse was astounded by the quantity of possessions these people could accumulate: magazines and newspapers, sandals, pillows, vases filled with wilted flowers, CDs, a heap of socks, African baskets, photos, a trumpet lying on a piano, plants, a chess set, statues in stone and wood – and books, lots and lots of books. And this only from a glimpse through the doorway as they headed towards the kitchen.
Sarah passed Jesse a plate heaped with scrambled eggs and grated cheese, grilled tomatoes, buttery toast. The dog had already wolfed down a helping of stale cornflakes with milk.
‘That dog would probably sit up and recite all of the Elder Edda – in the original – for a soup bone,’ Jesse said.
‘My mum and I are vegetarians,’ Sarah said without a hint of apology. ‘No bones, no bacon or sausage, only some steaks for my dad in the deep freeze. Finn would kill me if I used his imported beef for a dog.’
‘Finn?’
‘My dad.’
‘A nickname?’
‘No. An old family name.’
‘You call your father by his first name?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ She looked at him in surprise, then asked, ‘What’s the Elder Edda?’
‘A collection of early ballad-like poems. An important source of the Norse myths, written in Old Icelandic.’
‘Norse?’
‘Yeah. You know, stories of the Viking gods. Odin. Thor. The Valkyries. Loki the Trickster’s one of my favourites.’
She stared at him for a moment with a frown, as if she’d never heard of the Vikings, before going to the refrigerator for another packet of cheese.
‘Your dog won’t mind some cheddar, I reckon.’
Sarah persisted in calling the dog his. Jesse hadn’t bothered to correct her again. A meal was worth more than a pronoun. If he played his declensions right, he might get to shower as well.
While Sarah cut some cheese Jesse concentrated on the tastes exploding on his tongue. Hunger sharpened the senses – everyone knew that. Only the truly hungry saw the ghosts it raised: a grandmother cooking on an old range, a little girl setting a basket of warm feathery eggs on the table, the sad tired eyes of the constable. Sarah noticed how Jesse’s eyes caught the light as he raised them from his plate. They winked like mirrors, or deep blue pools, full of hidden and subtle layers of colour.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Sarah asked.
‘Please.’
Sarah liked that he was polite, that he ate slowly and thoughtfully even though he was clearly ravenous.
Sarah sat across from him while the dog lay at their feet, licking up crumbs. The coffee was hot and strong and utterly delicious. Sarah took hers black, but Jesse added sugar, lots of sugar, and a dollop of cream from the jug she’d set before him. Though they’d stopped talking, the silence was not strained or uncomfortable.
When he’d finished the eggs, Sarah rose and prepared a second batch without asking, and two more slices of toast. He ate everything. Sarah offered him more coffee, but he refused. He could feel some pressure against the sides of his skull, a mild fogginess. Though coffee could sometimes relieve his headaches, more often it triggered a debilitating migraine. He’d been lucky in recent months. Perhaps he was only overtired. But what would he do if he had a full-fledged attack?
Sarah poured herself another mug. Her fingers were not particularly long or fine – nails short and blunt – but her hands carved a line of melody through the air. Reminded of a CD Liam used to play, Jesse hummed a few bars of Stravinsky’s Firebird. Sarah finished the phrase for him.
‘I’ve danced to that,’ she said.
‘So you do dance,’ he said. ‘I wondered.’
She swirled the coffee in her mug, a private smile on her face.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’re not at all what I expected.’
Jesse noticed the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the flecks of green in her eyes. He looked away when she became aware of his scrutiny. The kitchen was warm, and despite the coffee Jesse was beginning to feel drowsy.
‘Do you want to lie down?’ Sarah asked. ‘I don’t mind.’
Jesse played with his fork, considering.
‘You shouldn’t be so trusting,’ he said. ‘It’s dangerous.’
She laughed, deep and throaty.
‘There’s a spare bedroom upstairs which has a bath en suite. You’re welcome to use it. I’ll make up the bed for you.’
‘I can do that myself. You don’t have to wait on me.’
‘It’s OK this time. You’re tired.’
She narrowed her eyes, measuring him.
‘There’s probably some old stuff of my –’ She broke off and took a breath. ‘Some old stuff we’ve still got that will fit you. We can put your clothes in the washing machine.’
‘Won’t he object?’
‘Who?’
‘Your father.’
Her laugh again. ‘He wouldn’t even notice. Anyway, he’s on the top of some mountain in the Andes on another of his expeditions.’
‘Expedition?’ This was getting more interesting.
‘Don’t be so nosy,’ Sarah said, but with a grin. She relented. ‘He’s a photographer. Does a lot of nature assignments. You know, like National Geographic. Unless you’re a new kind of moss or mollusc or mineral, you’re just another teenage body. You could be wearing a dinner jacket over a thong, with feather boa to match, and he wouldn’t turn a hair. He lives in jeans and T-shirts, which he orders in bulk from the internet. Except when he’s in his biker’s mode, when he dons black leather and chains.’
‘Now you’re trying to wind me up,’ he protested.
‘Well ... only a bit. If you get to meet Finn, you’ll see what I mean.’
‘Is he gone for long?’
‘Depends. Why? Are you planning to rob us or just move in?’
Jesse shook his head in irritation. ‘You really need to be more careful.’
‘You don’t know my mother,’ was all Sarah would say.
After showing him the bathroom, Sarah handed Jesse a comb and hairbrush as well as a wrapped toothbrush, then carried off his dirty clothes and sleeping bag without a sign of disgust, for which he was grateful. Now he lay down with a sigh of pure bliss, skin tingling from the long hot shower and scented by the lavender skin cream which Sarah had offered him. ‘I make it myself.’ His hair had lightened at least two shades. The old T-shirt and boxers fitted well enough, though they were a size smaller than he normally wore. He had lost weight in recent months. The dog was curled up on the brightly patterned bedside mat. Though Jesse always read himself to sleep no matter where he kipped, his eyes were too heavy for print. He was asleep within minutes.
Despite his exhaustion, he sleeps fitfully. Darkness eddies uncertainly around him. Voices whisper. Faces appear and disappear. Figures cry out in agony, and flail their arms, and sink beneath the waves. A red sun blisters the sea, blinding Jesse, burning him. Wait, he calls. Hold on, I’m coming. But the water rejects him, tosses him roughly from image to image, until sleep finally ebbs and leaves him stranded on a strange shingle.
In the curtained light, red starbursts snagged the edge of his vision like thorns, and he closed his eyes again with a groan. His stomach heaved in protest. Lines of fire zigzagged under his lids. His fingertips felt numb, and he worked his hands under the duvet, bunched and tangled around his body. After a few minutes, the nausea subsided enough for him to stand. He needed to pee.
The house was quiet. The dog followed Jesse along the landing, which was decorated with a series of luminous black-and-white photographs of seashells so real that Jesse felt he could reach out and pick them up in his hands. He stopped to examine them. If this were her father’s work, he was good – much better than good. Jesse whistled softly under his breath. Sarah was lucky.
Jesse found a note on the kitchen table: Gone out. Help yourself to what you need. Don’t wake my mum. S. He opened the refrigerator. He was not used to so much food at once; he’d eaten too many eggs. He drank half a glass of milk, hoping it would settle his stomach. The clock ticking on the wall told him that he’d not slept long. The dog looked up at him expectantly and Jesse poured it some milk. The dog’s eager tongue slapped against Jesse’s ears. He shivered a little. His gut ached, and there was a heaviness behind his temples, a stiffness in his neck that warned him of worse to come.
He needed to pack his things and go.
‘Are you a friend of Sarah’s?’
Jesse whirled at the voice. A woman stood in the doorway, regarding him with curiosity but without alarm. He could see the resemblance to Sarah straightaway – not in the colouring, for her mother had deep red hair and the most amazing eyes he had ever seen, the smoky amber of the animal kingdom. Her face was very pale, and at first he thought she must be ill. Then he realised that her skin crackled with energy, as if an electric current were racing under its translucent surface. The line of her eyebrows, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, her cheekbones: all had been replicated in Sarah.
‘I’m Jesse Wright,’ he said, feeling rather awkward. ‘Sarah invited me for a meal.’
She glanced down at the dog, who retreated behind Jesse, uttering an odd little yip. Nearly as gracefully as her daughter, she bent and stroked its head, then went to take some things from the cupboard.
‘There’s a herbal tea I use that should settle your stomach,’ she said, filling the kettle.
‘How did you know –’ Jesse began.
‘About the nausea?’ She smiled. ‘Sit down. I’ll massage your neck and shoulders while you drink. It’ll help. Perhaps we can forestall the migraine.’
He intended to refuse – politely – but found himself taking the chair she indicated.
‘Not my shoulders and back. Please don’t touch them,’ he said. ‘Just the top of my neck, the base of my skull.’
She agreed without questioning him.
Her fingers were cool and competent, kneading the knots of tension while he sipped the tea. It had been so long since someone had touched him except in anger – that he had allowed someone touch him. Liam had been the last. Jesse closed his eyes, listening to the tune she hummed under her breath. The room was warm, warm as the musky tea, warm as the song, warm as sleep. Water lapped at his temples, pushed at the locks of his mind. Behind him lay the past. Far behind. He drifted, warm and relaxed.
Jesse lay in bed. He threw off the covers and padded barefoot to the window, twitched back the curtain. He must have slept a few hours this time, for the sky had hazed over once more, but he could tell that it was around noon. He opened the window and breathed deeply. His headache was gone, and the air was muggy, saturated with the mingled scent of noonday heat and incipient rain, honeysuckle and late roses and lavender and blackcurrant, so potent that he could feel the gravel underfoot on the path through his grandmother’s garden, taste the jam she’d be making.
He tried to remember how he’d got back to the bedroom. He had a clear picture of Sarah’s mother in the kitchen, brewing him a mug of pungent herbal tea, then massaging his neck and temples, but after that – nothing. Surely she couldn’t have carried him upstairs, even if he’d drifted off to sleep. He was wearing jeans: had he dreamed it after all, and somehow dressed himself without being aware of it? Some form of sleepwalking, perhaps.
‘You’re awake,’ a voice called up from below.
Trowel in hand, Sarah’s mother stood by a tangled flowerbed. Her hair was tied back from her face, but like her daughter’s, it was fast escaping. The dog was sprawled completely at home under a large walnut tree, which sported a handsome if somewhat lopsided treehouse, complete with shingled roof and a shuttered window.
‘What time is it?’ Jesse asked, more for something to say than because he wanted to know.
‘Just before one,’ she said. ‘Come down to the kitchen for lunch. I was about to stop now anyway. It’s beginning to rain.’
Frenzied barking, a streak of fur followed by a canine missile.
‘Come back here!’ Jesse shouted.
Meg laughed. ‘He’ll never get our neighbour’s wily tom. That animal has at least ninety-nine lives.’
‘How did I get upstairs?’ Jesse asked her over a grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich and fresh lemonade.
‘You don’t remember?’ she asked. ‘It can take some people like that.’
‘What takes some people like that?’
‘The tea, the massage.’
‘Rubbish.’ Jesse narrowed his eyes. ‘Unless you drugged the tea ...?’
She laughed, her voice light and frothy like the heads of elderflowers growing wild along the lanes of his childhood.
‘Of course not. It’s just a little technique I use for headaches. It works too, doesn’t it? I led you upstairs, helped you into bed. You’ll probably remember after a while.’ She looked at him, her eyes thoughtful. ‘But you’re particularly receptive. A sensitive, I should think.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Her mouth crimped slightly at one corner. Jesse had the feeling that she understood him very well indeed and was amused by his prevarication. Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Where’s Sarah?’
‘Gone to do some errands. She’ll be back soon.’
‘I’ll wait to say goodbye.’
‘Where will you go?’
Again he shrugged. ‘I’m following the river.’
‘For the summer?’
‘More or less.’
‘If you want to take a break –’ She hesitated and bit her lip. It was the first time he’d seen her at a loss, and suddenly he anticipated her next words.
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t need a job.’ Stupid, he thought. These people would pay well. A day or two couldn’t hurt, could it? A few pounds put aside, a couple of new books, maybe even a second-hand jumper and a warm anorak for the winter ... Sarah’s face flashed across his mind. He pushed back his chair and stood, upsetting his glass of lemonade.
‘Sorry,’ he said as he hurried to the sink.
‘Not a job,’ Sarah’s mother said. ‘A refuge.’
He stared at her, cloth in hand. He could hear the loud ticking of the ceramic clock on the wall.
She quoted quietly:
'Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.'
‘You’ve been going through my things!’ Jesse said.
Her smile was patient. ‘I wouldn’t do that. None of us would. The Tempest is one of my favourite plays. I acted in it at university.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered again, not entirely reassured. The very play that he was reading now, and some of his own favourite lines. Experience had taught him to mistrust coincidence.
She rose and began to clear the table.
‘Thanks for lunch,’ he said, moving to help her.
‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘You and Sarah can do supper, if you’re still here.’
She stopped, the jug in her hand.
‘Think about it, Jesse. A few days of rest. I think you need it.’
Her words splashing over the rocky bed of his mind, Jesse dug his hands into his pockets and walked out into the garden. Sarah’s mother watched him go, a troubled expression on her face.
By: L. Lee Lowe,
on 7/25/2006
Blog:
Mortal Ghost
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Every night Jesse lies down to sleep with fire. This time, screams and a dark chord burning. This time, the beam falls before his hair ignites.
Jesse woke with a start, his heart thudding. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Something in his rucksack was digging into his cheek. Wincing, he shifted on the piece of cardboard that was his mattress. The solid blocks of stone at his back, rough and lichen-crusted, made good sentries but poor bedfellows. His neck was sore and kinked, his muscles cramped, and he had pins-and-needles in the arm he’d been lying on. He needed to pee.
The dream again.
Fingering the handle of his knife, he looked about him. Just after dawn, and the air smelled fresh and clean, with a dampness that hinted at rain. His sleeping bag felt clammy, and the grass along the riverbank glistened with dew. Water lapped close by, a sound from his past, and he could hear the noisy riverbirds scolding his sluggishness.
There was no help for it. Wait too long and somebody would appear. Shaking off the last whorls of sleep, he unzipped his sleeping bag and crept out. He stretched, then made a few circles with his head, grimacing as the vertebrae in his neck rasped like the sound of Mal crushing eggshells in his fist – one of his least offensive habits. A couple of knee-bends till Jesse’s bladder protested. He glanced round once more, for he didn’t like to leave his things unattended for even a moment – on the street, a moment’s inattention could mean the difference between a meal and hunger, between safety and a vicious beating/mutilation/rape, between survival and annihilation.
He grabbed his rucksack, thrust his knife inside, and sidled barefoot down the grassy riverbank until he came to an overgrown bush. After relieving himself, he knelt at the river’s edge and rinsed his hands, then splashed cold water into his face. Not exactly clean, but it helped remove the film of sleep and dross from the morning. Distastefully, he ran his wet fingers through his hair. He needed a good wash – failing a long hot punishing shower then at least a swim in the river. Later maybe – first he would have to eat. He kneaded the skin above his waistband; he’d lost weight again, he supposed. Hunger never quite retracted its claws: on the rare occasions when he had a full belly, there was always the next meal to worry about.
It would be another long day.
From his rucksack he removed his battered water bottle and trainers. After slaking his thirst he capped the bottle and considered his next move. He always tried to find a new kip each night, and if he got lucky he might be able to locate an abandoned warehouse or garage or even an allotment shed. The docklands looked promising, although there would probably be others with the same idea. Still, it was a largish place. He kept away from the squats. He wanted nothing to do with anyone else.
Jesse rummaged for the currant bun he’d kept back last night, then shook out his sleeping bag, formed it into a compact roll, and stored it in his rucksack, followed by the bun and his water bottle. After slipping into his trainers he wedged the cardboard between one of the bridge’s massive stone abutments and a clump of wild briars, just in case he was obliged to return tonight.
It was still barely light, and except for a boat in the distance – a barge, from the long squat shape – and the birds and jazzing whirlybird insects and occasional frog, Jesse had the river to himself. He made his way along the bank in the direction of the city centre. There was a thin opaque haze over the water which the sun would soon burn away. Though overcast now, with a likelihood of rain, Jesse could tell that it would be hot later on, hot and humid. Good swimming weather. Usually the river was well trafficked, but he had yet to see anyone else swim. Of course, he always chose a secluded spot.
When hunger gnawed at him, he stopped by a sandy patch of ground, half hidden by large boulders and a willow, to eat his rather flattened bun. He stared at his breakfast for a few seconds, then returned it to his rucksack. He’d wait. Impossible to predict how long it would be before he could earn some money. Pity that he hadn’t saved that bit of sausage instead of feeding it to yesterday’s stray, who probably needed it less than him.
Jesse fumbled in his pocket for the cigarette he’d picked up. Bent but only a trifle dirty at the tip – perfectly smokeable. He straightened, then lit it with one of his last matches. Back propped against the rock, he inhaled deeply and watched the river.
The cigarette did little to dull his hunger. Inadvertently, he found himself picturing bacon crisping in a cast-iron frying pan, a loaf of his grandmother’s bread, a bowl of rich yellow butter. Saliva spurted into his mouth. He forced the memory into retreat – not that road.
Cigarette finished, Jesse licked his fingertips, pinched it out with his usual meticulousness, and dropped the butt back into his pocket. Then he took out his well-thumbed copy of The Tempest. With a few pounds, he’d be able to buy some second-hand paperbacks. Unlike most other kids on the street, he wouldn’t nick anything, not even an apple from the market. He only wished he had a place to store the books. If he kept going at this rate, by winter it would be a real problem to carry them around. Of course, by winter there would be other problems – problems a little more pressing than his luggage. He smiled to himself. Nothing was worse than taking yourself too seriously.
The dog kept its distance at first. The two-leg was mumbling under his breath, twisting a length of hair around his finger and tugging on it. He smelled worn and musty, like a discarded shoe. The dog edged closer. It sniffed at a crushed tin, scratched itself. Loud staccato cough: the dog slunk back. The street had taught it caution, even patience.
A small movement caught the corner of Jesse’s eye. He whipped his head round. Not again, he thought, shutting his book. So many of his mistakes came back to haunt him. The dog moved closer, licked at Jesse’s hand.
‘What do you want? I’ve got nothing to feed you.’
The dog stared up at him with large, sentimental eyes. A big skinny creature, black fur dirty and matted, but otherwise in pretty good shape. Jesse wondered how it managed so well on the street.
‘I bet you could teach me a thing or two,’ he said.
Jesse stood, jingling the coins in his pocket. They hadn’t earned any interest overnight – just enough for a hot drink and a hamburger. No doubt a sell-by loaf and some milk would be smarter, but at the burger places they usually didn’t notice how long you used the lavatory. He could at least brush his teeth, maybe wash his neck and hair. Stripping would be risky, unless he could bolt the door. Few people had seen him without pants, no one without his T-shirt. He didn’t do naked.
Jesse glanced at the sky. The cloud cover resembled an old greying sheet, thin cheap cotton to begin with, the kind they gave you in those rundown places where, for a few quid, you could get a bed for the night – he’d slept a couple of times in one or another of them when he had some money and was desperate for a real mattress and real roof and real shower – the kind of linen that didn’t even remember white, that you could put your foot through, and did. Only here it was the sun that was breaking through the crumpled and dingy fabric.
The rain would hold off for a few hours. Ample time to eat and find shelter. It was bad enough being dirty and bedraggled, but a wet T-shirt was uncomfortable and wet jeans, a torment. He had only one change of clothes, none too clean. Filthy, actually. He knew there were certain things he could do – or allow to be done to him – that would get him a night or two in someone’s flat, bathroom and washing machine privileges included. He’d go back to Mal before it came to that.
Jesse packed up his meagre possessions. He’d follow the river south for a while, then thread west to the nearest McDonald’s. Though he ignored it, the dog trotted along beside him. After a few steps, Jesse paused to glower.
‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Leave me alone. I can’t take on a dog.’
The dog stopped, cocked his head, whined a little.
‘I mean it. Get lost,’ Jesse said. He stamped his foot and lunged towards the dog, who retreated fearfully.
Jesse resumed his walk, a bit faster now. The breeze off the river ruffled his hair, the freshness of the air more country than city. He waited several minutes before glancing behind him. The dog stood there, irresolute. Jesse could tell that it wanted to follow, but didn’t quite dare. Jesse didn’t like the way this made him feel – as if he could take the animal’s trust and squeeze it between his fingers like a lump of wet clay.
He almost stumbled over the bird. It lay askew near a tree stump, but as soon as Jesse approached, began to scrabble with its legs, bent wing dragging and sound one flapping. A kestrel, Jesse saw straight off – an adult male with dove-grey tail. It flopped about, trying to escape when he knelt at its side. The dog came over to investigate, thrusting its muzzle at the bird, who reacted by raking the dog with its sharp talons. The dog yowled more in surprise than real injury and skittered away.
‘Leave it be,’ Jesse snapped at the dog.
The dog understood when it was time to ignore a boy, when to obey. It kept its distance.
Jesse looked round. There was no one in sight. With enormous care – he knew just how sharp those talons could be, how strong the beak – he reached for the bird, making a good if quiet imitation of a kestrel’s cry: ‘kee kee kee.’ It no longer struggled to get away, watched instead with an alert tilt of its head, its eyes clear and focused. It was not ready to relinquish its hunter’s fierce proud spirit. But before long another animal would maul it, or a passing kid drown it – or worse.
‘Come, Windhover,’ Jesse said. ‘You can trust me. Let’s see if we can help you fly.’
Head tilted and ears cocked, the dog waited with frank curiosity to see if a meal or a miracle would be forthcoming.
Jesse grasped the kestrel in both hands, firmly pinioning its wings. He rose, brought the bird to chest level, and closed his eyes. The bird’s heart fluttered beneath his fingers, and Jesse waited until the warmth of his palms, the timbre of his thoughts calmed the frightened creature. There is no healing through subjugation. Then Jesse moves like a line of melody through its body, lingering longest over the broken bones in its wing. Cells resonate as note calls out to note. The air is still: the stir of wind has died away, leaving only the scent of pine in its wake.
The dog raised its head and sniffed. It could identify the peppery richness of new-mown grass, the hot iron bite of fresh pitch, the oily slick of riverbird, the fruity tang of another dog’s urine – all the manifold but familiar odours of river and city. And then this new thing: the boy, suddenly different. The dog would have liked to bark but contented itself with a low rumble in its throat, hardly a growl. Jesse opened his eyes for a moment and flicked a look of reproach at the dog, who hung its head.
Ten minutes, twenty, an hour; or no time at all. As always, the whentide ebbs till the creature begins to struggle. Then it was done – bones healed, and the kestrel released to flight. Jesse smiled as it met the air with vigorous wingstrokes, skimming the water until it reached the middle of the river. There it hovered into the rising wind, then banked and flew in a steep climb. The higher it flew, the bigger it seemed to grow – the stronger its wings. Jesse followed its path with a hand shading his eyes, for the clouds had parted and he was staring almost directly into the sun, which tipped the kestrel with redgold. A single wild cry split the air: no elegy’s minor key. Engulfed in flame, the bird passed from sight.
Jesse watched for a while longer. The kingfishers were chasing each other over the river. Their small, brilliantly-coloured bodies darted and flashed, embroidering the rippling length of greygreen silk. There was a moment in their flight, just before they dived, when they paused, suspended – the wave at cresting, the pendulum at the top of its arc – and then with a shiver, as if time itself had hesitated, resumed their plunge.
Eventually hunger intruded. Jesse sighed, flipped his hair out of his eyes, and forced himself to turn away. The river would wait. He shouldered his rucksack and continued in the direction of the city centre. Tired and dispirited, he trudged along the narrow footpath. The kestrel had drained whatever energy his short, troubled night and inadequate supper had provided. His usual craving for chocolate nagged at him. After McDonald’s, he decided, he’d spend the morning in the library, then try to find some work, maybe in one of the posh residential neighbourhoods – mowing, weeding, painting, window cleaning, anything.
The dog had waited before following the boy. Gradually it crept closer, but not too close. When the boy stopped to lean on the back of a concrete bench, the dog stopped as well, watching wistfully.
Jesse took a deep breath, lifted his head, and saw the dog.
‘You again,’ he said.
The dog’s persistence irritated him. What would he do with a dog? Most days he didn’t even know where he’d find his own next meal. A dog would make him stand out, far too noticeable. And shackled: he didn’t want any creature’s loyalty or devotion. He picked up a stone from the ground.
‘I’m warning you,’ he called. ‘Go away.’
The stupid dog came a few steps nearer.
‘I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if you don’t leave me alone.’
The dog moved forward another inch.
‘That’s it,’ Jesse said.
The rock landed on the dog’s flank. The dog yelped and jumped back, then slunk away. At the same time a voice shrieked in rage. Before Jesse could turn to see who had shouted, something – someone – rushed at him and knocked him flat. He covered his head with his arms as fists pounded at his shoulders, pulled his hair, pinched his upper arms. After a bit he realised that not much damage was actually being done. He sat up, pushed his assailant away. Right. A girl.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jesse asked her.
She sprang to her feet and picked up another rock.
‘I’ll throw it at you. See how you like that,’ she spat.
Jesse couldn’t help laughing. Her brown eyes blazed at him, fierce with indignation. She was about his own age, with a long mane of chestnut hair escaping from a thick elastic. A fraction shorter than him, and very wiry. He had the impression that she was a ballet dancer – something about the way she stood, moved. She was dressed in shiny blue Lycra shorts and crop top, white trainers – typical classy jogging gear – and her face was flushed and filmed with sweat.
‘Go on, then, throw it,’ Jesse said from the ground. ‘Hit a man when he’s down.’
‘Some man,’ she said with a snort. She dropped the rock.
The dog in its perversity, in its doggy cunning, came prancing up. Tail wagging, it began jumping up on Jesse to lick his hands and face.
‘Your dog is more faithful than you deserve,’ she said.
‘It’s not my dog.’
‘He doesn’t seem to know that,’ she said.
‘It keeps following me,’ Jesse said.
‘I see. So that’s a good reason to throw rocks at him, is it?’
‘Not rocks. One rock.’
‘As if that makes any difference,’ she retorted.
‘I daresay it does, to the dog,’ Jesse said calmly.
The girl regarded him with a puzzled look on her face.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
Jesse stood. He brushed himself off, picked up his rucksack.
‘Ring the RSPCA, will you.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Nor do I intend to,’ Jesse answered. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘You’re not from here,’ said the girl. She took a step closer, her head tilted at a graceful angle. Again he was reminded of a dancer.
‘So? That’s no crime.’
This had gone on long enough. Jesse turned to leave. She laid her hand on his arm. Flinching, he jerked from her grasp and walked away.
‘Wait,’ she called.
He was determined not to stop. The girl ran round in front of him, blocking his path. He would have brushed past her but something in the set of her shoulders, her mouth made him hesitate.
‘Please wait,’ she said again.
They looked at each other for a while in silence.
‘Are you hungry?’ she finally asked.
And if she noticed the sweat that sprang up on his forehead when she handed him the muesli bar from her bum bag, she was considerate enough not to say.
Very, very good - some very nice phrasing in this chapter.
My only puzzlement is this: "A clever architect had brought light and river into what must have once been a dark, even cramped interior."
- "Light and river" ?
Mybe it's because I rushed reading it but " The house was an old and beautiful one" jarred a little with me. If you changed it to "Sarah's house" or "Her house" the transition would be more smooth.
This chapter reads much better than the first. I think that's because there's more dialogue, and more movement, but I realise that you needed to set up Jesse first, which in the way you did seemed to me to involve a lot of tell and not so much show.
It's really moving along very nicely now, and I am more than intrigued as to what is going to develop!
Yep, still here, still reading and so are the Feckers. If they don't wane by the next chapter then I'd say that you are there - hooking your intended audience - and me too, of course!
I suppose when you put your work up on a medium like this it allows people to say what they feel.
You know, and I know that this is not a work in progress, this is the finished result of a long slog and one that you should be very proud of.
I like it. Very good. Looking forward to the next chapter.
I read through this chapter without pause. Sarah's family makes me think of a family I once knew when I was a teen.
Will visit again this Friday.
I'm still here too. Relationship developing well. Hoping to read part 3 soon.
Well, you got me hooked - especially quoting from The Tempest.
Interested so far - looking forward to chapter 3, good stuff!
This is opening up very well. Sarah's mother is another fascinating character. I'm looking forward to learning more about her.