Mortal Ghost

by Lowe, L. Lee

  ‘Hey mate, y’OK?’

  The speaker was dangling his car keys in his hand. Jesse must have drifted off 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, holding the ice-cold can to his forehead.

  ‘It’s about ten, fifteen minutes from here.’

  She gave him directions, while he popped the ring-pull and finished the coke in a few gulps. He couldn’t believe how good it tasted.

  Sarah was standing at the bay window of an art gallery opposite the park, examining some turbulent cityscapes on display. She looked up with a casual flick of her plait, but Jesse could tell that she’d been watching for him.

  ‘How was I supposed to know you’d come here?’ he asked.

  She dropped her gaze and muttered, ‘Sorry.’ After a short pause she raised her head again and smiled, a little abashed. ‘I’m not just saying that. I shouldn’t have run off and left you. No matter what the reason. It’s my wretched temper. Finn’s always warning me about it.’

  Jesse wasn’t accustomed to people who apologised and meant it (or who apologised at all). He wondered if she expected some sort of apology in return. She wouldn’t get one, not when he had nothing to be sorry for. He’d stopped telling people what they wanted to hear a long time ago. But he couldn’t help returning the smile before mopping his face with his forearm, then his T-shirt, briefly revealing ribs and belly-button, a hint of golden down.

  ‘About that boy—’ he began.

  Lifting her eyes, Sarah said with a return to her old tone, ‘You were dead wrong, you know.’

  ‘And you probably stick your nose in whenever some geeky little kid’s being bullied at school!’

  ‘What else? Bullying’s foul.’

  Jesse suppressed a sigh. ‘Can we get some water to drink?’

  She nodded and reached out to touch his arm, but he swayed back out of reach. Sarah bit her lip.

  ‘There’s a good café nearby,’ she said. ‘I go there sometimes with a friend. Her parents own this gallery.’

  Jesse’s face reddened. ‘I haven’t got any money.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘I don’t want your charity!’

  She turned on her heels, and without waiting to see if he followed, swiftly walked away. Her head was held high, the line of her back a reprimand.

  Chapter 4

  ‘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 her seat again. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you. And I don’t want or need your gratitude. Nor do I have to buy my friendships.’

  The café was air-conditioned, and its wooden furniture and terracotta floor and colour scheme, all browns and blacks and creams, told Jesse it had been decorated by someone who read the right magazines. Even the names on the menu had been decorated: espresso macchiato, iced caffè latte, chai crème. Sarah had chosen a milkshake with a frothy description, but Jesse, a small plain coke.

  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 bur
ning 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, 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 him, 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 Jesse glimpsed an ashen face staring back at him from their midst. The notes of a cello floated through the trees, faint but achingly clear. His 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.