Mortal Ghost

by Lowe, L. Lee

  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. 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.

  Chapter 17

  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.