Mortal Ghost

by Lowe, L. Lee

  ‘That’s the whole point. I want them to hear it.’

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’

  ‘No time to explain. You’ll have to trust me.’

  Finn stroked his beard while he reflected. ‘OK. Centre drawer. You can’t miss them, they’re in the trumpet-shaped ashtray Sarah made for me one year. Keys to the garage are also on the ring.’

  ‘Will you be in touch?’ Meg asked.

  In response Jesse went to her, his hand outstretched. She rose and pulled him into a hug.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ Jesse said. ‘I’ve left a letter for all of you, please destroy it after you’ve read it. And a note for Matthew. Will you see that he gets it?’

  Meg nodded before whispering in his ear, ‘Forgive yourself. Guilt can be a form of arrogance.’ She took off her shoes and ran lightly out of the room without a backwards glance, while Jesse stared after her.

  With a new set to his shoulders, Jesse turned to Sarah. His eyes held a small trembling flame. Her face began to brighten as if the day had begun again, and the fire could be prevented. Then Jesse moved towards Finn, who gathered him fiercely into his arms.

  ‘Have you got a licence for that pistol of yours?’ Jesse asked, leaning back slightly.

  ‘What pistol?’ Sarah asked.

  Finn’s eyes flicked towards his bottom desk drawer, so that he didn’t see the brief smile of satisfaction cross Jesse’s face.

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Finn said. He released Jesse and reached into his pocket for his wallet. ‘You’ll need some cash—’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ When Finn frowned at him, Jesse realised that refusal would only arouse suspicion. Though later on, of course, Finn would remember. It would help convince him. ‘Not too much, then. You’ve wasted enough on me.’

  ‘I can’t imagine a better investment.’

  They embraced once more—Sarah would never forget the way Jesse butted his head against her father’s shoulder and dug his fingers into the thick muscles of Finn’s back—and then Finn too was gone.

  There was a small silence.

  ‘You’ll come?’ Jesse asked.

  “Do I have time to get a few things from my room?’

  Swiftly Jesse crossed the room, opened Finn’s desk drawer, and felt around.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Sarah asked.

  He found the gun behind a box of shortbread. Loaded, he knew, and there was the safety catch; the rest he’d have to make up as he went along.

  ‘What is my dad—what are you doing with a gun?’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘And you won’t need anything, you’re not going far.’ He stepped towards her, dropping the weapon on the table, as he saw the light leave her face. He knelt at her side and laid his head in her lap. After a brief hesitation she began to stroke his hair.

  ‘Jesse,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he pleaded. ‘I know.’

  Sarah had passed the stage of tears. If she had to lose Jesse, then there would be hours and hours to fill with weeping later on. She gathered herself together. She would not give up without a fight.

  ‘I want to go with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll join you in a few months, when it’s safer.’

  ‘Sarah, I—’ He stopped, tried again. ‘I can’t—’ Again he stopped. There were no words, and perhaps no need for words. He shivered a little, his eyes glittering. Sarah touched his forehead with her fingers.

  ‘You’re hot,’ she said.

  He stood up abruptly, and she rose with him, her chair scraping roughly on the floor. She looked at her father’s gun.

  I’m not going to use it against anyone,’ Jesse told her. ‘And there’s no way I’ll ever let you come to harm.’

  ‘I’m not afraid. Not of that.’

  Muffled footsteps sounded overhead. Jesse glanced up, then at Sarah.

  ‘We need to go,’ he said quietly.

  She said nothing, just gazed back at him intently, photographing his features, fixing them in a bath of feeling that no sunlight, no air, no moisture could ever fade. Then she stretched out her hand and traced the line of his lips, committing their exquisite tender warmth, their wondrous eloquence to memory. She continued her reading of his face. When her fingers reached his nostrils, Jesse attempted a smile, but his muscles betrayed him. A corner of his mouth lifted, then trembled. The clear blue of his eyes wavered. Suddenly his self-control broke, and he flung himself into her arms.

  ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘Oh god, I promise.’

  They held each other as the old walls hummed a soft triumphant note. The fire was forgotten. The police were forgotten. Their bodies met as if this were the first—the last—the ultimate—time. He forgot Jesse; and she, Sarah. There was only them, and here, and now.

  ‘There’s no time,’ Jesse whispered.

  ‘We’ll make time.’

  ‘And no condom,’ Jesse protested weakly.

  Sarah chuckled, then laughed aloud. It felt so good to laugh.

  ‘Ssh,’ he warned.

  Sarah drew him close again. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s safe.’ But there was nothing chaste, or safe, in her kiss.

  Chapter 41

  In the drive Jesse revved the motorbike, its trademark pop pop . . . pop pop ripping through the predawn silence. A light went on next door, and as the police came rushing out to their patrol car, Meg and Finn on their heels, a curtain twitched in the magistrate’s house across the road: breakfast fodder, a tasty alternative to granola; more chew.

  Meg wanted to jump into the car and follow, but Finn dissuaded her. ‘He’ll look after Sarah,’ he avowed, not entirely sure that he could refrain from interfering if given the chance. It was one thing to trust Jesse—another, to watch him in action. Don’t make me regret this, Finn muttered fiercely under his breath, half-hoping the lad could read minds as well.

  Sarah clung to Jesse’s back. He drove slowly, wobbling a bit, weaving back and forth to give the police, and Sarah, the impression that he couldn’t quite manage the big bike. Why else wouldn’t he just speed away? At one point he even mounted the pavement, then after tearing up a section of neighbour’s lawn, wrestled the Harley back onto the road. Once convinced the officers had seen Sarah under the streetlamps, Jesse gunned the engine and rode downhill in the direction of the river. Neither wore helmets, so that Sarah’s hair streamed behind her like a banner in all its glory—a call to arms.

  The air was fresh and cool, and Jesse would have enjoyed sharing the road, and the ride, with Sarah under other circumstances. Now all he could think of was how to make it to a bridge fast enough to elude his pursuers, but not too fast to outrun them entirely. He didn’t trust his skill on tight turns or against unexpected hazards, though he was grateful for the instruction Finn had given him. ‘We’ll make a biker of you yet,’ Finn had said. He’d even talked of buying a second Harley. Meg had laughed at that, calling Jesse the perfect pretext. Finn had always meant to take a lengthy motorcycle trip across the States and Canada. Another of those things they wouldn’t get to.

  Finn’s gun was tucked into Jesse’s waistband.

  Jesse maintained a steady pace, riding through first one, then another roundabout, then several somnolent traffic lights. Until now they had kept to residential streets, and aside from one couple returning late from a party—the man was unsteady with drink and singing loudly—and a black jogger whose teeth flashed in appreciation as they passed, there was no one on the roads.

  At the next junction Jesse was forced to slow, for an all-night bus was just making a right turn directly across their path. Jesse hit the horn and swerved round the bus, nearly skidding as he caught sight of a police car approaching, lights flashing, from the opposite direction. Sarah dug her hands into his waist. She shouted something that Jesse couldn’t make out. The bus driver braked, sounded his horn, and flipped a vulgar gesture. The police car switched on its siren at the same instant as Jesse regained co
ntrol of the bike. He rode hard past the police, heart pounding, but either they were lucky or the driver slow-witted, for they were halfway down the block before the police car made a U-turn. Now there were two vehicles chasing them, and Jesse thought he heard another siren start up in the distance. But it wasn’t far to the river.

  The sky was lightening ahead of them. A new dawn, Sarah told herself bitterly. She tightened her hold on Jesse. His back was rigid with tension, and she could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage. Her own heart was beating almost as wildly, not just in fear of the outcome of this mad escape, but because she’d ridden pillion more than enough with her father to recognise that Jesse was nervous and uncertain on the bike. On that last manoeuvre he’d clamped way too hard on the front brake. He was usually so sovereign, so natural in the way he moved and swam and skated—and made love, she thought with a smile—in short, in nearly everything he did, that she found herself repeating like a litany under her breath: don’t let us fall, don’t let us fall. She had the strangest sensation in her lower belly, not quite butterflies nor an ache nor cramps, and if she’d had a hand free, she would have massaged her abdomen to relieve the tension.

  Shop fronts, most lit against night marauders, flashed by. Jesse was avoiding the city centre, for he knew there would be more traffic and more people afoot. He didn’t relish a collision, or a scene out of a blockbuster movie, with wrecks and bodies littering the street under revolving lights.

  They came to an older part of the city where Jesse was suddenly confused by a warren of crooked streets, narrow alleys, and leaning half-timber houses. He’d been here before, but only on the fringes, once or twice exploring the second-hand shops. He took a right at a shuttered bed-and-breakfast, then, hesitantly, another right off the lane, which passed under a stone arch and began to curve back on itself. The road surface became uneven, and soon they were bouncing over cobblestones. Jesse was forced to reduce his speed, and he kept looking nervously over his shoulder. Finally he pulled to a halt at the kerbside. The sirens still sounded, but no longer right behind them.

  Sarah worked the knots out of her shoulders and arms, then looked round.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ Jesse asked.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I think so. More or less.’

  ‘Far from the river?’

  ‘No.’ She pointed down a winding street. ‘I think we’ll be OK if we take that lane. We need to head downhill no matter what. This is the oldest part of the city. We’re maybe ten, fifteen minutes from the Old Bridge.’

  ‘Not Matt’s place and the boatyards?’

  ‘Nowhere near.’

  ‘Shit. I was heading for the bridge near the Esplanade. You know, by the concert hall.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘That’s a good kilometre further south. But this is even better. We should be able to lose the police in here. Let’s hide somewhere and wait till they’ve given up.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I don’t want.’

  Sarah stared at him. ‘You’re mad. I thought you wanted me to help you get away.’ And to bring the bike back, she said to herself. Finn had taught her the basics, too.

  A girl listing under a large canvas bag full of newspapers came round the corner, eating an apple. She stopped when she noticed them.

  ‘Something’s up,’ she said, waving her hand in the direction of the sirens. ‘See anything?’

  Sarah smiled a friendly greeting. ‘A couple of patrol cars passed us on Morton Road. An ambulance too. Must be an emergency.’

  The girl dropped her bag onto the pavement, and mirroring Sarah’s movements of a few minutes ago, swung her arms to ease the stiffness in her shoulder. She grinned, then took a bite out of her apple.

  ‘Out early, aren’t you?’ she asked curiously. ‘There are only the regulars about.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re heading into the country for a day trip, but we’re a bit lost. What’s the best way to the Old Bridge?’ Sarah asked.

  The girl gave them directions. She seemed inclined to linger, but Jesse nodded, muttered his thanks, and headed the way she’d told them. Once she was out of sight, however, he turned left and then left again, away from the river and towards the distant sound of the sirens till the police would be in range before long. As soon as Sarah realised what Jesse was up to, she punched him angrily on the shoulder, now furious enough to risk losing her hold, or their balance.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she shouted in his ear. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’

  ‘Just do exactly as I say,’ he threw back over his shoulder into the wind.

  Sarah thought it would serve him right if he did end up in prison. Then she remembered the gun which right this instant was digging into her stomach; and which, each time she was thrown forward by Jesse’s erratic driving, scared her that it would somehow go off.

  The sirens were much louder now. One scheme after another cartwheeled through Sarah’s mind: jump off the motorcycle and force Jesse to stop; snatch the gun from his waistband and toss it into the gutter; or better yet, hold it to his thick stubborn idiotic head and threaten to shoot him. If she weren’t so desperate, she would have laughed at her own idiocy, her insanity. What was she doing, letting him run away like this? And what madness had overtaken her parents? This wasn’t the Dark Ages, or some Third World dictatorship where they tossed you into gaol, tortured you, and threw away the key.

  Everything had happened so fast. That, and the shock of the fire—all those deaths. She shivered remembering Alex, whom she’d known since preschool, and clever, funny, sweet Stephen, who was—had been—a whiz at maths and had been tipped for a scholarship to Cambridge, or maybe M.I.T. in the States. Oh god. One minute they had been dancing . . . and now . . . She swallowed and leaned her head against Jesse’s back. The wind stung her eyes.

  They came to a wider, shop-lined street. After fifty metres Jesse braked suddenly and pulled into a car park, narrowly missing a row of wheelie bins whose lids were gaping. The streetlamps, still illuminated, cast a weak yellowish glow, so that the last of the night looked nicotine-stained like an old man’s crooked teeth. Empty tins, crumpled papers, polystyrene burger boxes, something wrapped in newspaper, and what might have been a pile of rags lay scattered near the bins. A cat yowled and streaked away, and Sarah thought she saw a shape like a large mouse or a rat slithering to safety. Jesse put out a foot and idled the engine. Without a word, he reached behind him and pulled out the gun with his left hand. His body was tensed, rigid—as tightly coiled as a poacher’s steel trap. It defied contact. He looked in the direction of the sirens, now so strident that Sarah could feel the vibrations, a brazen bombardment of every nerve and cell. More of this, and her cranial sutures would crack apart like an eggshell.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sarah asked urgently.

  Jesse didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. He hunched forward over the handlebars and raised the weapon, his hand perfectly steady. Unable to see his eyes, Sarah could nevertheless sense their colour, honed to stiletto blue. Heat radiated from his back, singeing the fine hairs along her skin. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly filled with coppery saliva.

  ‘Jesse,’ she said.

  He shook his head, muttered something unintelligible.

  The sirens shrieked closer.

  In a whirl of blue light and ear-splitting cries the patrol cars moved in. They weren’t travelling fast; the motorcycle had disappeared, and the policemen were now trying to catch sight of their quarry. There were only two cars, but from the sound of it, a third was in the area, trawling an alternate route.

  Jesse waited until the cars were nearly abreast.

  ‘Now.’

  Jesse fired a shot at the nearside wing of the first car as it drew level, then another into the air. It was enough. The police car swerved but recovered quickly; it had only been nicked. The driver in the car bringing up the rear was able to brake in time. Jesse shouted for Sarah to hold on, gunned the motor, and sped in the same direction. The Harley quick
ly overtook the patrol cars. As Jesse flew past them, he brandished his gun openly, then managed to stay on the road while he tucked it away again.

  The road dipped downhill, past a church set behind a low brick wall. The sun was just beginning to flush the sky, and the mossy red bricks glowed with the first light. Jesse took care on the descent, yet still just narrowly avoided a crash when the bike juddered over a pothole. They could see the river ahead of them now, flowing soberly beneath the humped shape of the Old Bridge and past the narrow bank where flea-market stalls jostled for breathing-space on the first Saturday of every month. A few small boats were moored at the stone jetty. It might easily have been a scene from an impressionist painting—another, almost foreign city.

  But then Jesse reached the bridge and recognised the spot where he’d slept, and a bit further on, the place he’d met Sarah. He hadn’t been back since that morning in July. If he’d had time to think about it, he might have found something fitting—ironic even—in the coincidence. Only there was no time for him to reflect (and neat solutions were a little too contrived for his taste, for his brand of subtlety). The police were nearly upon them.

  The bridge was indeed several hundred years old, with cracked and lumpy tarmac covering the once glittering paving blocks of local sandstone. The five-span structure was high enough to allow for most river traffic, its centre span nearly twice as long as the side spans, and considerably higher. Stone cutwaters protected the piers. But this was not a main thoroughfare for motor vehicles. Instead of a crash barrier, a simple iron guard rail had been set above the original parapets—the whole not much more than waist high. As a concession to modern needs, a narrow walkway, too meagre to be called a pavement, had been added in recent years, but the bridge was still wide enough for two-way traffic—in a pinch.

  Jesse rode straight to the middle of the bridge. There were no pedestrians, and no cars, although a dirty white pickup—a Renault, he thought—and a delivery van could be seen approaching along the road on the opposite bank; and close behind, police cars racing to the scene. Jesse smiled in satisfaction.