Mortal Ghost

by Lowe, L. Lee

  ‘Get down, Sarah.’

  Sarah sprang from the bike. Jesse switched off the engine but left the key in the ignition. Then he too dismounted, holding the Harley upright while he scanned the bridge. ‘The kickstand,’ Sarah reminded him. He grabbed his rucksack and slung it over a shoulder.

  ‘Remember, do exactly as I say,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not going to stand by and let you—’

  But Sarah didn’t have time to complete her sentence. Jesse whirled her around, threw his arm across her neck, and held the pistol to her head. Then he dragged her a few metres from the motorcycle. He couldn’t tell if they were being observed with binoculars or a scope. Sarah was too stunned to protest.

  ‘Stand in front of me with your back to the wall,’ he said.

  Jesse released her for a moment as he straddled the cast iron rail, his shoulders sloping under the weight of his rucksack. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned her head to gaze at him, his face pale—ethereal almost—and his hair wild and wilful and beautiful as ever in the early light. A brisk breeze off the river stirred it, and an incongruous thought swept through Sarah’s mind—I should cut it again. Sudden tears misted her eyes.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said—an admonition, a plea . . . a promise?

  Against her better judgement, Sarah blinked away her tears and did as he asked. She had run out of ideas. Why didn’t he tell her what lunatic trick he was about to pull? One thing she was sure of—he would never hurt her, or let her come to harm. Leaning against him, she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift back to the darkroom, to remember the last quiet minutes they’d had alone. His arms around her, his lips, his skin . . .

  ‘Sarah! Stay with me now.’ Jesse’s voice was low and urgent. She was swaying a little, and he couldn’t afford for her to collapse or panic at a crucial moment. ‘I know you’re tired. Overwhelmed by everything. It won’t be much longer now. I promise.’ He looked quickly left and right, assessing the risk. But what did it matter if they saw? He knew what they would assume. He brought his arm round her neck again. The gun rested on her breast. He bent his head, lifted her hair with his hand, and brushed his lips along the nape of her neck. ‘I promise,’ he repeated in an entirely different tone. He could feel her shiver.

  ‘Sarah?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Jesse transferred the gun to his left hand. The parapet was broad enough for him to kneel. He brought his other leg over the guard rail, finding a position he could hold comfortably for a while. Nothing stood between him and the river.

  Three police vehicles and a van, sirens wailing and lights flashing, sped onto the bridge from the direction that Sarah and Jesse had come, but slowed almost immediately. The first car swung across both carriageways, barring the road, and stopped. The other two drew up just behind, angled with front-ends meeting so that the barricade was complete. Undoubtedly armed response units, possibly manned by specialist firearms officers. The van came to a halt at the rear, while a second van remained on Old Bridge Street, blocking access to the bridge. Two additional patrol cars pulled up on either side of the second van, from which policemen emerged to redirect traffic, which was beginning to pick up. More patrol cars and several motorcycles could be seen down below on Charles Quayside, the narrow cobbled street hugging the riverbank.

  On the opposite shore four squad cars and a third van had now reached the bridge. Two remained behind along the access road. It didn’t take long for the others to race to the scene—lights coruscating, sirens screaming, brakes squealing—and take up their positions. They also refrained from crowding Jesse. He could see clusters of onlookers gathering on both banks, even at this early hour. Policemen were having no trouble keeping them back, however, for their numbers were still small, and most of them had got out of bed within the last few minutes. The media had not arrived yet. It was just after dawn, and once the drivers turned off their sirens, surprisingly quiet.

  The police had effectively placed a tight cordon around Jesse and Sarah.

  For a moment nothing happened. Sarah had the strangest sensation that this was all a bad dream, a nightmare. Her lids were heavy. If she could just manage to raise them, the chase scene would be replaced by the walls of her bedroom, her warm duvet, and Jesse’s arm draped drowsily across her shoulders. It was still cool. The sunrise glazed the pale morning with red.

  ‘Drop the gun.’

  Jesse’s arm tightened around Sarah’s neck. She could smell the warm cinnamon of his skin, overlaid by the faint but not unpleasant tang of his sweat. His breath was on her hair, against her neck. Her heart was beating loudly; his as well, barely contained by the wall of his chest.

  ‘Jesse,’ she whispered, ‘please.’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ he said. ‘Tell Finn . . . tell them I’m sorry. Tell them it’s what I deserve. Tell them it’s the only way to stop the fire.’

  And then she knew.

  ‘No!’

  There was only one thing Jesse could think of to say to her, and no time to say it. Not here, not now. He remembered the lines he’d typed, Shakespeare’s lovely words: when I wak’d I cried to dream again. He whispered them under his breath. How had things gone so wrong? He rested his cheek on the crown of her head, then sagged against her in sudden weariness, in desolation. He felt her stiffen, not in protest, but to support his weight. For a moment he wondered if he should give it up, relinquish the gun and let them bring him in. He was so tired.

  ‘Throw the gun down and let the girl go,’ a voice ordered.

  Jesse lifted his head and stared round. Then he straightened his back, stretched and rotated his shoulder blades—my wingblades, Emmy used to call them. The rucksack dragged a little on one shoulder. He slipped his right hand into his pocket to feel for the top. Still there. In order to ease his muscles, he shifted his weight from one side to the other, raising each leg slightly off the parapet. He would have liked to rub his knees, the back of his neck, but made do with these surreptitious measures. They would be observing him closely. And the fire—he stoked it now, not much, just enough to reassure himself. Thunderbolts wouldn’t liberate him from this situation, not in a century of silicon gods. He would not legend the world for them. Let them come to it themselves.

  Men wearing protective body armour and helmets were swarming from the vans, all variously armed, all carrying shields. They scattered to prearranged locations. Two men, presumably sharpshooters, already crouched in position, one to Jesse’s left, one behind the open door of a car on the right. They were at least fifteen metres away. A policeman with two dogs on leads waited by the van blocking Old Bridge Street.

  The officer in charge of the operation had alighted unhurriedly from his vehicle. He was of medium height, smooth-shaven, his cropped hair mostly silvergrey; tanned, fit; he could have easily been a TV cop, except for the slight stutter. He carried no visible firearm and wore a bulletproof vest. A bullhorn dangling from his right hand, he stood in front of his car, careful not to make any threatening gestures. Jesse could see that the man wasn’t wearing an earphone. Wasn’t that standard procedure? A maverick, maybe.

  ‘I’m unarmed. Let me come and speak with you,’ the man said.

  He placed the bullhorn on the ground, lifted his arms above his head, and pivoted slowly in place. Leaving the bullhorn where he’d placed it, he ventured a step or two closer.

  Jesse called out to him, ‘Stop right there.’

  The officer did as instructed. He addressed Jesse again, his voice now clear and confident and measured; he’d got his stutter under control. This was an educated man. He had been well-trained for such incidents. Jesse wondered briefly whether the speech impairment had been deliberate, a way to disarm his suspects.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you want? I’m certain we can come to an arrangement.’

  Jesse said nothing.

  ‘You’re Jesse, aren’t you? My name is Richard, Richard Howell. I’m Chief Inspector. You can trust me.’


  Jesse laughed.

  ‘Let Sarah go and no one will shoot. If there’s a problem, we can talk about it. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.’

  Jesse didn’t reply.

  Howell took another step forward.

  Jesse waved the pistol and called out, ‘No further. Or I’ll kill her.’ He held the gun to Sarah’s head.

  She had to try. ‘No! He doesn’t mean that. You’ve got to stop him. He wants to—’ Jesse clamped his hand over her mouth and shook her head roughly. ‘I’m warning you, I’ll kill her right this second,’ he yelled. Then dipped his head and hissed, ‘Not another word.’

  Howell stopped, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want, Jesse. Just tell us what we should do. We don’t want anything to happen to Sarah. Nor to you.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with the fire,’ Jesse said. A lie, but as much of the truth, of himself, as he was prepared to offer them.

  ‘I spoke to Finn not half an hour ago. I expect you don’t know we’re friends. He’s already got a good lawyer lined up for you. You don’t need to do this. Nobody has to get hurt. You’re young. Sarah’s young. You’ve got your whole lives ahead of you. Put the gun down. Let’s just talk.’

  The thwack-thwack of chopper blades insinuated itself only gradually into Jesse’s consciousness. At first he hardly noticed the low rhythmic throb, for his attention was focused on the scene in front of him. He had to find the exact moment when he could make his move. How many rounds were in the magazine anyway? There were more policemen than he’d anticipated, and it would require all of his concentration and split-second timing to bring this off. By the time he realised that they had called out a police helicopter, it was already overhead.

  Jesse glanced up. Shit, he thought. A sniper had a scoped rifle trained on him from the open door of the chopper. If they shot at him from behind, would he be flung forward onto the bridge?

  ‘If you don’t want me to kill Sarah, then clear the bridge. The whole area. Once we’re away, I’ll set her free.’

  ‘Jesse, these are some of the best marksmen in the country. You don’t stand a chance. Not that way.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Think about it, lad. These men are good. So good they can shoot off a single ear or hand or testicle. Or arrange for you to be a quadriplegic for the rest of your life. If you imagine it’s a merely a choice between living and dying, think again.’

  There was a longer silence.

  ‘If I let Sarah go, you won’t shoot me?’

  ‘My job is to save lives, not take them.’

  Sarah was beginning to shiver again. It was time to get her to safety. It was time to end it.

  ‘OK, I’ll let Sarah go.’ Jesse released her as he spoke. ‘Go on,’ he whispered to her. ‘I need you to do this for me.’ When she hesitated, half-turning to plead with him, he nudged her forwards with his free hand. ‘Please, Sarah. Go over there and into the car.’

  Slowly, as though dazed, she stumbled the short distance to where Howell was standing, Finn’s gun trained on her the entire time. Howell whispered something to her. She shook her head and turned to stare at Jesse. Her lips were moving. Howell signalled to one of his men, who came over and led Sarah to the car. She refused to get inside, however.

  ‘Now you, Jesse,’ Howell said. ‘Put down the gun.’

  ‘First call off the chopper. It’s making me very jumpy.’

  Howell pursed his lips, thinking it over. Then he nodded and stepped back to his car, leaning down to speak to a figure seated in the vehicle—the operator in charge of communications, Jesse presumed. All at once the pressure behind his sternum ballooned, this was it, there might never be a better opportunity. Fuck the sniper. With a deep breath, Jesse braced himself as best he could, rose to his full height, took aim, and began shooting.

  With a harsh cry Sarah started forward, but Howell seized her by the arm so that she lost her balance and sprawled onto the ground. He shouted, ‘Don’t shoot. Hold your fire. For god’s sake, lads, hold your fire!’ but it was too late. The noise was deafening. Sarah looked up in terror. For a fraction of a second she thought she saw Jesse gaze at her, thought she saw him smile, saw his lips move, heard him say ‘I promise.’ Then terror, real terror, exploded over her, the world gone red. She screamed as she saw him recoil. No. God no. There was a moment which seemed to expand to a lifeline, when the noise became whited silence, and Sarah heard nothing, not even her own screams, and the scene was happening inside her head. Then with a hoarse inrush of sound, time contracted like a womb and flung Jesse from the bridge. No. He ignited instantly in a roaring inferno, hung for a breathless heartbeat in the air, his body a human firework no a nuclear detonation no a fiery incandescent nova. Images flickered across her blurring vision . . . Jesse a bird Jesse no Jesse . . . Jesse . . .

  And then he was gone.

  The sun was hot red ball over the river. Tongues of flame licked an obstinate truth from the dark, secret, oily waters—a deathly hush as the guns fell quiet.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Howell. He shuddered and turned aside. The boy had been a blazing torch as he fell from the bridge. He must have wired himself—that white-hot flash, the detonation which had deafened them for a few seconds. Even that bird—kestrel, wasn’t it?—almost hadn’t made it away. There would be nothing much left to recover. Only just a kid. What a screwed-up world. But Howell was a professional, and he gave the necessary orders: for boats, for divers, for a forensic team, for all the consequences of a police incident.

  It would be a long day.

  Chapter 42

  Sarah is heading for the corn circle. It’s a warm golden afternoon, the first after a grey start to October, and the sidewalk cafés and playgrounds are beginning to fill. She comes often to the park. On most days she wheels the pushchair along the gravel paths she and Jesse walked that very first afternoon. Today she has a book tucked into the net along with the usual baby paraphernalia, also an old waterproof camping sheet. If the grass isn’t too damp, she’ll stretch out on the ground, get through that chapter for history.

  She missed some school last year, but not much. There had been private tutoring, and with her marks she was allowed to sit most of her exams late. The rest she’ll be able catch up, in the end she’ll finish with her year. These are modern times—a single parent, a teenager, shouldn’t have to suffer. Her parents know how to exploit the system. And in school she wears her motherhood like a badge of honour, a test passed.

  October is a country month, one of the best. Maybe at the weekend Meg will drive them to Gran’s. Some of the apples will be ready for picking, fragrant bunches of lavender hang under the eaves—Gran has bought almond oil this year for infusing—and there’s always jam to be made. The sweet, sharp tang of quinces simmering in the kettle will permeate the whole cottage. Sarah smiles to remember how she and Peter used to fight over the scrapings.

  The baby needs country air—Sarah, even more so. At five months the baby still sleeps in Sarah’s bed, wanting only a nice long suck to settle. It isn’t quite so easy for Sarah. She’s been dreaming of Jesse again, though never as vividly as the night the baby was born and lay next to her in that tiny cot.

  The path ahead is thronged with people, which Sarah doesn’t mind as long as she can find a quiet corner. After the fire, she needed months to be able to walk into a crowded room without beginning to shake. And she still avoids large enclosed spaces like shopping malls, the school auditorium. She hasn’t been to the cinema since that one time with Jesse. And she’s just begun her first dance class a few weeks ago, though she’s not keen to perform onstage again.

  Occasionally she meets with someone from school for a coke or bit of TV, but mostly she prefers to be on her own. Having a child has changed her in more ways than she could have ever imagined . . . having had Jesse . . . Aside from teachers and exams, there isn’t much she has in common with the old crowd, even Katy. But she misses Th
omas, who left for New York at the beginning of term.

  Talk has died down, yet the fire still smoulders in everyone’s memory; the fire, and the boy who set it, and Mick. Sarah was insulated from the gossip for a while—her parents sent her for six weeks to her grandmother in Norway—but upon her return she soon got wind of what was being said at school, and her rage was cataclysmic. It took three blokes to pull her off the girl. With her mum’s help, Sarah has come to understand that, deep down, she’s angry at Jesse (and herself), not the stupid kids who have no idea what they’re talking about. She doesn’t really blame them any longer—well, not much—when she thinks about it rationally. They all know someone who died in the fire. Why should they doubt Mick’s version of the story?

  Finn has done his best, but everyone knows of his vested interest in defending the boy. There was an official inquiry into the actions of Howell’s elite team, which resulted in a few dismissals, a few reprimands, but not much else—certainly no prosecutions. Sarah continues to avoid Mick, not that he seeks her out. And of course, together with Gavin, he flatly denies the rape. Jesse was right all along—she should have gone to the police straightaway, when it would have been possible to submit to a few simple tests. Might things have turned out differently? The fire . . . Jesse . . . ?

  ‘I know you don’t want to believe he’s dead, but he’d never let you suffer like this without getting word to you,’ Finn said after she’d come back from Norway. She’d been racing to answer every phone call; checking her email a thousand times a day; setting upon the post like a fix. ‘At least for him it was over quickly, he didn’t have to live with his guilt,’ Finn added thickly, turning away.

  Her parents then suggested she change schools, but Sarah refused. Her obstinacy, her pride were the only things that kept her from going under in those first months of denial and loneliness and desolation and grief; her family’s support. And Thomas—thank god for Thomas. Even so, there were moments when she thought about an abortion. As soon as her pregnancy showed, though, she squared her shoulders and stared down any questions about the father until nobody, but nobody, dared to ask. It surprised her, where the strength had come from. After a while she discovered that their speculations ceased to matter. Once reasonably popular, she became something of an outsider, despite Thomas. The books she’s read make it out to be lacerating, the worst kind of gaol sentence—solitary confinement. Maybe for some. But she no longer trusts simple fictions. It’s as if she speaks another language, not the common tongue. She uses the same words but they sound strange, distorted—underwater. And there are still times when she sees lips move and hears sounds fill the room, but it feels like watching TV with the meaning rather than the volume switched off. She listens to music for hours. Solitude sings. She needs it, she supposes. And gradually, she’s beginning to notice a certain admiration, a grudging respect—and interest—from some quarters. There are friends out there, when she’s ready for them.