Laying a Ghost

by Jane Davitt

  He’d said more than that, but John wasn’t ready to tell Nick how his father had endured his mother’s scolding for a while as he stood there, his hair damp from the sea, his eyes tired but content, before grinning at her and asking if the way he smelled meant she wasn’t going to kiss him again, because if so he’d throw every fish back in the sea because they weren’t worth it. She’d always relented and given him the kiss he’d asked for, always. No, he wasn’t going to tell Nick that.

  He placed the peat on the hearthstone and knelt down, starting to clear away what was left of the fire he’d built the night before. “You stop noticing the smell after a while.” He turned his head to glance up at Nick, who was standing with his arms folded, looking down at him as if he was something on the Discovery channel. “Or are you trying to tell me I stink of it?” He raised the sleeve of his dark-green sweater to his nose and gave it a cautious sniff, smelling oil and smoke and yes, maybe a bit of a hint of fish.

  Nick laughed and knelt down beside him, touching the peat again with the tips of his fingers. John remembered what it had felt like to hold Nick’s hand and looked back into the fireplace as Nick said, “No. More like smoke. But I probably do, too, after an hour in that pub.” He offered the sleeve of his own sweatshirt to John, who reluctantly obliged him by leaning over and sniffing it. Nick smelled of smoke, yes, but also of unfamiliar laundry detergent.

  “Well, now that you’re down here, you can get some kindling from that box beside you.” John’s voice was a little gruff to his own ears. “Small bits, mind; the idea is to use them to get things going.”

  When Nick turned and began to sort obediently through what was left in the box, John edged away a little, putting some space between them. He was damn sure he couldn’t have put it any plainer in the pub ‑‑ and God knows why he’d felt the need to do that with a man he’d known for no more than a day ‑‑ and Nick’s reaction ‑‑ or lack of one ‑‑ had left John feeling at a loss. He didn’t know what to think, but as it was obvious Nick wasn’t interested in him as anything but an information source and someone to keep him company until he found his feet, a bit of space between them was called for.

  Not that is was going to be easy to do that. John had always thought that he could take a hint as well as the next man, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the connection he felt between them. Even if Nick had been more forthcoming, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Nick was going to be living on the island, surrounded by people who would be watching him, inquisitive and ready to judge. John knew what that was like and he knew what it made Nick. Off-limits.

  Cursing himself for saying even as much as he had, John took a newspaper from the magazine rack by the fire and began to tear off small pieces, crumpling them loosely in his hand.

  Nick turned back with a large handful of thin twigs balanced carefully in his left hand, fingers curled slightly around them. “Are these okay? I haven’t made a fire for ... well, since I was about seven or eight, probably, and it was always with logs, not peat. What were you saying about coal?”

  John nodded at the fireplace. “They’re fine. Put them in and sort of criss-cross them, so that there’s space for the air to get through. A coal fire will burn longer than wood, but they’re both expensive up here. You’ll need a bag or two for emergencies, or if Niall doesn’t get your central heating in by the time the cold weather comes.” John rolled his eyes tolerantly, just thinking about Niall. “He’s an idle devil sometimes, for all that he’s family, but maybe with you not being a summer visitor, he’ll pull his finger out. Just don’t be paying him in advance, whatever you do.”

  “I appreciate the advice.” Nick leaned in closer as he set the twigs into a pattern so close to the one John would have used that it was almost uncanny. Bugger knew more than he was letting on, John thought, although he didn’t think it was a deliberate facade. Just didn’t have enough confidence in himself.

  “There.” Nick straightened up, his weight back on his heels again as he turned, gesturing toward the stack of peat that was on John’s other side. “Now, do we ‑‑” His voice broke off, and John, who’d also turned to look at the peat, turned back in time to see him swallow, face white as a sheet.

  “Nick?” John’s gaze dropped to Nick’s wrist, wondering if the man had jarred it somehow and already blaming himself for letting Nick carry in the peat. “Are you all right?” He looked at Nick’s face again and saw Nick’s eyes widen, the green of them all but disappearing as his pupils dilated.

  Nick’s jaw tightened and he swallowed, blinking. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He dragged his gaze over to John, making a valiant effort, even though it was clear that he was far from fine. “What ... what do we do with the peat?” His eyes flickered off to the side again, and then back.

  Every instinct John had was telling him that there was something behind him, something bad. It wasn’t reasonable, and it couldn’t be true, but it was how he felt when he saw those sidelong, panicked glances of Nick’s. Telling himself that turning to look would be pure foolishness, he took a deep breath. “Set a small piece on top, and then we’ll light the kindling under it.” He straightened and stood up to get the box of matches off the mantelpiece, his gaze going to the room behind him despite his good intentions as his fingers closed around the familiar shape.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but his mind was busy conjuring up horrors, maybe even the ghost of old Ian, which was just plain ridiculous. For a moment his fear was instinctive and unreasoning, feeding on the panic pouring off Nick, painting a rising darkness in the corner, but when he blinked there was nothing but a wooden chair there, set squarely against the wall.

  Nothing. Well, of course there was nothing. Feeling ridiculous for having even bothered to look, and hoping that Nick hadn’t noticed, John held out the box of matches. “There you go.”

  Nick’s gaze was down on the hearthstone as if he were determined to keep it there, but when John spoke, he glanced up long enough to reach for the matches with a hand that trembled slightly. He set the box on his thigh and reached for a small piece of peat as John got down beside him again, unable to keep from seeing how Nick twitched at the movement. “Put the peat on top,” Nick repeated, not sounding like himself at all. “Put the peat on top and light the kindling.” He picked up the matches and opened the box with an uneven force that caused them to scatter all over the floor and hearth. “Fuck.”

  John stretched out his hand and caught Nick’s wrist as he started to pick up the matches. Nick’s skin was cool and clammy . “Leave them. I’ll do it.” Nick’s head was bowed again, a wide strip of smooth, tanned skin exposed between his hairline and the collar of his sweatshirt. “You’re still tired,” John went on, keeping his voice steady. “There’s no rush to do everything all at once and I should’ve remembered that.” He let go of Nick’s wrist and began to brush the matches together into a small heap.

  “Sorry.” Nick struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m just going to go upstairs for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  He didn’t wait for John to reply, but turned and headed almost blindly for the stairs as John watched him. Nick bumped into the wall at the foot of the staircase, his shoulder hitting it, and John had to quell the impulse to get up and go after him, make sure he got up the stairs okay. It almost looked as if he were trying to walk with his eyes closed. The sound of his footsteps on the wooden stairs was uneven, too quick considering how unsteady he’d been on his feet. John breathed a sigh of relief when Nick reached the top and the bathroom door slammed shut.

  He couldn’t help but listen as he gathered up the matches from the hearth, putting them back into the box. What the hell was wrong with the man? It was clear that he was recovering from some kind of trauma, but John was starting to doubt that it was as simple as a car accident and a broken wrist. He didn’t, he realized, know anything more about Nick than what the man had told him. For all he knew, Nick could be sick. Mentally ill.

  He cou
ld hear the sound of footsteps back and forth on the bathroom floor, and what after a few moments began to sound like a muttered voice. It got louder and more anguished, though; Nick was talking to himself, begging for ... something.

  John hesitated and then went over to the stairs. Growing up amongst people who were by nature reserved made him feel awkward, even embarrassed, about intruding, but he couldn’t leave Nick, not when he was in this state. It didn’t matter that the man was new into his life; he liked him, and when it came down to it, right now he was the only friend Nick had.

  Hoping that a friendly ear was all that was needed, not a doctor, John climbed the stairs, hearing fragments of words mumbled too low to be intelligible, although when Nick’s voice rose on a frantic “Please!” it was clear enough.

  He came to the closed door and raised his hand to knock softly on it. He caught his breath, his hand falling to his side as that disconcerting sense of wrongness crawled over him again, making him shudder convulsively, every hair on his body raising as his skin prickled into goose bumps.

  “Nick,” he said urgently, his voice cracking. “Let me in, man. Let me help you.”

  He wasn’t sure if he wanted himself in there, or Nick out here on the landing, but he was beginning to feel strongly that company would be welcome.

  Nick was still pacing, from the sound of his footsteps, and still muttering, but now John was close enough to hear most of it clearly. “No,” Nick was saying. “No, no, no. No! Stop it. I can’t ‑‑ God, shut up! Just ... I can’t understand. No. Please.” The last word was half sob, half whimper, the sound of it going straight to John’s heart like he’d imagine the twist of a knife would. A grown man shouldn’t sound like that. It wasn’t right.

  “Nick. Open the door.” He reached for the handle.

  There was a violent thump inside the bathroom, as if Nick had slapped both hands full force against the wall. “No!”

  John had no idea what else to say. Should he offer to go get help? Was the man mad? Having some sort of psychotic break?

  “You’re wrong!” Nick’s voice was loud again. “I can’t. No. I don’t want you here.”

  Setting his teeth against the sudden flare of hurt, and telling himself that Nick was too out of his head to know what he was saying, John reached out once more for the door handle. The door was locked, which came as no surprise, and although he thumped his fist against it, his temper rising because it was easier to feel angry and it pushed away the unease, it stayed that way.

  He stepped back, breathing unevenly. One more time. The shadows in the hallway were gathering darkness into themselves, his palms were slippery with sweat, and he wanted nothing as much as to be out in the sunshine, breathing clean salt air, but he’d try one more time ...

  “Will you open the door? Will you let me see that you’re all right?”

  Nick’s voice was rising in a scream before he’d finished speaking, “Will you just fucking leave me alone?”

  John didn’t remember starting to move, but he remembered the feel of the stair rail under his hand as he grabbed at it to halt his fall when his hurrying feet missed a step. Remembered the sound of his feet echoing in the emptiness as he left the house in a stumbling run, harsh breaths painful in a throat swollen with tears that got no further than that.

  And then his hands closed around the steering wheel of his car, warm from the sun, and the anger took him, shaking the disjointed puzzle pieces of his flight from the house and organizing them neatly into something normal, something that didn’t mean he’d run because he was scared, or because he was aching with the loss of something he’d never had.

  He brought his fist down hard against the dashboard, bruising it and loving the pain that followed because that he could understand, that made sense.

  Nick didn’t.

  “Fucking Yank,” he whispered savagely. “Fucking tourist ‑‑”

  He drove away without looking back, heading for the beach where his boat lay waiting on the white sand, scoured clean by the wind and the sea.

  Chapter Four

  Two hours later, John sighed and headed for shore, pulling hard at the oars, feeling the clench of his arm and thigh muscles with every stroke. The time spent sitting in the sunshine had done a lot to restore his calm, even though he’d never had so much as a bite while holding his fishing rod. He hadn’t cared; he’d only wanted the ritual of it to soothe the edges of his anger; to un-ruffle his feathers, so to speak. And it had.

  It wasn’t until he was a hundred yards from shore that he saw a huddled figure; small, arms wrapped around itself, up on the rocks. He knew immediately that it was Nick ‑‑ he’d recognize anyone else, and Nick’s dark hair was different enough to any of the locals’ that there was no question.

  Turning the boat around and heading back out to sea, John told himself, would be childish, but the temptation was definitely there for a few moments. Still, he continued to row and was nearly to shore when he saw Nick stand up and begin to head toward him, picking his way across the rocks with less care than he ought to have.

  Slimy with seaweed, exposed by the receding waves, the rocks weren’t easy to navigate at the best of times, and as John watched, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the man who was to blame for him feeling about as miserable as he’d been in months, Nick’s foot slipped and he fell heavily, his outstretched hands smacking hard against a patch of sand.

  Even out on the water, with the slap of the waves loud against the hull, John heard the sound Nick made as his injured wrist took the brunt of his fall, and he pulled hard on the oars, beaching his boat and jumping out while the water was still deep enough to soak his jeans to above the knee. Grabbing the rope attached to the prow of the boat, John hauled it high enough up the beach to be safe for now and ran over to Nick, the remnants of his anger driven out by that anguished, sharp cry of pain, firmly lodged in his head.

  Nick had gotten himself into a sitting position, but was bent forward around his wrist, cradling it in his other hand and rocking back and forth slightly as he cursed a long string of profanities in his flat American accent. His lips were drawn tight, his brow furrowed in pain, and as John got down on his knees next to him he looked up. “Shouldn’t have let me out of the hospital, should they?” Nick said with a gasp of laughter, although it was the least amused laughter John had ever heard and it left him wondering if Nick had been in hospital for more than just his wrist. “Fuck. Oh fuck.” Nick dropped his head down and rocked back and forth some more.

  “Let me see it.” Concern roughened John’s voice; he slipped his arm around Nick’s shoulders without thinking, pulling him closer. Nick curled in on himself, turning slightly so that his head was snug against John’s collarbone but still clutching his injured wrist protectively.

  John sighed and brought his other arm up across their bodies, giving Nick something to rest his injured hand on and waiting for the pain to recede enough that Nick would let him look at it.

  The wind caught a strand of Nick’s dark hair, ruffling it so that it brushed John’s chin, and he sighed again and began to rub his hand gently against Nick’s back, murmuring to him as he did. “Hurts, does it? Aye, it must. You went flying, didn’t you? Thought you’d more sense than that. Do they not have seaweed in America then, that you don’t know how slippery it is?”

  Nick went still in his arms and John bent his head and let the wind take Nick’s hair across his lips.

  “I needed to see you,” Nick said after a minute or so, unmoving. It told John something that he needed to know, the way Nick half-lay, nestled against him, allowing an intimacy that most other men wouldn’t. Could it be as simple as that, then? That he’d been right about Nick from the start, but Nick wasn’t the sort of man that could accept himself? Not that it made much difference. It wasn’t as if he knew Nick well enough to discuss something so personal and given his own ingrained discretion, he couldn’t blame Nick for being cautious.

  John continued to rub his back, and Nick sighed and s
at up shakily without pulling away. “Well, I’m here, but whatever you want to say can wait until I’ve seen what you’ve done to yourself.”

  Nick moved his right hand away, leaving his left hand lying across John’s forearm. It was swelling at the wrist but there was nothing to make John think that it was broken, judging by the way Nick was able to rotate it gingerly. Had to have hurt though.

  They were sitting on the sand with a small rock pool behind them, six inches deep, the black rocks visible through the clear water and sprinkled with barnacles. John turned Nick around and plunged Nick’s hand into the icy water, transferring his hold on him and keeping a reassuring arm across Nick’s back as Nick gasped in shock. “Aye, it’s cold this time of year.” John noticed his own wet jeans for the first time, spattered with sand and clinging clammily to his legs. “Is it helping?”

  “I don’t know.” Nick gasped the words breathily. He turned his head to look at John, their faces close enough that John could see the little flecks of golden-brown in Nick’s green eyes. “I think so.” He blinked, his lashes dark, his nose perfectly sculpted and his hair mussed by the wind. “I have to tell you something. About me. There’s something you don’t know about me.”

  John stared thoughtfully at him, wondering what Nick was seeing in his face and hoping it was nothing that would make him move away. “This morning I’d have said you were wrong about that. About me not knowing. Now I’m not so sure. Assuming we’re not talking about you being gay, what is it that you want to tell me?”

  Nick shivered and closed his eyes, turning his face away; John could feel him trembling. “Oh God, I can’t, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “I already think that, I was hoping you’d give me a reason to change my mind.”

  Slowly, as if admitting that he buggered small sheep in his spare time, Nick muttered, “I’m psychic.” Before John could do more than gape at him, Nick went on, “God, it’s such a cliché, isn’t it? A psychic medium goes to a remote island in Scotland to live in his recently deceased uncle’s house and starts seeing ghosts? It might as well be the plot of a cheesy romance novel.” He laughed a bit hysterically. “You’re missing the ruffled pirate shirt,” And, when John looked at him, puzzled, clarified, “That the hero wears? On the cover?”