by Jane Davitt
“I can’t imagine that.” John shoved his feet back into his damp boots but didn’t bother to fasten them as he’d only be taking them off when they got back to Nick’s house. He walked past Nick to the car and threw his wet jeans into the trunk, hoping he’d remember they were there and not find them the next time he opened it and loaded in a tourist’s luggage. “I’ve never lived anywhere but at my parents’ house until I moved ‑‑ and that was just a few miles up the road. Never been outside Scotland, if it comes to that.”
John started the car, seeing out of the corner of his eye how Nick tensed and then made a deliberate effort to sit back. He couldn’t help thinking that there was more to the crash story than Nick had told him, what with the way the other man fastened his seat belt as if it were a lifeline, but he didn’t comment, just made an effort to drive as carefully as possible over the rough ground beyond the dunes until they reached the road.
“What about your father? Did he like the traveling?”
“So much that he left just after I was born,” Nick agreed. “I met him once, when I was about twelve. Let’s just say I wasn’t impressed and leave it at that. I don’t know where he is now.”
John kept his eyes on the road ahead, not inclined to disagree with Nick’s assessment. His own father had been such a strong, vital force in his life that it was hard to imagine growing up without him. It struck him then just how alone Nick was when it came to family. “You grew up with just her then. Just your mother ...” He shook his head ruefully. “And here’s me, able to call half the island kin and all of them thinking they’ve a right to meddle with every breath I take sometimes. I’d still take that over being alone, mind you, but it can get a wee bit annoying at times.”
“I wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”
John turned into the driveway leading up to Rossneath House, giving it a hard stare, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Just gray stone and empty windows.
They both got out of the car and Nick started toward the house, then he turned and shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked back at John, who still hadn’t quite convinced his legs to move. “I guess it wouldn’t reassure you if I said that they aren’t limited to being inside the house, would it.”
“No. Not really.” John sighed, willing himself to walk to Nick, but not getting much further than that. “You’ll not be thinking much of me right now, will you?”
“What?” Nick sounded surprised, even as he took a step backwards toward the house. It seemed such an automatic movement that John had to wonder if it was some sort of instinct. “Because you aren’t exactly jumping at the chance to go back inside where there might be things you can’t see or hear walking around? No; actually, the fact that you’re willing to at all nets you plenty of points in my book.” He gestured with his good hand. “Come on.”
John stared past him at the house and then shrugged. “The fish weren’t biting worth a damn anyway,” he muttered and strode forward, with Nick falling into step beside him. “Promise me something,” he said as they reached the back door.
“What?” Nick sounded a little cautious.
“If you see it behind me, tell me? Because I felt it when we were lighting the fire, and I couldn’t see it.” John shuddered. “I didn’t like that one bit. If you tell me it’s there, I’ll know I’m not imagining it and it won’t matter so much.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you.” Nick reached out and turned the door handle without hesitation, the way he was holding his other arm reminding John of his injury. “I’m kind of surprised you could feel it. Most people can’t, you know.”
The inside of the house was quiet, but John couldn’t help but feel that the silence was ominous rather than peaceful.
“I’m just going to go upstairs and ...” Nick stopped and looked at John. “On second thought, maybe you’d better come with me.”
“I am coming with you,” John said with absolute certainty and a grimace at the idea of being alone in the house. “There’s no maybe about it.” He glanced around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and then gestured at the stairs. “But I think I’ll be letting you go first.”
Nick reached out and patted his shoulder before starting up the staircase. “It’s okay, I’m pretty sure we’re alone. Maybe he got tired of hanging around and gave up. I mean, he’ll be back, but right now I think it’s just us.”
John followed Nick into the bedroom, where Nick sorted through the clothes heaped on the chair and soon came out with the elastic bandage he’d been wearing the day before.
“You said most people can’t tell they’re there,” John said as Nick worked the bandage onto his hand. “But the people who ask for your help can? Is that because they’re connected to the ghost, or because of the kind of people they are? Because I’ve never felt anything like that before, and I’m wondering why I can now.”
“I don’t know.” Nick frowned thoughtfully. “I guess it could be because they’re connected somehow. Well, and sometimes it’s because they’re getting some kind of physical proof that something’s not right ‑‑ hearing the sounds of things the spirit is moving around, stuff like that.” He rotated his wrist slightly and finished fastening the end of the bandage, then flexed his hand experimentally. “Ow! You’ve never heard or seen anything you couldn’t explain?”
“Only when I’ve been drinking, and I’ve always thought that was the explanation,” John grinned. He shook his head, sobering. “No. Never. Not like that.” A thought occurred to him and he said tentatively, “You mentioned that you had a business partner; could he?”
If he had, John had to wonder if it’d become more than he could cope with, and how much it’d hurt Nick when he left. Not that Nick had said anything to imply he’d been close to whoever his business partner was ‑‑ it could have been a woman, come to that ‑‑ but whoever it’d been, they weren’t with Nick now. Perhaps they hadn’t taken kindly to Nick deciding to come to this remote island, where it wasn’t likely that he’d be earning much, no matter how many ghosts he helped out.
Nick had gone a bit distant again, for all he hadn’t moved from where he was standing. “Matthew? No. No, he never ...” Nick shook his head and looked over to the window; John didn’t think he could see the graveyard from there. “He couldn’t. He didn’t even think I could.”
That didn’t make any sense at all. “He worked with you and he didn’t believe you?” John frowned. “What in the name of God did he think you were doing then? Did he think you were conning the people you helped?” He could feel anger stir at the thought of it and tried to damp it down; if he hadn’t felt what he had, maybe he’d have had a hard job believing Nick, too. But he wouldn’t have gone into business with him, thinking Nick deluded at best, a fake at worst.
Nick shrugged a bit, not meeting John’s eyes. “I don’t know; I guess he thought that if people were happy, it didn’t matter too much if it was real or not. It’s hard to explain. We were ... friends.” There was just enough hesitation before the word to give John a hint of how things had been.
“And now you’re not?” The words slipped out before he could call them back and he sighed. “This is a good place for you to either tell me what happened, or tell me to mind my own damn business.” He held Nick’s gaze. “I’m not meaning to pry, but you’re saying bits and pieces and I just feel ‑‑” He made a frustrated sound, “Feel there’s more to this than you and him breaking up.”
Nick shut his eyes and nodded. “Matthew was in the car with me the night I ran it off the road and into that tree. The night I did this.” He gestured with his bandaged arm and made a face like a small child trying to swallow around a sore throat, like the pain was too much to bear. “He’s dead.” Nick’s eyes met John’s squarely. “I killed him.”
John held very still, the truth of it rushing down on him and leaving him lost for words. He could see it all now, and knowing wasn’t helping for once “No. No, you didn’t,” he said eventually, seeing the rejection appear on Nick’s f
ace, as if the man wasn’t willing to hear that for some reason. “Not if that’s how it happened. It was an accident, and you know it. God, you can’t blame yourself for it when you’re lucky you’re not dead, too!”
“I wished I was, for a while.” Nick was very still, as if keeping himself together with enormous effort. “And there’s no guarantee that something like that might not happen again.”
“I don’t suppose there is,” John said slowly. “I can easily think of how a ghost appearing could startle you into doing something that would hurt yourself or someone else ... but I’m not seeing how that makes you different than the rest of us. I’ve driven along and had a deer leap out in front of me; big brute too, eyes wild with fear. I did just what you did, without thinking twice, and I was lucky no worse happened to me than a few bruises.” He stepped closer to Nick, feeling pity and regret. “It wasn’t very long ago, was it, since you lost him? Three months? Too soon ‑‑ aye. I see what you mean by that now.”
It came to him that of all the men he’d been involved with, Nick was the first he wanted to do more than sleep with. Oh, he wanted to fuck him, God, yes. He was aching for the feel of Nick’s skin under his hands, and the taste of him filling his mouth. It just didn’t end there. He wanted more than that from Nick. Wanted to spend time with him as they got to know each other; wanted Nick to trust him enough to share more about his life. Even if it did scare the spit from his mouth just thinking about it. He wished he knew how Nick felt about him, but with Nick still mourning, by the sounds of it, he wasn’t going to push him.
“But it wouldn’t have happened to a normal person,” Nick said. “A normal person wouldn’t have to worry about suddenly hearing a voice in an empty house and falling down the stairs, right?” He sounded stretched nearly to the breaking point, John thought. “God, Matthew never let me forget that one. He used to tease me about it every time we went out for a drink.” Darkly, Nick added, “Guess he wouldn’t have if he’d had any idea how things were going to end up.”
“He sounds like a ‑‑” John stopped himself before he spoke out of turn. The man was dead after all, and if Nick had loved him he couldn’t have been a complete prat. “It was a terrible thing to happen. I’m very sorry.” He swallowed. “Is he ‑‑ have you ‑‑ seen him? Did he come back?”
Nick shook his head wordlessly in an answer to at least one of the questions, although John couldn’t be sure which, and then suddenly stiffened, closing his eyes and turning his head to the side a bit as if listening to something. “No.” It wasn’t more than a whisper.
“Nick?”
“No, it’s not ... no. Not like that.” Nick was trembling, clearly speaking to someone John couldn’t hear.
John lifted his hand and then let it fall back, not sure what would happen if he touched Nick but hating seeing him like this and not being able to comfort him. His hand clenched into a fist, frustration filling him and leaving no room for fear. Besides, he wasn’t feeling anything this time ...
Then something in the corner of the room flickered, and the shadows there moved, a barely perceptible shift that shouldn’t have dried John’s mouth the way it did.
Chapter Five
John couldn’t see more than the flickering shift, and he couldn’t hear anything but Nick’s whispered words, but he could tell that there was something in the room with them. There was a heaviness to the air, weighted down as it got before a storm, when he’d feel restless and irritable, with his skin fair crawling on his bones, waiting for the thunder to come and end it. Each lungful of air felt tainted, as if he was breathing in decay and dust, choking him until he raised his hand to his throat, hearing his breath rasp harshly.
“What is it saying? What does it want?” he asked, the words rough and labored.
“No. Stop; I can’t ...” Nick shook his head, eyes still closed. “What do you want me to do?” He was tense, his breathing quick as he listened. “Oh, God. How can I ...” He reached out with his injured hand. “John ...”
“I’m here. Right here.” Carefully, slowly, John slid his fingers under Nick’s until their palms were touching, all his attention on Nick now, because he was all that mattered to John. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel sympathy for the ghosts ‑‑ for all he knew, he’d end up as one himself ‑‑ but Nick was alive, and harrying him like this just didn’t seem fair somehow. What did they expect him to do, anyway?
He closed his hand gently around Nick’s and waited.
Nick was shivering, although his fingers were warm enough in John’s. “He killed his friend,” Nick whispered, opening his eyes. “It was an accident ‑‑ he didn’t mean to. Something with a gun. In the highlands? Here.” Nick’s other hand touched his own chest fleetingly before falling back down to his side again. His lip trembled. “And then he died, too, and they brought him back here. He wants me to tell him it wasn’t his fault.” It was clear that this was something Nick didn’t think himself capable of.
John couldn’t help wondering if this particular ghost had been drawn to Nick because of their shared experience. As Nick didn’t seem able to forgive himself for what had happened to Matthew, it wasn’t likely he’d be willing to reassure the ghost, though ‑‑ and somehow John knew that a lie wouldn’t work. Nick had to believe it ‑‑
“Then tell him.” John made his words forceful, trying to get through to Nick, grabbing his arm and shaking him slightly because Nick’s eyes were unfocused and hazy. “If he was the man’s friend it had to have been an accident ‑‑ and if he wasn’t, if he did it on purpose, then he wouldn’t feel this badly over it. He’s telling you the truth and you know it. Tell him. Give him what he needs.”
“I can’t,” Nick said, but it sounded automatic, as if he hadn’t had time to think about it yet. He gasped, flinching away from something John couldn’t hear. “Yes. Okay. Okay! It’s not your fault. You said it yourself ‑‑ it was an accident. The gun ‑‑ yes, I know. I know. Misfired.” Muttered, “They were always doing that.” With more conviction, now. “It wasn’t your fault. You ‑‑”
Nick flinched again, violently enough this time that he pulled away from John. He moved blindly across the room, narrowly missed colliding with the chest of drawers, and ended up with one shoulder pressed against the wall, eyes shut and his head shaking back and forth slightly. “You shouldn’t have. It wasn’t your fault. They wouldn’t have blamed you. They knew you loved him.” There were tears in Nick’s voice now, although they weren’t being shed. “I know. I know you loved him.”
The room was quiet, and John fancied that he could feel the presence, whatever it had been, receding. The sun came out from behind a cloud a moment later, painting wide swathes of white-gold across the carpet.
Without warning, Nick slid down the wall to huddle on the floor, both arms pulled in against himself.
John walked over to him and went to his knees beside him, pulling Nick into a tight, hard hug, desperately needing the reassurance of the contact. Nick’s body was rigid in his arms, wracked by convulsive shudders.
“Hush now.” John stroked an anxious, clumsy hand over Nick’s hair, realizing with a distant astonishment that he was trembling himself. “You did it; he’s gone. Hush now, I’m here.”
Nick clutched at him. “He killed himself,” he said hoarsely, pressing his forehead to John’s arm.
“Aye.” John let his hand rest against the back of Nick’s neck. “I can see how a man would want to do that when he’d lost a friend. When he was grieving.”
Nick nodded, the movement awkward, but didn’t let go of John. His skin was warm against John’s hand, and the sunlight was warm on the back of John’s neck. He could see specks of dust floating in the beam of sunshine beside him.
Slowly, the two of them relaxed, Nick’s shudders fading away.
When Nick turned his head to look at John, their noses were nearly touching. If there’d been tears in Nick’s eyes earlier, the only hint of them now was in the darkness of his eyelashes. “How freak
ed out are you?”
“By you being this close to me, or by the ghost?” John asked, not needing to do more than murmur the words, feeling as if just thinking them would be enough, as close as they were.
Nick breathed out, his lips curling into a smile for a fraction of an instant, there and gone. “I meant by the ghost.” His voice was as quiet as John’s had been and. his hand, which had been holding onto John’s sweater, stopped clutching and started stroking over the knit. “But if being this close to me freaks you out, maybe we should stop.”
“I didn’t say it did,” John pointed out, dragging his fingertips in a lazy spiral against Nick’s neck and smiling a little at the entirely different shiver Nick gave. “Maybe a bit. Maybe just a little bit. But in a good way.” John tilted his head and leaned in an inch. “D’you want me to stop then?” he whispered against Nick’s mouth, still not kissing him, not exactly. Just ... asking him, with their lips touching by chance on every other word, so that when he’d finished saying them he held still, very still, waiting.
Nick answered him without words, tilting his own head so that their lips brushed together in what anyone might have called a kiss, although it was over before John could properly enjoy it. “This is probably where one of us says we should wait.” Nick’s eyebrows lifted in a question.
“Well, it’s not going to be me.” John felt very sure about that. . His thumb found the soft skin behind Nick’s ear and stroked along it. “You can if you must, but for God’s sake say it soon because I’m wanting to kiss you very badly and I’m not feeling as patient as I should.”
“Screw patience.” Nick kissed John again with what felt like a great deal of yearning. There was no hesitation about it, and not much gentleness either, but Nick’s lips were warm and his hand was curled into a fist around a fold of John’s sweater again.
