Laying a Ghost (3 page)
She smirked, and then, as Nick moved away abruptly to study a display of homemade jam, bit her lip, turned on her heel and left with a brisk nod to John and a final, lingering look at Nick.
“And that being so, you’re wrong, Moira, like always,” John muttered under his breath.
“Why didn’t you tell her that to her face?” Nick asked, coming back to stand at John’s side.
John shook his head. “Quickest way to get rid of her. I’m not one for arguing. And I got the impression you’d be happier with her gone.”
Nick stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “She wasn’t all that polite, but she seemed, I don’t know ... honest, I guess.”
The wheels on the cart squeaked as John gave it a shove and got it moving again. “Aye, I’ll give her that,” he said dryly, not bothering to share his opinion that in Moira’s case honesty wasn’t a virtue. Not when it was fuelled by spite.
“I’m sorry,” Nick murmured. “I didn’t mean to --” He gave John a look that wavered and fell, as if the effort of focusing on John’s face was too much.
“It’s not of any consequence at all,” John said firmly. “Now, will you be wanting some of that jam for your toast or not?”
They finished the shopping in a silence that was friendly enough, broken by the odd question from Nick, who seemed more surprised to find brand names he recognized than by oddities like oatcakes, which usually had the tourists exclaiming in delight or distaste. By the time they got to the checkout, where George Dunn’s eyes traveled between the two of them, alight with speculation as his bony hands dealt deftly with the groceries, Nick was a shade paler and his signature on the credit card slip was a wavering scrawl.
John would’ve bet his boat that they wouldn’t get out of the shop without George satisfying what with him was pure nosiness, and he was right.
“I didn’t know you had a friend visiting, John.” A winter-cold smile creased George’s thin lips as he placed John’s box of tea bags inside a plastic carrier bag. “Your mother never mentioned it when she was in here earlier.”
John threaded his fingers through most of the plastic bags stacked neatly on the counter, leaving Nick to take the last two in his good hand. Nick was staring at the shopkeeper, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Is that so?” John murmured noncommittally. A soft answer might turn away wrath, but in his experience it was the one thing guaranteed to drive George mad with frustration.
“Aye. I would have thought that’d be the sort of thing she’d mention. Assuming she knew about it.” George was looking at Nick with shrewd interest, his eyes flickering over to John as if gauging his reaction.
“There’s nothing for her to know,” Nick said smoothly, with more aplomb than John would have anticipated. “I’m new to the island. I’ve hired Mr. McIntyre to drive me out to my late uncle’s home, and he’s been gracious enough to help me with my shopping. Did you know my Uncle Ian? Ian Kelley?” Nick dropped his voice, conjuring up something reminiscent of deep sorrow. “We were very close. I ... I can’t believe he’s gone.”
While George was still sputtering out an awkward apology, Nick and John made their exit. It wasn’t until they were outside and a good dozen yards from the shop that Nick glanced sideways at John and grinned.
“The last time I saw him that flustered, a sheep had wandered down from the moor, gone into his shop, and was eating his cabbages,” John observed, an answering smile spreading across his face. “If you find yourself in the Castle Arms one night, I’ll buy you a pint by way of a thank you.”
“He deserved it. People like him ...” Nick shook his head, something dark crossing his face. “No. It’s not my job to mete out justice, not even to people like him.”
“No,” John agreed qq uietly, losing the smile from his face as they neared the car. “It isn’t. And you’re right; he does more harm than I think he realizes. There’s a difference between those of us who ask questions out of interest, and, aye, curiosity, because there’s precious little else to amuse ourselves with, and those who ask to find ways of hurting folk.” He changed the subject abruptly, not wanting to dwell on the malice behind George’s behaviour. “Will you open the trunk, please, and save me setting these bags down? It isn’t locked.”
“Sure.” John watched as Nick very carefully opened the trunk with his bad hand, moving slowly so as not to hurt himself. The little flash of triumph on Nick’s face as he managed it was worth the risk John thought he’d taken in asking.
They put the bags into the back and got into the car. Nick immediately fastened his seatbelt before John had even had a chance to start the car.
John started to tell him that he didn’t have to wear his seatbelt if he didn’t want to; Tom Stewart, the local bobby, had started out easygoing, and ten years on the island had done nothing to change that. But something made John swallow the words and pull his own belt across his body.
“It isn’t far.” John started the engine, pulling away. “Maybe five miles or so. You could walk it if you’d a mind to; your uncle did, in fair weather, anyway. Come to think of it, he’d a wee car that should still be at the house. It’ll need some work after sitting all this time, but if you like, I’ll take a look at it for you.”
“I don’t drive,” Nick said tightly.
John let the words hang between them, expecting more, but when Nick turned his head to stare out of the side window at nothing more interesting than the garage on the edge of town, he realized that was all he was getting. John had been driving since he was tall enough -- not old enough -- to see over the steering wheel. He’d never had an accident, and the one time he’d driven drunk, on his fourteenth birthday, his father had taken the skin off his arse with a belt and that’d been that. Driving was as natural as walking, as sending a line hissing out across the wind-ruffled water of the loch, as gutting a fish with a slice, a scrape and two swift chops of his knife. Didn’t take much to connect a broken wrist with a car accident though, so he kept quiet as they left the village and headed along the narrow road.
“That’s my place,” John offered a few minutes later, by way of breaking a silence which was verging on uncomfortable. Lord knew he wasn’t much of a talker himself, but Nick wrapped himself in silence as if it was all that was keeping him warm. He took his hand off the wheel and touched Nick’s arm, bringing Nick’s head around sharply. “See? On the hill? It was my grandparents’ house, and when they’d gone, my mother decided that sooner than sell it, she’d rent it out, expecting to make a penny or two from the tourists. But I’d been wanting a place of my own, and I convinced her that tourists were chancy customers, and a weekly rent from someone she trusted was better by far.”
Nick didn’t say anything, but John knew that he was looking as they went past. The long drive that led up the hill to the house was winding, and John was well aware that it made the place look rather like something in a storybook -- idyllic, pastoral.
He kept a careful eye on the road, driving more slowly than he normally would have. For some reason John couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that went deeper than his instant attraction to Nick, he found himself fascinated by this man, wanting to know his story and unconvinced that he ever would.
Their houses lay maybe fifteen minutes apart, if one was willing to walk over heather and knew where the boggy parts were, where the ground turned soft beneath your feet, water oozing up, brown and rich, between the bright green grass, but by road it was a good two miles. When the gray stone walls of Rossneath House came into sight, John found himself sighing with relief. The man would surely have to open his mouth now. He sent the car bumping along the rough track that was all that was left of a driveway and pulled up by the front porch, although to get that little-used door open, they’d need a stick of dynamite rather than a key.
“Well, here you are,” he said, turning his head to look at his passenger, mildly exasperated that not even the sight of his house had coaxed a word from Nick. His next words died on his lips.
Nick was asleep, his shoulder hunched up defensively, as if even sleep offered no refuge, his head half-turned so that John could see the clean line of his jaw through the prickle of stubble and the hollowed curve of his cheek up to the slash of a dark eyebrow.
Caught off-guard, John swallowed, close enough in the stillness that had descended when the engine had shuddered its way to rest that he could see a dozen details Nick’s restlessness had hidden from him before. He’d had his ear pierced at some point; the tender flesh of the lobe was healed over, but the indentation was still there. And under the tan, his face was pale with fatigue.
John bit his lip and glanced away. He’d have liked to have looked his fill, but it didn’t seem right. Not while the man was sleeping. Without undue noise, he left the car, pushing the door to without slamming it, and went around to the back door. He knew where the key was, and if it’d gone, there were plenty of ways to get in. Let the man sleep.
Chapter Two
There was a sharp smell, something acrid like a chemical. It felt like it was pounding at Nick’s temples, trying to get into his head, and he gasped and twitched. As soon as he did that, the ache that had been un-ignorable in his arm flared to life, white-hot and stabbing, his nerves screaming from fingertips up past his elbow. Nick whimpered and tried to curl up around the pain, but he couldn’t move.
He opened his eyes. It was dark, and his chest hurt, too, but not half as much as his arm. Where the hell was he?
Memory came flooding back, leaving him gasping. In the road ... and he’d swerved, he had to have. He couldn’t remember that part, but he did remember the screech of tires on the road, the way the wheel had felt in his hands, stuttering as the car spun out of control, and then there’d been ... nothing. He couldn’t remember anything else.
No, that wasn’t true.
He remembered Matthew’s muttered curse.
“Matthew?”
Nick turned slowly, rolling his head toward the passenger seat because there was no way he could try to move the rest of his body, and ...
Nick woke up with a gasp and a start, his heart racing, the light pressure of the seatbelt across his chest immediately sending him into a panic. He was on the left-hand side of the car and that was just wrong; he didn’t sit there anymore. Even thinking about it was enough to make his breathing shallow and his heart pound. At least the latch for the seatbelt was on the right and he could get to it with his good hand, which he did, fumbling at the unfamiliar button in his haze of dream-memory until it clicked and he was free.
Too late, though. The panic had already taken over, and there was nothing to do but ride it out. The appropriateness of that phrasing made Nick give a gasp of laughter as he reached across his body with his good hand and opened the car door, wondering where the hell the guy driving the car had gone as he tumbled out onto the hard packed earth, luckily managing not to catch his weight on his left hand as he fell. He was making little scared sounds with each breath, trying not to lose it completely, reminding himself that this was just adrenaline and it would pass. It had been a while since it had been this bad, but it would pass.
On the springy turf that seemed to lap at the walls of the house a man could walk quietly, and it wasn’t until John’s boots struck the hard-packed earth of the driveway that Nick heard him coming. He’d regained just enough self-control to guess at once who was coming, but as he tried to stand up and stammer out some excuse about falling, the green of the grass and the gray of the house spun around him wildly and he sank back.
John squatted beside him, and he felt a warm, callused hand take his, strong fingers wrapping around his and holding on.
“You fell asleep,” John murmured, in that lilting voice that reminded him of his mother’s when she was excited or angry. “It’ll be that jet lag, isn’t that right? Your body’s here and your head’s still thousands of miles away.”
He sounded matter-of-fact and completely undisturbed by Nick’s inability to do more than stare at him, but the hand holding Nick’s tightened a little as he carried on talking, not stopping long enough that Nick had to answer him, which was just as well.
“Want to try standing up again? I’ve opened the door and a few of the windows. It’s not so bad. The beds were stripped, but I’ve found the sheets and put them out on the line to air. We’ve a few hours before the rain comes in and this wind will have them fresh by then.”
“Just give me a minute,” Nick said roughly, not letting go of John’s hand even though he probably should have. The world was feeling a little bit too bright and sharp just then, making him slouch in on himself, keeping himself small, protected. John’s presence, undeniably solid and real, was a comfort that he couldn’t quite bring himself to surrender.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air was salt-tinged and crisp, and Nick blinked at John, still squatting across from him, watching him with a concern that did more to warm him than the sunshine. John’s eyes were blue, and his lips were thin and curled up a little bit on one side like they were used to smiling. They made Nick want to do things to make John smile, to make John smile at him. He was more drawn to John than he could have explained.
“Okay.” Nick got up with John’s help, although the other man released his hand once it was clear that he was steady on his feet now. “Sorry,” Nick offered. “It was ...” No, there was no way he was ready to describe what it really was. He might never be. “Like you said, jet lag, I think.”
“Aye.” John gestured towards the house, seeming happy to accept that as an explanation. And it wasn’t a complete lie. Getting from New York to a remote Hebridean island involved a complex coordination of planes, trains and ferries that had left Nick either racing along corridors to make connections with minutes to spare, or spending hours sitting waiting for the next stage of his journey to begin; he’d been traveling for so long that it was no wonder the earth felt as if it was spinning too fast. “Well, there it is. Rossneath House. If you want to go in, I’ll get the shopping from the car. I started a kettle boiling, so you’ll be able to have a drink, if you’d like.”
