Mortal Ghost (2 page)

Jesse watched for a while longer. The kingfishers were chasing each other over the river. Their small, brilliantly-coloured bodies darted and flashed, embroidering the rippling length of greygreen silk. There was a moment in their flight, just before they dived, when they paused, suspended—the wave at cresting, the pendulum at the top of its arc—and then with a shiver, as if time itself had hesitated, resumed their plunge.

Eventually hunger intruded. Jesse sighed, flipped his hair out of his eyes, and forced himself to turn away. The river would wait. He shouldered his rucksack and continued in the direction of the city centre. Tired and dispirited, he trudged along the narrow footpath. The kestrel had drained whatever energy his short, troubled night and inadequate supper had provided. His usual craving for chocolate nagged at him. After McDonald’s, he decided, he’d spend the morning in the library, then try to find some work, maybe in one of the posh residential neighbourhoods—mowing, weeding, painting, window cleaning, anything.

The dog had waited before following the boy. Gradually it crept closer, but not too close. When the boy stopped to lean on the back of a concrete bench, the dog stopped as well, watching wistfully.

Jesse took a deep breath, lifted his head, and saw the dog.

‘
You again,’ Jesse said.

The dog’s persistence irritated him. What would he do with a dog? Most days he didn’t even know where he’d find his own next meal. A dog would make him stand out, far too noticeable. And shackled: he didn’t want any creature’s loyalty or devotion. He picked up a stone from the ground.

‘
I’m warning you,’ he called. ‘Go away.’

The stupid dog came a few steps nearer.

‘
I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if you don’t leave me alone.’

The dog moved forward another inch.

‘
That’s it,’ Jesse said.

The rock landed on the dog’s flank. The dog yelped and jumped back, then slunk away. At the same time a voice shrieked in rage. Before Jesse could turn to see who had shouted, something—someone—rushed at him and knocked him flat. He covered his head with his arms as fists pounded at his shoulders, pulled his hair, pinched his upper arms. After a bit he realised that not much damage was actually being done. He sat up, pushed his assailant away. Right. A girl.

‘
What do you think you’re doing?’ Jesse asked her.

She sprang to her feet and picked up another rock.

‘
I’ll throw it at you. See how you like that,’ she spat.

Jesse couldn’t help laughing. Her brown eyes blazed at him, fierce with indignation. She was about his own age, with a long mane of chestnut hair escaping from a thick elastic. A fraction shorter than him, and very wiry. He had the impression that she was a ballet dancer—something about the way she stood, moved. She was dressed in shiny blue Lycra shorts and crop top, white trainers—typical classy jogging gear—and her face was flushed and filmed with sweat.

‘
Go on, then, throw it,’ Jesse said from the ground. ‘Hit a man when he’s down.’

‘
Some man,’ she said with a snort. She dropped the rock.

The dog in its perversity, in its doggy cunning, came prancing up. Tail wagging, it began jumping up on Jesse to lick his hands and face.

‘
Your dog is more faithful than you deserve,’ she said.

‘
It’s not my dog.’

‘
He doesn’t seem to know that,’ she said.

‘
It keeps following me,’ Jesse said.

‘
I see. So that’s a good reason to throw rocks at him, is it?’

‘
Not rocks. One rock.’

‘
As if that makes any difference,’ she retorted.

‘
I daresay it does, to the dog,’ Jesse said calmly.

The girl regarded him with a puzzled look on her face.

‘
Who are you?’ she asked.

Jesse stood. He brushed himself off, picked up his rucksack.

‘
Ring the RSPCA, will you.’

‘
You haven’t answered my question.’

‘
Nor do I intend to,’ Jesse answered. ‘What business is it of yours?’

‘
You’re not from here,’ said the girl. She took a step closer, her head tilted at a graceful angle. Again he was reminded of a dancer.

‘
So? That’s no crime.’

This had gone on long enough. Jesse turned to leave. She laid her hand on his arm. Flinching, he jerked from her grasp and walked away.

‘
Wait,’ she called.

He was determined not to stop. The girl ran round in front of him, blocking his path. He would have brushed past her but something in the set of her shoulders, her mouth made him hesitate.

‘
Please wait,’ she said again.

They looked at each other for a while in silence.

‘
Are you hungry?’ she finally asked.

And if she noticed the sweat that sprang up on his forehead when she handed him the muesli bar from her bum bag, she was considerate enough not to say.

At first they walked back towards the Old Bridge in silence, which was exactly how Jesse wanted it. But the girl had the kind of energy that, like the river itself, would not easily be diverted.

‘
My name’s Sarah.’

‘
Jesse,’ he offered in exchange for the forthcoming meal.

‘
Where did you spend the night?’

Jesse shrugged.

‘
You look like you’ve slept under a bridge.’

He gave her a mocking half-smile and pointed towards the Old Bridge.

She was shocked but tried to conceal it. Studying her surreptitiously, he wondered exactly how old she was. With such an expressive face it was hard to tell. She wouldn’t make a good liar: that smile would give her away, those eyes. There was something about her . . .

Just before they passed under the bridge, Sarah stopped and gazed up at the stone parapets.

‘
Not a good place to sleep,’ she said.

‘
There’s worse,’ Jesse said.

‘
I don’t like it.’

‘
Why? It’s a handsome structure. Look at the curved coping stones above the spandrels and wing walls. And the projecting courses at road level. All good solid features typical of the period.’

Sarah was astonished. ‘You know a lot about it.’

‘
Not really. Just from my reading.’

She indicated the stone dogs guarding both ends of the parapets with bared teeth. ‘They scare me.’

‘
They’re only statues.’

‘Maybe . . .’ She shook her head. ‘There are too many legends about this bridge. It’s supposed to be unlucky. That’s why a lot of people won’t use it. You wouldn’t get me to spend a night here, alone, for anything.’

Jesse teased her. ‘How do you know I was alone?’

She blushed easily. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to . . .’ A futile attempt to hold back a peal of amusement. ‘I’m getting myself all twisted up over nothing, aren’t I?’

He liked her willingness to laugh at herself. ‘I was alone.’

‘
All the more reason to find someplace else to sleep.’

‘
I can look after myself.’

Her eyes took him in from head to foot, not missing much. ‘Listen, it’s really not a good place to hang out—not alone, and especially not at night. There’ve been several murders underneath the bridge. Just last year someone found the body of a man who’d been beaten to death and left on the bank.’

‘
All old buildings—or bridges—have their history.’

‘
Not like this one,’ she persisted. ‘My mother says some places are imbued with spiritual energy.’

‘
Ghosts?’ he scoffed.

‘
No . . .
no
, nothing like that. More like a fingerprint, a kind of emotional charge because a person—or maybe an animal—burnt so strongly that everything, even stone, remembers.’

Her clear gaze unsettled him, as if she understood a secret about him. Her scent sprang out at him, clawing at the base of his throat. His grandmother had hung large bunches of lavender in the kitchen to dry, but he’d never met a
girl
who liked it, a girl like this, and that unsettled him even more. Go, he told himself. Just turn around and leave. There are worse things than hunger. His stomach growled in disagreement, loud enough for her to hear. He hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulder and rubbed his midriff; caught her grin. He could never resist the absurdity of a situation, even his own. His lips twitched, then turned up at the corners.

On the other side of the bridge the dog plunged into the river, paddled in exuberant circles for a few minutes, then bounded back to Jesse and shook itself vigorously.

‘
Shit!’ Jesse exclaimed. ‘My clothes were disgusting enough already.’ He glared at the dog.

But Sarah was looking back at the bridge, unable to let it go. ‘It reeks of evil.’

‘
That’s a bit strong, I should think.’

‘
Don’t be so sure. One of my mum’s—’ She hesitated, then started again. ‘One of my mother’s acquaintances killed herself there not too long ago. She threw herself into the river and drowned.’ Jesse heard the faint emphasis on
acquaintances
. He wondered what she wasn’t telling him, but had no intention of trespassing on restricted territory. He had enough landmines of his own.

He smiled, making it easier for her. ‘I’m not going to throw myself off any bridge, haunted or not. Anyway, I’d never drown.’

‘
Why not?’

‘
I’m too good a swimmer.’

Sarah glanced at him. Jesse’s eyes danced, but his voice was quiet and assured. If anybody else had spoken like that, she’d have sniggered or told him off. This was different, somehow. She had a strong feeling that this lad didn’t brag, didn’t lie—that in fact he had no
need
to lie. But she knew the bridge. And her mother.

~~~

The house was an old and beautiful one, set back from a quiet road on the outskirts of the city. Perched on a hilly prospect with unencumbered views, it had been built perhaps two hundred years ago of local stone. Its exterior walls were a mottled but mellow ochre, like the best vanilla ice cream. A clever architect had brought light and river into what must have once been a dark, even cramped interior. Now it was spacious, sunny, and very untidy.

Jesse had been on street for a few months, yet thought he could still imagine other people’s lives—ordinary people, who lived in flats and houses, who got up in the morning and bathed and ate breakfast and kicked the dog (or the youngest family member) and left for work or school. But entering Sarah’s home, he needed a passport and phrase book.

At the front door he noticed three motorcycle helmets hanging up along with the macs and jackets.

‘
My dad’s,’ she said.

Jesse was astounded by the quantity of possessions these people could accumulate: magazines and newspapers, sandals, pillows, vases filled with wilted flowers, CDs, a heap of socks, African baskets, photos, a trumpet lying on a piano, plants, a chess set, statues in stone and wood—and
books
, lots and lots of books. And this only from a glimpse through the doorway as they headed towards the kitchen.

~~~

Sarah passed Jesse a plate heaped with scrambled eggs and grated cheese, grilled tomatoes, buttery toast. The dog had already wolfed down a helping of stale cornflakes with milk.

‘
He’d probably sit up and recite all of the
Elder Edda
—in the original—for a soup bone,’ Jesse said.

‘
My mum and I are vegetarians,’ Sarah said without a hint of apology. ‘No bones, no bacon or sausage, only some steaks for my dad in the deep freeze. Finn would kill me if I used his imported beef for a dog.’

‘
Finn?’

‘
My dad.’

‘
A nickname?’

‘
No. An old family name.’

‘
You call your father by his first name?’

‘
Yeah, why not?’ She looked at him in surprise, then asked, ‘What’s the
Elder Edda?
’

‘
A collection of early ballad-like poems. An important source of the Norse myths, written in Old Icelandic.’

‘
Norse?’

‘
Yeah. You know, stories of the Viking gods. Odin. Thor. The Valkyries. Loki the Trickster’s one of my favourites.’

She stared at him for a moment with a frown, as if she’d never heard of the Vikings, before going to the refrigerator for another packet of cheese.