Mortal Ghost (29 page)

‘
Even if you don’t know who I am?’

‘
We know enough. I’m not denying there may be some issues with the authorities, but I’m confident that Meg and I can handle them, ultimately.’

‘
Aren’t you frightened of me?’

‘
Your past doesn’t scare me. Whatever it might be.’

‘
Not the past.’ Jesse dropped the knife onto the table with a loud clunk, the sound of schoolyard challenge, of now-pick-it-up-smartboy-it’s-time-to-see-who’s-got-balls.

But Finn wasn’t a schoolboy. And he’d learned long ago which games to play, which to disdain.

‘
Of course I’m frightened. I’m bloody terrified! If you or Sarah or Meg had cancer, I’d be just as terrified. Do you think that I’d walk away from you then?’

Jesse fell silent and stared at his hands.

~~~

At their front door Finn remarked that he’d be away for a week, possibly ten days. He had an assignment in Vietnam.

Jesse raised his eyebrows. ‘Taking your camera?’ he asked a little too innocently.

‘Let’s go down to my office,’ Finn said. ‘I don’t suppose you feel like sleeping.’

While Finn made coffee, Jesse sat quietly with his head bowed. Finn felt a rush of tenderness at the sight of the thinly-disguised tendons, the shag of hair, the bony knobs of vertebrae. A child harshly used, a boy on the verge of manhood: what did it matter whose fingerprints he wore? His ravaged skin costumed a soul long flayed into retreat, and now just beginning to emerge. There was something wild and fierce and uncompromising in his spirit; something ancient, and imperious. Finn wondered, not for the first time, whether Jesse had Scandinavian ancestry—he had the colouring for it. Jesse would make a beautiful fiery dragon of a man someday. Finn resolved not to abandon him—and especially now—before the metamorphosis was complete.

Finn placed his hands on either side of Jesse’s neck and gently massaged the tight muscles. At first Jesse tensed at the touch, his armour snapping into place along his shoulderblades, then bit by bit retracting as Finn’s strong thumbs travelled the ridges of his spine, the fissures and ropy pahoehoes of his flesh. Finn was patient, his fingers coaxing. Jesse relaxed and even let Finn reach beneath his T-shirt. Finn didn’t wonder at the knots and stiffness in Jesse’s back after such a day. He increased the pressure of his hands in increments, finding the tsubos that he’d learnt about in the East. The scar tissue softened and swelled under Finn’s fingertips like bread dough—yeasty, well kneaded, and rising in a warm corner.

When Finn’s hands tired, he rested them on Jesse’s shoulders. He tried to think of something to say, something that would reassure both of them. In the end it was Jesse who spoke.

‘
Who am I, Finn?’

Finn moved round to face Jesse, then perched on the edge of his desk. ‘I’ve been wanting to show you something. A photograph.’

When Jesse nodded, Finn picked up a folder and extracted a dog-eared print which he’d been keeping for the right moment. Jesse glanced at it, unable to understand what Finn found interesting. It was a shot of Meg and Sarah sitting at the garden table among the remains of a meal. A nice family photo, vivid and natural, but nothing special. Then he looked closer. There was a vague outline of a third figure to their left—not blurred precisely, but more like an afterimage through which the lavender and rose bushes could be clearly seen.

‘
Do you remember when I took some photographs at supper in order to fill up the roll?’ Finn asked. ‘They’re all the same.’

Jesse examined it carefully. He tapped the shadowy figure with a finger. ‘You mean that’s me?’

‘
Yes.’

‘I don’t understand. What went wrong?’

‘
I did my best. You’re not very photogenic.’

Jesse frowned at the photograph. ‘Some kind of mistake in developing?’

‘
Impossible.’ Finn said. ‘Not like this.’

‘
Then what?’

Finn shrugged. ‘I’ve no explanation, at least none that you’d like.’

Jesse thrust the sheet back at Finn.

‘
Then you think I should go on with the tests?’ Jesse asked.

‘
Have you got a better idea?’

Chapter 22

A day later Jesse came into the sitting room to find Finn hanging up a set of photographs mounted behind glass.

‘
They’re of Peter,’ Finn explained. ‘I thought it’s time to display some again.’

‘
Sarah said you’d destroyed all the photos.’

‘
Prints, but not the negatives. I may have been sectionable but not quite
that
out of my mind.’

In the photo Jesse found most riveting, a thin angular-looking boy with brilliant green eyes and red hair a fraction lighter than Meg’s was seated on the rim of the Andersen sundial, a large sketchbook across his lap. He was smiling directly into the camera. Even on paper his skin glowed, warm and golden. About sixteen, he looked utterly at ease with the world. He looked clever. He looked as though he laughed a lot but knew how to listen. He looked the sort of person you’d like for a friend. For a boyfriend; he was beautiful—as beautiful as Liam.

Finn interrupted Jesse’s reverie. ‘When I get back from overseas, we’re going to have to sit down and talk about some things.’

‘Like?’

‘Like school.’

‘Whatever for?’

Finn gave him one of his Viking looks till Jesse felt himself begin to squirm. ‘Yeah well,’ he retorted, ‘I didn’t know they registered pupils anonymously.’ In response Finn merely raised an eyebrow and returned to his picture hooks.

That evening Finn left on his trip, and the next few days passed quietly. On Tuesday Jesse worked with Matthew on the longboat for the afternoon, and on Wednesday, having borrowed Finn’s card, made a quick trip to the library for some new reading matter (sneaking in a book about men who rape, and another about the treatment of sexual trauma). Otherwise, aside from short walks with Nubi, he kept close to the house. He couldn’t persuade Sarah to accompany him anywhere.

For hours at a time she would lie on Jesse’s floor with a book or Peter’s top. They played chess. Often Jesse would look up to find her eyes resting on him. When her hands clenched, he prised them open and rubbed her palms until the gouge marks faded. But she didn’t cry. Her bruises were slowly fading, and would leave no external traces of her ordeal.

There were nightmares. Ever since that first night, Jesse had gone unasked to her room and sat with her until she drifted into a fitful sleep. Sometimes he read aloud to her, his beloved Shakespeare; sometimes he made up extravagant adventures of heroines and dragons and bold quests; and sometimes he said nothing at all. Although he knew he could share the bed, he slept on the floor. Meg didn’t intervene, nor did she mention the purple shadows gathering under Sarah’s eyes. Only once did Sarah venture as far as the garden, and that for less than ten minutes. She spent a lot of time dusting and polishing and overing—even their weekly cleaner made a tart comment. And the water bill would be enormous, if Sarah continued to shower so long and so frequently.

On Friday Meg had a day off. Jesse and Sarah did the washing up together, while Meg went to check her email and make a phone call. Once they’d finished, Jesse headed for the garden to smoke, and Sarah trudged upstairs to get ready. Meg had been uncharacteristically adamant that Sarah accompany her on a visit to her mother, a longish trip by car. ‘Gran’s very upset that you haven’t been to see her in months.’ After a protracted and prickly argument Sarah had acquiesced, though not with good grace. Meg’s mother lived in the country, in a small cottage surrounded by geese and flowers. ‘My mother has a passion
for sunflowers,’ she’d said to Jesse. ‘She talks to them all the time
.
’ She’d laughed when asked if they replied, but Jesse had not been joking. Perhaps Meg’s gifts ran in the family.

Meg and Sarah set out within twenty minutes and would not return till evening; they were taking Nubi with them for a good romp in the adjoining meadow. Jesse planned to check out some secondhand bookshops, walk along the river, work a few hours at the boathouse. And it was time for him to pay Mick a visit.

Sarah had given Jesse Mick’s address unwillingly, but she’d given it to him. ‘What can you possibly hope to accomplish?’ she’d asked. He’d shrugged without replying. Her eyes had studied him worriedly. ‘Maybe you should take Nubi with you,’ she’d finally said. ‘Mick’s vile, but Gavin’s dangerous. Psycho kind of dangerous. He might be there.’ It was the only conversation they’d had about Mick all week. Jesse had declined, the dog would only hinder him.

After Meg and Sarah had gone, Jesse went upstairs to make his bed and collect his rucksack, along with a few things he’d need—swimming trunks and a towel, a couple of books, his water bottle. And his knife, which he’d refused to leave with Ayen despite her desire to have it tested.

Jesse bent to shake out his duvet. This time a heavyset man with dark curly hair is standing in the corner of the room, a small plastic tub and syringe in his hand. He approaches the lad lying facedown on the bed, arms wrapped protectively over his head, who begins to shudder as the man slides a hand between the emaciated buttocks.

Help me. Please help me.

‘How?’ Jesse cried. ‘Tell me how I can help you.’

At his plea the figures disappeared. It took a few minutes for Jesse’s breathing to return to normal.

~~~

Back in the kitchen he set about packing himself a picnic lunch. He filled his water bottle and added two cans of coke from the fridge. He made a stack of cheese-and-mustard sandwiches, then rummaged in the cupboards for a packet of crisps and some biscuits. Finn enjoyed having someone around who shared his love of eating and was always bringing home ‘just a little something I discovered’ to urge on Jesse. ‘You’re going to make him fat,’ Sarah had protested the last time Finn unloaded the car. ‘And what’s wrong with fat?’ Finn had teased, digging his fingers into the surplus at his waist and brandishing it with a grin.

Jesse drank a glass of milk while he considered what else to take: the roll of heavy-duty duct tape Finn kept in a drawer, also a length of rope. A blindfold? No, let Mick see and sweat. Absentmindedly Jesse ate one, then another of the biscuits from the open packet. He poured a second glass of milk. He wasn’t keen to confront Mick, because he knew what the only feasible deterrent would have to be.

The scene at Siggy’s kept intruding, and Mick’s music. How could someone who plays like that be a rapist? Jesse couldn’t get his mind around it, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps he was being naïve, but he felt something like despair that art and inequity could coexist. It was like discovering that Hitler had secretly written
The Tin Drum
or Jack the Ripper, the symphonies of Brahms.

He rinsed out his glass under the tap, then with a last biscuit in hand, stepped out into the garden. The sun was already wicked. Jesse brought a hand up to shade his eyes and watched a butterfly alight on a buddleia shrub with pale lilac blossoms, similar to the one in his family’s garden. He remembered his surprise at how vigorously it regenerated from the hard pruning his grandmother would give it in spring. ‘The earth thrives on strong measures,’ his grandmother had told him only a few weeks before her death. ‘When I was a little girl, farmers used to burn their fields after the harvest. Fire renews the land.’ He could recall her exact words . . . her
exact
words. For a while he thought about what Ayen had said about memory.

Then his mind returned to the problem of Mick and Gavin. If there were only another way. He hadn’t fought in a long time; he’d always tried to avoid overt confrontations. Even the hot shame of humiliation was better than losing control. It wasn’t a beating he was afraid of, like other kids who cowered and sucked up and handed over their sweets, their money, their music, their self-respect. And he’d closed his ears to the taunts long ago. (Or had he? a small voice whispered.) Let them think he was scared to death, pissing his pants. Once in the school canteen he’d been cornered by a bunch of kids who’d taken turns spitting into a glass, then added a splash of orange squash and ordered him to drink it down. He hadn’t argued, just done as they’d told him. Afterwards he’d stood as still as stone, eyes downcast. He hadn’t dared to look them in the eye, terrified he’d explode. The story had circulated for weeks, while within the safety of his imagination he’d gleefully pictured them as blackened skeletons. Even now, years later, he sometimes revisited that very satisfying scenario—one of the few images of a fire’s aftermath he could tolerate. And the best part of his draconian pleasure was the secret knowledge, lovingly hoarded, that he could easily have done just that to them.

Only now he suspected his fear of using his gifts had compromised him in ways that he was just beginning to understand. Only now, his fear was even greater, for his gifts might be all that had ever been.