Mortal Ghost (32 page)

A midwife lays the newborn Meg at her mother’s breast. She runs through a garden filled with sunflowers, stubby little toes dirty and scratched. A tall red-haired man chases her, laughing and sweating in the hot sun. In the bitter cold she stands without hat or coat in front of a tombstone, her hair covered in a cowl of snow. She lies face down on a bank high above a fjord. A young, bearded Finn comes up and drops to her side, lifts her hair and kisses the nape of her neck. The rain lashes her face as she holds tight to his waist. The motorbike skids and they are thrown into a ditch. Her face distorts as she pushes once more, giving birth. She cries and cries and cries. Holding her newborn granddaughter in her arms, she smiles at Sarah. A young lad, his wrists bandaged, sobs while a grey-haired Meg takes his hand. Finn, white-bearded now, tenderly tucks a blanket around her shrunken frame. She smiles at him, but there is a frightened blankness in her eyes. A simple coffin slides into the heart of fire.

‘
No,’ Jesse groaned. ‘Please, no more.’ He shut his eyes.

‘
Jesse?’

‘
I can’t take this much longer.’

Meg moved swiftly to his side. Her fingers stroked his frail neck, his shoulders. If she felt any scars she gave no sign.

‘
Listen to me, Jesse. It’s going to be OK.
You’re
going to be OK. You’re not alone now.’

Jesse opened his eyes reluctantly, afraid of what he would find. Of how much truth—or code—he could tolerate. But time had closed its gates once more, the tunnel collapsing upon itself like a wavefunction in a nonlocal universe.

For one terrifying moment Meg looked into the inexorable corridor of his eyes and saw the whole within the hole: not black at all, but fiery. Then the star imploded. Jesse blinked, and the light was gone.

Chapter 24

Sarah flew through a corner of Jesse’s vision, arms outstretched and midriff gaping. As bright as the kite overhead, her hair streamed gaily behind her. Sunlight brought out its reds and golds and coppers, which seemed to gleam just for him. He lifted his head to watch her. She plunged across the uneven ground, leaving behind the memories that lay each night in ambush. He still slept in her room despite finding it ever more difficult to remain. Just last night she’d woken around two, only slipping back to sleep once he sat down at her side. There was no persuading her to talk to Meg, or at least one of those hotlines, and he noticed that she seemed to be getting thinner. Now that he thought about it, she’d only taken a slice of cucumber and a cube of cheese from their picnic. He looked at her plastic plate: the cheese nibbled on by a beetle, not a person. He frowned. Had she eaten any breakfast this morning? He could only remember a cup of coffee. And she still showered more often than she ate.

‘Sarah,’ he called out, ‘come and have some lunch before the ants get it.’

‘Not hungry,’ she threw back over her shoulder. She sped on towards a stand of beech trees to her right.

Seeing her run, hearing her laugh made Jesse want to jump up and chase her; quickened his pulse like a rush of dazzling words. But his belly was too full.

The afternoon sky was splotched with thick white clouds harried by an invisible border collie. They scudded above the trees in anticipation of fresh pastures. Summer had peaked; Jesse could feel the descent into autumn beginning—his favourite season. He hadn’t decided whether to visit the school Matthew had suggested, even whether to stay.

Jesse lay back and closed his eyes, listening half to the sounds that Sarah and Nubi were making, half to the soothing buzz of insects, and the rustle of the leaves, and the murmur of the stream in the near distance.

Sarah flopped down next to him.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Hey back,’ he said with a slow lazy grin, cracking only one eye. Nubi was nowhere in sight. He’d probably caught scent of a rabbit or badger.

‘The kite’s tangled in a tree,’ Sarah said.

Jesse groaned.

‘Come on, help me get it down.’

‘Later.’

‘I want to fly it some more,’ Sarah said.

Jesse squinted up at her. ‘Then you’d better keep away from the trees.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. The wind’s quite strong.’

‘That’s right. Blame it on something that can’t argue back.’

Sarah hugged her knees. ‘Odd that you say that. I could swear the wind was singing to me.’

‘Oh yeah? Well, I hope it was a lullaby. Now let me sleep a bit.’

‘You’ve already slept. I heard you snoring.’

‘I don’t snore!’ Jesse protested indignantly.

Sarah raised his T-shirt and began to tickle his belly.

‘Stop that,’ he said.

She ignored him. Jesse wasn’t very ticklish, but he felt uncomfortable at her touch. He grasped her fingers and held them tight in his left hand, almost too tight.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

Sarah bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

Jesse continued to hold her hand but said nothing.

‘Jesse—’

He shook his head but still didn’t release her hand. A cloud slid across the sun. Sarah shivered. Slowly Jesse sat up and stared at her. Her eyes were troubled. Jesse felt a great wave of sadness. In another life, he thought.

‘Don’t fall in love with me, Sarah. I’m nothing like you imagine.’

‘You were a young boy.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

She tried to pull her hand away. He could see the shame that darkened her eyes before she turned her head aside. He’d spoiled the carefree mood of the afternoon.

‘
It has nothing to do with those scum,’ he said. ‘I don’t even think about them, and neither should you.’

‘Every night I feel their hands on me, their—’ She stopped.

Chisel-scarred hands clamped his head like the unyielding jaws of a vice. For all he strained and twisted, there was no release—no escape. There never had been. The screw tightened relentlessly. He felt the pressure deep within himself, and sucked in a hoarse gulp of air. A whiff of woodsmoke scratched the back of his throat; his spit would burn if swallowed.

‘
That’s how he wins,’ Jesse said, his voice strangled. ‘By claiming your mind as well as your body. By forcing you to accept his terms.’

A small brown spider, lightly speckled, had wandered onto their blanket. Sarah let it clamber onto a finger and set it down on the grass, where it scuttled off.

‘You’ve done something, haven’t you? About Mick and Gavin?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why haven’t you told me what happened?’

‘I’m not proud of it.’

Sarah looked down at her lap, their hands still entwined. For a long time she was still. Then, ‘Was Mick right about you?’

‘I don’t follow you,’ he said, stretching the truth.

She took an even longer time to speak. Once voiced, words couldn’t be unsaid: a golem of her own making.

‘You prefer boys.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

She was angry then. With a sharp tug she pulled her hand from his. He’d forgotten how quick-tempered, how impulsive she could be. She rose to a crouch, and he thought that she’d spring up and storm away.
She
thought she would storm off. Then she changed her mind and bent forward, seizing his hair with both hands, and pulled him close.

The usual hint of mockery—or too often, self-mockery—had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a depth of colour at once simple and subtle and profound, a secret given, which would stay with her forever, which would redefine for her the essence of blue. In that moment she saw the man he would become. Could become, if he’d stop tormenting himself.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not this time.’ Her lips spoke to the corner of his mouth.

He wanted to tell her about Liam; he wanted to tell her about the computer; and most of all, he wanted to tell her that he was afraid. Instead, he kissed her with all the despair, all the longing that his father had carved into his flesh. Her mouth tasted of strawberries and cream, his grandmother’s favourite. And Emmy’s.

Chapter 25

On the way home from their picnic Jesse let himself be talked into a film evening, though he’d far prefer to read; he was beginning to need some time alone. Sarah agreed to make a huge bowl of buttered popcorn—
not
the microwave sort—in exchange for watching her preference first. With any luck she’d be yawning before they got to a second film.

While the popcorn was popping, Jesse went to fetch the DVDs Sarah had left in the sitting room. He stopped in front of the photos of Peter. The sundial photo, as he’d come to think of it, continued to preoccupy him.
Favourite
no longer quite described his feelings, however. He studied it often, several times a day in fact, the way you’d return again and again to the picture of a grotesque mutant no matter how repelled you were by your own obsession; no matter how plagued by the suspicion that every voyeur is looking into a mirror—one of those distorting fairground mirrors, but a mirror nevertheless. There was something about Peter’s smile, or the expression in his eyes, or the way he held himself, that spoke of secrets: ‘Who are you?’ Jesse would find himself whispering, and sometimes wondered what Meg saw when she looked upon this image of her son. She’d be home by ten, she’d said; maybe this time he’d ask her.

Or maybe some things are best left be.

Jesse leaned his forehead against the glass cover of the frame and closed his eyes. Why did you leave, Peter? Did you think Meg and Finn were so awful? Your life so awful? What could you have possibly known about awful? Those parents of yours, they’d have helped you. You stupid, beautiful fool.

You’re beautiful, the man says. They’ll gobble you up right off the screen.

How much? Peter asks.

Enough.

How much? He repeats stubbornly. I’m not doing it unless I get a good price. And I want half up front.

The man snickers. Right, kiddo. As if.

Peter?

Peter tilts his head.

Peter, don’t. Get the hell out of there.

Peter frowns, his eyes wandering as though in search of something.

Don’t you understand? Whatever their game, it’s no online giveaway. They’ll grind you up for dog meat.

The man points to a door. Through there. Get a move on. They’re waiting for you.

Listen to me, Peter. Damn you, please listen.

Peter puts a hand to his temple and squints like someone with a migraine.

What now? Growls the man.

Peter snaps to attention. Only with condoms, he says.

The man’s laugh raises gooseflesh on Jesse’s arms.

That all? No Beluga caviar? Magnum of champagne? Asses’ milk to bathe in first? Royal jelly for lubrication? He stops to cough, a nasty wet bark. When he catches his breath, he speaks in the tone of someone whose jokes—and patience—have run out. Showtime, mate. Get in there and strip. You’re going to do it, and you’re going to do it our way. Or we’ll let you leave here with your pretty face. But half of it’ll be in a doggy bag.

Peter runs his tongue along his lips before catching his lower lip between his teeth.

What the fuck are you waiting for? The man raises his voice, likewise his arm, then draws back with a knowing snort. He reaches into his pocket, removes a small powder-filled packet, and dangles it in front of Peter’s face. This maybe?

Peter, no.

Jesse gasped as Sarah took his arm.

‘Jesse, stop. You’ll break it like that.’

The frame in front of him gradually came into focus. He must have removed it unawares from the wall, for he held it in fists clenched so tight that it took him a few seconds to loosen his grip. Peter’s glossy smile wavered as Jesse replaced the photo, hands unsteady, beside the others. He felt his eyes prickle and a thick clot of distress form in his throat. The poor misguided sod. In a way Jesse was relieved that Sarah had broken the bizarre link. His anger had been mounting, and with it the heat at the centre of his being.

Are you mad? Jesse asked himself when he realised the direction of his thoughts. Peter is dead; the incident long over, part of a distant and immutable past. You might as well try to incinerate the dragon before it felled Beowulf; detonate the planes in midair before they rammed the Twin Towers.

Jesse ran his fingertips over the glass.

‘He looks so happy there, doesn’t he?’ Sarah said. ‘But it’s a lie, the worst kind.’