Mortal Ghost (12 page)

Jesse shook his head. The coffee machine gurgled and hissed while Finn waited, his occasional sideways glance as unobtrusive as his profession required, but the boy seemed hypnotised by the row of books. There were still traces of tears on his cheeks.

Once the espresso was ready, Finn crossed the room to his desk, pulled out his chair, and settled down. Through the rising steam from his cup he finally ventured to study Jesse more closely; to admit to himself the direction of his thoughts.

Finn wasn’t a particularly religious man—he just managed Christmas—but his heart was beating with something bordering on hope. Is this what he is? Finn asked himself. A second chance? A way to redeem ourselves—
myself
? Coming out of nowhere. Homeless, needy. Hardly older than a boy. Nothing left to lose. We’ve tried so hard to make sense of things. To get on with living, the way everyone always says. Does the universe ever throw us a gift? Or does it just seem that way? And what does it matter so long as we get it right this time?

Finn was careful to keep his voice even when he spoke. ‘I think you owe us something for the meals and bed.’

Jesse jerked his hand away from the books as though an electric current had run through his fingers. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he stammered.

‘
Don’t look so alarmed. I only want a promise from you.’

‘
What sort of promise?’

Finn regarded him shrewdly. ‘Your word that you won’t steal away in the early hours before having breakfast with me.’

Jesse exhaled in relief. He hadn’t been aware of holding his breath.

‘
OK,’ he said. ‘That I can do.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘How did you know? And how do you know you can trust me?’

Finn ignored the first question. ‘If I didn’t trust you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You only say what you mean, don’t you?’

Jesse ducked his head, inordinately pleased as if he’d just been given a gift, one he’d longed and longed for without the least hope of fulfilment—a little boy who knew there was no way his parents could afford that train set for Christmas.

‘
Sarah will probably sleep in, but Meg has to be at the hospital by eight. I usually make breakfast and eat with her when I’m home. Is quarter to seven too early for you?’

‘
No.’

‘
You needn’t—’ Finn broke off. ‘Never mind, go to bed. I want to finish up some paperwork. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Jesse nodded. He handed Finn his handkerchief, which the older man carelessly stuffed back into his pocket, and made for the stairs. At the doorway he paused, absentmindedly fingered the supple black leather of a motorcycle outfit hanging near the door, then turned round.

‘
Mr Andersen—’ Jesse began.

‘
Finn.’

‘
Finn. The photographs are very beautiful. It’s just that—’ He stopped, wondering how to go on without reopening the wound. ‘The girl. The burn victim. I was wrong. The obscenity is in me, not in the photo.’

Finn was holding a pencil in his hand, an elegant mechanical one. He clicked the feed a few times, pressed the fragile lead back into the body of the pencil, clicked again.

‘
I never photograph the dead without a sense of debt, and deep respect. They teach us in a way that the living never can. The police told me something about her history. Her parents—’

‘
No!’

The pencil lead snapped.

‘
I can’t,’ Jesse said. ‘Not yet.’

Finn laid the pencil down. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he steepled his hands and tapped them repeatedly against pursed lips, a gesture that already seemed familiar to Jesse.

‘
Jesse, if you don’t revisit the past, you forfeit the future.’

Jesse looked at Finn with deeply dungeoned eyes. ‘I have no past.’

‘
Everyone has a past,’ Finn replied.

Jesse woke to a pale skin forming across the sky. He liked to sleep with open window and open curtains and open nightscape, not that he believed his dream soul wandered to other realms—he’d leave that to the sociologists and shamanic freaks. And no sane person wanted to go where his dreams often took him. But tonight the storm seemed to have washed his mind clean; he couldn’t recall a single dream.

He glanced towards the window. The rain had stopped, and the air smelled warm and sweet, like the day’s first milking. He’d leave right after breakfast. Hot water, a soft clean bed, and food—always food—how easy it was to become seduced by comfort.

That photograph. Jesse’s thoughts skidded towards it, though he wrenched the steering wheel and tried to apply the brakes—a mistake, as any driver could have told him. He recalled reading that certain cultures wouldn’t submit to photographs: the camera stole their souls. There
was
a kind of magic in it, he had to admit—the blank sheet of paper floating in a chemical bath, then the image gradually materialising, summoned forth from some incorporeal dimension. But the little girl had not been coaxed to surrender her soul; it had been wrest from her by fire before Finn had ever set eyes on her pitiful corpse.

Now wide awake, Jesse sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to see the photograph again. It was not a good idea—he knew that. But maybe if he steered into the skid . . .

Nubi made a half-hearted attempt to accompany Jesse, but curled up on the mat at the whispered command to stay. Someone must have trained him, and Jesse wondered what stories the dog might recount. At least the Andersens would treat him kindly or, Jesse trusted, find him a good home. Nubi’s eyes invited soppy metaphor as the two of them, dog and boy, regarded each other for a moment before Jesse slipped barefoot from the room, admonishing himself sternly that he couldn’t possibly manage with a pet.

The house was still. Jesse had no trouble making his way to the cellar stairs, where he paused before descending. Not even a snore. The house could easily have been empty. Jesse shut the cellar door behind him carefully, and with the handrail as guide, groped his way in the dark. Once satisfied that nobody was in the darkrooms, he’d switch on the light. It would have been simple enough to knock or call out. He couldn’t have explained why he didn’t want Finn to know about his sudden impulse. It felt like a guilty secret, pocket change stolen from a parent’s wallet.

Jesse found the book straightaway. Finn had left it on his desk, as though he himself intended to open it in the morning. If anything, the photograph was worse than Jesse remembered. Emmy had been about the same age when she died—a guess, it was hard to read the glossy corpse. One look, then he thrust the book aside. He longed to tear the page out, rip it into pieces. He leaned over Finn’s desk, grasping the wooden edge with both hands, gripping until his muscles cramped. He could feel the memories rising, his blood roaring, a river in spate which threatened to burst its banks and engulf him in flame. A hot wind blowing ashes off the roof. He’s running through the garden towards the door, sobs keening in his ears. Jesse, she cries. Jesse! He swallowed, forcing back the vile taste in his mouth. Had he only imagined the stench of burnt meat and charred bone? He could never be certain. It felt like memory.

He reached for the book again and stared at the photograph. He had never got to see Emmy. If there had been anything left to see. He splayed his hand across the page, closed his eyes, fingered the sharp edge of the paper. It won’t change anything, he told himself. You can tear it out of the binding, but not out of your head. But he knew that unless he left, and soon, he might not be able to check himself. His fingers tightened on the paper, sweat trickling down the sides of his chest. It was cool down here. Why was he sweating, for god’s sake? It was just a
book
.

‘
Jesse?’

He gasped. And then that surge of fiery release, so strong that the book before him ignited.

‘
Jesse!’

He was fast. In a matter of seconds he’d beaten out the fire with his hands—it had only been a small one, after all. If it weren’t for the faint pall of smoke, not even enough to set off the detectors, and the acrid smell, there would be no reason to imagine a fire. Except for the curled and blackened pages of the book.

Sarah stared at Jesse in utter astonishment. She looked from his face to the desk to his face again. He met her interrogation without flinching.

‘
Show me your hands,’ she demanded. ‘Are they burnt?’

He held them out. They weren’t even reddened. It had really been a very small blaze.

‘
And the man in the park?’ she asked slowly.

Jesse looked away. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t be reminded of that. He kept underestimating her. What answer could he possibly give her?

Sarah appeared in the kitchen just in time to peer over Finn’s shoulder at the frying pans.

‘
Where did you find all that bacon?’ she asked. ‘You can’t have been to the shops already.’

‘
Under a bag of chips that’s split its guts. Somebody’s going to have to defrost that deep freeze before we need an axe—or a flame-thrower.’ Finn’s gaze rested on Jesse for a moment as he handed Sarah two plates of scrambled eggs and mushrooms. ‘What are you doing up so early anyway?’ He made Nubi sit for his share of bacon. ‘Turn over a new branch?’

‘
Leaf, you mean. As in book.’

‘
Nope. Forest, maybe, for the amount of paper you’d need.’

Even Nubi seemed to grin. Sarah snorted and tossed her plait over her shoulder. ‘It’s too early for bad jokes.’

Finn brought Jesse a heaped plate, then sat down and tucked into his own breakfast. It was only after he’d eaten several rashers of bacon and a thickly buttered slice of toast, heavy with jam, that he paused for breath. ‘I’ve really missed good home-cooking.’

‘
You’re going to put back all those pounds within a week,’ Meg said drily.

‘
Now don’t start with that again.’ Finn turned to Sarah. ‘Heard from Katy yet?’

‘
An email a few days ago.’

‘
How’s it going?’ Finn asked.

‘
Not too bad. Hot.’ Sarah explained to Jesse. ‘Katy’s one of my best mates. She’s working on an Indian reservation in Arizona for the summer holidays.’

‘
Native Americans,’ Finn said. ‘Navajo, in this case.’

Meg glanced at her bare wrist, then up at the clock.

‘
Don’t forget your watch.’ Finn said.

‘
It needs to be repaired.’

‘
What have you done? Taken a sledgehammer to it?’ Sarah asked.

‘
Just a minor adjustment,’ Meg shot a warning look at Finn, who was about to make one of his comments. ‘Look, I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.’ She addressed Sarah. ‘I’ve left a shopping list and some money. Could you pick up the things we need for supper? We’re going to barbecue. I’ll be back by eight.’ A smile. ‘Truly.’

‘
OK.’ Sarah buttered a piece of toast. ‘Anything else?’

‘
Tell your father when you go out, and don’t forget your mobile.’

Sarah made a face at her mother.

‘
I mean it, Sarah Louise Andersen. You must be the only teenager in the country whose ear is not permanently affixed to the phone.’

‘
Think of how much I’m saving you. I ought to get more pocket money.’

No stranger to such comments, Meg wiped her fingers on her napkin and laid it at her place. She turned to Jesse, her voice level, her eyes gentle. ‘Do I need to say goodbye?’

Jesse ducked his head,
go
and
stay
chasing round and round in his mind like cat and dog, round and round again. He looked over at Nubi, whose opinion couldn’t have been more obvious: maybe
you
prefer a bridge, but I’ll take a clean mat and bacon any day. And I’d like another chance at that stuck-up, pampered feline who’s begging to be taught a little respect.

Finn intervened. ‘Leave the boy, Meg. He and I have got a few things to sort out.’

~~~

After breakfast Finn sent Sarah off to the newsagent by bike.

‘
Jesse and I will tidy the kitchen,’ he said. When she scowled, he added, ‘Well, you can always do the dishes at supper if you’re feeling slighted. And I think Meg mentioned something about the downstairs loo. A good scrub, wasn’t it?’

Sarah snorted at her father’s perfidy but left the two of them alone.

‘
She’s a good kid,’ Finn said after she’d gone. ‘She’ll give us enough time to talk.’