Mortal Ghost | Page 5

'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 -- burned 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 the word 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