Mortal Ghost | Page 8

temples, pushed at the locks of his mind. Behind him lay the past. Far behind. He drifted, warm and relaxed.
Jesse lay in bed. He threw off the covers and padded barefoot to the window, twitched back the curtain. He must have slept a few hours this time, for the sky had hazed over once more, but he could tell that it was around noon. He opened the window and breathed deeply. His headache was gone, and the air was muggy, saturated with the mingled scent of noonday heat and incipient rain, honeysuckle and late roses and lavender and blackcurrant, so potent that he could feel the gravel underfoot on the path through his grandmother's garden, taste the jam she'd be making.
He tried to remember how he'd got back to the bedroom. He had a clear picture of Sarah's mother in the kitchen, brewing him a mug of pungent herbal tea, then massaging his neck and temples, but after that -- nothing. Surely she couldn't have carried him upstairs, even if he'd drifted off to sleep. He was wearing jeans: had he dreamt it after all, and somehow dressed himself without being aware of it? Some form of sleepwalking, perhaps.
'You're awake,' a voice called up from below.
Trowel in hand, Sarah's mother stood by a tangled flowerbed. Her hair was tied back from her face, but like her daughter's, it was fast escaping. The dog was sprawled completely at home under a large walnut tree, which sported a handsome if somewhat lopsided treehouse, complete with shingled roof and a shuttered window.
'What time is it?' Jesse asked, more for something to say than because he wanted to know.
'Just before one,' she said. 'Come down to the kitchen for lunch. I was about to stop now anyway. It's beginning to rain.'
Frenzied barking, a streak of fur followed by a canine missile.
'Come back here!' Jesse shouted.
Meg laughed. 'He'll never get our neighbour's wily tom. That animal has at least ninety-nine lives.'
'How did I get upstairs?' Jesse asked her over a grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich and fresh lemonade.
'You don't remember?' she asked. 'It can take some people like that.'
'What takes some people like that?'
'The tea, the massage.'
'Rubbish.' Jesse narrowed his eyes. 'Unless you drugged the tea ...?'
She laughed, her voice light and frothy like the heads of elderflowers growing wild along the lanes of his childhood.
'Of course not. It's just a little technique I use for headaches. It works too, doesn't it? I led you upstairs, helped you into bed. You'll probably remember after a while.' She looked at him, her eyes thoughtful. 'But you're particularly receptive. A sensitive, I should think.'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know what you mean.'
Her mouth crimped slightly at one corner. Jesse had the feeling that she understood him very well indeed and was amused by his prevarication. Abruptly he changed the subject. 'Where's Sarah?'
'Gone to do some errands. She'll be back soon.'
'I'll wait to say goodbye.'
'Where will you go?'
Again he shrugged. 'I'm following the river.'
'For the summer?'
'More or less.'
'If you want to take a break --' She hesitated and bit her lip. It was the first time he'd seen her at a loss, and suddenly he anticipated her next words.
'No!' he snapped. 'I don't need a job.' Stupid, he thought. These people would pay well. A day or two couldn't hurt, could it? A few pounds put aside, a couple of new books, maybe even a second-hand jumper and a warm anorak for the winter ... Sarah's face flashed across his mind. He pushed back his chair and stood, upsetting his glass of lemonade.
'Sorry,' he said as he hurried to the sink.
'Not a job,' Sarah's mother said. 'A refuge.'
He stared at her, cloth in hand. He could hear the loud ticking of the ceramic clock on the wall.
She quoted quietly:
'Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.'
'You've been going through my things!' Jesse said.
Her smile was patient. 'I wouldn't do that. None of us would. The Tempest is one of my favourite plays. I acted in it at university.'
'Sorry,' he muttered again, not entirely reassured. The very play that he was reading now, and some of his own favourite lines. Experience had taught him to mistrust coincidence.
She rose and began to clear the table.
'Thanks for lunch,' he said, moving to help her.
'Leave it,' she said. 'You and Sarah can do supper, if you're still here.'
She stopped, the jug in her hand.
'Think about it, Jesse. A few days of rest. I think you need it.'
Her words splashing over the rocky bed of his mind, Jesse dug his hands into his pockets and walked out into the garden. Sarah's mother watched him go, a troubled expression on her face.
Chapter 3
Sarah had bought the dog a sturdy leather collar and lead. 'He's going