Mortal Ghost | Page 9

to need a tag and chip, his shots. And what about his name?'
'I told you,' Jesse said. 'It's not my dog.'
'He is now,' she said. 'What do you want to call him?'
Jesse shrugged. There wasn't much point thinking up a name unless Sarah's family would be willing to adopt the dog.
'How about Anubis? We did Egyptian mythology last year in school.'
No way, thought Jesse. Even if he named the animal -- temporarily, mind you -- it would be Harry or Jinx. Simple, ordinary, doggy.
The dog tugged on the lead, anxious to keep moving. They'd walked down the hill from Sarah's house and were now in another part of the city. The townhouses were neat, upmarket, with little front gardens, geranium-filled window boxes displayed like medals on a war hero's chest, and brightly painted doors and window frames.
Sarah indicated a narrow lane almost hidden between two brick dwellings. 'Come on, I want to show you something.'
She led him along the cobbled way towards a small stone chapel which had been converted into a residence and workshop. A stone bench curved round the base of a towering chestnut tree. Mounted on the scrolls of the wrought iron gate was an exquisitely hand-lettered sign: Sundials, it said. They stopped and leant on the fence while Jesse studied the pieces, each bathed in the astringent green light. Once again he could smell the flush of lavender on Sarah's skin.
'Brilliant, aren't they?' Sarah asked.
'They're wonderful,' Jesse said. 'Who makes them?'
'A friend of my mother's. She's not here at the moment, or we could say hello.'
Jesse pointed to a gilded greenslate sundial mounted on a plinth and set some distance from the others. 'That's the only one standing in the sun.'
'Ursula's partner wanted to remove the tree so visitors could appreciate the sundials better, but Ursula wouldn't hear of it. Most of these are only display pieces, though I think one or two might be current orders.'
'Sundials have to be calibrated for a specific site in order to be accurate.'
'You do read a lot, don't you?'
He appeared not to hear. 'Isn't she afraid someone might steal them?'
'They're far too heavy.'
'Anyone could hop over this fence and vandalise them.'
?'More tempting stuff to go after, I suppose.' She gave him a sideways glance. 'Do you always expect the worst?'
'It's best to be prepared.'
Automatically he groped in his pocket for a cigarette, but came up only with an empty matchbox.
'You smoke?' Sarah asked, more observant than Jesse was used to -- more, perhaps, than he cared for.
'Sometimes. Did Ursula make the one in your garden?'
'Yeah. My mother spent hours arguing with her about the design. She can be a right pain in the you-know-what sometimes -- my mum, I mean.'
'Your mother's a very interesting woman.'
'That's what everyone says,' Sarah said drily.
Jesse turned his gaze away from the sundials.
'There are many different kinds of gifts,' he said, then shook his head and ran his hand back and forth over the scrollwork on the gate. 'Sorry, that was really dumb of me. I hate such platitudes.' He continued to rub at the metal with a fingertip, his whole attention concentrated on erasing his words.
'It's OK. I genuinely admire her. Like her, too. It's just that ...'
'Yeah, I can imagine.'
Sarah studied his face for a moment without speaking. When he wasn't frowning, his features had the soft look of an old pair of jeans, familiar and comfortable and worn. Like someone you might have known forever. Even his eyes, when they shed their brittle layer of mica, turned the colour of her favourite stonewashed denim. There was no stubble on his face, but she could tell that he'd soon be shaving.
He turned his head and met her eyes. Caught off guard, she flushed.
'Look, I didn't mean to compare you to your mother,' Jesse said. 'Or to pry.'
'Oh yeah?'
'OK, maybe I am a bit curious,' he conceded. 'Do you blame me?'
Sarah had a mischievous glint in her eyes, the same look he'd seen on a small girl who'd found a stash of chocolate and a single disintegrating cigarette hidden under his mattress. On Emmy. He didn't notice that he was biting his lip till he tasted a trace of blood.
'I'll offer you a trade,' Sarah said. 'One fact about yourself for one about my mum.'
'It wouldn't be a fair exchange,' he said curtly. 'There's nothing worth learning about me.'
?He walked away, leaving Sarah to stare after him. His shoulders were hunched as if against a chill wind.
Sarah led them through a cemetery where she stopped to point out a row of small graves whose headstones all bore inscriptions dating from as far back as the 1890s. Though not quite overgrown, the plots were no longer carefully tended, and the sweet smell of the honeysuckle which clambered rampantly through a nearby lilac added to