Mortal Ghost

Mortal Ghost
by L. Lee Lowe
http://mortalghost.blogspot.com
Email [email protected]

I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither
A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost.
Dylan Thomas
Chapter 1
Every night Jesse lies down to sleep with fire. This time, screams and a
dark chord burning. This time, the beam falls before his hair ignites.
Jesse woke with a start, his heart thudding. It took him a moment to
remember where he was. Something in his rucksack was digging into
his cheek. Wincing, he shifted on the piece of cardboard that was his
mattress. The solid blocks of stone at his back, rough and
lichen-crusted, made good sentries but poor bedfellows. His neck was
sore and kinked, his muscles cramped, and he had pins-and-needles in
the arm he'd been lying on. He needed to pee.
The dream again.
Fingering the handle of his knife, he looked about him. Just after dawn,
and the air smelled fresh and clean, with a dampness that hinted at rain.
His sleeping bag felt clammy, and the grass along the riverbank

glistened with dew. Water lapped close by, a sound from his past, and
he could hear the noisy riverbirds scolding his sluggishness.
There was no help for it. Wait too long and somebody would appear.
Shaking off the last whorls of sleep, he unzipped his sleeping bag and
crept out. He stretched, then made a few circles with his head,
grimacing as the vertebrae in his neck rasped like the sound of Mal
crushing eggshells in his fist -- one of his least offensive habits. A
couple of knee-bends till Jesse's bladder protested. He glanced round
once more, for he didn't like to leave his things unattended for even a
moment -- on the street, a moment's inattention could mean the
difference between a meal and hunger, between safety and a vicious
beating/mutilation/rape, between survival and annihilation.
He grabbed his rucksack, thrust his knife inside, and sidled barefoot
down the grassy riverbank until he came to an overgrown bush. After
relieving himself, he knelt at the river's edge and rinsed his hands, then
splashed cold water into his face. Not exactly clean, but it helped
remove the film of sleep and dross from the morning. Distastefully, he
ran his wet fingers through his hair. He needed a good wash -- failing a
long hot punishing shower then at least a swim in the river. Later
maybe -- first he would have to eat. He kneaded the skin above his
waistband; he'd lost weight again, he supposed. Hunger never quite
retracted its claws: on the rare occasions when he had a full belly, there
was always the next meal to worry about.
It would be another long day.
From his rucksack he removed his battered water bottle and trainers.
After slaking his thirst he capped the bottle and considered his next
move. He always tried to find a new kip each night, and if he got lucky
he might be able to locate an abandoned warehouse or garage or even
an allotment shed. The docklands looked promising, although there
would probably be others with the same idea. Still, it was a largish
place. He kept away from the squats. He wanted nothing to do with
anyone else.
Jesse rummaged for the currant bun he'd kept back last night, then

shook out his sleeping bag, formed it into a compact roll, and stored it
in his rucksack, followed by the bun and his water bottle. After slipping
into his trainers he wedged the cardboard between one of the bridge's
massive stone abutments and a clump of wild briars, just in case he was
obliged to return tonight.
It was still barely light, and except for a boat in the distance -- a barge,
from the long squat shape -- and the birds and jazzing whirlybird
insects and occasional frog, Jesse had the river to himself. He made his
way along the bank in the direction of the city centre. There was a thin
opaque haze over the water which the sun would soon burn away.
Though overcast now, with a likelihood of rain, Jesse could tell that it
would be hot later on, hot and humid. Good swimming weather.
Usually the river was well trafficked, but he had yet to see anyone else
swim. Of course, he always chose a secluded spot.
When hunger gnawed at him, he stopped by a sandy patch of ground,
half-hidden by large boulders and a willow, to eat his rather flattened
bun. He stared at his breakfast for a few seconds, then returned it to his
rucksack. He'd wait. Impossible to predict how long it would be before
he could earn some money. Pity that he hadn't saved that bit of sausage
instead of feeding it to yesterday's stray, who probably needed