Mortal Ghost | Page 5

above the spandrels and wing walls. And the projecting courses at road
level. All good solid features typical of the period.'
Sarah was astonished. 'You know a lot about it.'
'Not really. Just from my reading.'
She indicated the stone dogs guarding both ends of the parapets with
bared teeth. 'They scare me.'
'They're only statues.'
'Maybe ...' She shook her head. 'There are too many legends about this
bridge. It's supposed to be unlucky. That's why a lot of people won't use
it. You wouldn't get me to spend a night here, alone, for anything.'
Jesse teased her. '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