Mortal Ghost | Page 6

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 a hint of apology.
'No bones, no bacon or sausage, only some steaks for my dad in the
deep freeze. Finn would kill me if I used his imported beef for a dog.'
'Finn?'
'My dad.'
'A nickname?'
'No. An old family name.'
'You call your father by his first name?'
'Yeah, why not?' She looked at him in surprise, then asked, 'What's the
Elder Edda?'
'A collection of early ballad-like poems. An important source of the

Norse myths, written in Old Icelandic.'
'Norse?'
'Yeah. You know, stories of the Viking gods. Odin. Thor. The
Valkyries. Loki the Trickster's one of my favourites.'
She stared at him for a moment with a frown, as if she'd never heard of
the Vikings, before going to the refrigerator for another packet of
cheese.
'Your dog won't mind some cheddar, I reckon.'
Sarah persisted in calling the dog his. Jesse hadn't bothered to correct
her again. A meal was worth more than a pronoun. If he played his
declensions right, he might get to shower as well.
While Sarah cut some cheese Jesse concentrated on the tastes
exploding on his tongue. Hunger sharpened the senses -- everyone
knew that. Only the truly hungry saw the ghosts it raised: a
grandmother cooking on an old range, a little girl setting a basket of
warm feathery eggs on the table, the sad tired eyes of the constable.
Sarah noticed how Jesse's eyes caught the light as he raised them from
his plate. They winked like mirrors, or deep blue pools, full of hidden
and subtle layers of colour.
'Would you like some coffee?' Sarah asked.
'Please.'
Sarah liked that he was polite, that he ate slowly and thoughtfully even
though he was clearly ravenous.
Sarah sat across from him while the dog lay at their feet, licking up
crumbs. The coffee was hot and strong and utterly delicious. Sarah took
hers black, but Jesse added sugar, lots of sugar, and a dollop of cream
from the jug she'd set before him. Though they'd stopped talking, the
silence was not strained or uncomfortable.

When he'd finished the eggs, Sarah rose and prepared a second batch
without asking, and two more slices of toast. He ate everything. Sarah
offered him more coffee, but he refused. He could feel some pressure
against the sides of his skull, a mild fogginess. Though coffee could
sometimes relieve his headaches, more often it triggered a debilitating
migraine. He'd been lucky in recent months. Perhaps he was only
overtired. But what would he do if he had a full-fledged attack?
Sarah poured herself another mug. Her fingers were not particularly
long or fine -- nails short and blunt -- but her hands carved a line of
melody through the air. Reminded of a CD Liam used to play, Jesse
hummed a few bars of Stravinsky's Firebird. Sarah finished the phrase
for him.
'I've danced to that,' she said.
'So you do dance,' he said. 'I wondered.'
She swirled the coffee in her mug, a private smile on her face.
'What?' he asked.
'You're not at all what I expected.'
Jesse noticed the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose,
the flecks of green in her eyes. He looked away when she became
aware of his scrutiny. The kitchen was warm, and despite the coffee
Jesse was beginning to feel drowsy.
'Do you want to lie down?' Sarah asked. 'I don't mind.'
Jesse played with his fork, considering.
'You shouldn't be so trusting,' he said. 'It's dangerous.'
She laughed, deep and throaty.
'There's a spare bedroom upstairs which has a bath en suite. You're
welcome to use it. I'll make up the bed for you.'

'I can do that myself. You don't have to wait on me.'
'It's OK this time. You're tired.'
She narrowed her eyes, measuring him.
'There's probably some old stuff of my --' She broke off and took a
breath. 'Some old stuff we've still got that will fit you. We can put your
clothes in the washing machine.'
'Won't he object?'
'Who?'
'Your father.'
Her