Mortal Ghost | Page 7

laugh again. 'He wouldn't even notice. Anyway, he's on the top of
some mountain in the Andes on another of his expeditions.'
'Expedition?' This was getting more interesting.
'Don't be so nosy,' Sarah said, but with a grin. She relented. 'He's a
photographer. Does a lot of nature assignments. You know, like
National Geographic. Unless you're a new kind of moss or mollusc or
mineral, you're just another teenage body. You could be wearing a
dinner jacket over a thong, with feather boa to match, and he wouldn't
turn a hair. He lives in jeans and T-shirts, which he orders in bulk from
the internet. Except when he's in his biker's mode, when he dons black
leather and chains.'
'Now you're trying to wind me up,' he protested.
'Well ... only a bit. If you get to meet Finn, you'll see what I mean.'
'Is he gone for long?'
'Depends. Why? Are you planning to rob us or just move in?'
Jesse shook his head in irritation. 'You really need to be more careful.'

'You don't know my mother,' was all Sarah would say.
After showing him the bathroom, Sarah handed Jesse a comb and
hairbrush as well as a wrapped toothbrush, then carried off his dirty
clothes and sleeping bag without a sign of disgust, for which he was
grateful. Now he lay down with a sigh of pure bliss, skin tingling from
the long hot shower and scented by the lavender skin cream which
Sarah had offered him. 'I make it myself.' His hair had lightened at least
two shades. The old T-shirt and boxers fitted well enough, though they
were a size smaller than he normally wore. He had lost weight in recent
months. The dog was curled up on the brightly patterned bedside mat.
Though Jesse always read himself to sleep no matter where he kipped,
his eyes were too heavy for print. He was asleep within minutes.
Despite his exhaustion, he sleeps fitfully. Darkness eddies uncertainly
around him. Voices whisper. Faces appear and disappear. Figures cry
out in agony, and flail their arms, and sink beneath the waves. A red
sun blisters the sea, blinding Jesse, burning him. Wait, he calls. Hold
on, I'm coming. But the water rejects him, tosses him roughly from
image to image, until sleep finally ebbs and leaves him stranded on a
strange shingle.
In the curtained light, red starbursts snagged the edge of his vision like
thorns, and he closed his eyes again with a groan. His stomach heaved
in protest. Lines of fire zigzagged under his lids. His fingertips felt
numb, and he worked his hands under the duvet, bunched and tangled
around his body. After a few minutes, the nausea subsided enough for
him to stand. He needed to pee.
The house was quiet. The dog followed Jesse along the landing, which
was decorated with a series of luminous black-and-white photographs
of seashells so real that Jesse felt he could reach out and pick them up
in his hands. He stopped to examine them. If this were her father's work,
he was good -- much better than good. Jesse whistled softly under his
breath. Sarah was lucky.
Jesse found a note on the kitchen table: Gone out. Help yourself to what
you need. Don't wake my mum. S. He opened the refrigerator. He was

not used to so much food at once; he'd eaten too many eggs. He drank
half a glass of milk, hoping it would settle his stomach. The clock
ticking on the wall told him that he'd not slept long. The dog looked up
at him expectantly and Jesse poured it some milk. The dog's eager
tongue slapped against Jesse's ears. He shivered a little. His gut ached,
and there was a heaviness behind his temples, a stiffness in his neck
that warned him of worse to come.
He needed to pack his things and go.
'Are you a friend of Sarah's?'
Jesse whirled at the voice. A woman stood in the doorway, regarding
him with curiosity but without alarm. He could see the resemblance to
Sarah straightaway -- not in the colouring, for her mother had deep red
hair and the most amazing eyes he had ever seen, the smoky amber of
the animal kingdom. Her face was very pale, and at first he thought she
must be ill. Then he realised that her skin crackled with energy, as if an
electric current were racing under its translucent surface. The line of
her eyebrows, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, her
cheekbones: all had been replicated in Sarah.
'I'm Jesse Wright,' he said, feeling rather awkward. 'Sarah invited me
for a meal.'
She glanced down at the dog, who retreated behind Jesse, uttering an
odd little yip. Nearly as gracefully as