Mortal Ghost | Page 8

her daughter, she bent and stroked
its head, then went to take some things from the cupboard.
'There's a herbal tea I use that should settle your stomach,' she said,
filling the kettle.
'How did you know --' Jesse began.
'About the nausea?' She smiled. 'Sit down. I'll massage your neck and
shoulders while you drink. It'll help. Perhaps we can forestall the
migraine.'

He intended to refuse -- politely -- but found himself taking the chair
she indicated.
'Not my shoulders and back. Please don't touch them,' he said. 'Just the
top of my neck, the base of my skull.'
She agreed without questioning him.
Her fingers were cool and competent, kneading the knots of tension
while he sipped the tea. It had been so long since someone had touched
him except in anger -- that he had allowed someone touch him. Liam
had been the last. Jesse closed his eyes, listening to the tune she
hummed under her breath. The room was warm, warm as the musky tea,
warm as the song, warm as sleep. Water lapped at his temples, pushed
at the locks of his mind. Behind him lay the past. Far behind. He drifted,
warm and relaxed.
Jesse lay in bed. He threw off the covers and padded barefoot to the
window, twitched back the curtain. He must have slept a few hours this
time, for the sky had hazed over once more, but he could tell that it was
around noon. He opened the window and breathed deeply. His
headache was gone, and the air was muggy, saturated with the mingled
scent of noonday heat and incipient rain, honeysuckle and late roses
and lavender and blackcurrant, so potent that he could feel the gravel
underfoot on the path through his grandmother's garden, taste the jam
she'd be making.
He tried to remember how he'd got back to the bedroom. He had a clear
picture of Sarah's mother in the kitchen, brewing him a mug of pungent
herbal tea, then massaging his neck and temples, but after that --
nothing. Surely she couldn't have carried him upstairs, even if he'd
drifted off to sleep. He was wearing jeans: had he dreamt it after all,
and somehow dressed himself without being aware of it? Some form of
sleepwalking, perhaps.
'You're awake,' a voice called up from below.
Trowel in hand, Sarah's mother stood by a tangled flowerbed. Her hair

was tied back from her face, but like her daughter's, it was fast escaping.
The dog was sprawled completely at home under a large walnut tree,
which sported a handsome if somewhat lopsided treehouse, complete
with shingled roof and a shuttered window.
'What time is it?' Jesse asked, more for something to say than because
he wanted to know.
'Just before one,' she said. 'Come down to the kitchen for lunch. I was
about to stop now anyway. It's beginning to rain.'
Frenzied barking, a streak of fur followed by a canine missile.
'Come back here!' Jesse shouted.
Meg laughed. 'He'll never get our neighbour's wily tom. That animal
has at least ninety-nine lives.'
'How did I get upstairs?' Jesse asked her over a grilled
cheese-and-tomato sandwich and fresh lemonade.
'You don't remember?' she asked. 'It can take some people like that.'
'What takes some people like that?'
'The tea, the massage.'
'Rubbish.' Jesse narrowed his eyes. 'Unless you drugged the tea ...?'
She laughed, her voice light and frothy like the heads of elderflowers
growing wild along the lanes of his childhood.
'Of course not. It's just a little technique I use for headaches. It works
too, doesn't it? I led you upstairs, helped you into bed. You'll probably
remember after a while.' She looked at him, her eyes thoughtful. 'But
you're particularly receptive. A sensitive, I should think.'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know what you mean.'

Her mouth crimped slightly at one corner. Jesse had the feeling that she
understood him very well indeed and was amused by his prevarication.
Abruptly he changed the subject. 'Where's Sarah?'
'Gone to do some errands. She'll be back soon.'
'I'll wait to say goodbye.'
'Where will you go?'
Again he shrugged. 'I'm following the river.'
'For the summer?'
'More or less.'
'If you want to take a break --' She hesitated and bit her lip. It was the
first time he'd seen her at a loss, and suddenly he anticipated her next
words.
'No!' he snapped. 'I don't need a job.' Stupid, he thought. These people
would pay well. A day or two couldn't hurt, could it? A few pounds put
aside, a couple of new books, maybe even a second-hand jumper and a
warm anorak for the winter ... Sarah's face flashed across his mind. He
pushed back his chair and stood, upsetting his glass of lemonade.
'Sorry,' he