Mortal Ghost | Page 7

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 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