Mortal Ghost | Page 2

got lucky he might be able to locate an abandoned ware-
house or garage or even an allotment shed. The dock lands looked promising, although
there would probably be others with the same idea. Still, it was a largish place. He kept
away from the squats. He wanted nothing to do with anyone else.
Jesse rummaged for the currant bun he’d kept back l ast night, then shook out his
sleeping bag, formed it into a compact roll, and st ored it in his rucksack, followed by
the bun and his water bottle. After slipping into h is trainers he wedged the cardboard
between one of the bridge’s massive stone abutments and a clump of wild briars, just in
case he was obliged to return tonight.
It was still barely light, and except for a boat in the distance—a barge, from the long
squat shape—and the birds and jazzing whirlybird in sects and occasional frog, Jesse
had the river to himself. He made his way along the bank in the direction of the city

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centre. There was a thin opaque haze over the water which the sun would soon burn
away. Though overcast now, with a likelihood of rai n, Jesse could tell that it would be
hot later on, hot and humid. Good swimming weather. Usually the river was well traf-
ficked, but he had yet to see anyone else swim. Of course, he always chose a secluded
spot. When hunger gnawed at him, he stopped by a sandy pa tch of ground, half-hidden
by large boulders and a willow, to eat his rather f lattened bun. He stared at his break-
fast for a few seconds, then returned it to his ruc ksack. He’d wait. Impossible to predict
how long it would be before he could earn some mone y. Pity that he hadn’t saved that
bit of sausage instead of feeding it to yesterday’s stray, who probably needed it less
than him. Jesse fumbled in his pocket for the cigarette he’d picked up. Bent but only a trifle
dirty at the tip—perfectly smokeable. He straighten ed, then lit it with one of his last
matches. Back propped against the rock, he inhaled deeply and watched the river.
The cigarette did little to dull his hunger. Inadve rtently, he found himself picturing
bacon crisping in a cast-iron frying pan, a loaf of his grandmother’s bread, a bowl of
rich yellow butter. Saliva spurted into his mouth. He forced the memory into retreat—
not that road. Cigarette finished, Jesse licked his fingertips, pi nched it out with his usual meticu-
lousness, and dropped the butt back into his pocket . Then he took out his well-
thumbed copy of The Tempest. With a few pounds, he’d be able to buy some second -
hand paperbacks. Unlike most other kids on the stre et, he wouldn’t nick