Mortal Ghost | Page 6

leave me alone.’
The dog moved forward another inch. ‘That’s it,’ Jesse said.
The rock landed on the dog’s flank. The dog yelped and jumped back, then slunk
away. At the same time a voice shrieked in rage. Be fore Jesse could turn to see who had
shouted, something—someone—rushed at him and knocke d him flat. He covered his
head with his arms as fists pounded at his shoulder s, pulled his hair, pinched his
upper arms. After a bit he realised that not much d amage was actually being done. He
sat up, pushed his assailant away. Right. A girl. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jesse asked her.
She sprang to her feet and picked up another rock.
‘I’ll throw it at you. See how you like that,’ she spat.
Jesse couldn’t help laughing. Her brown eyes blazed at him, fierce with indignation.
She was about his own age, with a long mane of ches tnut hair escaping from a thick
elastic. A fraction shorter than him, and very wiry . He had the impression that she was
a ballet dancer—something about the way she stood, moved. She was dressed in shiny
blue Lycra shorts and crop top, white trainers—typi cal classy jogging gear—and her
face was flushed and filmed with sweat. ‘Go on, then, throw it,’ Jesse said from the ground . ‘Hit a man when he’s down.’
‘Some man,’ she said with a snort. She dropped the rock.
The dog in its perversity, in its doggy cunning, ca me prancing up. Tail wagging, it
began jumping up on Jesse to lick his hands and fac e.
‘Your dog is more faithful than you deserve,’ she s aid.
‘It’s not my dog.’
‘He doesn’t seem to know that,’ she said.
‘It keeps following me,’ Jesse said.
‘I see. So that’s a good reason to throw rocks at h im, is it?’
‘Not rocks. One rock.’
‘As if that makes any difference,’ she retorted.
‘I daresay it does, to the dog,’ Jesse said calmly.
The girl regarded him with a puzzled look on her fa ce.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
Jesse stood. He brushed himself off, picked up his rucksack.
‘Ring the RSPCA, will you.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Nor do I intend to,’ Jesse answered. ‘What busines s is it of yours?’
‘You’re not from here,’ said the girl. She took a s tep closer, her head tilted at a

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graceful angle. Again he was reminded of a dancer.
‘So? That’s no crime.’
This had gone on long enough. Jesse turned to leave . She laid her hand on his arm.
Flinching, he jerked from her grasp and walked away .
‘Wait,’ she called.
He was determined not to stop. The girl ran round i n front of him, blocking his
path. He would have brushed past her but something in the set of her shoulders, her
mouth made him hesitate. ‘Please wait,’ she said again.
They looked at each other for a while in silence.
‘Are you hungry?’ she finally asked.
And if she noticed the sweat that sprang up on his forehead when she handed him
the muesli bar from her bum bag, she was considerat e enough not to say.

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At first they walked back towards the Old Bridge in silence, which was exactly how
Jesse wanted it. But the girl had the kind of energ y that, like the river itself, would not
easily be diverted.
‘My name’s Sarah.’
‘Jesse,’ he offered in exchange for the forthcoming meal.
‘Where did you spend the night?’