Mortal Ghost | Page 8

bounded back to Jes se and shook itself vigorously.
‘Shit!’ Jesse exclaimed. ‘My clothes were disgustin g enough already.’ He glared at
the dog. But Sarah was looking back at the bridge, unable to let it go. ‘It reeks of evil.’
‘That’s a bit strong, I should think.’
‘Don’t be so sure. One of my mum’s—’ She hesitated, then started again. ‘One of my
mother’s acquaintances killed herself there not too long ago. She threw herself into the
river and drowned.’ Jesse heard the faint emphasis on acquaintances . He wondered
what she wasn’t telling him, but had no intention o f trespassing on restricted territory.
He had enough landmines of his own. He smiled, making it easier for her. ‘I’m not going to throw myself off any bridge,
haunted or not. Anyway, I’d never drown.’ ‘Why not?’
‘I’m too good a swimmer.’
Sarah glanced at him. Jesse’s eyes danced, but his voice was quiet and assured. If
anybody else had spoken like that, she’d have snigg ered or told him off. This was differ-
ent, somehow. She had a strong feeling that this la d didn’t brag, didn’t lie—that in fact
he had no need to lie. But she knew the bridge. And her mother.

The house was an old and beautiful one, set back fr om a quiet road on the outskirts of
the city. Perched on a hilly prospect with unencumb ered views, it had been built per-
haps two hundred years ago of local stone. Its exte rior walls were a mottled but mellow
ochre, like the best vanilla ice cream. A clever ar chitect had brought light and river into
what must have once been a dark, even cramped inter ior. Now it was spacious, sunny,
and very untidy.
Jesse had been on street for a few months, yet thou ght he could still imagine other
people’s lives—ordinary people, who lived in flats and houses, who got up in the morn-
ing and bathed and ate breakfast and kicked the dog (or the youngest family member)
and left for work or school. But entering Sarah’s h ome, he needed a passport and
phrase book. At the front door he noticed three motorcycle helme ts hanging up along with the
macs and jackets. ‘My dad’s,’ she said.
Jesse was astounded by the quantity of possessions these people could accumulate:
magazines and newspapers, sandals, pillows, vases f illed with wilted flowers, CDs, a
heap of socks, African baskets, photos, a trumpet l ying on a piano, plants, a chess set,
statues in stone and wood—and books, lots and lots of books. And this only from a
glimpse through the doorway as they headed towards the kitchen.

Sarah passed Jesse a plate heaped with scrambled eg gs and grated cheese, grilled
tomatoes, buttery toast. The dog had already wolfed down a helping of stale cornflakes
with milk. ‘He’d probably sit up and recite all of the Elder Edda—in the original—for a soup
bone,’ Jesse said. ‘My mum and I are vegetarians,’ Sarah said without a hint of apology. ‘No bones, no
bacon or sausage, only some steaks for my dad in th e deep freeze. Finn would kill me if

Mortal Ghost
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I used his imported beef for a dog.’
‘Finn?’
‘My dad.’
‘A nickname?’
‘No. An old family name.’
‘You