Laying a Ghost (8 page)
“Will you open the door? Will you let me see that you’re all right?”
Nick’s voice was rising in a scream before he’d finished speaking, “Will you just fucking
leave me alone
?”
John didn’t remember starting to move, but he remembered the feel of the stair rail under his hand as he grabbed at it to halt his fall when his hurrying feet missed a step. Remembered the sound of his feet echoing in the emptiness as he left the house in a stumbling run, harsh breaths painful in a throat swollen with tears that got no further than that.
And then his hands closed around the steering wheel of his car, warm from the sun, and the anger took him, shaking the disjointed puzzle pieces of his flight from the house and organizing them neatly into something normal, something that didn’t mean he’d run because he was scared, or because he was aching with the loss of something he’d never had.
He brought his fist down hard against the dashboard, bruising it and loving the pain that followed because that he could understand,
that
made sense.
Nick didn’t.
“Fucking Yank,” he whispered savagely. “Fucking
tourist --
”
He drove away without looking back, heading for the beach where his boat lay waiting on the white sand, scoured clean by the wind and the sea.
Chapter Four
Two hours later, John sighed and headed for shore, pulling hard at the oars, feeling the clench of his arm and thigh muscles with every stroke. The time spent sitting in the sunshine had done a lot to restore his calm, even though he’d never had so much as a bite while holding his fishing rod. He hadn’t cared; he’d only wanted the ritual of it to soothe the edges of his anger; to un-ruffle his feathers, so to speak. And it had.
It wasn’t until he was a hundred yards from shore that he saw a huddled figure; small, arms wrapped around itself, up on the rocks. He knew immediately that it was Nick -- he’d recognize anyone else, and Nick’s dark hair was different enough to any of the locals’ that there was no question.
Turning the boat around and heading back out to sea, John told himself, would be childish, but the temptation was definitely there for a few moments. Still, he continued to row and was nearly to shore when he saw Nick stand up and begin to head toward him, picking his way across the rocks with less care than he ought to have.
Slimy with seaweed, exposed by the receding waves, the rocks weren’t easy to navigate at the best of times, and as John watched, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the man who was to blame for him feeling about as miserable as he’d been in months, Nick’s foot slipped and he fell heavily, his outstretched hands smacking hard against a patch of sand.
Even out on the water, with the slap of the waves loud against the hull, John heard the sound Nick made as his injured wrist took the brunt of his fall, and he pulled hard on the oars, beaching his boat and jumping out while the water was still deep enough to soak his jeans to above the knee. Grabbing the rope attached to the prow of the boat, John hauled it high enough up the beach to be safe for now and ran over to Nick, the remnants of his anger driven out by that anguished, sharp cry of pain, firmly lodged in his head.
Nick had gotten himself into a sitting position, but was bent forward around his wrist, cradling it in his other hand and rocking back and forth slightly as he cursed a long string of profanities in his flat American accent. His lips were drawn tight, his brow furrowed in pain, and as John got down on his knees next to him he looked up. “Shouldn’t have let me out of the hospital, should they?” Nick said with a gasp of laughter, although it was the least amused laughter John had ever heard and it left him wondering if Nick had been in hospital for more than just his wrist. “Fuck. Oh fuck.” Nick dropped his head down and rocked back and forth some more.
“Let me see it.” Concern roughened John’s voice; he slipped his arm around Nick’s shoulders without thinking, pulling him closer. Nick curled in on himself, turning slightly so that his head was snug against John’s collarbone but still clutching his injured wrist protectively.
John sighed and brought his other arm up across their bodies, giving Nick something to rest his injured hand on and waiting for the pain to recede enough that Nick would let him look at it.
The wind caught a strand of Nick’s dark hair, ruffling it so that it brushed John’s chin, and he sighed again and began to rub his hand gently against Nick’s back, murmuring to him as he did. “Hurts, does it? Aye, it must. You went flying, didn’t you? Thought you’d more sense than that. Do they not have seaweed in
Nick went still in his arms and John bent his head and let the wind take Nick’s hair across his lips.
“I needed to see you,” Nick said after a minute or so, unmoving. It told John something that he needed to know, the way Nick half-lay, nestled against him, allowing an intimacy that most other men wouldn’t. Could it be as simple as that, then? That he’d been right about Nick from the start, but Nick wasn’t the sort of man that could accept himself? Not that it made much difference. It wasn’t as if he knew Nick well enough to discuss something so personal and given his own ingrained discretion, he couldn’t blame Nick for being cautious.
John continued to rub his back, and Nick sighed and sat up shakily without pulling away. “Well, I’m here, but whatever you want to say can wait until I’ve seen what you’ve done to yourself.”
Nick moved his right hand away, leaving his left hand lying across John’s forearm. It was swelling at the wrist but there was nothing to make John think that it was broken, judging by the way Nick was able to rotate it gingerly. Had to have hurt though.
They were sitting on the sand with a small rock pool behind them, six inches deep, the black rocks visible through the clear water and sprinkled with barnacles. John turned Nick around and plunged Nick’s hand into the icy water, transferring his hold on him and keeping a reassuring arm across Nick’s back as Nick gasped in shock. “Aye, it’s cold this time of year.” John noticed his own wet jeans for the first time, spattered with sand and clinging clammily to his legs. “Is it helping?”
“I don’t know.” Nick gasped the words breathily. He turned his head to look at John, their faces close enough that John could see the little flecks of golden-brown in Nick’s green eyes. “I think so.” He blinked, his lashes dark, his nose perfectly sculpted and his hair mussed by the wind. “I have to tell you something. About me. There’s something you don’t know about me.”
John stared thoughtfully at him, wondering what Nick was seeing in his face and hoping it was nothing that would make him move away. “This morning I’d have said you were wrong about that. About me not knowing. Now I’m not so sure. Assuming we’re not talking about you being gay, what is it that you want to tell me?”
Nick shivered and closed his eyes, turning his face away; John could feel him trembling. “Oh God, I can’t, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“I already think that, I was hoping you’d give me a reason to change my mind.”
Slowly, as if admitting that he buggered small sheep in his spare time, Nick muttered, “I’m psychic.” Before John could do more than gape at him, Nick went on, “God, it’s such a cliché, isn’t it? A psychic medium goes to a remote island in
“I’ve spent the better part of my life trying not to give people here too many clues about what I am. Somehow I think a ruffled shirt would be making it entirely too easy.” Ignoring Nick’s splutter of laughter, still edged with something less stable than amusement, John leaned against the rock, letting his hand fall away from Nick’s back. “So that wasn’t me you were telling to go away back in the house?” He wasn’t sure why he wanted to clear that up first, but he did. The rest of it could wait until he knew, because if Nick didn’t want him around, then the rest of it didn’t matter.
“
No
.” Nick took his wrist out of the pool, resting it on his thigh as he reached out to touch John’s arm with his good hand. “No. When you just left like that ... I didn’t know if you thought that I was, or if you just thought I was crazy, but that’s why I came out here. Because I wanted to explain. It was so stupid of me, thinking that I’d be able to ignore them out here.”
John frowned, his thoughts going back to the moment before he, well, ran out of the house, because that’s what he’d done and there was no hiding it now. “I couldn’t stay,” he said slowly. “I was wanting to help you -- I could hear you and it was --” His throat closed up in memory and he brought his hand up to clasp Nick’s where it rested against his arm, his fingers closing tightly around it. “God, it was awful. And I’ve never felt so terrified in my life. It was like ...” He stared into Nick’s eyes, seeing nothing in them of the madness he’d feared, just a resigned sympathy. “Like the house was pushing me out. I ran. Ran because I was scared spitless. Ran, and left you, and made myself believe you’d told me to go, because it was easier than thinking myself a coward, afraid of the dark like a bairn.”
Nick’s hand squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Could you feel it? He wasn’t really angry -- he wouldn’t have done anything to you. Or me. He’s just been waiting a long time, and he’s stubborn. He’s ...” Stiffening, Nick swallowed and looked away. “Maybe you don’t want to talk about this. And that’s fine -- we don’t have to. I don’t have to.”
John gave a short choke of laughter, dragging their linked hands down to rest on his knee, not letting go. “Oh, I want to talk about it. Trust me, I do. I’d rather be knowing the truth than imagining all sorts.” He took a deep breath, surprised by how much better he felt now that Nick was being open with him, and glanced around the beach, edged by high dunes, a sweeping narrow crescent of sand with driftwood lying on it, wind-carved down to smoothness. “And even out here, in the sun, it’s easy for me to be dreaming up horrors, so tell me. Tell me why you were angry for a start, because you
were
. If it couldn’t hurt you --?”
“I didn’t say couldn’t, I said wouldn’t. It depends on how strong they are.” Nick didn’t pull his hand away, seeming content to leave it where it was. “I was just hoping -- and I know now that it was stupid, that it’s not something I can get away from, no matter how far I run ... I knew it before actually, I just didn’t want to admit it. It’s like I needed to pretend that there was someplace I could hide from it. I wanted it to be here.”
“I can understand you wanting some peace, but I’m thinking you’d need to have moved to the moon to get it.” John realized that he was stroking his thumb across the back of Nick’s hand and stopped abruptly, feeling a flush of heat rise in his face. “So how did you make it -- him -- go away? No, wait -- they
can
hurt you? Is that what happened to your wrist then?”
“It’s pretty rare that a ghost has enough power to affect anything physically,” Nick said. “I’ve seen it a few times, but not a lot -- and when I have, it’s always been in a place where stuff’s already been, you know, falling off of shelves and stuff. I’m sure there’s some technical words for it -- manifestation, ectoplasm. I don’t know. Maybe I’d be better off if I did, but I always thought that making it too scientific would screw up the instinct of it, and sometimes it seemed like the instinct was the only thing keeping me going.”
Nick shifted, flexing his bad hand slightly and wincing. “But no, I did this all on my own. Usually they look however they looked when they were alive, but every once in a while they’re ... kind of messed up. I guess that’s where the whole headless horseman thing came from.” Nick smiled weakly, and John’s stomach curled itself into another knot at the thought of it. “It was right in the road, right in front of the car, and I ... I should have known that it wasn’t a real person, but sometimes I get so ... it’s just hard to tell, sometimes. So I swerved and ran off the road into a tree.” His eyes were closed now, his breathing uneven.
John couldn’t help himself; his free hand came up to curve around Nick’s jaw and slide up into his thick dark hair, the need to give comfort outweighing any other consideration. “Of course you did. Anyone would’ve done the same. What else were you to think or do?”
To his surprise, Nick leaned into the touch, shivering. “I should have known better. I should have known.”
“You’re not allowed to be startled? To act without thinking?” John moved his hand until it cupped the back of Nick’s neck, his fingers rubbing gently at the tense muscles there. “You’re awful hard on yourself. It must be hell on your nerves. Never knowing when it’s going to happen, on edge all the time, waiting ... Or is it not like that?”
“Sometimes it is. Sometimes I don’t see or hear anything for weeks, and then I kind of ... forget. Well, not really, but at least I stop thinking about it all the time.” Nick’s voice was low enough that it was hard to hear him, the way his head was tilted down as John rubbed his neck some more. “And sometimes, when I touch someone, I can see ... I don’t know. Premonitions, I guess.” He glanced up, as if making sure that John wasn’t laughing at him. “Once, there was a little girl. With long blonde hair. We were in a store, and she touched me, and I saw ...” Eyes squeezed shut, “She drowned. I saw it. I mean, I didn’t see it, but I could see it then, with her hair all spread out and floating ...” He shifted his arm in his lap and hissed, “Fuck.”
“Let me take you into town, to the doctor.” John pulled back with some reluctance, letting his other hand drop away after one final, reassuring pat on Nick’s back. He was sure there was more Nick wanted to tell him, but it could wait. And admittedly there were some things he didn’t care to hear the details of. “You need to have that looked at.”
Nick immediately straightened up, his lips set determinedly. “No, there’s too many ... I can’t. It’s not that bad, I just strained it. It’s my own fault for not wrapping it up.”
