Laying a Ghost (3 page)

She smirked, and then, as Nick moved away abruptly to study a display of homemade jam, bit her lip, turned on her heel and left with a brisk nod to John and a final, lingering look at Nick.

“And that being so, you’re wrong, Moira, like always,” John muttered under his breath.

“Why didn’t you tell her that to her face?” Nick asked, coming back to stand at John’s side.

John shook his head. “Quickest way to get rid of her. I’m not one for arguing. And I got the impression you’d be happier with her gone.”

Nick stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “She wasn’t all that polite, but she seemed, I don’t know ... honest, I guess.”

The wheels on the cart squeaked as John gave it a shove and got it moving again. “Aye, I’ll give her that,” he said dryly, not bothering to share his opinion that in Moira’s case honesty wasn’t a virtue. Not when it was fuelled by spite.

“I’m sorry,” Nick murmured. “I didn’t mean to --” He gave John a look that wavered and fell, as if the effort of focusing on John’s face was too much.

“It’s not of any consequence at all,” John said firmly. “Now, will you be wanting some of that jam for your toast or not?”

They finished the shopping in a silence that was friendly enough, broken by the odd question from Nick, who seemed more surprised to find brand names he recognized than by oddities like oatcakes, which usually had the tourists exclaiming in delight or distaste. By the time they got to the checkout, where George Dunn’s eyes traveled between the two of them, alight with speculation as his bony hands dealt deftly with the groceries, Nick was a shade paler and his signature on the credit card slip was a wavering scrawl.

John would’ve bet his boat that they wouldn’t get out of the shop without George satisfying what with him was pure nosiness, and he was right.

“I didn’t know you had a friend visiting, John.” A winter-cold smile creased George’s thin lips as he placed John’s box of tea bags inside a plastic carrier bag. “Your mother never mentioned it when she was in here earlier.”

John threaded his fingers through most of the plastic bags stacked neatly on the counter, leaving Nick to take the last two in his good hand. Nick was staring at the shopkeeper, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Is that so?” John murmured noncommittally. A soft answer might turn away wrath, but in his experience it was the one thing guaranteed to drive George mad with frustration.

“Aye. I would have thought that’d be the sort of thing she’d mention. Assuming she knew about it.” George was looking at Nick with shrewd interest, his eyes flickering over to John as if gauging his reaction.

“There’s nothing for her to know,” Nick said smoothly, with more aplomb than John would have anticipated. “I’m new to the island. I’ve hired Mr. McIntyre to drive me out to my late uncle’s home, and he’s been gracious enough to help me with my shopping. Did you know my Uncle Ian? Ian Kelley?” Nick dropped his voice, conjuring up something reminiscent of deep sorrow. “We were very close. I ... I can’t believe he’s gone.”

While George was still sputtering out an awkward apology, Nick and John made their exit. It wasn’t until they were outside and a good dozen yards from the shop that Nick glanced sideways at John and grinned.

“The last time I saw him that flustered, a sheep had wandered down from the moor, gone into his shop, and was eating his cabbages,” John observed, an answering smile spreading across his face. “If you find yourself in the Castle Arms one night, I’ll buy you a pint by way of a thank you.”

“He deserved it. People like him ...” Nick shook his head, something dark crossing his face. “No. It’s not my job to mete out justice, not even to people like him.”

“No,” John agreed qq uietly, losing the smile from his face as they neared the car. “It isn’t. And you’re right; he does more harm than I think he realizes. There’s a difference between those of us who ask questions out of interest, and, aye, curiosity, because there’s precious little else to amuse ourselves with, and those who ask to find ways of hurting folk.” He changed the subject abruptly, not wanting to dwell on the malice behind George’s behaviour. “Will you open the trunk, please, and save me setting these bags down? It isn’t locked.”

“Sure.” John watched as Nick very carefully opened the trunk with his bad hand, moving slowly so as not to hurt himself. The little flash of triumph on Nick’s face as he managed it was worth the risk John thought he’d taken in asking.

They put the bags into the back and got into the car. Nick immediately fastened his seatbelt before John had even had a chance to start the car.

John started to tell him that he didn’t have to wear his seatbelt if he didn’t want to; Tom Stewart, the local bobby, had started out easygoing, and ten years on the island had done nothing to change that. But something made John swallow the words and pull his own belt across his body.

“It isn’t far.” John started the engine, pulling away. “Maybe five miles or so. You could walk it if you’d a mind to; your uncle did, in fair weather, anyway. Come to think of it, he’d a wee car that should still be at the house. It’ll need some work after sitting all this time, but if you like, I’ll take a look at it for you.”

“I don’t drive,” Nick said tightly.

John let the words hang between them, expecting more, but when Nick turned his head to stare out of the side window at nothing more interesting than the garage on the edge of town, he realized that was all he was getting. John had been driving since he was tall enough -- not old enough -- to see over the steering wheel. He’d never had an accident, and the one time he’d driven drunk, on his fourteenth birthday, his father had taken the skin off his arse with a belt and that’d been that. Driving was as natural as walking, as sending a line hissing out across the wind-ruffled water of the loch, as gutting a fish with a slice, a scrape and two swift chops of his knife. Didn’t take much to connect a broken wrist with a car accident though, so he kept quiet as they left the village and headed along the narrow road.

“That’s my place,” John offered a few minutes later, by way of breaking a silence which was verging on uncomfortable. Lord knew he wasn’t much of a talker himself, but Nick wrapped himself in silence as if it was all that was keeping him warm. He took his hand off the wheel and touched Nick’s arm, bringing Nick’s head around sharply. “See? On the hill? It was my grandparents’ house, and when they’d gone, my mother decided that sooner than sell it, she’d rent it out, expecting to make a penny or two from the tourists. But I’d been wanting a place of my own, and I convinced her that tourists were chancy customers, and a weekly rent from someone she trusted was better by far.”

Nick didn’t say anything, but John knew that he was looking as they went past. The long drive that led up the hill to the house was winding, and John was well aware that it made the place look rather like something in a storybook -- idyllic, pastoral.

He kept a careful eye on the road, driving more slowly than he normally would have. For some reason John couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that went deeper than his instant attraction to Nick, he found himself fascinated by this man, wanting to know his story and unconvinced that he ever would.

Their houses lay maybe fifteen minutes apart, if one was willing to walk over heather and knew where the boggy parts were, where the ground turned soft beneath your feet, water oozing up, brown and rich, between the bright green grass, but by road it was a good two miles. When the gray stone walls of Rossneath House came into sight, John found himself sighing with relief. The man would surely have to open his mouth now. He sent the car bumping along the rough track that was all that was left of a driveway and pulled up by the front porch, although to get that little-used door open, they’d need a stick of dynamite rather than a key.

“Well, here you are,” he said, turning his head to look at his passenger, mildly exasperated that not even the sight of his house had coaxed a word from Nick. His next words died on his lips.

Nick was asleep, his shoulder hunched up defensively, as if even sleep offered no refuge, his head half-turned so that John could see the clean line of his jaw through the prickle of stubble and the hollowed curve of his cheek up to the slash of a dark eyebrow.

Caught off-guard, John swallowed, close enough in the stillness that had descended when the engine had shuddered its way to rest that he could see a dozen details Nick’s restlessness had hidden from him before. He’d had his ear pierced at some point; the tender flesh of the lobe was healed over, but the indentation was still there. And under the tan, his face was pale with fatigue.

John bit his lip and glanced away. He’d have liked to have looked his fill, but it didn’t seem right. Not while the man was sleeping. Without undue noise, he left the car, pushing the door to without slamming it, and went around to the back door. He knew where the key was, and if it’d gone, there were plenty of ways to get in. Let the man sleep.