Laying a Ghost (7 page)
Nick watched the man throw his darts carefully but, judging from his pleased smile as he walked over and tugged them free of the pocked dartboard, with some accuracy. “You don’t mind?”
John shook his head slowly. “
John stood up and picked up their empty glasses. “Same again, is it?”
“Sure, that’d be great.” Nick told himself sternly that two glasses of beer was his limit. Otherwise, there was no telling what he might say, and he’d probably said too much already.
* * * * *
John tilted his head back and pointed up at the roof. “There, see? You’ve a few tiles missing.” He turned his head, calculating where they would have landed, and then walked over and scuffed his boot across the long, wiry grass, exposing fragments of dark slate. “Can’t have been here too long, but it probably explains that damp patch in the spare room. You’ll need to get that fixed.”
Nick nodded and jotted down another note, the way he had every time John had finished a sentence that way. There wasn’t much to do, not really; it was a good, solidly built house, but even before he’d gone off to the nursing home it’d been a while since Ian Kelley had done much to keep the place in shape. There were a dozen small jobs, and as many again that would take the two of them to tackle if Nick wanted to see out the winter in comfort.
“Right.” John nodded at the stack of peat in a small lean-to close to the back door. “Do you want me to show you the trick of a peat fire? You might as well use them up as they’re cut, although when they’re gone, coal’s probably easier. Unless you do get the central heating in before winter; then you can keep your hands clean altogether.”
“I guess you might as well show me.” Nick’s expression made it clear that he was somewhat less than thrilled with the prospect. “But I think I’m probably going to go with the central heating. Is there someone nearby who’d be able to put it in?”
John nodded again. “There is. Niall. He’s a cousin of mine, but he’s the only one on the island who’s qualified, so it’s not as if I’m playing favorites. I’ll speak to him if you like; send him over to give you an estimate.”
“Thanks.” Nick looked more grateful for that than for the fire-making offer.
“But if there’s a power cut in January, and you can’t build a fire, you’re going to be awfully cold,” John went on, eyeing him sternly. “So let me show you what to do, and then if you’re still wanting to, we can take out the boat and see what’s biting.” He grinned, “Gutting a fish will take the smell of smoke off your hands, I promise you.”
“Somehow I get the impression that you think that’s going to make me feel better.” Nick grinned back, tucking the small pad of paper and pencil into his pocket as he came over to help carry some of the peat into the house.
“There’s nothing wrong with the smell of fish,” John told him as they walked through the kitchen to the sitting room that ran the length of the house. “Not when it’s fresh anyway, or at least that’s what my dad always used to say when my mother complained.”
He’d said more than that, but John wasn’t ready to tell Nick how his father had endured his mother’s scolding for a while as he stood there, his hair damp from the sea, his eyes tired but content, before grinning at her and asking if the way he smelled meant she wasn’t going to kiss him again, because if so he’d throw every fish back in the sea because they weren’t worth it. She’d always relented and given him the kiss he’d asked for, always. No, he wasn’t going to tell Nick that.
He placed the peat on the hearthstone and knelt down, starting to clear away what was left of the fire he’d built the night before. “You stop noticing the smell after a while.” He turned his head to glance up at Nick, who was standing with his arms folded, looking down at him as if he was something on the Discovery channel. “Or are you trying to tell me I stink of it?” He raised the sleeve of his dark-green sweater to his nose and gave it a cautious sniff, smelling oil and smoke and yes, maybe a bit of a hint of fish.
Nick laughed and knelt down beside him, touching the peat again with the tips of his fingers. John remembered what it had felt like to hold Nick’s hand and looked back into the fireplace as Nick said, “No. More like smoke. But I probably do, too, after an hour in that pub.” He offered the sleeve of his own sweatshirt to John, who reluctantly obliged him by leaning over and sniffing it. Nick smelled of smoke, yes, but also of unfamiliar laundry detergent.
“Well, now that you’re down here, you can get some kindling from that box beside you.” John’s voice was a little gruff to his own ears. “Small bits, mind; the idea is to use them to get things going.”
When Nick turned and began to sort obediently through what was left in the box, John edged away a little, putting some space between them. He was damn sure he couldn’t have put it any plainer in the pub -- and God knows why he’d felt the need to do that with a man he’d known for no more than a day -- and Nick’s reaction -- or lack of one -- had left John feeling at a loss. He didn’t know what to think, but as it was obvious Nick wasn’t interested in him as anything but an information source and someone to keep him company until he found his feet, a bit of space between them was called for.
Not that is was going to be easy to do that. John had always thought that he could take a hint as well as the next man, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the connection he felt between them. Even if Nick had been more forthcoming, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Nick was going to be living on the island, surrounded by people who would be watching him, inquisitive and ready to judge. John knew what that was like and he knew what it made Nick. Off-limits.
Cursing himself for saying even as much as he had, John took a newspaper from the magazine rack by the fire and began to tear off small pieces, crumpling them loosely in his hand.
Nick turned back with a large handful of thin twigs balanced carefully in his left hand, fingers curled slightly around them. “Are these okay? I haven’t made a fire for ... well, since I was about seven or eight, probably, and it was always with logs, not peat. What were you saying about coal?”
John nodded at the fireplace. “They’re fine. Put them in and sort of criss-cross them, so that there’s space for the air to get through. A coal fire will burn longer than wood, but they’re both expensive up here. You’ll need a bag or two for emergencies, or if Niall doesn’t get your central heating in by the time the cold weather comes.” John rolled his eyes tolerantly, just thinking about Niall. “He’s an idle devil sometimes, for all that he’s family, but maybe with you not being a summer visitor, he’ll pull his finger out. Just don’t be paying him in advance, whatever you do.”
“I appreciate the advice.” Nick leaned in closer as he set the twigs into a pattern so close to the one John would have used that it was almost uncanny. Bugger knew more than he was letting on, John thought, although he didn’t think it was a deliberate facade. Just didn’t have enough confidence in himself.
“There.” Nick straightened up, his weight back on his heels again as he turned, gesturing toward the stack of peat that was on John’s other side. “Now, do we --” His voice broke off, and John, who’d also turned to look at the peat, turned back in time to see him swallow, face white as a sheet.
“Nick?” John’s gaze dropped to Nick’s wrist, wondering if the man had jarred it somehow and already blaming himself for letting Nick carry in the peat. “Are you all right?” He looked at Nick’s face again and saw Nick’s eyes widen, the green of them all but disappearing as his pupils dilated.
Nick’s jaw tightened and he swallowed, blinking. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He dragged his gaze over to John, making a valiant effort, even though it was clear that he was far from fine. “What ... what do we do with the peat?” His eyes flickered off to the side again, and then back.
Every instinct John had was telling him that there was something behind him, something bad. It wasn’t reasonable, and it couldn’t be true, but it was how he felt when he saw those sidelong, panicked glances of Nick’s. Telling himself that turning to look would be pure foolishness, he took a deep breath. “Set a small piece on top, and then we’ll light the kindling under it.” He straightened and stood up to get the box of matches off the mantelpiece, his gaze going to the room behind him despite his good intentions as his fingers closed around the familiar shape.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but his mind was busy conjuring up horrors, maybe even the ghost of old Ian, which was just plain ridiculous. For a moment his fear was instinctive and unreasoning, feeding on the panic pouring off Nick, painting a rising darkness in the corner, but when he blinked there was nothing but a wooden chair there, set squarely against the wall.
Nothing. Well, of course there was nothing. Feeling ridiculous for having even bothered to look, and hoping that Nick hadn’t noticed, John held out the box of matches. “There you go.”
Nick’s gaze was down on the hearthstone as if he were determined to keep it there, but when John spoke, he glanced up long enough to reach for the matches with a hand that trembled slightly. He set the box on his thigh and reached for a small piece of peat as John got down beside him again, unable to keep from seeing how Nick twitched at the movement. “Put the peat on top,” Nick repeated, not sounding like himself at all. “Put the peat on top and light the kindling.” He picked up the matches and opened the box with an uneven force that caused them to scatter all over the floor and hearth. “Fuck.”
John stretched out his hand and caught Nick’s wrist as he started to pick up the matches. Nick’s skin was cool and clammy . “Leave them. I’ll do it.” Nick’s head was bowed again, a wide strip of smooth, tanned skin exposed between his hairline and the collar of his sweatshirt. “You’re still tired,” John went on, keeping his voice steady. “There’s no rush to do everything all at once and I should’ve remembered that.” He let go of Nick’s wrist and began to brush the matches together into a small heap.
“Sorry.” Nick struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m just going to go upstairs for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t wait for John to reply, but turned and headed almost blindly for the stairs as John watched him. Nick bumped into the wall at the foot of the staircase, his shoulder hitting it, and John had to quell the impulse to get up and go after him, make sure he got up the stairs okay. It almost looked as if he were trying to walk with his eyes closed. The sound of his footsteps on the wooden stairs was uneven, too quick considering how unsteady he’d been on his feet. John breathed a sigh of relief when Nick reached the top and the bathroom door slammed shut.
He couldn’t help but listen as he gathered up the matches from the hearth, putting them back into the box. What the hell was wrong with the man? It was clear that he was recovering from some kind of trauma, but John was starting to doubt that it was as simple as a car accident and a broken wrist. He didn’t, he realized, know anything more about Nick than what the man had told him. For all he knew, Nick could be sick. Mentally ill.
He could hear the sound of footsteps back and forth on the bathroom floor, and what after a few moments began to sound like a muttered voice. It got louder and more anguished, though; Nick was talking to himself, begging for ... something.
John hesitated and then went over to the stairs. Growing up amongst people who were by nature reserved made him feel awkward, even embarrassed, about intruding, but he couldn’t leave Nick, not when he was in this state. It didn’t matter that the man was new into his life; he liked him, and when it came down to it, right now he was the only friend Nick had.
Hoping that a friendly ear was all that was needed, not a doctor, John climbed the stairs, hearing fragments of words mumbled too low to be intelligible, although when Nick’s voice rose on a frantic “Please!” it was clear enough.
He came to the closed door and raised his hand to knock softly on it. He caught his breath, his hand falling to his side as that disconcerting sense of wrongness crawled over him again, making him shudder convulsively, every hair on his body raising as his skin prickled into goose bumps.
“Nick,” he said urgently, his voice cracking. “Let me in, man. Let me help you.”
He wasn’t sure if he wanted himself in there, or Nick out here on the landing, but he was beginning to feel strongly that company would be welcome.
Nick was still pacing, from the sound of his footsteps, and still muttering, but now John was close enough to hear most of it clearly. “No,” Nick was saying. “No, no, no. No! Stop it. I can’t -- God,
shut up!
Just ... I can’t understand. No. Please.” The last word was half sob, half whimper, the sound of it going straight to John’s heart like he’d imagine the twist of a knife would. A grown man shouldn’t sound like that. It wasn’t right.
“Nick. Open the door.” He reached for the handle.
There was a violent thump inside the bathroom, as if Nick had slapped both hands full force against the wall. “No!”
John had no idea what else to say. Should he offer to go get help? Was the man mad? Having some sort of psychotic break?
“You’re wrong!” Nick’s voice was loud again. “I can’t. No. I don’t want you here.”
Setting his teeth against the sudden flare of hurt, and telling himself that Nick was too out of his head to know what he was saying, John reached out once more for the door handle. The door was locked, which came as no surprise, and although he thumped his fist against it, his temper rising because it was easier to feel angry and it pushed away the unease, it stayed that way.
He stepped back, breathing unevenly. One more time. The shadows in the hallway were gathering darkness into themselves, his palms were slippery with sweat, and he wanted nothing as much as to be out in the sunshine, breathing clean salt air, but he’d try one more time ...
