"L. Lee Lowe - Mortal Ghost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowe L Lee)

Mortal Ghost
by L. Lee Lowe
http://mortalghost.blogspot.com

Email [email protected]

I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither

A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost.

Dylan Thomas
Chapter 1 3

Chapter 1
Every night Jesse lies down to sleep with fire. This time, screams and a dark chord burning. This time, the
beam falls before his hair ignites.

Jesse woke with a start, his heart thudding. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Something in
his rucksack was digging into his cheek. Wincing, he shifted on the piece of cardboard that was his mattress.
The solid blocks of stone at his back, rough and lichen-crusted, made good sentries but poor bedfellows. His
neck was sore and kinked, his muscles cramped, and he had pins-and-needles in the arm he'd been lying on.
He needed to pee.

The dream again.

Fingering the handle of his knife, he looked about him. Just after dawn, and the air smelled fresh and clean,
with a dampness that hinted at rain. His sleeping bag felt clammy, and the grass along the riverbank glistened
with dew. Water lapped close by, a sound from his past, and he could hear the noisy riverbirds scolding his
sluggishness.

There was no help for it. Wait too long and somebody would appear. Shaking off the last whorls of sleep, he
unzipped his sleeping bag and crept out. He stretched, then made a few circles with his head, grimacing as the
vertebrae in his neck rasped like the sound of Mal crushing eggshells in his fist -- one of his least offensive
habits. A couple of knee-bends till Jesse's bladder protested. He glanced round once more, for he didn't like to
leave his things unattended for even a moment -- on the street, a moment's inattention could mean the
difference between a meal and hunger, between safety and a vicious beating/mutilation/rape, between survival
and annihilation.

He grabbed his rucksack, thrust his knife inside, and sidled barefoot down the grassy riverbank until he came
to an overgrown bush. After relieving himself, he knelt at the river's edge and rinsed his hands, then splashed
cold water into his face. Not exactly clean, but it helped remove the film of sleep and dross from the morning.
Distastefully, he ran his wet fingers through his hair. He needed a good wash -- failing a long hot punishing
shower then at least a swim in the river. Later maybe -- first he would have to eat. He kneaded the skin above
his waistband; he'd lost weight again, he supposed. Hunger never quite retracted its claws: on the rare
occasions when he had a full belly, there was always the next meal to worry about.

It would be another long day.

From his rucksack he removed his battered water bottle and trainers. After slaking his thirst he capped the
bottle and considered his next move. He always tried to find a new kip each night, and if he got lucky he