Mortal Ghost

Jesse fumbled in his pocket for the cigarette he'd picked up. Bent but only a trifle dirty at the tip - perfectly smokeable. He straightened, then lit it with one of his last matches. Back propped against the rock, he inhaled deeply and watched the river.

The cigarette did little to dull his hunger. Inadvertently, he found himself picturing bacon crisping in a cast-iron frying pan, a loaf of his grandmother's bread, a bowl of rich yellow butter. Saliva spurted into his mouth. He forced the memory into retreat - not that road.

Cigarette finished, Jesse licked his fingertips, pinched it out with his usual meticulousness, and dropped the butt back into his pocket. Then he took out his well-thumbed copy of The Tempest. With a few pounds, he'd be able to buy some second-hand paperbacks. Unlike most other kids on the street, he wouldn't nick anything, not even an apple from the market. He only wished he had a place to store the books. If he kept going at this rate, by winter it would be a real problem to carry them around. Of course, by winter there would be other problems - problems a little more pressing than his luggage. He smiled to himself. Nothing was worse than taking yourself too seriously.

The dog kept its distance at first. The two-leg was mumbling under his breath, twisting a length of hair around his finger and tugging on it. He smelled worn and musty, like a discarded shoe. The dog edged closer. It sniffed at a crushed tin, scratched itself. Loud staccato cough: the dog slunk back. The street had taught it caution, even patience.

A small movement caught the corner of Jesse's eye. He whipped his head round. Not again, he thought, shutting his book. So many of his mistakes came back to haunt him. The dog moved closer, licked at Jesse's hand.

'What do you want? I've got nothing to feed you.'

The dog stared up at him with large, sentimental eyes. A big skinny creature, black fur dirty and matted, but otherwise in pretty good shape. Jesse wondered how it managed so well on the street.

'I bet you could teach me a thing or two,' he said.

Jesse stood, jingling the coins in his pocket. They hadn't earned any interest overnight - just enough for a hot drink and a hamburger. No doubt a sell-by loaf and some milk would be smarter, but at the burger places they usually didn't notice how long you used the lavatory. He could at least brush his teeth, maybe wash his neck and hair. Stripping would be risky, unless he could bolt the door. Few people had seen him without pants, no one without his T-shirt. He didn't do naked.

Jesse glanced at the sky. The cloud cover resembled an old greying sheet, thin cheap cotton to begin with, the kind they gave you in those rundown places where, for a few quid, you could get a bed for the night - he'd slept a couple of times in one or another of them when he had some money and was desperate for a real mattress and real roof and real shower - the kind of linen that didn't even remember white, that you could put your foot through, and did. Only here it was the sun that was breaking through the crumpled and dingy fabric.

The rain would hold off for a few hours. Ample time to eat and find shelter. It was bad enough being dirty and bedraggled, but a wet T-shirt was uncomfortable and wet jeans, a torment. He had only one change of clothes, none too clean. Filthy, actually. He knew there were certain things he could do - or allow to be done to him - that would get him a night or two in someone's flat, bathroom and washing machine privileges included. He'd go back to Mal before it came to that.

Jesse packed up his meagre possessions. He'd follow the river south for a while, then thread west to the nearest McDonald's. Though he ignored it, the dog trotted along beside him. After a few steps, Jesse paused to glower.

'Go away,' he said. 'Leave me alone. I can't take on a dog.'

The dog stopped, cocked his head, whined a little.