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

might be able to locate an abandoned warehouse or garage or even an allotment shed. The docklands looked
promising, although there would probably be others with the same idea. Still, it was a largish place. He kept
away from the squats. He wanted nothing to do with anyone else.

Jesse rummaged for the currant bun he'd kept back last night, then shook out his sleeping bag, formed it into a
compact roll, and stored it in his rucksack, followed by the bun and his water bottle. After slipping into his
trainers he wedged the cardboard between one of the bridge's massive stone abutments and a clump of wild
briars, just in case he was obliged to return tonight.

It was still barely light, and except for a boat in the distance -- a barge, from the long squat shape -- and the
birds and jazzing whirlybird insects and occasional frog, Jesse had the river to himself. He made his way
along the bank in the direction of the city centre. There was a thin opaque haze over the water which the sun
would soon burn away. Though overcast now, with a likelihood of rain, Jesse could tell that it would be hot
later on, hot and humid. Good swimming weather. Usually the river was well trafficked, but he had yet to see
Chapter 1 4
anyone else swim. Of course, he always chose a secluded spot.

When hunger gnawed at him, he stopped by a sandy patch of ground, half-hidden by large boulders and a
willow, to eat his rather flattened bun. He stared at his breakfast for a few seconds, then returned it to his
rucksack. He'd wait. Impossible to predict how long it would be before he could earn some money. Pity that
he hadn't saved that bit of sausage instead of feeding it to yesterday's stray, who probably needed it less than
him.

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.'