But it helped. It helped a lot.

‘OK,’ I said, turning around. ‘Jesse. This is way uncool.’

Jesse looked pretty uncomfortable. I could tell as soon as I looked at him that he wasn’t very happy with what he’d done. Whatever had gotten him killed in his previous life, it wasn’t because he was innately cruel, or enjoyed hurting people. He was a good guy. Or at least, he was trying to be.

‘I can’t,’ he said in front of Susannah. ‘Susannah. Don’t go. This woman – this girl, Heather. She isn’t like other spirits you might have known in the past. She’s filled with hate. She’ll kill you if she can.’

I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘Then it’s up to me to get rid of her, right? Come on. Unlock the door now.’

He hesitated. For a second, I thought he was going to do it. But he didn’t, in the end. He just stood there, looking uncomfortable . . . but firm.

‘Suit yourself,’ I said, and walked around him, straight across the room to the bay window. I put a foot on to the seat Andy had made, and easily lifted the screen in the middle window. I had one leg over the sill when I felt his hand go round my wrist.

I turned to look at him. I couldn’t see his face since the light from my bedside lamp was behind him, but I could hear his voice well enough and the soft pleading in it.

‘Susannah,’ he said.

And that was all. Just my name.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, sort of. I mean, I could – it wasn’t like there was a lump in my throat, or anything. I just . . . I don’t know.

Instead, I looked down at his hand, which was really big and kind of brown, even against the black leather of my jacket. He had a heck of a grip for a dead guy. Even for a live guy. He saw my gaze drop, and looked where I was looking, and saw his hand holding tight round my wrist.

He let go of me as if my skin had suddenly started to blister, or something. I finished climbing out the window. When I had successfully manoeuvred my way across the porch roof and down to the ground, I turned to look up at my bedroom window.

But he was gone of course.

Ten

It was a cool, clear night. The moon was full. Standing in my front yard, I could see it hanging over the sea like a light bulb – not a hundred watter, like the sun, but maybe one of those twenty-five dealies you put in those swivel-neck desk lamps. The Pacific, looking smooth as glass from this distance, was black, except for a narrow band of reflected light from the moon, which was white as paper.

I could see in the moonlight the red dome of the Mission’s church. But just because I could see the Mission, didn’t mean the Mission was nearby. It was a good two miles away. In my pocket were the keys to the Rambler, which I’d snitched a half hour earlier. The metal was warm from the heat of my body. The Rambler, which was turquoise in daylight, looked grey as it sat in the shadow of the driveway.