Under a Watchful Eye(19)
Shiny with stains and ripped in two places, the original colour of his anorak was also impossible to determine. Ewan made no move to remove his coat, and for that Seb was grateful. It suggested the visit might be short.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Hasty, don’t be so hasty. All in good time. And aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ Ewan’s words were slurred and that may have accounted for his disinclination to say much since he’d appeared. ‘Come on! Have a drink with an old friend. It’s been ages. And look at you, the bestselling writer! It looks like one of those Sunday magazines in here!’
Ewan glanced around the room again, gently shaking his head as if in exasperated despair at what confirmed his worst suspicions. Seb clearly hadn’t followed the script. But he knew that Ewan was being disingenuous. A maddening, searing jealousy was burning him up. He’d seen evidence of that before, not least over Julie.
‘One drink, an explanation, and then you’ll have to go.’
Ewan changed his expression into a poor attempt at appearing offended. ‘Am I keeping the literary genius from more important matters? I mean, I haven’t seen you in years and you’re already trying to get rid of me.’
‘I didn’t ask you to come here. Or to . . . you know.’
Ewan grinned. The rictus conveyed that he could do something extraordinary that Seb didn’t understand, and Ewan wasn’t going to be very forthcoming about it either, or anything that he didn’t want to talk about. He was playing by different rules: persistence and manipulation, implied threats, intimidation. Perhaps a precedent was being set for their coming interaction. The grin, the demands for drink, the posture of the careless body spread across the sofa, were the only statements of intent being offered at this stage.
To avoid Ewan’s black eyes, but also to regroup his wits and to think on his next move, Seb went into the kitchen to fetch drinks, choosing two bottles of low-strength beer. He didn’t know what else to do. He was too jittery and risked more indecision, so he busied himself with the cupboard doors and glasses, suppressing the tremble that had possessed his hands. He was out of practice with any conflict, save what came at him online.
He thought of the police and fingered his phone inside the front pocket of his jeans. But what would he say?
He then thought about taking a knife from the drawer. That idea made him recoil the moment he entertained it, because holding a weapon was as preposterous as the current situation.
He’d probably remain civil and restrained, unemotional, and the insight made him loathe himself. Ewan counted on Seb being Seb.
He returned to the living room, unarmed and holding two glasses of beer.
Ewan was looking over the first editions and fingering them roughly with his grubby hands. He’d returned a book to the wrong place, left another carelessly protruding from the shelf, a third was laid flat. The disorder transfixed Seb. It was another reminder of the past, and perhaps a premonition of his future if he failed to get rid of Ewan quickly.
‘Drinkie-poos,’ Ewan said, and took the proffered glass. ‘I have to say, you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’
Seb felt an urge to lash out, to strike the oily face hard. A tremor passed along his arm; though, like the bullied who are manacled by the restraints of reasonable behaviour, this was an impulse that would never become action.
‘You’re surprised by that?’
His terror at the dreams and Ewan’s appearances remained trapped inside his mind like an energy that would not earth. He realized he’d do anything to avoid a continuation of that. Provoking the unstable was never a smart move either. Their responses to resistance could be as desperate as their circumstances.
‘Our lives have followed different paths. Clearly.’ Seb tried to add the last word in a neutral tone, but it dragged itself sarcastically from his mouth.
‘First you run away and now you’re all tense. Relax, Sebastian. Aren’t you interested in what I’ve been up to?’
‘I’ve enough on my own plate.’
‘I think you are, just a little bit.’ Ewan winked. ‘You couldn’t even begin to understand what I’ve done. What I’ve achieved. And, judging by what I’ve seen of your books, you’ve gone a bit off course as far as all that is concerned.’
‘All of what?’
Ewan tittered and shook his head as if Seb had embarrassed himself.
‘I don’t follow, Ewan. As far as what is concerned? In what have I been lacking?’
Ewan’s eyes protruded as if from a burst of excitement. ‘True mysticism! And enlightenment.’ Between the two men, a flotilla of spittle droplets fell through the sunlit air.
‘My ambitions were never so grandiose. I just wanted to write well.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Ewan raised his eyebrows. ‘Never mind, but at least you’ve done all right out of potboilers, though there’s no accounting for taste.’ He watched keenly for Seb’s reaction. Satisfied he’d inflicted another small wound, he changed the subject, directing proceedings. ‘How long has it been now?’ Ewan asked, distractedly, with a befuddled frown, pretending that he didn’t know.
‘Ten years, at least,’ Seb said, knowing it had been exactly twelve since the smelly shape had last stunk out his living space.
‘Long time.’ Ewan was about to repeat his heavy slump onto the sofa, but caught Seb’s eye and lowered himself more carefully, parodying the action of a person sitting upon delicate furniture. ‘Too long! So I thought it was about time that I paid you a visit. All very nice, I must say. You’ve been lucky.’