Under a Watchful Eye(20)
Ewan swigged from his glass as though desperately thirsty. Perhaps he wanted to give an impression that doggishly gulping the beer was more important than anything Seb could possibly say in reply. Ewan followed this by exaggerating a satisfied gasp. Foam flecked the black hair around his wet mouth.
Seb moved to the balcony doors. ‘Lucky? Yes, very lucky, Ewan. You could say that I’ve exceeded my own expectations, and by some margin. But I’ve also worked hard. All that advice writers offer about commitment and dedication has some validity.’
Seb opened one door and found the briny draught immediately welcome. It was late, the sun was going down and the afternoon had turned chilly, but he was feeling sick on account of the smell, and the sight, of Ewan.
‘Brrrr,’ Ewan said loudly, and eclipsed the end of Seb’s sentence, impatient with his host’s attempts to defend himself. In the past, he’d often make noises and engage in distracting movements, when drunk, if an argument wasn’t going his way. He’d never been able to listen to anyone for long and liked to obliterate other personalities with his manic energy. Seb thought it doubtful the tactics had changed; attack and give no room for counter-attack.
Ewan had always thought he was quick too, while having no insight into what a ridiculous boor he was. More and more was coming back to Seb now, and chiefly those things that he’d been happy to forget.
Seb warily settled into his favourite chair, the one closest to the balcony. ‘So what are you doing here, Ewan? I’m getting tired of asking the same question. What is this about?’
The question summoned a grimace from Ewan. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? Not really. About anything. You never did. You always were a bit like that. Couldn’t grasp the bigger picture. You were a bit, dare I say, clueless?’ He pursed his lips and took an affected sip of his beer.
Seb wanted to throw the television remote into Ewan’s face, as hard as possible across the short distance. He thought instead of the distant black figure standing in the sea and quelled a shudder. He had to know how Ewan had managed to appear like that. So let him speak. From whatever the unwanted visitor shared, conclusions could be drawn later.
‘I tried to read a couple of your books,’ Ewan said, creasing his nose as if recalling something worse than the smell of his own clothes. ‘Oh dear. Oh dearie me. But I can see that you put a lot of work into them.’
‘Ewan. What do you want?’
‘Did people really like that story about the hospital? I have to say, I found it all a bit silly. Afraid I didn’t finish any of the others I found in the library either. I tried. But you’ve clearly done all right out of it.’ He looked around himself again with an expression that suggested he wanted to begin vandalizing the room. ‘People will buy anything, though. All about marketing these days, branding, isn’t it?’ He shook his head, exasperated but knowing.
Seb cleared the irritation from his throat. Suppressing it was giving him heartburn. ‘It clearly attracted you down here. What are you after, an endorsement?’ I have seen the future of horror and he hasn’t taken a shower in ten fucking years. Seb smiled to himself. Two could play this game. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen you on the shelves of WHSmith. Better to actually finish a book first, Ewan.’
‘You think I envy all this?’ Ewan shot back. ‘It’s hardly that. I’d actually be a bit embarrassed if I was churning this out.’ He indicated the bookshelves. ‘Pulp, isn’t it? Is that what you wanted to write? Is that all writing is worth to you: money? You missed the boat somewhere along the line, Seb. But I didn’t come here to talk about your books.’ There was a sarcastic tilt on the last word, as if intonation alone could belittle the actual works. ‘I didn’t come here to pay homage. I’m quite sure you get enough of that from the pillocks out there. Though they haven’t got a clue, not about writing, have they? And they haven’t got a clue about the other stuff either.’
‘What other stuff? I’m intrigued as to what the point is that we’ve all missed.’
Ewan silenced him with a big hand that wagged a finger in remonstration. ‘Don’t you think that something so special might be a bit private, sacred even? So all in good time.’ He held up his other hand. ‘My glass is empty.’
‘Bar’s closed.’
‘Open it. What’s the point of having all of this if you can’t relax and have a drink with an old friend.’
‘You’re hardly that. Do friends stalk one another?’
‘Stalk!’ Ewan found this incredibly funny and slapped a thigh. ‘You haven’t seen anything.’ And he fixed Seb against his chair with his eyes alone. Eyes bloated with inebriation but shining with diabolical intent. ‘But I think you’re waking up now and getting the picture. And about time, I’d say. About time you got a bit real. If you were worried enough to run away on the beach, you’ll be quite surprised, shall we say, by what else I can do. I might show you sometime. But I wouldn’t be in any hurry to see it, if I were you. It’s not some magician’s illusion. I’d say that only a tiny handful of people in this world have ever pulled off what I can pull off.’
Seb did his best not to react to the threat and kept his voice calm. ‘What picture can I not see? I still don’t follow.’
‘Oh, don’t be coy. Some of us have spent our time a bit more wisely, instead of writing silly stories about . . . about . . .’ The drink appeared to be affecting his memory. ‘Ghosties and things. But you don’t understand what’s really out there, or here, and really close by, do you? Not really. You’re in the dark like everyone else. You don’t even know what it is that you’re trying to write about. That’s all fantasy. So I thought I’d show you something real, something special, something that requires a lot more skill than just sitting around in here, pulling some ridiculous story out of your head. Ha! And you are privileged to have seen what you have seen, but you don’t even know it. You can’t handle it. Just like I suspected. Dearie, dearie me, you really have missed the boat. But at least I’m here to help you now.’