Under a Watchful Eye(21)

Seb wasn’t sure whether his fear or his loathing would choke him first, but the situation felt akin to being taunted by someone who was pointing a gun at him. ‘Help me with what? I’m fine as I am.’

Ewan looked at his glass. ‘We can get into all of that later. Today, I just wanted to say hello and have a drink with an old mate. Get reacquainted before the fun begins.’

‘Fun?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘About what?’

Ewan grinned. ‘About what’s really going on. Where it all leads.’ He gazed around the room again. ‘I thought your stuff would have a bit of edge, like I tried to show you, when I started you off, back at uni. But you’ve lost the plot.’

‘You started me off, did you?’

‘Don’t deny it.’ Ewan looked at the bookshelves. ‘You wouldn’t have written one of those books if I hadn’t helped you.’

‘I don’t think that’s—’

‘You hadn’t read anything until you met me. You didn’t know anything. Think about it. You could say that all of this –’ again his hands took in his surroundings – ‘is mostly down to me. My influence. And you’ve never acknowledged it.’

To make such a declaration would have entailed Ewan checking the acknowledgements in each of his books, as well as reading the interviews he’d given about his origins as a writer. This made Seb consider the fresh spate of trolling reviews. He wondered if Ewan had been behind those from the start. Perhaps, for years, Ewan had been maliciously harassing his books online. ‘Do you really believe that, Ewan?’

‘Believe it? It’s a fact. You’d never read Machen or Wakefield, or Aickman, Blackwood, none of the believers, until you met me. I even lent you my books. And, judging by what you’ve written, you didn’t read them all that carefully.’

Now Seb’s entire body was rigid, white and uncomfortable with suppressed rage. He stood up. ‘I’m not getting into this. I’m not debating my books with you, or anything else for that matter. But I can understand why you’re upset. It doesn’t appear that things have worked out for you, Ewan, though that has nothing to do with me. But I’m not really surprised that you’re pissed off and pissed up. Nothing’s changed there, has it? Same old resentful Ewan. But you made your bed and I have made mine, and it’s time you took off.’

‘I’ve only just arrived. I’m not ready to go yet.’ He winked and grinned his yellowy grin. ‘You must be a little dissatisfied with how it’s gone, surely?’

‘No, as a matter of fact, I—’

Ewan interrupted, raising his slurred voice. ‘Was it worth it? Not very rock and roll is it? Gadgets and baubles, trinkets! I remember you telling me how you were going to drive across America. Live in a forest in Norway. Or was it a Greek island? Have you done any of that?’

‘No. But I—’

‘Ha! Didn’t think so. You’ve just become some fussy, pretentious, stay-at-home pulp fiction type. You haven’t done anything! You haven’t lived, man! Or seen anything. You’re a bit of a fraud, if I’m honest.’ Ewan’s mouth had become sloppy. His eyes were becoming increasingly unfocused and he was struggling to express what Seb suspected was a rehearsed spiel. Ewan may have waited a long time to say all of this.

Seb’s anger would no longer keep silent. ‘I’ll tell you what I did, Ewan: I read. I actually read books, and a great many of them. I learned from them, and from better writers. And I sat still, at a desk, and I wrote. I figured out the basics of the craft. And while I wrote for years without much recognition, I paid my bills doing boring, soul-destroying jobs. I stood on my own two feet and I supported myself. I had no choice. My parents weren’t rich.

‘I had some breaks. A lot of people helped me for sure, agents, editors, even critics, but I wrote my way out of some bad times. Only I could do that, alone. I have no control over the bigger picture, but at least I was consistent and I worked.’

Ewan tried to interrupt. ‘Listen to him!’

‘And I acknowledged my failings, Ewan. Confronted them, addressed them. And I searched myself, wrung myself out to see if I had anything to say, to see if I could make a contribution. Year after year. Half of my life making writing a purpose, including over a decade of indifference from publishers. Eventually I was noticed, because I stuck at it.’

‘Noticed by who? Some twats in London, with their soirees and festivals and launches. I’ve seen them. Been to those things. No one has a clue. No one. They’re not even fun. No one even knows how to have a bit of fun.’

‘Fun? Is that the goal? The party’s over, Ewan. It ended in 1990 for everyone but you. Your own approach doesn’t look like much fun to me. I mean, Christ alive, have you looked in the mirror recently?’

Ewan glanced down his body. ‘What?’ he asked in what appeared to be genuine surprise.

‘What have you produced? Where’s the body of work? You’re what, nearly sixty? Was this the endgame that you had in mind?’

‘Oh, I’ve been working. And writing! Oh, yes, but not some ridiculous crap they sell in some crappy supermarket. Some shit that mums read to pass a few hours. Oh, no, you don’t need to worry about that!’