Under a Watchful Eye(28)

‘It’s all nicely written out.’ Ewan walked to the coffee table and swept away the bags of crisps. One of them was open and the contents scattered noisily across the floorboards. ‘Oh, dear.’

Ewan straightened the dirty papers on the table. When he removed his hands, the top page curled back upon itself. ‘So here it is, if sir would be so kind.’ He pointed at the sofa, motioning for Seb to sit. ‘We may as well get started. You’ve a bit of catching up to do.’

‘With what?’

‘One thing at a time.’

‘Is that something you’ve written?’

‘Indeed.’ Ewan beamed as if he were presenting a long-awaited manuscript that Seb should feel awe before. Ewan drummed the black fingernails of both hands on the top page and cleared his throat. ‘I give his lordship, Breathe in the Astral.’

Eyes bulging with excitement, Ewan stood back and waited for Seb’s enthusiasm at a chance to read the dirty sheets of paper.

Seb could smell the manuscript from three feet away. He shivered with disgust and didn’t want to touch the paper, let alone read it. It must have been sealed inside a bin bag for long periods of time, amongst soiled articles of clothing, while the author wandered endlessly, drunkenly gibbering about angels in trees. Ewan needed a psychiatrist.

Seb glanced at the top page. ‘It’s not even typed.’

‘You asked me what I had been doing for ten years, well here’s your answer.’

There couldn’t have been more than a hundred pages on the coffee table. Ewan had never seemed more ridiculous. ‘You spent ten years writing that?’

‘Not just writing it. A lot of preparation was involved. Poetry doesn’t just happen you know. You may think it, it . . . it . . .’ The great poet couldn’t express the sentiment. Instead, he staggered around the bin liner and delved deeper. There were a number of cardboard box files inside. ‘This is the secondary material we will use. You need to read it. You’ll see what’s what.’

Teeth clenched and on display, he strode across to Seb’s shelves and pointed at the first editions. ‘Never mind this,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I think it’s time we moved on from all that.’ He took the baseball cap off and scratched the scalp beneath. ‘Time you involved yourself in something a bit more ambitious. Something that matters.’

It was the first time Seb had seen the hat removed. Ewan’s hair had retained the shape of the cap and that was how Ewan’s head had looked in the dream. A fresh gust of scent molecules drifted from the unhealthy, tangled hair. ‘Everything will make sense and you will see why I’m right. So you best get started.’ The cap went back on the head. Ewan now seemed happy with how things were going. So this is what he wanted, someone to pay attention to him and his crazy ideas.

Seb only wanted to physically destroy him, to entangle his fists in the terrible hair while smashing his head against a steel radiator. He rose to his feet and turned to the door. ‘Forget it.’

Ewan stumbled to block the door. ‘It’s very important that you read it. You’ve never read anything like it. Never.’

‘Step aside.’

‘No, no, no, no, no, no,’ Ewan said in a sing-song voice that Seb found odious. ‘What are you afraid of? I sense a little insecurity creeping in here. Oh, dear.’

Seb’s vision flickered. ‘You solipsistic moron. I have a life! What do you know about anything? Look at yourself. When was the last time you even washed your clothes?’

Ewan pursed his discoloured lips. ‘Mmmm. Let me see. About two years. About that. You see, where I have been there wasn’t even hot water. None of this phoney comfort for frauds.’

At the mention of the duration Seb felt his face drain of blood.

‘Couple of years since I’ve had a bath, so what? The flesh is irrelevant. This has nothing to do with the body! It isn’t even about the mind. This is the soul-body that I am writing about. The soul-body, you fool! Have you any idea how long the preparations last to even get a glimpse? To take that path, to unlock yourself and go on that journey? Read my book and you’ll see. You’ll all see things a little more clearly. You’ve missed the boat! Same as everybody else. All you hacks. You’ve all missed the boat.’ Ewan tapped his head knowingly. ‘But I haven’t.’ He refused to move away from the door.

Ewan had no respect for him, his privacy, his possessions. He was just here to pitch his awful manuscript and to take advantage of him in every possible sense.

Too enraged to speak coherently, Seb opened a window. He pushed his head out and gulped at the air. He was suffering from more than a fear for his own safety. He was also afraid of what he might read in the lunatic’s dirty papers. The contents might infect him with whatever had deranged Ewan. Not a bad story for a horror novel, he thought, but this was no story. It was real and happening to him.

Seb went and sat on the edge of the sofa, his body angled forwards, his hands gripping his naked knees. ‘You came here because you want me to read that?’ Seb pointed at the dirty papers and at the bin bags.

Ewan grinned.

‘This is something you have been writing, and you think that I will, what? Help you get it published?’

‘Oh it will be. By whoever reads it first. It just needs a little polish. Then it needs to be placed into the right hands. That’s where you come in.’