Under a Watchful Eye(29)

Seb kept his tone level. ‘So, let me see if I have this right: you expect me to read this, edit it, and then take it to my publisher? Maybe you also expect me to champion you as a writer?’

‘Yes, that would be good,’ Ewan said in a tone of eager acknowledgement. ‘That sort of thing,’ he added. ‘Maybe we can show your editor first. You know, like an exclusive.’

‘So you thought you’d threaten and coerce me, the man who has now given you shelter twice, and the only person to ever offer you friendship at university? This is how you repay me? You’ve become aware of my success, but you hate it, and you hate my books. Maybe you’ve even been reviewing them too, when not working on your masterpiece?’

Ewan looked uncomfortable but pleased with himself that he’d been found out. His own subterfuge amused him. He couldn’t stop grinning.

‘You’ve shown me nothing but contempt and yet you expect my help. In fact, you believe that you are entitled to my assistance, because you loaned me a few books in 1988.’

‘Oh, it was more than a few books. It was ideas. Music. A new perception. Direction. I opened your eyes to a whole new world. I started you off. It’s not my fault that you took shortcuts and sold out. If you’d listened to me you might have achieved something unique. You have no idea how far I’ve gone, beyond all this.’ Again the dismissive swipe of a big dirty hand, loosely directed towards the entire world. ‘You could even have had a bit of fun along the way. But you’ve still done all right out of me. Time to pay the piper, my old friend! And until you read it, you have no idea how important my book actually is.’

‘Important? It’s not a book. It’s a pile of dirty paper. Handwritten and kept inside a bin bag. You think I am going to spend my precious time reading it and rewriting it?’

‘More of a structural edit and a bit of typing. It’ll be worth your while.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, you’ll get to be the first person to read it. I tried some of the publishers in London, but they didn’t read it.’

‘Hang on, you took this to a publisher?’

‘I went to see a few.’

‘You actually went to see them?’

‘At their offices, yes.’

‘You walked into publishers’ offices with your . . .’ Seb eyed the bin liners and decided not to describe the submission. ‘And you asked them to read that?’

Ewan nodded. ‘They didn’t understand. If they’d read it they would have recognized something special, something a bit different from all the crap they churn out. You see, there’s nothing like it out there.’

‘Out there? You’re aware of everything out there, I assume?’

Ewan sneered. ‘All that silly middle-class crap. Stupid fantasy. It’s not real. I’ve been in plenty of bookshops. It all misses the point.’

Seb felt a profound pity take him over, one that depressed him but also brought him close to hysterical laughter. Ewan had broken new ground on the frustration, futility and desperation of becoming a writer.

And nothing was ever going to be as vital as his manuscript. Ewan’s discoloured eyes had lit with an unstable intensity. He leaned forwards and tapped the soiled paper. ‘This really happened. Everything in there is the truth. What it’s all about, life, existence, consciousness, and what comes next. All the evidence of everything that matters is in those bags. And we need to get started. There’s no time to waste. I’ve been through . . . you just can’t imagine . . . just to get here. I don’t want to waste any more time. I want to get this out there quickly. This is a great opportunity.’

‘For whom?’

Ewan didn’t seem to hear him. ‘The writing’s fine. In fact, it’s very good, I think you will find. But the material needs reorganizing. What you do with your books, you know, the structure? That sort of thing. It needs that.’

‘Structuring, revising, and even typing up? Big job.’

Ewan remained insensitive to Seb’s sarcasm. ‘But when it’s done it’ll be something else. And you’ve done this before. On those.’ He wafted a hand dismissively in the direction of the bookshelves. ‘It won’t be a problem for you. And my book is nearly there. I’m a bit tired. I need a break from it. But all this needs is a little TLC. Though I’ll be reading what you’ve done to see if it’s right. We can go through it, section by section, after you’ve finished and I’ll check it over.

‘I call them verses, not chapters. You’ll find it’s a bit of everything, poetry, philosophy, you name it. Unique. You could even say it’s theological, a religion. It’ll be one, I’m sure of it. And when it’s all nicely typed and ready, we’ll take it to your agent. He can negotiate with your publisher, like he does with your stuff. But that’s ten years’ work on that table and in those files. I don’t want to get ripped off.’

Seb had nothing more to say. He’d run dry of everything, language, hope, even feeling that particular kind of despair constructed from boredom and pity. He yawned, stood up and left the room.

Ewan appeared puzzled by Seb’s departure. ‘Where are you going?’

Downstairs, Seb closed the door to his room and killed the lights. Still wearing his dressing gown, he slumped onto the bed. Physical and mental exhaustion slowed his thoughts towards paralysis. He slipped earphones inside his ears and selected Beethoven on his MP3 player.