Under a Watchful Eye(31)
Seb was clutching the doorframe with fingertips that had turned painfully white. He also acknowledged a desire for Ewan to die, right there. The moans rising from the floor, that evolved into sobs, only caused him disappointment. Suppressing the vengeful feeling, he entered the room.
Ewan lay still and wept. The only movement remained in his long hands as they gingerly pawed about his head, in the place where it had connected with the floor and maybe the headboard too.
Ewan was unaware of where he was. His eyes were wide open, the stare unfocused, tears adding a sheen to his cheekbones. On the carpet beside him lay a small plastic baggie. It contained speckles of a blue-white powder.
Maybe chemical assistance was required for him to perform this unnatural transference. Seb had clearly seen Ewan in the entrance of the kitchen, and again, though less distinctly, in the hallway between the bedrooms. He had seen these apparitions while Ewan lay upon this very bed.
Seb recalled Ewan’s silhouette standing in his room when Becky had visited. But from where had he travelled then?
He wondered if he should call an ambulance. He supposed he should, but resisted the idea because a sullen, recalcitrant part of him wanted Ewan to remain incapacitated as oxygen deprivation caused permanent damage to his brain.
For a while, he did nothing while a confirmation of the impossible sank through him. He just stared at the reduced, traumatized, weeping figure, until prolonged exposure to it initiated a shiver of disgust across his skin.
A fuller awareness returned to Ewan’s eyes. When he tried to speak, he croaked. Raising one limp hand he managed to say, ‘Water.’
‘Is that what happens when you do this? When you perform your great miracles?’ Seb asked, and recognized the goading tone in his voice.
Ewan said, ‘Help me,’ piteously. And it was only then that Seb saw a fellow human being in distress, one hurt and frightened and helpless. It was only then that he went to fetch water.
9
Sinking in Darkness, Rising in the White Room
Jittery himself, Seb helped Ewan back onto the bed. His own shock was steadily becoming a trauma. He couldn’t see the end of it.
He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, wishing he could cleanse away the entire mess that Ewan had imposed upon his life. Even his shirt reeked of the man. He stripped it off and dropped it into the linen basket in his bedroom.
All this time, his head crowded with options: calling an ambulance, driving Ewan to a hospital, finding Ewan’s mother – she must be nearly ninety – scouring the local listings for hostels, and perhaps even initiating a committal by a psychiatrist.
When he returned to the guest bedroom, Ewan was asleep. Mouth open, head back, his body limp upon the covers, he snored quietly, whistling through his nose.
I wish you’d died.
Seb shut the curtains, closed the door and went into the living room. Pouring himself a large brandy, he peered into the corners of the room and out to the balcony. His eyes finally rested on the darkened kitchen doorway at the far end of the dining room. Where next? And would he come again in that horrible, hooded form? The thought prompted Seb to say, ‘Never. Not again. That was the last time. It has to be.’
He briefly imagined bringing one of his heavy crystal awards down upon that greasy head that was staining an Egyptian cotton pillowcase in his spare room. A revenge fantasy because he’d never do it. Or could he, if pushed any further?
Would death be any kind of barrier to Ewan’s influence? Was there any way of permanently getting rid of him, besides subjugating himself to Ewan’s demands and hoping for the best? Seb had to assume that a long period of time was destined to elapse before his usefulness to a man with a unique ability to terrorize his victims was exhausted.
He checked on Ewan throughout the evening, repeatedly cracking the door to peer inside. He listened to the whistles, throat clearing and mumbles that arose from the man’s sleep. Alcohol, perspiration and the sebaceous miasmas of neglect eventually encouraged him to keep the door closed. He wished he’d opened a window in the room, but didn’t want to go back inside until Ewan was awake. God knows what might happen if he did.
Sick with apprehension, Seb cobbled together a light tea in the kitchen. When he discovered three hairs that were not his in the butter he lost his appetite.
Just before midnight, Ewan roused. Seb heard the bedroom door click open on the floor below.
He raced down to catch sight of Ewan going into the bathroom, hobbling, head lowered, shoulders slumped. After a cascading urination, Ewan shuffled back out.
Seb called out from the bottom of the staircase. ‘Ewan!’
He was ignored. Glum, haggard and hatless, Ewan continued on his way down the passage and re-entered his room. He shut the door. The muffled noise of bedsprings depressing were detectable as the uninvited guest returned his weight to the mattress.
It was the continuing contempt, the callous disregard for his feelings and rights, the man’s affected ignorance of deep social transgressions, that broke another chunk from Seb’s levee. He flooded again with a hot white anger.
He thumped down the passage and threw the door open. ‘After what you pulled this afternoon, you are not staying here!’ But even as he spoke he could see that Ewan was in no fit state to move. He was exhausted, ill and bedridden. Close to a complete physical collapse.
He’s making you responsible. Co-dependent, again.