Under a Watchful Eye(44)

‘Seb, I’m sorry. But I really do, genuinely, have to go. Now.’ It sounded as if she were running up some stairs, somewhere in distant London. He could hear her heels and her breathlessness. ‘And I’ll admit, I don’t have a clue what to say to you. I don’t even know what you want me to say. Sorry. We never . . . Well, we were never that . . . Close isn’t the right word, is it? But you know what I mean. It makes it hard for me to . . . understand this place where you are right now.’

Seb tried to swallow a lump of misery, the size of a plum, that had formed in his throat.

Becky switched tack and tried to make him feel better. ‘But we did try and talk about this, didn’t we? You remember? And I’m not sure what I can tell you now, that I haven’t already said.’ Was that a sliver of embarrassed condescension for his piteous need for support? Or was he only imagining a serious reduction in her respect for him?

Seb levelled his tone. ‘I just wanted to talk to someone. To tell you what it’s been like. That was all. A friend. Someone who might understand.’ And as soon as he’d spoken he recognized and disliked the passive aggression in his voice.

‘Seb, don’t be like that. Please. We don’t know what happened, but whatever we thought happened, or saw . . . it frightened me. It really did. I know that much. It still does. I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t know what you are . . . going through right now—’

‘Going through? You think I am making it up?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I’ve done nothing. It all just started to happen when he appeared. I told you.’

‘He? This guy you told me about, the university friend who never did the dishes? Well, yes. You started seeing him, and things . . .’ She could barely bring herself to say it because she thought he was mentally ill.

Seb barely heard what she said next and only comprehended it after she’d finished speaking. ‘You weren’t yourself, Seb. Not at all, when I was with you. I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking that sometimes when people are unwell, they create an atmosphere around themselves that’s a difficult place, a bad place even, for other people to be in. It kind of infects everyone else, you know?’

‘But it’s not me, it—’

‘And that’s how I explain this to myself. It’s like that weekend was all a part of where you are right now. Where your head is.’

‘Becky! For God’s sake, this is serious. He came here, to my house. Physically. He wanted me to do things for him. He made demands. Blackmail. He demanded money from me today. He’s been making threats . . . Those reviews, well guess who wrote those? He—’

‘Seb, sorry. I have to get off the phone. This is all terrible and don’t think that I am being unsympathetic, but I think you need to see someone. A doctor. I really do. And if someone is trying to get at you, and whatever, then you need to call the police. Not me. I don’t know what you want me to do? Sorry, I really have to go. Bye.’ Becky ended the call.





Part 2


THIS PRISON OF THE FLESH





11


I Am Not Here Any More


Seb listed several prompts for himself on the hotel notepad. They were reminders of what he wanted to say and might deter him from saying other things, or the wrong thing, when he spoke to a police officer. The list helped him organize his thoughts, if one even lingered long enough to be seized. His mind was alternating between states; it was either a hornet nest that had been tapped hard with a stick, or a sluggish trickle of basic sentience.

A voice with a local accent answered the call he’d made to the police station in Brixham, and Seb cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to make a complaint.’

Complain he did. And so encouraged was he by the unexpected strength of his voice, and the apparent interest at the other end of the line, that he was asked the same question three times before the query registered. ‘You say the man’s name is Ewan Alexander?’

‘Yes, yes. That’s right.’ At this point Seb understood that the name was already known to the local constabulary.

‘Stay on the line, please. I’m putting you through to the DCI.’

After returning home from the Berry Head Nature Reserve, Seb had drunk steadily throughout the previous day and rendered himself unfit to contact the police at that time. Unable to countenance another night in his own home, he’d also taken a cab across the bay and checked into a hotel in Torquay. He’d then spent a night in a large and comfortable room. A night that passed without the kind of disruption he now dreaded to the point of nausea. After a long and heavy sleep he’d woken refreshed at noon.

He still retained a sense that his sleep had been marred by hectic activity at various times during the early morning. Though he had no recollection of any specific details of what had bustled within his sleeping mind. For that he was relieved, and he hoped for a repeat experience at the same hotel tonight.

If Ewan had returned to the house while Seb hid in Torquay, the spare key that Ewan had stolen would no longer fit the front door lock. Emergency locksmiths had been busy the previous afternoon. While they worked, Seb had pretended to neaten the edges of his lawn with the moon implement. So Ewan wasn’t setting foot inside the house again, at least not physically.