Under a Watchful Eye(75)
Seb laughed humourlessly. ‘Oh, you’d get a kick out of it. It’d be weird enough for you, all right. It’d be cool.’
Seb then paused to wonder about his reputation. Mark was a writer. Would Mark find the temptation too great to resist going online to mention their meeting in social media, to write an article about his visit?
Seb Logan has lost the plot. His unhealthy obsession with a minor horror writer, astral projector and leader of the nefarious SPR cult led to the author’s unravelling in a hotel room in Manchester.
How could he think of his reputation at a time like this?
Seb felt guilty for thinking so badly of the man who had been nothing but friendly and helpful, particularly given the sudden and odd appearance he’d made in Mark’s life. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I’m going through . . . a lot right now. And I’m not sure what to do.’
‘I’ll keep confidential, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Mark sat down upon the chair drawn out from the table. ‘It hasn’t escaped me that you’re under a lot of strain, Seb. I thought it might have been about your writing, but I am guessing this is something personal that I have no right to ask about.’
‘Neither, really. It’s not what you think. I wish it was. I’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s just not normal, or logical. It shouldn’t be happening, but it is. And it started when Ewan appeared . . . I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t say any more.’
Mark fidgeted. ‘I’m a good listener, Seb. And maybe I can help. You never know. Try me.’
When Seb had finished his account it had gone six and he was close to missing his train. He realized he didn’t care. He’d come loose from the world he knew. At one time catching a train would have caused him paroxysms of anxiety. But the train would take him home and from there he must journey to the Tor. That was inevitable. Like a character in one of Hazzard’s stories, he must seek his fate in the unknown. He must go and find whatever was still in place, what it was that had been left behind.
Mark’s mouth was actually open. Seb had deliberately avoided the man’s eyes, so as not to have been put off while he recounted the events of the last few weeks to this aficionado of the esoteric. Any flicker of discomfort, disbelief, or even mockery in Mark Fry’s expression might have shortened or tempered his confession. But when he’d eventually returned his gaze to Mark, his visitor was clearly unnerved by a story that should have been treated with hilarity, scepticism and a concern for Seb’s mental health. Surely there was a limit to the amount of rope that Mark Fry would feed out before calling time on crazy Sebastian Logan. ‘That’s pretty incredible,’ was all he said.
‘Please don’t tell me that you believe me.’
Mark narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice in the manner of an official about to impart grave news. ‘Seb, I’d be the last person to judge you, but what people think they have seen and experienced, and what they have actually seen and experienced, are often the same thing to them. And I’m less inclined to care about the difference than most people are.’
That was probably the best reaction he could have received from anyone. You withdrew from the mad or you humoured them. Mark had opted for the latter course.
‘And considering what I am known for, Mark, the books I write, you can imagine how impossible it would be for any rational person to accept what I have just confided in you. They’d see a connection between the two things. Cause and effect.’
‘But you think that going to Hunter’s Tor will stop this? These dreams, the visions? Maybe it’ll be like some kind of catharsis? You’ll see that the place is derelict and harmless and that will help you . . .’ Mark winced and rephrased the end of the sentence. ‘Deal with the visions, I mean.’ He’d wanted to say hallucinations. ‘I’m not judging you, Seb. Please don’t think that I am. But have you seen a doctor? Had a scan and stuff?’ That had been hard for Mark to say and Seb didn’t hold it against him.
‘Nothing wrong with my eyes. No headaches, symptoms, head injury, contributing illnesses or conditions. I’m a bit reclusive, but there’s nothing in my lifestyle to explain this if it’s all in my head. It just started happening, a few weeks ago, when Ewan arrived. And then he was actually killed. But not by anything living. And it’s getting worse, Mark. Last night . . .’
‘You were going to say something.’
‘It’s like I am being summoned, you know? My presence is required, somewhere. All signs are pointing to the Tor.’
‘An empty building. It might even be in use now for something else. Who knows? I haven’t checked, or even thought about it much until now. National Trust might have it.’
‘They don’t. I looked. It’s not even on a Google aerial map as anything but a blurry image of something grey. There is nothing online about that building or its legacy. It’s like it doesn’t exist. Don’t you find that odd? It’s as if anyone aware of the place, and I mean aware of what it was used for, is no longer around. And when they were around, they were too terrified of that place to say anything about it. Besides Liza and her two friends, at the end of their lives. But Liza also says, quite clearly, that it never ended for her.’
‘What . . . I mean, what would you do, when you got there?’