When Seb had looked up, Ewan had gone.
Seb had returned to the house, no more than half a mile away, and to a place that Ewan must have been telling Seb was now within his reach.
That same afternoon, Seb had intensified his frantic online search for any information on Ewan Alexander. As with the other investigations, he’d found no trace of his old roommate. But, as he’d worked with the door to his office open, three bath-sheets drying on the balcony had moved at the edge of his vision. He’d swivelled his chair towards them, struck by a conviction that the towels had raised their corners, like hands, to beckon him.
Solely the work of his imagination, transforming the raw material of the inexplicable into the animation of ordinary objects. But he’d rushed to the balcony . . . only to hesitate when the sun umbrella under the pergola next door became a tall figure, bowing a concealed head.
Another illusion. But his blinds had come down in every window of the house that afternoon, and had not been drawn until Becky arrived on Saturday.
Too nervous to feel shame at his desultory attempt at sex, Seb had continued to top up their glasses. Having lived alone for twenty years, he’d vowed never to uncap a bottle before four p.m. Any self-imposed abstinence was long dead by that weekend. Becky had showered in silence and then dressed-down.
They had gone out for an early dinner in Brixham harbour, saying little to each other during the walk down the hill. Nodding now and again to acknowledge Becky’s stilted observations about the loveliness of the quay, his focus had remained on the faces around them. Becky’s disappointment in him was palpable but the least of Seb’s worries, considering who might appear within the evening crowd at any time.
Guiltily, he’d also acknowledged that her corroboration was a motive for inviting her to stay. He’d wanted Ewan to appear so that Becky would see him. If she couldn’t see him, then only God knew what was wrong with his mind. Of course, if she did see him and Ewan was really there, it wasn’t great news either, but at least it would mean he wasn’t going mad.
In the restaurant, Seb had pushed his lobster round the plate, while anxiously sipping several pints of Bays Gold. At some point between the first course and dessert, Becky’s patience had reached fumes.
‘I’m not going to ask you again, but something is wrong, Seb. You’re different. Are you upset with me?’
‘God, no.’
Her concern turned to irritation. ‘You’ve got something to tell me. Are you breaking up with me? Couldn’t you have done it on the bloody phone? I’d have thought an email would have been your chosen medium.’
‘No, no, no. Please. Don’t think that.’
‘Then what is it?’ She’d reached out and touched his hand, one that had barely released a glass since the mutually unsatisfactory tumble in bed that afternoon. And that’s when his confession had begun to seep out.
‘I’m worried about . . . something. My health. Mental health.’
‘What is it? Has it come back? The depression?’
‘I haven’t seen a doctor. Not yet, because I’m not sure a doctor can help.’ Seb shrugged. ‘I think something has come back into my life. Someone.’
‘A woman.’
‘I wish it was that simple. Then I could do something.’
‘Do something?’
‘Forget the woman. There is no woman. I’m talking about a man.’
She’d looked relieved, but remained uncomfortable.
‘And no, I am not coming out. You think that’s why . . . back there, at the house? This has nothing to do with sex.’ He’d paused to swallow a draught of beer. ‘Becky, have you ever . . . hallucinated?’
‘How much are you drinking, Seb? You haven’t stopped since I got here. You know, living on your own, and writing those books, having to think about horrible things all day and night, while drinking, how can that be good for you?’
At that point, Seb covered his face with his hands, prickling with shame at how close he was to tears. The sympathetic ear, the warm familiarity of a companion combined with the drink, and he couldn’t speak.
He’d gulped at his beer to rinse away the constriction in his throat. ‘No, it’s not that. It must look like that, but it’s not. There was someone. Many years ago. A friend even, who . . . who I keep seeing now. Everywhere. But he can’t be there. It’s crazy.’
Even Becky had looked pale. ‘You’re telling me you’re seeing someone who died?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had no contact with him for years. The last time was brief. He showed up at my place in London about twelve years ago. I tried to help him, but then I had to get rid of him.’
‘Why?’
‘He was in a bad way. Drink. Drugs. That sort of thing. He’d wanted my help, but I didn’t have any money. Not then. But I gave him somewhere to stay, for a bit. And tried to counsel him, that sort of thing. It was no use. He called me afterwards, the following year, and . . . I could have sworn that he was insane.’