A noise erupted from the room where Ewan slept. A deep moan that rose and broke into a whine. The sound of an animal in pain.
By the time Seb was peering through the doorway, Ewan was making the noise of a man choking to death. His freakishly double-jointed hands had also bent inwards and shook about. Tremors returned along his forearms to his shoulders. His spine suffered a spasm, arching his body into the air. Gangly legs kicked spastically into the duvet, before bending at the knee and thrusting out from his pelvis at odd angles. His eyes opened and rolled white as the muscles in his face convulsed. Froth gathered in the messy beard.
Staring in shock and revulsion, Seb feared Ewan’s neck was close to snapping when it pulled the big head backwards. The entire weight of his upper body appeared to be supported by the crown of his skull. One of Ewan’s lower legs bent back behind his thigh and his body jumped as if electrocuted, onto its side. The muscles of his arms shuddered violently and the contorted form propelled itself, or bounced, off the bed and onto the floor. Out of sight, a coconut crack issued from the connection of a skull with a wooden floor.
The seizure – because Seb was certain that he was witnessing one – continued on the floor, where Ewan’s body thumped about, his thin legs kicking while his torso bent backwards from the waist. The bearded face gulped at the air between mouthing words.
The electricity in Ewan’s nervous system gradually earthed. The spasms of his muscles subsided, and soon his body merely twitched.
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.’