The Kings of Eternity by Eric Brown Page B

language to communicate: now he leaned forward, threatening, like a Gestapo interrogator.
    “That was a necessary white lie,” he said.
    “You won’t find out much about me from people on the island,” Langham said. “Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
    The man placed his finger-tips together and contemplated them. “That’s what I’m discovering, Mr Langham. You’re something of an enigma.”
    “I’m a forty year-old middle-class English writer who enjoys his privacy,” he said. “Like most people. End of story.”
    The man regarded him. There was something nerveless about his stare, and unsettling. “Oh, I think you’re a little more interesting than that, actually.”
    Langham took a sip of wine to calm his nerves. He smiled. “Well, you’re welcome to dig, but I don’t think you’ll find anyone to help you.”
    “The discoveries I’ve made so far have been less through talking to people,” he said, “than by analysing your books. Did you know that there are certain textual similarities between your work and that of other writers?”
    Langham fought to maintain an outward air of calm, while inside he was rattled. He smiled again, aware that it must appear forced. “‘Certain textual similarities’ is a rather long-winded way of hinting at plagiarism, isn’t it?”
    The man stood, picked up the book, and moved across to where he’d left his bag. His beer had arrived, and he remained standing while he chugged it down. Then he returned to Langham’s table. He deployed his movements in a way that was, Langham thought, calculated to annoy.
    “Whatever you might like to call it, Mr Langham, I’d like to talk to you about it at length. Would this afternoon at your villa be convenient?”
    “It would not. I’m very busy at the moment.”
    The man considered his fingers. His repulsive nails were tiny and embedded in the surrounding flesh. “The thing is, Mr Langham, if I were to do a feature on you for the Mail , the editor would rather I use the term ‘plagiarism’ than ‘certain textual similarities’.”
    A hand reached into Langham’s chest and squeezed.
    The man said, “Which afternoon would be convenient for you?”
    “I’ll be working every day for the next week. Perhaps some time after that.”
    The man nodded and stood. “I’ll be in touch.” He retrieved his hold-all and moved from the taverna, slouching along the waterfront and disappearing behind a line of buildings. Langham wondered if, out of sight, he was rubbing his hands at his little victory, or if such lavish gestures were not part of his repertoire. Perhaps he would be smiling quietly to himself.
    He drained his wine and ordered another. He could not finish the little of his meal that remained, and his hand, as it took up the refilled glass, was shaking.
    He returned to his villa and sat on the sofa overlooking the sea, contemplating what the journalist had said and wondering how much he might have discovered. If the unearthing of ‘certain textual similarities’ was all he had come up with, then Langham could rest easy.
    The danger was that he might have used the textual similarities as a starting point and come up with much, much more.
    Later that afternoon he concentrated on his work, then cooked himself a meal and retired early. He slept badly, the little sleep that he did manage inhabited by menacing spectres from the past.
    In the morning his writing went slowly; every line seemed forced and unoriginal and he cursed the bastard Englishman for having such an effect on his work. By twelve he’d completed his four page quota, with a small sense of achievement at having done so against the odds, and then set off for the village to phone his agent.
    He was dreading the thought of encountering the journalist again, but there was no sign of him as he entered the taverna and slipped into the phone booth.
    Five minutes later he was through to London.
    He was aware of his thudding heart. Let her be what she claims