In the kitchen Anna was quietly plotting to get rid of him. A brief talk, then she would contact the publisher and ask for someone more suitable. When she bore her best china cautiously back into the room she found him on his feet, examining things. 'Here we are,' she said, speaking drily, trying to call him back to his place.'Who's this guy?' Dick asked, staring at a happy, rounded man having his photograph taken on a boat with a huge fish at his feet.'That is my Uncle Max,' Anna said impatiently. 'Here is your coffee.''Great. I need a cup. Strong and black.' Dick was feeling his reckless self coming out: so what is she thinks I'm a scruff? Push some buttons and see what the old cow's made of.Anna regretted that he must place his stained body upon her newly-cleaned velvet. She was grateful for having no sense of smell.'Tell me what you have written, Mr Michaels?' He noticed the challenge.'All sorts of rubbish,' he said unhelpfully, wishing to add the word 'rubbish', but showing admirable restraint. 'I write anything that's required.' As he spoke he noticed an unrealised pride in his humble craft. 'I turn things into readable English so people will be interested. You see, not everyone who has had an interesting life knows how to make it sound good; that's my job.' He could see her expression soften. Something simian amid the fine features? 'I make a great effort not to change the original intention, of course...''You call that a ghost, I think?''Yeah. The ghost brings people's lives to life.
Steven Swift
writer