The Ghost

metal shutter dropping from the ceiling. It descended very quickly, blocking first the view of the sky, then the sea and the dunes, flattening the winter afternoon to dusk, crushing the last sliver of light to blackness. I groped for the door and when I flung it open the unfiltered sound of the siren was strong enough to vibrate my stomach.
    The same process was happening in the living room: one, two, three shutters falling like steel curtains. I stumbled in the gloom, cracking my knee against a sharp edge. I dropped my phone. As I stooped to retrieve it, the klaxon stalled on a rising note and died with a moan. I heard heavy footsteps coming up the steps, and then a saber of light flashed into the big room, catching me in a furtive crouch, my arms flung up to shield my face: a parody of guilt.
    “Sorry, sir,” came a policeman’s puzzled voice from the darkness. “Didn’t realize there was anyone up here.”

    IT WAS A DRILL. They held it once a week. “Lockdown,” I think they called it. Rhinehart’s security people had installed the system to protect him against terrorist attack, kidnap, hurricanes, unionized labor, the Securities and Exchange Commission, or whatever passing nightmare currently stalked the restless nights of the Fortune 500. As the shutters rose and the pale wash of Atlantic light was released back into the house, Amelia came into the living room to apologize for not having warned me. “It must have made you jump.”
    “You could say that.”
    “But then I did rather lose track of you.” There was an edge of suspicion to her manicured voice.
    “It’s a big house. I’m a big boy. You can’t keep an eye on me all the time.” I tried to sound relaxed, but I knew I radiated unease.
    “A word of advice.” Her glossy pink lips parted in a smile, but her big, clear blue eyes were as cold as crystal. “Don’t go wandering round too much on your own. The security boys don’t like it.”
    “Gotcha.” I smiled back.
    There was a squeak of rubber soles on polished wood and Lang came hurtling up the stairs at a tremendous rate, taking them two or three at a time. He had a towel around his neck. His face was flushed, his thick and wavy hair damped and darkened by sweat. He seemed angry about something.
    “Did you win?” asked Amelia.
    “Didn’t play tennis in the end.” He blew out his breath, dropped into the nearby sofa, bent forward, and started vigorously toweling his head. “Gym.”
    Gym? I looked at him in amazement. Hadn’t he already been for a run before I arrived? What was he in training for? The Olympics?
    I said, in a jovial way, designed to show Amelia how unfazed I was, “So, are you ready to get back to work?”
    He glanced up at me furiously and snapped, “You call what we’re doing work ?”
    It was the first time I’d ever seen a flash of bad temper from him, and it struck me with the force of a revelation that all this running and pressing and lifting had nothing whatever to do with training; he wasn’t even doing it for enjoyment. It was simply what his metabolism demanded. He was like some rare marine specimen fished up from the depths of the ocean, which could live only under extreme pressure. Deposited on the shore, exposed to the thin air of normal life, Lang was in constant danger of expiring from sheer boredom.
    “Well, I certainly call it work,” I said stiffly. “For both of us. But if you think it’s not intellectually demanding enough for you, we can stop now.”
    I thought I might have gone too far, but then with a great effort of self-control—so great, you could practically see the intricate machinery of his facial muscles, all the little levers and pulleys and cables, working together—he managed to hoist a tired grin back onto his face. “All right, man,” he said tonelessly. “You win.” He flicked me with his towel. “I was only kidding. Let’s get back to it.”

SEVEN
    Quite often, particularly if you are helping them write a memoir or autobiography, the author will dissolve into tears when telling the story…Your job under these circumstances is to pass the tissues, keep quiet and keep recording.
    Ghostwriting
    “WERE YOUR PARENTS AT all political?”
    We were once again in the study, in our usual positions. He was sprawled out in the armchair, still wearing his tracksuit, the towel still draped round his neck. He exuded a faint aroma of sweat. I sat opposite with my notebook and list of questions. The minirecorder was on