After being shown into a modest study come library he checked the dictaphone's batteries, twice, pulled out a fresh notepad and a pen.
Entering the room, David Grayson, a literary giant looked frail as he seated himself in a worn chair behind a desk.
"I didn't ask you here for an interview. I plan on making a confession."
"A confession, Sir?" Miles was surprised. He couldn't recall being surprised in his previous 20 interviews. Yet, this ancient man, icon to millions, surprised him.
Grayson smiled back wearily. The quiet rumors in the publishing world were that he had a blood disease and hadn't long left.
A long string of successful novels would soon come to an end.
Death will do that.
Leaning heavily against the desk, Grayson tapped an old typewriter, an antique remarkable in this age of technology. Remarkable yet 44 million sales Worldwide had arisen from its ribbons and keys.
"Once I'd planned on being a scientist not a writer."
"A scientist, Sir?" The statement confused Miles.
"Yes," he sighed. "I was reading physics at Kings college, but left in the first year after purchasing this accursed typewriter." Grayson wheezed softly.
Miles remained silent waiting.
"I suppose you'd like to know why this typewriter is cursed.
Well, it's quite simple really. It's possessed. Some spirit of a restless writer. It's quite sad. They can never find peace. I needed a typewriter back then you see. Money was tight, so I searched the pawn shops in Camden. I was warned when I enquired about its history and but stubbornness and my logical mind made me disbelieve. So I bought it and discovered its secret."
" Weeks after I quit Kings, to my parents dismay. I was obsessed. Writing compelled me.
Physically I was sick if i didn't write. At night I dreamed of new worlds. My dreams became reality in the pages of my first novel. All the time this typewriter urging me on."
"Sometimes I wouldn't eat or sleep. It wouldn't let me." As he talked his voice cracked . Then suddenly he slumped back into his chair.
"Sir, are you unwell?" Miles stood up.
"No, I'm simply dying." Smiling weakly he waved Miles away.
"So, you'll tell all? Reveal my dark secret. I'm not an author. The typewriter wrote for me."
"I will," Miles replied frowning.
Soon after he left.
Weeks later David Grayson died, whilst Giles received a parcel in the post. The typewriter.
The editor from his newspaper called leaving a message, asking for the last interview with the great man.
Looking at his notes Miles didn't want to write. It felt wrong to write the truth, a betrayal as such.
But the typewriter wanted to write, as always. So it did.