The Grin of the Dark (10 page)

I squeeze my eyes shut as a preamble to hopping about and then
rubbing my kneecap. If my antics divert Tracy, that makes me even
angrier. When I straighten up and blink my vision clear, however, he
looks merely bemused, as if his own performance that lasted however
many minutes never took place. 'Was that it?' I ask.

His mouth considers grinning and his eyes widen a fraction. 'Want
some more?'

'I think we can move on. Would you mind if I ride in the front this
time?'

'I'm not letting the projector out of my sight. It's my oldest mate
and my best one.' He stumps to the back of the van and waits for me
to climb in. 'It's not far,' he says, and I'm hardly inside when he slams
the doors and leaves me in the dark.

I'm back in the corner when the van swings out of the lay-by. At
least it's heading downhill. I brace myself, because it feels as if it's
straying back and forth across the road. A car rushes past, and
another, or are they gusts of wind across the moor? Here's one so
violent and prolonged it seems almost to force the van into the
ditch, but it could be a lorry that's passing too close. I flatten my
hands against the metal walls until it relents. A series of vehicles
races by, unless they're sections of wall or other objects alongside
the road. The sounds are settling into a rhythm that reminds me of
waves or breaths; in the darkness it's nearly hypnotic. The sounds
are growing louder only because I'm more aware of them. They
aren't inside the van, either shut in with me or accompanying the
driver. But there is a noise in his cabin, and the van jerks as if
expressing my alarm.

It's the two-note pulse of a mobile receiving a text. I hope Tracy
won't attempt to read it while he's driving, but the van swerves so
abruptly that I'm afraid he's trying. 'Careful,' I shout, which appears
to provoke a response – a lurch that almost dislodges me from the
corner and sends a pang through my knee. Have we turned off the
main road? If this is a side route, why haven't we slowed down? The
metal walls are booming with vibrations from the wind or the surface
we're speeding over, and the oppressive uproar leaves no room in my
head for thoughts. Then the van performs a manoeuvre so violent and
unexpected that I can't identify it until it's finished. We've backed full
tilt around a bend to a standstill that throws me halfway across the
floor.

I hear the driver's door slide open as I back into the corner. I won't
risk leaving its relative safety until I'm sure we're parked. The van
resounds with the wind, blotting out Tracy's footsteps. I wait for him
to unlock the rear doors, and once I've waited long enough I thump
the side of the van with a fist. 'Hello?' I shout. 'I'm still in here.
Hello?'

Perhaps the wind is rendering my protests as inaudible as any
sounds outside the van are to me. I pound the metal until it reverberates
like a drum, deafening me to my own shouts. The rear doors
take up the rhythm as my fist begins to ache. Aren't they rattling
somewhat too loosely? I shuffle forwards in a sitting position and
twist the handles. The doors swing wide, almost dragging me out of
the van. I sprawl backwards as if I've emerged on the edge of a sheer
drop, because the view is at least as disconcerting.

I'm in a graveyard. I'm facing away from the entrance, down the
central avenue that leads to a long low white church with a concrete
pyramid for a spire, which is tipped with a phone mast. Against the
backdrop of a sky that could represent the night, the low sun lends a
flat glare to the building. A wind blunders among the monuments,
leaning on the scattered trees as if to demonstrate how photographically
still the rest of the graveyard is. The wind shakes the van as I
poke my legs over the edge of the floor and wobble to my feet on the
black path.

Were the doors unlocked while Tracy was driving? I march in a
rage to the front of the van, but there's no sign of him or of a phone.
He can't have gone far; the projector is still strapped into the
passenger seat. I heave his door shut, less to safeguard his property
than in case the noise recalls him. When he doesn't appear I hurry to
the churchyard gates.

I'm at the summit of a factory town. Narrow streets of grey
houses, concertinas of stone, slope bluffly to darker elongated
buildings with towering chimneys that wave pennants of black
smoke. At the foot of the hill a train runs the unexposed frames of
film that are its windows through the ends of the streets. Otherwise I
can see no movement and no sign of Tracy. The road bordering the
churchyard leads both ways to the moors, and it's deserted. I can only
assume he's among the graves or in the church.

I shouldn't raise my voice here. The wind urges me along the
avenue as I struggle to choose my pace. In front of their black pits of
shadow the glaring monuments look as flat as the sky. The shadows
of the stooped trees flail them and the grass, which is dusty with frost.
What's being celebrated in the church? Blurred silhouettes are jerking
back and forth on the abstract stained-glass windows, beyond which
I hear the slaps of many feet on boards. The congregation or
whoever's inside is dancing. Is the nondescript door creeping open, or
is that a shadow? As I wonder if I'm about to be invited to participate,
a phone begins to play its tune behind the church. The melody
tells me all I need to know. It's the Cuckoo Song – the Laurel and
Hardy theme. Someone in white gloves is indeed opening the door,
but I don't want to talk to anyone except Tracy, and I hurry past the
church.

The graveyard behind it leads to the moors, above which a crow is
flying backwards on the wind. Against the open sky suffused with
darkness the carved angels that guard the area look unreal, unnaturally
bright dimensionless images matted into the setting. I expect to
find Tracy behind one of them, but there are only distended shadows
within which the turf seems featureless as slabs of the sky. Beyond the
ranks of angels are new graves with rudimentary headstones, but no
Tracy. The phone continues to emit its ditty, which has begun to
sound mocking amid so much desertion. I can't hear any music from
the church, although the silhouettes are bobbing about more feverishly
than ever, presumably in some kind of rehearsal. I forget about
them as I locate where the Cuckoo Song is coming from.

One of the newest graves is producing it – at least, the mobile is
propped against the headstone. As I tramp across the springy turf, ice
whispers beneath my feet. Sunlight flares on the headstone until my
shadow douses it. I have to blink in order to distinguish the name and
dates. The grave belongs to Sean Nolan, who died this year.

I'm uselessly distracted by having misspelled his first name in my
head. I haven't finished staring at the curt summary of his seventyfour
years when the mobile falls silent at last. Should I have answered
it? The caller seemed determined to be heard. I pick it up from the
rectangle of gravel and advance to the end of the graveyard in search
of Tracy, but beyond the thorny hedge the moor is deserted. Only the
crow is battling the wind, sailing forwards and retreating like an
image on a film an editor is running through a viewer. I thumb the
key to recall the last number that rang, and the digits blacken the
miniature screen as a tremor passes across the moor. Before I can read
them they crumble into random bits of blackness, and the phone goes
dead.

It could be the same boat on the Thames, and I'm close to
imagining that the identical reveller is grinning at me through the
elongated window as I approach Natalie's apartment. I haven't time
to dispel the notion; I'm late enough as it is. I was still waiting for
Charley Tracy to return when it occurred to me that I might miss
the last connection home. I would have left his phone in the church
if the door hadn't proved to be locked. Presumably whoever had
been in there slipped away while I was surveying the moor.
Eventually I left the mobile in the darkest corner of the back of the
van, because I'd locked the driver's door by slamming it earlier, and
hurried downhill. I had to wait almost an hour for a train to
Manchester, and the London train was too late for me to catch one
to Egham. I spent far too much of the journey in trying to call
Tracy's numbers and reviving their recorded messages, but at least
I was able to speak to Natalie and let her know I would be missing
my last train. 'Stay here,' she said, of course.

I'm reaching for the bellpush when someone opens the outer door.
He's taller and broader than me, with shiny cropped black hair. His
black leather overcoat extends below his knees and is buttoned up to
the neck, which gives his rusty pared-down almost rectangular face a
constricted look. 'Thanks,' I say and make to pass him.

His face stiffens like a guard's, and he blocks the entrance. 'Whom
do you want?'

I'm tired and more than a little bewildered by the events of the day,
and in any case I can do without his attitude. 'How do you know I
don't live here?'

He bars the way with one arm while he stands in front of the
name-plates for the apartments. 'If you do you'll be able to tell me
your name.'

'I didn't say I did. I'm asking why you should think I don't.'

'Instinct, old boy. You need it in my job.'

I'm not about to ask what that is. 'Well, this time it's let you down.
Now if you'll excuse me – '

'I think not,' he says and pulls the door shut at his back.

I do my best to laugh, but the last slow ripple in the wake of the
boat is louder. 'That's what you do for fun, is it? Good night then.'

'I believe I'll wait to see you move on.'

'Who the bollocks do you think you are?' I enquire so low that I
can barely hear my own question.

'I think I should be asking you that without the unnecessary language.'

Is it anger or the light from the plastic slab above the entrance that's
applying such a pallor to his face? The glow makes his wiry pad of hair
look artificial as a clown's, if shorter. 'I'm staying with Natalie
Halloran,' I resent having to tell him.

'She said nothing about it to me.' Before I can demand why he
should expect this he says 'I still don't have your name.'

That's because he isn't entitled to it. 'Leslie Stone,' I say with all
the conviction I can summon up.

He twists around and pokes Natalie's bellpush with one blackgloved
thumb. As I mime rage at his back her diminished tinny voice
says 'Hello?'

'Nalatie, it's Nicholas. I have a chappie here who says you know
him. Does Leslie ring a bell?'

'I'm not expecting anyone called that.'

'Natalie, it's Simon.'

Nicholas turns his head to display his forthright profile. 'Then why
did you give me a different name?'

'Natalie knows why. It's our joke.'

Perhaps it isn't, because there's silence apart from the lapping of
water. It seems to me that Natalie waits far too long to say 'All right,
Nicholas. I know him.'

She releases the outer door with a buzz, but Nicholas steps in front
of it. 'Are you certain you should let him in when you and Mark are
by yourselves? He seems somewhat unstable to me.'

'I'm sure I can handle him.'

I want to believe she's mocking his insufferable concern as well as
giving me a promise. When he moves aside in slow motion I push the
door, and push it harder, and manage not to kick it. 'You've let it
lock again, you busy bloodybody.'

I'm even more enraged to have to laugh at my own disarrayed words.
I clench my fists while he fingers the button once more. In a few seconds
Natalie says wearily 'What's wrong now?'

'Your friend doesn't seem to have made his entrance.'

'What on earth are the two of you playing at down there?'

The instant the door buzzes I try to leave my rage behind. Surely
my attitude to this character can't have harmed Natalie's career, but
as I step into the hall I turn to him. 'Did she get her interview?'

'She's had it, yes. As far as I'm concerned she's hired.'

I might pursue this if she didn't send a whisper down the stairs.
'Simon, is that where you're going to spend the night?'

'I'm sure I'll be seeing you at work, Nalatie.' Nicholas lifts a hand
in either an understated wave or a warning. 'You have my number,
so don't hesitate to use it.'

I refrain from retorting that I've got it as well. The leathery creaks
of his coat accompany him like a soundtrack recorded too closely as
he heads towards Tower Bridge. Natalie is waiting in her doorway,
but her first words aren't too welcoming. 'What did you think you
were doing, Simon?'

'Sorry if I disturbed Black Leather Man. I wasn't expecting him.'

'Just come in before you start,' she murmurs and steps back. Once
the door is shut she says no louder 'He took me and Mark for dinner
and then we came back here for a drink. Is there anything else you'd
like to know?'

I have to believe there isn't except 'Did I really hear him call you
Nalatie?'

'He used to send me valentines at school. He was dyslexic, so I
always knew who'd sent them. It's our joke.'

I thought that was my line to share with her. Is she deliberately
repeating it, or didn't she hear me earlier? I try to dismiss the issue by
saying 'I take it your day was successful.'

'They seemed to like what they saw.'

'They would if they have any sense.'

She touches tongues, leaving me a taste of alcohol, and leads me
by the hand into the main room. 'How was yours?'

'Long, and otherwise I honestly don't know.'

'Would you like a drink, or straight to bed?'

'Option number two would make up for a lot.'

'Try not to make too much noise.'

I take it she means on my way to her room. As I sit on the sofa
while she uses the bathroom, I'm reminded by a faint smell of
leather that Nicholas was here first. That's absurd, and I switch on
the television, muting the sound so as not to waken Mark. I've just
identified 'Once A Year Day' from
The Pajama Game
when
Natalie emerges, and I extinguish the sight of performers tumbling
soundlessly over one another in a park. I use the electric toothbrush
I've lodged in the bathroom cupboard, and am tiptoeing
across the corridor when a voice blurred by drowsiness says 'Who's
at?'

'Go to sleep, Mark,' Natalie calls. 'You should have been asleep
hours ago.'

'But who is it?'

'It's me. It's Simon.'

'I want to show you something on my computer.'

'It's far too late,' Natalie intervenes. 'Go back to sleep now.'

'I'll see tomorrow,' I promise Mark and dodge into her room.

She has dimmed the light. In the dusk the stylised roses of the quilt
and the wallpaper seem to glow like her invitingly heavy-eyed face,
but I'm so tired that I could imagine my vision is being drained of
energy. I undress and lay my clothes on top of Natalie's on the chair
at the end of the bed. I slip under the quilt, but when I make to prop
myself up on the mattress she puts a finger to my lips. 'Let's wait to
be sure everything's quiet,' she whispers.

I lower my head to the pillow and drape an arm around her bare
shoulder. As we gaze at each other I feel that the day has finally come
to rest. Then she says not much louder than her minty breath 'Was
your trip worth it?'

'I feel as if I've been changing all day. I got some background. No
more film, though. I hope Mark won't be disappointed.'

Natalie's eyes glimmer with some emotion. 'Why should he be?'

'The tape I told him he could watch again got damaged somehow.
There's no Tubby on it any more.'

'Oh dear, but maybe that'll mean he'll forget about it. He keeps
trying to show me what your find looked like. It stops being funny
after a while.'

'Perhaps you should have taken him to your parents.' That's
unfair, I know, but it's also my cue to add 'By the way, you know
they want me out.'

'They don't know you're here, and even if they did...'

I wouldn't mind hearing the end of that, but I have to explain 'Out
of their house by my birthday.'

'Well, this isn't their house.'

'They bought it, didn't they?'

'They gave it to me. It's up to me who comes in it.'

I can't help wishing this didn't also cover Nicholas, which incites
me to say 'I thought you didn't like arguments.'

'Not if they're unnecessary. Is this going to be one?' She draws
back from me, which is discouraging until I realise that she means to
see or be seen more clearly. 'If something's mine it's mine,' she says.

'There isn't going to be an argument.'

She raises her head further, listening for Mark, and then her soft
cool fingers take hold of my response to her vow. 'Time you stopped
commuting and time I stood up to my parents a bit more.'

'Meanwhile I'm standing up for you.'

'Oh, Simon,' she murmurs, but not too reprovingly, because the
joke is more feeble than its subject. She lies back, and I set about
kissing her freckles one by one, a process that leads beneath the quilt
and makes her clutch at me. I force us both to wait for as long as we
can bear, and I'm kneeling over her when I freeze. 'Is that Mark's
computer?'

Natalie lifts her head from the twilit bank of flowers that is the
pillow. After quite a few seconds she says 'I can't hear anything.'

'I must be tired. Not too tired,' I add hastily and slip into the
waves of her. I'm rediscovering our rhythm when I seem to hear the
noise again, and I strive to be aware only of Natalie – her smooth
limbs holding me tight and tighter, her blue eyes renewing their claim
on mine and all that lives within them, her surges summoning mine.
Afterwards she falls asleep in my arms, and I could easily follow her
into oblivion if it weren't for the noise. Perhaps it's on television; it
sounds artificial enough. It must be in another apartment, even
though I could imagine that the breathlessly protracted bursts of
monotonous laughter are part of the fabric of the walls.