The Grin of the Dark (19 page)

As soon as I hear voices outside the apartment I find the exit from
the net and shut down the computer. I'm feeding myself crumbs
of cheese and biscuit with a fingertip before I clear away my plate and
knife when Warren says 'We won't come in.'

'Maybe just to say goodbye to Simon,' Bebe says.

Mark is first along the hall. 'You should have come,' he tells me. 'I
had a Hilarious Hamburger and some Cosmic Cake.'

Warren's invitation was so obvious an afterthought – 'And of
course you should come as well, Simon' – that I pretended to be
busier than I expected to be. Even the choice of restaurant – The
Kitchen Table, serving Fun Food for Families – seemed painfully
pointed. 'I had to get ready,' I remind Mark. 'Packing and all sorts of
last-minute stuff.'

Warren has followed him after all. 'You don't mind we aren't
taking you home with us, do you?' he informs rather than asks me.
'It would be kind of early for us to get up to run you to the airport.'

'I do understand.'

'Okay, have an easy journey.'

He's turning away without having acknowledged any irony,
although their house in Windsor is closer to the airport by about an
hour, when Bebe halts him with a freckled hand on his shoulder. 'So
who's this person you're going to visit with, Simon?'

'Willie Hart. He makes films.'

'Do tell us what kind.'

'What I told you before,' Natalie intervenes. 'Erotic.'

'I guess we might have another name for it.' Bebe glances at Mark
and acts out thinking better of her punch line. 'And you'll be staying
at his house,' she substitutes.

'That's right, and researching his grandfather's films.'

'Not the same species, we hope.'

'He directed the comedian I'm rediscovering.'

Warren's default smile falls askew. 'The guy whose face we kept
seeing at dinner?'

'Mark was putting on his show for people,' Natalie explains.

'Even after he was asked to stop,' says Bebe.

'You said it was funny,' Mark protests. 'You and grandad
laughed.'

'The first couple of times, maybe,' Warren says.

'Let's leave it for mom to deal with. Looks like time for somebody
to be in bed,' Bebe says and visibly regrets not being more specific.

She hugs and kisses Natalie and Mark and smacks her lips in the air
several inches from my left cheek. Having embraced his daughter and
grandson, Warren presents me with a solitary descending handshake.

As her parents head for the stairs, Natalie shuts the door and says
'Say good night and see you soon to Simon, Mark.'

'I just want to show him something.'

'Don't start another argument. We had enough of those at dinner.'

He turns a pleading look on me. 'It's for your book.'

'Can he quickly?' I appeal to Natalie. 'Then we'll all sleep.'

She shrugs and turns her hands up, but her face is less resigned.
Mark runs to my desk and switches the computer on. 'You know
Tubby used to be called Thackeray Lane,' he says, 'but I'll bet you
don't know what he was.'

'Still a comedian.'

'Before he was funny,' Mark says even more eagerly.

'Go on, enlighten me.'

'A professor.'

He seems so proud of the information that I feel mean for saying
'Thanks for trying, Mark, but I'm afraid it's a false trail. I made the
same mistake when I started looking for him.'

'It's Tubby. That's what he was first. It's him.'

'A professor of what was it, mediaeval history? At Manchester
University, yes?' When Mark looks both disappointed and stubborn
I say 'I'm really grateful you've been doing this for me, and I'm
impressed. But it's someone else with the same name.'

'No it isn't.' Mark seizes the keyboard and lifts it as if he's threatening
to throw it away or smash it over the monitor. 'I can show you,'
he almost wails.

'Mark, put that down.' Natalie gazes at him until he obeys, and
then she says 'I think we've had quite enough. Just you apologise and
straight to bed.'

'Should we have a glance at the evidence?' I'm sufficiently uncomfortable
to propose. 'Then everybody ought to be satisfied.'

Natalie is silent, which I hope is meant to convey acquiescence
rather than a rebuke. 'Be a good boy and avert your eyes,' I say and
type my Frugonet password. 'Go on then, show me what you found.'

As he pulls down the list of my favourite sites I grow absurdly
nervous. Of course there's nothing I need conceal, and as soon as
Mark selects a search engine the image of fat naked acrobatic bodies
slopping over one another vanishes from my mind. His search
produces the references I found weeks ago: two Lanes that are places
and one that was a man. 'There he is,' Mark says in edgy triumph.

Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured
in Mediaeval History, 1909–...

'I did see that, Mark.'

'Did you go and look?'

'No, I went to Manchester to interview someone.'

'I mean did you look online?'

'Not when I could see – '

He's already clicking on the link. He wriggles his fingers in front
of the screen as if this may conjure up the information faster. The
words reappear on another page, and the rest of the paragraph is
filled in line by line. 'God, you're slow,' Mark complains, and I
wonder if this refers to me as I read the details I never thought to
check.

Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured
in Mediaeval History, 1909–1911. Subsequently developed a
career as a comedian, first on the British stage and then in
Hollywood. Students described his final lectures as increasingly
resembling stage performances. At his last lecture scuffles broke
out between students who supported his method and those
who found it inappropriate. His papers are held in the
university's special collection.

The list of British library archives supplies a link to the university's
web site, which barely acknowledges the presence of the material. T.
Lane: papers on mediaeval history &c is all it says, but that's enough to
persuade me this isn't a hoax. I feel as though I've backtracked
through my search all the way to Manchester. 'Well, thanks a great
deal, Mark,' I say. 'It's a good job you're more thorough than me.'

At first he looks pleased, and then his expression grows overstated.
'I shouldn't do that too often,' I warn him. 'I don't think your mother
likes it much.'

'Do you?'

His mouth seems to have stretched his voice thin and high, so that
I could imagine a ventriloquist is using Mark's grinning head as a
dummy. 'I think Tubby does it best. Leave it to him.'

'He's dead,' says Mark and lets his mouth down.

'I'm not mourning him,' Natalie says, though her son looks as if
he is. 'You've helped Simon now. Well done. You can help him more
by going to bed, and no more encores.'

As he slouches like a premature teenager to the bathroom she says
'Ready for an adventure?'

I fancy she's offering me one, and then I grasp that she has my
journey in mind. 'Just about,' I admit.

'You can have the bathroom first if you like.'

I gaze at the perfunctory listing for Lane until I hear Mark emerge.
'I'll let you,' I say, which she seems to need to interpret, although
there has been silence since she spoke. Once she's out of the room I
return to the newsgroups and call up my name.

Oh dear, Mr Testy is losing his temper and using toillet
language. That's what happenns when you get caught out
for lying and can't own up like a man. I forgot, we're supposed
to call him Simon Lester even if he's calling himself Colin. Has
everyboddy noticed how simmillar the names are? C is half of S
and L is next to M, and if you switch the vowwels around you've
got Simon, except I don't think anyboddy would want him.
Someone ought to tell him not to bother making names up.
Everyboddy can see he can't spell cinneaste whichever name he
calls himself.

Colin's there before I am.

No, we can't spell cinneaste because that isn't how it's spelled,
you pathetic clown. We'd need to have extra letters spilling out
of our arseholes to compete with you. Just in case anyone
beside this tiresome turd is interested, my name is Colin Vernon.
Let's see him make something of that.

Smilemime does.

So Tiresome S. L. still wants to play games with names, does he?
He shouldn't have challennged a master. Vernon is just letters
out of Simon Lester except for V, and that's l + e + e. He must
be trying to tell us he's pubblishing himself. Is he paying himself
a fortune, do we think? Watch out, I'll bet more bad words are
on the way.

This time I reach the keyboard first.

I'm afraid it's you who are turning language bad. Can we ask
you to keep a few of your consonants to yourself? Forgive me if
I don't waste time attempting to convince you that my publisher
and editor exist, if you honestly need convincing and don't just
post anything you think may provoke a reaction. If you're as
passionate about film as you give the impression you are, I
should spend more time studying them and less in pursuing
meaningless arguments.

I should have reread that more closely before posting it, because it
gives Smilemime an opening.

Well, I must be doing something right, mustn't I? I've made
Simon Testy be honnest for once. He's acctually addmitting he
should studdy films instead of telling lies about them. Now he
should addmit that if he's published annything about them or
he's going to that'll all be lies as well. If he owns up I prommise
not to mention him again.

I'm not letting this lie.

Please be aware that what you're saying isn't just untrue, it's
libellous. I may not be able to trace you, but I'm sure the
university will if you carry on like this. I imagine they might
want to prosecute anyone who tries to discredit their
publications in this way.

Colin's there almost at once.

You bet your bollocks we can track you down, Slimemime or
whatever we're going to find out your name is. You're out of
your league, so take the hint and stop bothering the big boys.
And by the way, Simon wasn't saying he needs to study films,
he meant you do. That should keep you quiet with any luck, and
if something doesn't we will.

I should have liked his response to be somewhat more official.

So now my ennemy's trying to say I can't read, is he? That's a
joke from someboddy who can't even get my name right. He
can't lose an argument gracefully either, so he has to ressort to
more words out of the toillet and try and frighten me with his
gang. Ooh, I'm terriffied, look what I've done on my chair. Before
he starts threatenning me he'd better remmember he's already
libbelled me. He said I'd made up a Tubby Thackeray film on the
IMDb. That's blackenning my repputation and my lawyer says I
can sue him.

I could call his bluff by involving Charley Tracy, but I don't want
to bring any further harassment on him. I'm certain Smilemime is
trying to spread confusion in the hope that I'll panic, which I'm not
about to do. I really don't need Colin to reply for me.

Bring it on then, Mileslime. Sue him and see what you get. I'd
love to see you explain to a judge how your rep can be
undermined when you won't even say who you are. And since
it'll be the first time anyone beyond a few Internet nerds have
heard of you, you'll have to convince him you've got a rep at all.
I'll be in the front row and selling tickets to the most hilarious
comedy in town.

While I agree with most of this, I suggest in a private email to
Colin that he might be a little less ready to invite people – even
Smilemime – to sue me.

Don't let him rattle you, Simon. It's all coming out of his arse.
Anyway, you were quick enough to say the uni would chase him,
weren't you? Not that I'm saying we won't if we have to. You
know how I love skewering bastards. Let me see if I can get a fix
on him.

Meanwhile Smilemime has responded to his posting.

No, you're the one that's putting on a show for everyboddy, but
you're not impressing annyone. Collin's your stage name, is it?
The one you use for alternattive commedy, which is a lot of
fillthy language with no laughs. And whatever you call yourself
you can't get my name right. Don't worry, I've got yours. Easy to
remmember when you're acting like your name spells. I hope
everyboddy knows what the annagram of Simon Lester is.

It isn't Tiresome S. L. That omits the n, which could signify an
indefinite number or an unknown name. I don't point any of this out,
and I do my best not to be compelled to speculate, but Colin isn't so
restrained.

Timely Snores, is it? They're appropriate where you're concerned.
It doesn't quite spell that, but it's better than your pissy little
feeble attempt. Time, Señores? That's what they shout in a
Mexican bar when everyone's finished eating their worms. I
know, he spells Silent Mores, in other words quiet manners, the
kind Simon has and you need to learn.

This amuses me, but not for long.

Oh yes, he's being very quiet while he's pretennding to be
someboddy else, isn't he? Maybe he really bellieves he is if he's
been eating those worms. He certainnly sounds like he's on
drugs. I expect his brain's too beffuddled to work things out, so
I'll put him out of his missery and tell him his secret. Simon
Lester = Monster Lies.

I've typed my reply almost before I know it.

No, I'm not on any drugs. If I were I'd be more likely to write
your kind of steaming crap. Carry on if it keeps you happy, but
do us all a favour and when you've finished producing it, just
pull the chain.

How long has this been going on? I feel as if Smilemime's
monomania has invaded my skull, wakening whenever I do and
goading me to compose more retorts while the threat of Colin's intervention
urges me to head him off, although does it matter which of
us responds? At least when I post a reply it appears on every
newsgroup that's involved, even if this gives me the impression that
the Internet is swarming with my attempts to force Smilemime to
make some kind of sense. I only wish I could revoke my last answer,
however satisfying it felt until Smilemime posted his.

Aw, did someboddy upset him? Did the nassty man say
something bad and hurt his ickle feewings? It must have been
true or he wouldn't have forgotten who he was suppossed to
be. He isn't meant to use toillet words when he's calling himself
Monster Lies, I mean Simon Lester. Maybe he doesn't reallize
that tells us there's just one of him, because it spells Misster
Lone as well. And maybe he'd like to explain why he keeps
reading what I write if he thinks it's excremment. Could he be
jeallous because people read what I write and noboddy's ever
heard of him?

It doesn't spell Misster unless you can't spell. For some reason this
is the riposte that has been clamouring for expression ever since I read
his latest rant at Heathrow. I would have posted it and much more if
they hadn't been calling my name at the departure gate. I kept
regretting the missed opportunity all the way to Chicago, where I
planned to use another Internet terminal while waiting for my
onward flight. In fact the two-hour stopover barely gave me time to
collect my suitcase and clear security. I still feel as if I'm shuffling
forward in a sluggish endless queue, my legs wavering from lack of
sleep and the effects of the gale-wracked descent the plane made.
Instead I'm in Los Angeles and waiting for my luggage to appear.

Is that mine? A man standing guard beside the end of the carousel
grabs the suitcase as his mobile trills. He's discussing a film deal by
the time he wheels the case past me, and I see that it's only similar to
mine, like half a dozen others in the slow procession. Several items,
including a parcelled ski in search of its twin, have made the rounds
more than once. Most of the passengers from my flight have been
reunited with their luggage. Here comes the next parade, and my case
is the fifth to trundle into view, or rather a woman's identical case is.
I rest my overworked eyes, and when I open them my case has stolen
past me and is heading for the exit from the baggage hall. I almost
sprawl on the conveyor belt in my haste to capture it, and then I haul
it to the Customs desk.

The concourse beyond it is so crowded with people and amplified
voices, and my senses are so raw with wakefulness, that I feel worse than
stranded until I see my name. Apparently Willie Hart has sent a driver
to pick me up. Her T-shirt, which bears a logo for
SEXXXY SITES
, and
shorts display her lithe golden limbs and hug her curves with great
affection, and I wonder if she's one of Hart's performers. Even her hair,
so blonde it's nearly white, is cropped close as if to bare more of her.
The generous features of her oval face produce a more specific smile as
I point at the name on her clipboard. 'That's me.'

'Welcome to California,' she says and holds out a slim hand. Her
handshake is warm and firm, but her skin isn't quite so young and
smooth as it appeared from a distance. Eventually she lets go and says
'Pull your bags?'

A black traveller flashes me the whitest grin I've ever seen. 'Take
the offer, man.'

'I've just got the one. I'll be fine.'

Both women look secretly amused. My driver shrugs and leads the
way out. It's close to midnight, though not inside my head, but
beyond the automatic doors December feels like summer. Taxis raise
a primitive fanfare to hail my guide. She holds a lift open while my
suitcase and I stumble in. 'Feel like coming home?' she says.

I strive to grasp what she's asking. 'Should it?'

'For a lot of movie people it does. This is where it all began.'

That's an excessively simplified view of film history, but I mightn't
argue even if I weren't so tired. 'I don't make films, I write about
them.'

The lift halts two floors up the car park, and she ushers me to a
red Lexus. 'Even our kind?' she seems eager to know.

'If it helps with my research, why not?'

I dump my suitcase in the boot, and she slams the lid. I don't know
if my answer prompts her to say 'Sit up front with me.'

I don't want to nod off against her. As I strap myself in, having
slung my jacket onto the back seat, I say 'Please don't be offended if
I drift off.'

While she eases the car down a ramp she rests a hand on my thigh.
'Need any drugs? There's plenty at the house.'

'I should think I'll be away as soon as I fall into bed. It's not worth
losing my sleep.'

She glances at me as she halts at a pay booth. 'What isn't?'

I struggle to reach the wad of dollars in my jacket, but she has
already paid the attendant. When the Lexus moves into the traffic she
turns her head to me again until I answer. 'Just some rubbish on the
Internet,' I say wearily. 'Someone trying to destroy my reputation that
won't even give their name.'

'They're out there.'

This jerks my eyes open. I thought I closed them only for a
moment, but we were passing a horde of dormant airliners, whereas
now we're far along a wide street of houses that crouch behind palm
trees. The pavements are broad enough to accommodate a platoon on
the march and utterly deserted. 'Who are?' I blurt.

'Monsters from the depths, we call them.' I'm resisting an
impression that the trees have increased their resemblance to undersea
growths, especially in the way their leaves appear to undulate, by the
time she adds 'It's like the net dredges them up. We've had your kind
of trouble with them.'

'I'm sorry to hear it.'

'They were saying some of our performers are under age. You'll
know how much time you have to pee away dealing with them.'

I wouldn't have said the film company's troubles were too similar
to mine, but her fingertips on my inner thigh seem to be suggesting
the reverse. Then they're gone, and we're speeding past illuminated
signs that dwarf palm trees scaly with neon. 'Do you know who they
are?' I ask mostly in an attempt to stay awake.

'Could be somebody who can't stand sex or maybe a rival. Me,
though, I think it's someone crazier.'

'Someone like my problem, then.'

'They're all connected, these fools. It's the Internet,' my driver says
and laughs. 'I don't mean they're in touch, not all of them. I mean it
turns them into monsters.'

'You don't think they already are.'

'Some of them, sure. But most of them, because they can say
anything they like and they're not afraid anyone will find out who
they are, it's like they're speaking direct from their subconscious. It
lets them be everything they'd want to hide from people, maybe even
from themselves.'

'You sound as if you'd be in favour of censorship.'

'I'm not,' she says and looks insulted. 'It never works. You can't
suppress stuff. It only comes back worse.'

I rest my eyes and my brain for a moment, until a shiver restores
me to consciousness. The air-conditioning has overwhelmed me, but
I could imagine that the cold is reaching out of the dark that
surrounds the car. The headlamp beams are drawing a portion of the
blackness towards us, and it takes me an effort to realise it's the
surface of the road. 'Where are we?' I gasp.