The Grin of the Dark (24 page)

'I'll be back before you know it,' I say before swooping back to
retrieve my passport. 'Nearly,' I remark, even if it sounds like an
accusation. Is the card reader casting some kind of intermittent light
on him? His dim face looks unsteady on its bones, and I do my best
to laugh as I hurry out of the café.

The canal ripples as if it's displaying a graph of its own sounds. I
find this easier to cope with than the notion that the wavering of the
inverted houses is about to spread to their counterparts alongside the
water. I trip over cobblestones in my haste to dodge into an alley on
the left. Reflections of the ripples pluck at the walls, but they can't be
stretching the passage as I put on speed towards the bright street full
of people at the far end. However gelatinous the walls and the
flagstones underfoot look, it's the fault of the quivering dimness,
which also encourages my shadow to prance more than its owner.
The alley isn't lengthening, nor is it growing narrower, and it
certainly can't squeeze me between the bricks. 'This is a laugh,' I
announce and demonstrate until the clamour of my jollity forces the
walls to make room. I tone it down as passers-by stare in my
direction, although their scrutiny helps persuade me that I'm
advancing. As I emerge from the alley at last I peer back to indicate
that somebody else must have been making the row. I'm just an
ordinary tourist bound for the cash machine at which three men as
unremarkable as me are queuing beside a canal.

I take out my debit card once I've joined them and repeat my
identification number a few times in my head. It's 1413, which is
NM. I hold it in my mind as we shuffle forward to the metal
keyboard, which keeps rippling and subsiding, or at least the light
from the canal does. By the time the last man strolls away three more
have lined up behind me. I slip the card in and type the number
despite the hindrance of my frozen fingers. My current account is in
debit by almost a hundred pounds.

It won't be as soon as I transfer some money from the deposit
account, and I instruct the machine to show me that balance. A wave
of light passes across the screen but doesn't blot out the figure: over
ten thousand pounds. An object so small it shouldn't be distracting –
an insect or a twig from one of the trees by the canal – has landed on
the screen. I stoop and blow a pale breath at it, and then I flick it
before attempting to dislodge it with a fingernail. Even scratching at
the glass doesn't budge it, however. It isn't a twig or an insect. It's a
minus sign.

My guts seem to shrink like an image on a television that has had
its plug pulled. As I stare at the screen in the desperate hope
that it will reveal I'm somehow mistaken, the men behind me start to
murmur and then laugh. I stare until I'm unable to judge whether the
flickering is on the screen or in my eyes or both. I stare until the
nearest man enquires 'Are you just going to look at it, mate? It's like
he said, it's not a telly.'

He's a Londoner. By the sound of their supportive mutters, so are
his friends. I feel pathetically reassured, but less so once I turn to
them. They might be undertakers and triplets too: heavy black
overcoats, white faces almost round enough to be artificial, oily black
hair with partings – left side for the foremost man, middle for the
middle, right for the rear guard – that expose their pallid scalps.
Nevertheless I appeal to them. 'I've been robbed.'

'There's a lot of it about, they told us.'

'You want to keep an eye out.'

'Don't let us stop you getting your dosh.'

I haven't time to be disconcerted by their speaking in the order that
they're queuing. 'I mean I've been robbed on here,' I protest, whirling
around to confront the screen, but I haven't taken it unawares. It still
wonders if I need another service, which gives me an idea I have to
hope isn't hopeless. I jab the button to call up my balance again in
case there was an error in transmission and do my best to ignore the
murmurs at my back. Are they really saying 'Mean old bean' and
'Must have been' and 'Not a bean'? I struggle against fancying that
the last comment has affected the onscreen display, where the minus
sign looks blacker than ever, a monochrome film's rendering of red.
'They could do it again, whoever did,' I realise wildly. 'I need to
contact the bank.'

'Can he do it on here?'

The speaker is the man with the central parting. As he leans his
palms on either side of the screen, auras of moisture swell around his
plump hands on the metal. 'He can't,' he announces, straightening
up.

'I didn't think he could.'

'I knew he couldn't.'

I could imagine that a single actor is dubbing their voices. The
onscreen digits seem to stir as if they're eager to multiply, and I
haven't convinced myself that it's merely my vision when the nearest
man says 'So let's have a turn.'

He's now the character with hair parted on the right. Do they keep
switching places or wigs while I'm not looking? I can't be sure
whether his coiffure is slightly askew. I peer at it until the man behind
him, his mirror image in terms of hair, says 'You were wanting to
phone your bank.'

'Or email them,' says the fellow at the rear.

They're reminding me that I can't pay to do either. I left my mobile
at Natalie's because it wouldn't have worked in America. I stand
aside to let the leader of the queue use the machine, and then I take a
deep breath. 'This is horribly embarrassing, but could you lend me a
little money? You've got my word I'll pay you back. Give me your
address and I'll give you mine.'

He orders a hundred euros and covers the delivery slot with a hand
as he turns to his companions. 'Too much like home, this, don't you
reckon?'

All at once I'm surrounded. 'We've got beggars hanging round
cashpoints too,' one of them informs me.

'So you Dutchmen hadn't better try it on with us,' says the man
with a parting that resembles a glistening slit on top of his head.

A wild grin tugs my lips wide. 'I'm not Dutch. I'm one of you.'

'Smells Dutch to me,' says the man at the screen.

'Fuggy,' says his opposite, waving away the air between us.

'Druggy,' their companion expounds. 'Double Dutch.'

I feel as if the place into which I've strayed is trying to claim me
for its own. 'I'm not bloody Dutch,' I insist. 'You saw my balance. It's
in pounds.'

The man at the wall snatches his cash and stuffs it in an inside
pocket. As he makes way for the man crowned with a slit he says
'You mean you've got some money after all.'

'Unless it was someone else's he was thieving,' says the man who
has taken his place.

His friends bring their pugnacious faces close to mine as if they're
challenging me to spot the difference, and then they find some cue to
step back. 'If you're going to beg, do it proper,' says the man with the
left-hand split.

'Have a bit of dignity,' his reversal says.

I don't know whether that's a contradiction or an additional
direction. Are they urging me to put on some kind of performance for
them? I should be searching for a way to contact the bank. I dodge
between the men and tramp alongside the canal.

I'd forgotten the street was so busy. For the last few minutes,
which felt as prolonged as a dream, I was aware only of my interrogators.
When I glance back they aren't at the machine, and I can't
locate them in the crowd. Where am I dashing to? How can I get
some money? I feel as if my panic has seized control of my body,
driving it helplessly onwards with no goal beyond escape – and then
I stagger to a halt and laugh out loud. I mustn't take the men's words
as a joke. They've told me the solution.

I'm nearly at a bridge across the jittery water. Several bicycles are
chained to the railings that border the canal. How would Tubby play
the scene? I don a wide fixed big-eyed grin and prance back and forth
in front of the bicycle closest to the bridge. As soon as a few people
stop to watch I mime trying to ride. I make several attempts to mount
the bicycle, only to tumble each time on the flagstones. I pedal away
on the air instead and look back, wondering why I'm not on the
machine. I pretend to sit on an inventively rickety seat until I impale
myself on it. By now my face is aching with my frozen grin, which I
maintain as I strive to pump up a pair of invisible tyres that keep
growing unequal and finally burst like Tubby's balloon head. That's
my finale, or at any rate all I can invent. I go for a bow without rising
to my feet and sprawl face down in front of my audience.

I've been hearing laughter, however muted, and now it's followed
by a ripple of applause, unless that's the canal. Were my efforts
useless? I haven't provided a container for donations. I seem unable to
stop grinning at my idiocy as I turn my left hand over on its back and
stretch it out. In a moment a cold object lands in my palm, followed
by another. Others clink on the pavement, and one trundles against
the edge of my hand.

I don't dare look until my benefactors have moved on, leaving me
to count my bruises and my takings. I've earned eleven euros, no,
twelve – more. 'Thank you,' I call, which only attracts stares from
passers-by who seem to think I have no reason. I drop the coins into
my trousers pocket as I wobble to my feet. I have more than enough
money to pay my bill at the Pot of Gold, and I mean to retrieve my
card. For all I know, the man behind the counter can deduce my
number from the way I typed it in.

Once through the alley was enough. I take the cross-street that
leads from the bridge. People give me an unexpected amount of room
until I realise that it's time to finish grinning. I find it hard to suppress
my laughter at that, even when I think of the hole that's my account
– a hole in more than the wall. I pinch my cheeks to force my mouth
shut, and succeed in achieving silence as I turn left alongside the first
canal.

Glittering ripples snag my concentration as I head for the nearest
bridge. I didn't realise I had strayed so far from the hotel. I can't see
it or the Pot of Gold ahead for the nagging of the ripples, but my
destination certainly isn't behind me; it's on this side of the street
and past the bridge. I wish there weren't so many people; their
toothy silhouettes interfere with my vision whenever I peer ahead.
When I reach the bridge I hurry to the middle, and the railing seems
to grow soft and clammy in my grasp. Though I can see both ways
for at least half a mile, there's no sign of the Pot of Gold or the
Dwaas Hotel.

It isn't possible. I didn't cross water to reach the other street. The
thick lurid ripples pester my vision, and I'm irresistibly reminded of
the optical effect that used to signal a shift of time and space in films.
The buildings appear to pinch thinner as if they're about to change
before my eyes. How many of them contain sex shops? Are the naked
figures on the covers of the videos in the windows really so fat or so
young or both? 'You're there,' I assure my destination, and an
Oriental couple veers across the bridge to keep out of my way.
'Excuse me,' I blurt, though they're chattering in Cantonese or some
other Chinese language. 'Can you help?'

Both of them smile or at least show their teeth. 'Dutch,' the man
says. 'Speak Dutch.'

Perhaps I can sufficiently to make myself understood. 'Dwaas,' I
say, gesturing around me. 'Dwaas Hotel.'

I haven't finished when the man scowls and ushers his partner
away. Have I committed some offence against Chinese etiquette?
Three young women talking Dutch step onto the bridge, and I hurry
to meet them. 'Dwaas,' I plead, holding out my upturned hands.
'Dwaas.'

How wrong can my pronunciation be? They seem uncertain
whether to laugh or to react in some quite different way, but settle for
dodging around me. The next person I accost merely grins and nods,
and a woman widens her eyes and jerks her head back. I'm beginning
to feel trapped in the cell of my solitary Dutch word when I have
what I fervently hope is an inspiration. 'Pot of Gold,' I beg a
businessman.

He frowns, and I'm wondering if he disapproves of such establishments
too much to direct me when he points behind me. 'It is there.'

'No it – ' But it is, on the far side of the next bridge. Could I have
overlooked it because I misread the name of the hotel? What kind of
name is Sward? I have the unsettling notion that if I get any name
wrong I'll be unable to perceive whatever it belongs to. 'Thanks,' I say
and sprint alongside the canal before my goal can vanish.

The giant leaf etched on the window of the Pot of Gold unfurls to
greet me. It's enlivened by a reflection from the canal. I shoulder the
door open and fumble in my pocket as I stride to the counter. 'Here's
your money,' I say and plant my fist next to my open hand on the
counter. 'Where's my card? I need it to phone.'

The stump of a man shakes his large head, so that my fingers are
twitching to grab him by the time he says 'You cannot phone from
here.'

'In my room.' I open my fist to let him glimpse the coins. 'My card.
I'm buying it back.'

He stares at the fist and reaches under the counter – for a weapon?
The old Three Stooges trick will disable him. The first two fingers of
my free hand stretch out like a snail's horns, and I'm raising my arm
for a poke at his eyes when he produces my credit card. Knowing I
nearly attacked him, I'm overwhelmed by panic. I open my hands,
and the coins spill across the counter. My hot prickly head feels
permeated with all the cannabis I can smell. I snatch the card from
him and turn away from the room, which appears to be growing
smaller and dimmer. A question stops me, and I turn back to him.
'What does dwaas mean?'

'Fool.'

His stare suggests he's calling me this, and perhaps he is as well. I
begin giggling as I step into the night. Is the hotel called Sward or
Sword? Is there a gap between the first two letters? I haven't time to
check any of this when I need to phone the bank. I fall silent and lurch
into the hotel.

The receptionist seems more elongated than ever. I'm reminded so
intensely of an image of a fat man projected in the wrong ratio that I
can scarcely bear to look at him as I say 'Any word from the airport?'

'There has been no change. We will let you know when they are
coming for you.'

I needn't imagine that sounds ominous. I thank him and clamber
up the stairs, which can't really have grown even closer to vertical.
The enlarged two-dimensional flower borders that are the walls of the
corridor aren't stirring in a surreptitious breeze. The slabs in the walls
are classified by number, and mine is 14. I pass 12 and slide the card
into the slot on the next one and twist the handle, or try to. The key
doesn't work.

The number is unquestionably 14, and I sense 13 looming at my
back. Who's in my room? Are they holding the door shut? More than
one of them is laughing. Perhaps they're amused by my error, because
I snatch the card out to discover that I've been trying to open the door
with my credit card. I drag the key out of my pocket and shove it in
the slot so hard it bends. I withdraw it before it snaps and lean on the
handle, which yields at once.

I hold the door open with one foot while I grope into the dark for
the slot that activates the lights. The room is as silent as a Tubby
Thackeray film, and I can't tell whether the smell of cannabis is
waiting for me or clinging to me or following me in. As I take another
pace to reach the slot, a silhouette steps out of a concealed dwarfish
entrance to meet me. I stagger backwards and laugh, having identified
my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I jam the card into the slot
so viciously the plastic almost cracks.

The room is deserted except for the two of me. No, there's another
in the mirror on the door of the narrow wardrobe. The laughter must
have been in an adjacent room. I chain the door and sit on the bed
while I find my bank card with the details of my account, and then I
see that circumstances are on my side for a change. The number for
reporting problems can be called free from anywhere in Europe.

A recorded female voice asks me to listen carefully and invites me
to select one of half a dozen options with the keypad. Though my
extremities, not least my skull, are prickling with frustration, I won't
be fooled – I know that any option only leads to another list of more.
The voice informs me that it hasn't recognised my response and
performs its entire routine again before undertaking to connect me
with an actual live human being. The voice that eventually answers
the bell may be the same one; certainly it's recorded. It tells me that
all lines are closed until tomorrow morning and offers to take a
message.