The Grin of the Dark (32 page)

'Don't you call me a troll, you skulking little shit. I'm not the one
that's too afraid to say my name. It doesn't spell that either. It's not
even the right number of letters. You can't count and you can't spell.'

'Sssh.'

'You try keeping quiet when somebody's calling you names.' I
don't say this aloud, but perhaps I mouth it while staring at the
librarian behind the counter. 'Carry on, get all the links out of your
head. I won't be following any of them,' I vow under my breath as I
scroll down Smilemime's message.

He should be at www.istoremslen.com. Len's his partner in
crime, which is to say himself. What's his name suppossed to be
again, Collin Vernon? If you take Len out of that you get www.iconvrow.com. Vrow is Dutch for woman, and I'll bet he's
conned one like he's trying with the rest of us.

I fight off a memory of Amsterdam – of a whitish slab that quakes
with mirth as it peeps wide-eyed from under the bed. 'Going Dutch
now, are we?' I mutter and try to ignore a sense of being watched.

Let's hope she reads this if he doesn't do something bad to stop
her. Maybe she ought to look at www.snormalsite.com to see
what he thinks is normall,

'The opposite of you, you obsessive deranged Christ I can't even
think of a name for it. Can't you even spell the same way twice?'

and www.msmoresin.com, because a mannuscript's his sin. But
the one he's hoping nobody would find beccause it hasn't got
his name on is www.tubbiesfilms.com. Hasn't it gone sillent all
of a sudden? I don't think we'll be hearing anny more about
Mister Vernon Lester's book that he wanted us to think was the
first studdy of the subbject. Goodbye if you've got any sense.
Let's have more silents.

I can't help hoping Colin has responded, but there's no riposte. I
swallow a taste or an equally harsh laugh and copy the final link into
the address box. The computer hesitates, and then a blue line that
might be underscoring an invisible or non-existent word starts to
crawl along the bottom of the screen. Before it's half completed, the
screen flickers or my vision does, and a page appears. I grin so fiercely
that my face feels swollen. The site hasn't been found.

It's as much of an invention as all the other sites Smilemime listed.
'Funny thing, I won't be keeping quiet,' I say and reach for the
keyboard, only to be irritated by a possibility. Would even
Smilemime have misspelled the name? Purely for confirmation, I type www.tubbysfilms.com in the box. As the blue line inches towards
completion an eager page fills the screen.

THE SILENT FILMS OF TUBBY THACKERAY AND ORVILLE HART.
By Vincent Steele.

It looks like the title page of a student's thesis or some even more
unpublished item. The typeface gives it the appearance of a
manuscript that has been submitted for approval. I send the blank
expanse of the rest of the page up the screen, and then I suck in a
breath I can't hear for the throbbing of my head.

Chapter 1: An Overview of the Careers of Thackeray and Hart.

We shouldn't think of history as fixed. That goes for the cinema
too now that so many lost films are being rediscovered.
Sometimes we could think they're memories repressed by the
collective unconscious. We can see why people preferred to
forget Stepin Fetchit, but how long will anyone remember he
existed? Audiences once laughed at Max Davidson, but by now
few people even recall how his brand of Jewish humour was
judged unacceptable...

It's my opening chapter with a few words changed. The entire text
is, and worse still, it more succinctly expresses everything I wrote. As
I scroll past the end of the chapter I grow insanely fearful that the
screen will show me thoughts I've had but not yet written. The only
further matter is the date the site was last updated. According to the
bottom line, that was weeks before I emailed my chapter to Colin.

It isn't true. Whoever created the site – who else but Smilemime –
could have put in any date. I'm clinging to the notion as the nearest
thing I have to reassurance when the librarian comes over to murmur
'Please be quieter or we'll have to ask you to leave.'

I've no idea what sounds I may have been uttering – very likely less
than words. I respond as best I'm able, but she doubles her frown. 'I
beg your pardon?' she by no means begs.

'I said you can ask.' Surely I didn't say cunt arse. 'Who am I
supposed to be disturbing?' I object. 'There's nobody else here.'

I mean other than her colleagues. Whoever's laughing uncontrollably
is somewhere beyond the room, although the noise is so invasive
that she would be better employed in hushing it instead of me. When
her gaze doesn't leave me I blurt 'I'll go as soon as I've dealt with
this.'

I email Colin that our correspondence has been hacked into and
copy the address of the web site and exhort him and the university to
do their worst. 'That wasn't too noisy, was it?' I say, only for my
chair to rouse the echoes with a screech on the linoleum. 'Merry
Christmas.'

I'm heading for the exit when the librarian says 'You've not paid.'

I struggle to contain my rage. 'Will you take a card?' I say like a
Christmas conjurer.

'Not for two pounds. That's the minimum charge.'

I dig in my hip pocket, but my hand is shaking so much I can
barely grasp my change. The librarian watches the jerky movements
of my fist inside my trousers with disfavour until I dump the coins on
the counter. 'Ninety shits, nine tits even,' I surely can't be saying as
my almost uncontrollable forefinger pokes at the cash. 'And a big
one, and another little one. Go on, take my last penny. You won't get
all that in your pudding,' I seem compelled to joke.

I can't quite believe I'm seeing her recount the money. Suppose she
calls security for the sake of a few pence? Here comes a guard –
someone with big feet, at any rate. As the footsteps halt somewhere
out of sight the librarian begins to plant the coins in various compartments
of a drawer. 'I'll be off before I can cause any more chaos,' I
tell her. 'Have a merry one.'

Does she murmur in response, or is it an echo? When I emerge
from the reference library I can't decide whether the renovations have
created a new maze. Plastic rustles beyond the stairs, where the
unidentifiable towering figure in the ground-floor vestibule is still
shrouded in the material. Outside, the chill that turns my breath
white aggravates my shivers as I fumble out my mobile. I grit my teeth
in an expression that makes several Christmas shoppers stay well
clear as I suffer through the celebratory message tape. 'Eck your
chemail, for Christ's sake,' I blurt, and my teeth also get in the way
of my next line. 'We need to find out how this wastard stole my
burk.'

I won't be emailing any more of it. That lets me feel a little less
vulnerable, but not enough. Having no money in my pocket doesn't
help. I skirt the covered market, where the stallholders are wearing
almost every size of droopy red hat, and find a branch of my bank. I
insert my debit card in the machine embedded in the old stone wall
and type my secret number, and wait, and lean forward to peer at the
display, which looks pale with frost or with my breath. Then the
world seems to tilt in sympathy, and I become aware of saying no,
louder and louder. In the queue behind me a woman says 'You should
be in a film.'

The white bobble of the personal adviser's red hat blunders
against her eyebrows as she lifts her chubby face, and she grins
as if I've made a joke or am one. She shakes her head to lodge the
bobble behind her ear as she says 'How can we help you today?'

I've queued ten minutes for a festively attired clerk to inform me
that I have to consult a personal adviser, and as long again before this
one became available, which is another reason why I blurt 'More than
you have been recently, I hope.'

Her wide lips close over her grin and reopen little more than a slit.
I'm reminded of the one that mouthed my debit card. 'Do you bank
at this branch?' it enquires.

'No, in London. Egham, rather. I need to change that.'

'I'm afraid you can't do that here. You'll need – '

'I don't want to.'

'Excuse me, I thought you just said you did.'

'Not now,' I protest, feeling in danger of becoming trapped in a
ponderous comedy routine. 'Not here.'

'Then what seems to be the problem?'

'It more than seems. Let me have a look at my accounts. Here's
who I am.'

As she examines my debit card the bobble deals her brow a
gentle thump. She sweeps it back and says 'Anything else, Mr
Lester?'

'What's wrong with that? It's yours, I mean your bank's.'

'It's just that we need at least two forms of identification before we
can give out personal details.'

'Look, this doesn't make sense. Your machine would have given
me money with just the card and no questions asked.'

'I can see it could seem funny, but – '

'No, it doesn't seem the least bit bloody funny. Nothing does,' I
say so loudly that it appears to jar my phone awake. If the caller is
Colin or Rufus, can he identify me? But the display shows Natalie's
number. I'm striving to think how she could help me persuade the
adviser as I exclaim 'Hello.'

'Ow,' Mark says and laughs.

'Sorry, Mark. Didn't mean to be so loud, but what do you want?
I'm rather busy here just now.'

'Where are you? We can't see you.'

'What are you talking about? Don't joke.'

'We went in the library but the lady said you'd gone, and we can't
find you.'

'I'm at my bank. Go past the market and you'll see it on the way
to Granddad and Grandma Lester's. Tell your mother to hurry, will
you? She may be able to help.'

As I end the call I realise she won't need to. 'I'll show you,' I tell
the adviser. 'Come outside.'

I hold the street door open until she has to follow, and then my
urgency tails off. Three people are queuing at the cash machine, all of
them with mobile phones. The girl in front of me is using hers to film
her grin, and I feel included in the image. I occupy the wait by smiling
at the adviser between glances in search of Natalie and Mark, but her
straight lips are as unyielding as metal. At last I reach the machine. As
I type my number I'm suddenly afraid that the system will reject it and
confiscate my card. Isn't there a limit to the number of times you can
present a card within a given period? Then the screen exhibits the lack
of funds in my current account and, once I've typed the account
number, the deposit. 'There,' I say in a parody of triumph. 'Happy
now?'

'I'm afraid you're overdrawn, Mr – I'm sorry, I've forgotten your
name.'

'I know that. I mean I know I'm, no, I'm not overdrawn. You've
pinched my money. Let's go and see why, shall we? And the name's
Lester. Lester. Lester. Lester.'

I manage to stop repeating it as I usher her into the bank, under a
wreath of holly that makes me feel they're celebrating my
predicament. At least my performance at the machine has convinced
the adviser, unless she's simply anxious to be rid of me or has taken
pity on me for Christmas. She brings up my details on her monitor
and turns the screen to some extent towards me. 'You've made a large
payment,' she says in case I'm unable to read. 'Reference LUP. Will
you know what that is?'

'Yes, it's your mistake,' I say less distinctly than I'd like as stronger
words struggle to emerge. The debit is exactly the amount of the
advance for my book, but I won't believe that's more than a coincidence.
'You've already done this to me once and you said you'd fix
it,' I complain. 'Does that look fixed to you? Don't you have any
control over your computers?'

The adviser makes it clear she's waiting to be sure I've finished
before she says 'I don't suppose you'd remember who you spoke to.'

'Her name's Tess. I don't forget names.' Perhaps that's an unnecessary
gibe, but I think it's reasonable to add 'I don't know why you
have that emergency number if you can't sort out mistakes by phoning.'

'I'll do that for you now.' Indeed, she's already dialling. 'Hello, it's
Millie at Preston central branch. Is Tess available? I've a customer
with a query,' she says and hands me the receiver.

'It's a hell of a lot more than that. Let's try and stay together this
time, Tess, and maybe – '

'Tom speaking. May I take your name?'

'You're not Tess.' I feel even stupider for saying so. 'Never mind.
My name, let's make this the last time, it's Simon Lester.'

'I'll just take some details for security.'

'Your colleague can identify me. She's looking straight at me.'
Rather than say this, I gabble my account number and sort code and
mother's maiden name and am able to read from the screen the
amount paid on a standing order for my share of the phone and
Internet bill at the house in Egham. 'I'll need to cancel that,' I realise
aloud.

'That's why you're calling.'

'You think I'd go through all that rigmarole for a few quid? Go
ahead, cut it off, but that's not why I'm here. See the fortune that's
vanished from my account? That's what my publishers paid me. You
don't pay it to them. You've done it before and it wasn't funny then.'
I'm driven by a nervous fancy that all these words are outdistancing
nonsense I would otherwise utter. 'And don't tell me I've got to write
in,' I carry on. 'I did that last time when you asked me and it hasn't
worked, has it? This needs to be sorted out while I'm on the phone.
You owe me that much.'

There's silence before Tom of the bank says 'Who was it you spoke
to again?'

'She's already told you. Millie here did, I mean. Tess.'

'I'm afraid nobody of that name works here.'

I stare at the adviser, who seems to be avoiding my gaze. 'Then I
must have been put through to a different section.'

'You only could have come through here,' says Tom.

'All right, so who sounds like Tess? She was breaking up when I
talked to her.'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

'Coming apart, and don't say I sound as if I am.' That's also meant
for the adviser with her eloquently averted gaze. 'Her voice was. I
mustn't have got her whole name.'

'We have nobody called anything like Tess.'

'Then who are you saying she was?' I retort, more savagely as I
hear laughter at my back. I'm about to confront whoever finds my
confusion amusing when I realise that an object has been planted on
my head. Something akin to a fat pallid spider dangles close to my
eyes, and as I slap it away I see my faint reflection overlaid on the
display of my poverty. I've acquired a jester's cap complete with a
silent bell. I snatch it off and fling it across the bank as I whirl around,
almost toppling the chair. Too late I see it was a Christmas hat, the
kind Natalie and Mark are wearing. Nevertheless I demand 'What are
you trying to do to me, Mark?'

Though his broad grin wavers, it doesn't shrink. 'We got them in
the market. I thought you'd like one too.'

'I did say you should wait, Mark.'

His mother sounds as if she's trying to console him. If he's upset
by my reaction, why is he still grinning? Perhaps her tone is aimed at
me, because she's gazing at the computer screen. 'Oh, Simon,' she
says.

'Don't worry, it's going to be dealt with. I won't move until it is.'

Mark retrieves the hat from the counter in front of a teller's
window, beyond which a silhouette on a blind is typing at a
computer. 'Don't you want it?' he asks me.

'Go on, put it on me. I can't look more of a fool than anyone else.'

As Mark jams the hat on my head so enthusiastically it feels
urgent, the phone enquires 'I'm sorry?'

'Somebody's just stuck a silly hat on me. Well, more than
somebody. My, not exactly my son. My partner's son.'

Natalie must think I'm distracted by her presence or Mark's,
because she murmurs 'Shall we be outside?'

'Hang around. I wouldn't mind a witness,' I say and wield the
receiver. 'Anyway, let's not get too festive. The line was so bad I must
have got her name wrong. The important question is how you're
going to close your hole in my account after you've put my money
back in.'

My words feel close to unstable again, even when I remind myself
that Tom can't see the hat lolling over my head. My imprecise
reflection could make me imagine that I'm being watched by a
buffoon on the far side of the screen – one who grins as he says 'I'm
afraid it isn't that simple.'

'Me neither, matey.' As far as I can tell my teeth keep this quiet,
which only makes it harder for me to retort 'What isn't?'

'The authority for payment must have come from you.'

Isn't he supposed to call me Mr Lester now and then? Sir would be
acceptable as well. 'Mustn't. Didn't,' I assure us both.

'I can promise you our computers don't make payments on their
own.'

I'm tempted to wonder aloud if faith in technology is the new
religion until he says 'I'm very much afraid you will have to write to
us with all the details of the situation before – '

'Same as lasty. Re that.'

My invitation to read my previous complaint must surely have
emerged more whole, because he says 'How did you communicate
with us?'

'He may,' I inform him, and my teeth click as I try to bite the
words into shape. 'Email.'

'I've checked while we've been speaking. I'm afraid we have no
record of receiving anything from you about this.'

'Well, I wrote it. Sent it too. Don't ask me who got it.' I fancy my
response may not sound quite like this – I seem to hear myself say tit
and ass, for instance – but then my last sentence catches up with me.
As I struggle to restrain my language, the worst that escapes is
'Bastard.'

'I'm sorry?'

'I know who's doing this. He stole my work to make me look bad
and he's been screwing with my finances. He's all over the Internet.'

'I can't make sense of what you're saying.'

'I don't know his name but I know the one he's using. Don't tell
me you can't track him down. There has to be some trace for you to
follow where he hacked into my account.'

'I do apologise, but I can't understand what you're saying. If you
could put – '

'Never mind writing. I can talk. It's the oldest form of communication,
you know.' Every word leaves my mouth feeling less controllable,
because I'm uttering little if any of this. 'Smilemime,' I cry.
'That's his pseudonym.'

At least, I labour to, but not a syllable escapes. I'm convinced that
if I manage to pronounce the name, it will destroy the verbal dam.
'Smilemime,' I repeat as audibly as I said it in the first place.
'Smilemime.' The shrill word squeaks against the inside of my teeth,
but I've no idea what expression is baring them and bulging my eyes.
Perhaps it could be mistaken for the amusement with which Mark
greets my antics. 'Smilemime,' I shriek mutely, which reminds me of
performing
Tubby's Telephonic Travails
in the chapel of fun. Tracy's
features rise to the surface of my mind, his teeth splitting the etiolated
flesh with a helpless grin. 'Are you there?' Tom says, but I've snatched
the receiver away from my face. As I brandish the phone with no plan
beyond ending any resemblance to Tubby, the adviser reaches across
her desk, but Natalie is quicker. She relieves me of the phone and says
'Who's this, please?'

Her tone must be intended to take the listener off guard. It works
for me – I feel addressed. 'I'm with Simon,' she explains, and now I
have a sense that she's dubbing my dialogue. 'He can't just now. He's
under a lot of strain... I see what's wrong, but what will he need to
do?... How soon can you deal with that?... You can't... I understand...
He will... Happy Christmas.'

Is it her performance that has left me speechless? I watch her
return the phone to the adviser. 'You will have to write in, Simon,'
she says. 'Sadly there won't be anyone there till after Christmas.'

'He was there now. You let him go.' I'm straining to make certain
she hears this when an employee shouts me down.

'The bank will be closing in five minutes,' he announces. 'We will
be open again for business on the 29th.'

Won't they still be working behind the scenes for at least the next
few hours? If I email from the library, surely that would reach Tom
before he finishes, or is the library shut too? I dash for the exit, my
hat flopping like a drunken parasite on my head – drunk with the
intellect it's draining from me, or something is. As I hurry out beneath
a sky as black as the inside of my skull, Natalie catches up with me.
'It's all right, Simon,' she murmurs. 'It will be.'

My response is terse and sharp enough to bypass my clenched
teeth. 'How?'

'The bank will put everything in order once they hear from you.
I've got enough to tide us over till the New Year, or if there's any need
we can always go to my parents for a loan.'

The prospect seems to release my words, and I have to suppress my
reaction to it for her sake and Mark's. 'They've already heard from
me,' I object, 'the bank. He was acting stupid. No wonder I gave up
when he made me feel I couldn't get through to him.'

Natalie gazes at me for a long pale breath that reminds me of an
empty speech balloon, and then she says 'I couldn't follow you
either.'