The Grin of the Dark (36 page)

As I dash to the end of the corridor my lungs feel like balloons
about to pop. Nobody is in the lobby until the lift opens to release a
man in a capacious black and white uniform barely large enough for
him. His small displeased face looks clamped by the grey expanses of
his jaw and scalp. 'Where do you think you're off to?' he's eager to
learn.

I point at the door and summon up a spare breath. 'After him,' I
gasp.

'No you're not. You won't be going anywhere,' the guard says
with morose triumph. Moving far faster than his weight would lead
me to expect, he steps between me and the door.

Not just my mind but my entire being seems to shrink around one
thought: I'm responsible for Mark, and I've lost him. 'I need to
catch my son,' I say, because more than that would waste time as well
as breath. 'He's only seven.'

The guard's pale thin lips turn downwards in a clown's grimace.
'Starting him young, are you?'

It's his disgust more than his obstructiveness that makes me
stumble to a halt. 'What do you mean?'

'We've seen your kind of team. Use a little one to get in where you
can't.'

'I'm afraid you're making a mistake.' Perhaps I should have taken
time to be outraged, since he looks profoundly unimpressed. 'We've
been delivering a package,' I tell him. 'Now if you'll just – '

'You forgot to dress up.'

'How?' I'm confused enough to ask.

'Couldn't you hire a costume at least?' he scoffs, and I think he has
Santa Claus in mind until he adds 'If you want people to think you're
a postman you need to get yourself a uniform.'

'I don't want anyone to think I'm anything but what I am. I'm a
writer. Now please let me pass.'

I stride to the door and grab the knob, but the guard doesn't
budge. 'I said excuse me,' I say and haul at the door. It has barely
stirred when he thrusts out his stomach and deals me a thump with
it, so that I'm hardly able to stay on my feet as I stagger backwards.
I feel still more idiotic for gasping 'What do you think you're doing?'

'Want to sue me for assault? That'd be a laugh.'

'Just stand out of my way and I'll forget anything happened.' I
might as well not have made this immense effort to be reasonable,
since he only moves to block the doorknob. 'You're going to look
worse than a fool when I report this,' I say less evenly than I would
like. 'I've told you I was delivering a book to my publisher.'

'Who are they when they're at home?'

'They're on the board,' I say and mime not needing to look. '6-
120.'

'That's what Loop is supposed to be, is it?'

'London University Press. Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon.'

'Just the two of them? Doesn't sound like much of a publisher.'

'The main operation will be elsewhere.' It must be, and I struggle
to ignore the distraction, because it's aggravating a fear of losing
control of my words. 'Here, look,' I say, dragging out my wallet to
produce my credit card. 'This is who I am.'

He lowers his head like a bull and inverts his grimace. 'Does it
work?'

I almost demand how much he knows and from where. 'What do
you mean?'

'Meant to think it's real, am I? That's supposed to be your name
and you're supposed to be a writer. Can't be much of one if you have
to bring your book and I've never heard of you.'

My words are coming apart in my head, and I'm not sure that my
rage will help me assemble them. 'How long are you going to keep
this nonsense up?' I snarl, tramping forward. 'What do you want to
happen to my son?'

'Depends what he's been up to.' The guard protrudes his stomach
as he adds 'That's if you've even got a son.'

How many of his random comments are going to happen on the
truth? 'This is getting nobody anywhere,' I say and snatch out my
mobile. 'I'm calling the police.'

'That should be fun.'

'I neam it,' I assure him and fight to regain at least verbal
authority. 'Do you really think a crinimal would call them?'

'A what?'

'Crimimal. Criminimal.' My mouth forms into a mirthless grin
that tries to bite back the gibberish. I brandish the phone and shout
'Watch.'

'Wonder who you're really calling.'

'I'll show you the numb, the number.'

'That's another of your tricks, is it? You should be on the stage.'

I thrust the mobile at him, which only makes him advance his
stomach further. I'm about to devote all my energy to pronouncing
'You call it' when the phone sets about wishing us a merry Christmas.
For a moment I don't know why the displayed number is familiar,
and then I recognise Mark's. I almost drop the phone, I'm so
desperate to speak to him. 'Where are you?'

His response is a laugh and then more of them. He must be amused
because we asked each other the question in chorus, but he sounds
close to hysteria. 'I'm stin the buildnig,' I gabble, which I'm afraid
may tickle him afresh. 'Where are you?'

'Here.'

'Don't joke juts snow,' I plead, and the handbell – the device in a
white plastic box above the door, at any rate – begins to clang.

The guard opens the door about a foot. I can't see past him, but I
hear Mark say 'Is Simon there?'

'I'm here, Mark. This fellellow thinks I'm a burlgar, would you
believe. He won't let me out.'

While this is directed largely at the guard, it's Mark who responds.
He begins by laughing rather too much, and then he raises his voice.
It sounds frenzied, perhaps with hilarity. 'Help, anyone,' he cries.
'They've caught Simon Lester. They've trapped him.'

'No need for that, son,' the guard murmurs. 'Keep it down.'

'Help, help.' The rebuke increases Mark's hysteria, mirthful or
otherwise. 'They've got Simon Lester in there and they won't let him
go.'

'Do you think a crininal would cause a scene like that?' I demand.
'Make sense.'

'Help. Help.' By now Mark's cries are painful to hear. 'He's shut
up and it's nearly his birthday.'

The guard swivels his slow head towards me while continuing to
block my escape. 'Is that right?'

I can scarcely understand him for Mark's pleas. 'It is, and I wanted
to get my work out of the way.'

I don't know what moves him: my insistence on the truth, or
Mark's protests, or some motive of his own? As if he's suddenly
gained weight he inches forward with lingering ponderousness and
edges the door open. 'Go on before I change my mind,' he says and
tells Mark 'Here he is for you. Stop that now. This is a quiet neighbourhood.'

I'm barely past the door when it slams behind me. Mark seems
eager to speak, but doesn't until we reach Gower Street. As we turn
towards the station he says 'That was fun.'

'What was?' I ask, perhaps too sharply. When he doesn't answer I
say 'What happened after you ran off?'

'I lost them.'

'You didn't see who it was, you mean?'

'I think I did.'

'What did they look like?'

'Like him,' Mark says and jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

I twist around, but the street is deserted. It takes me a moment to
realise 'You're talking about the man who wouldn't let me out.'

'Right, him.'

'How much like?'

'I'm not sure. I only saw him for a moment and he was making a
face.'

I won't ask what kind, despite a sudden irrational notion that
Mark is referring to the guard. Before long the thought makes me
look back again to confirm that the street is still empty. 'Is that clown
following us?' says Mark.

'Nobody is that I can see.' I do my best to leave it at that, but feel
prompted to remark 'I think I've had enough of clowns for a while.'

'Which ones? Not Tubby.'

'Perhaps even him for a little while.'

This silences Mark all the way to the station. The bulbous mirrors
by the ticket barrier inflate his face, which might be reproachful or
incredulous – hard to tell, since he isn't speaking. Once we've
descended to the platform, at the far end of which several revellers are
blowing party hooters and executing a fat random dance, his
muteness forces me to say 'When I said clowns I was thinking of the
circus.'

'Is there one? Can we go?'

'You liked what you saw so much you want more.'

'Don't you?'

'I think I could live without it.'

This time there's no doubt that his expression is both disbelieving
and censorious. 'I thought you liked Tubby.'

'I don't understand. What does what we saw when you came
round have to do with him?'

Mark laughs a shade uncertainly. 'He was it,' he says as a hooter
rasps derisively and sticks out its paper tongue. 'He's what we saw.'

'On the video, you mean.' When Mark nods I'm able to laugh.
'Sorry, I thought you meant at the circus.'

He more than matches my laughter. 'How could I mean that?'

'It was a bit like him in some ways, don't you think?'

'I don't know,' Mark says and giggles again. 'I didn't see it.'

'When didn't you? What do you mean?'

I can't tell if he's amused by the questions or by my emitting far
more syllables than they need. 'Ever,' he manages to say. 'We never
went.'

He's making some kind of joke. However unfunny I find it, it
needn't bother me. 'What did we do, then?'

He grins as if he thinks I'm the joker. 'Walked all over the park
like it was a maze, but the circus wasn't there. And then mum called
you and picked us up.'

I feel as if everything – his widening grin, the vast cold breath of
an approaching train, the revellers protruding extra tongues as if
they're portraying frogs – is about to vanish like an image that can no
longer keep up its pretence. I clutch at a memory that seems capable
of saving me. 'Hold on, Mark. She asked how it was and you told her
it was funny.'

'The film was. Tubby's film.'

'I know which film we saw.'

My words are carried off by the wind of the train – I'm not even
sure I hear them for its thunder. I can only follow Mark into the
carriage. As he sits opposite me I expect him to be grinning more
widely than ever, but his eyes look concerned despite his mouth. 'You
were only kidding about the circus, weren't you?' he says.

'That's right, just kidding,' I say and wonder which of us is deceiving
the other, if we aren't both part of an elaborate trick, but by whom?
The revellers wave us off, sticking out their eager tongues in a raucous
chorus. 'Let's be quiet now,' I say as the train speeds into the dark.

The harder I struggle to recall details of the circus, the more I seem
to be imposing similarities on my surroundings. At Farringdon
someone ducks his head between his legs, but he isn't about to stand
on it. As the train pulls out of Barbican a man starts miming a comic
song, except that the window must be robbing him of sound. At
Moorgate a lanky man in flapping clothes runs alongside the carriage,
but he can't be so tall that he needs to crouch to grimace at us. At
Liverpool Street a child is sitting on a man's shoulders – just sitting,
not hopping up to stand on them before perching on the man's head.
At Aldgate I try to establish who's laughing without the slightest
pause for breath somewhere down the carriage, but lurching to my
feet shows me nobody. Perhaps I should have concentrated on the
platform, since I'm left with the fancy that the faces and expressions
of the spectators on it were too nearly identical. Light after light sails
by in the tunnels between stations, so that the windows seem to
flicker like an old film. Whenever I catch Mark's eye he renews his
grin as if he's savouring my joke all over again – mine or someone
else's. Such thoughts are dangerous: they make everything feel
untrustworthy, Mark included. If I somehow imagined the circus,
how much does it matter? Thackeray Lane seemed uncertain whether
he'd had a similar experience. Perhaps if I write about both I'll be able
to grasp them or at least my own. Writing is one way to make sense
of the world. Just now I want nothing more than to be at my desk,
where I'll be able to regain some kind of control.

At Tower Hill I tramp up the escalator ahead of Mark. In the
unassertive light of the puffy whitish sky everything – the roads, the
office blocks, the Tower, passers-by in the mood for a new year,
ourselves – looks less substantial than I would prefer. That's a
problem of my consciousness, but if I'm receiving an imperfect image,
how close is it to reality? I need to narrow down my thoughts to put
them in order, but we're hardly in the apartment when Mark says
'What shall we do now?'

'Something by ourselves for a while, I'd like.'

'Shall we play my Christmas game?'

'You go ahead. It's just for one person, isn't it?'

'You ought to see. It's like a maze with no way out.' Perhaps he
notices that the prospect fails to appeal, because he says 'Can I watch
Tubby, then?'

'I suppose so. Where's the disc?'

'In my room.'

I may take that up with him or Natalie later. 'Go ahead,' I say for
now, making for my desk.

I don't know how long I stare at the blank screen. If I'm looking
for peace in its featurelessness, it only reflects my confusion. I need to
deal with anything that's waiting. I log on and delete a mass of emails
from unknown senders with subject lines I won't even try to decipher.
Or did the nonsense conceal words I ought to have recognised? I'm
not going to make my skull feel even thinner by straining to recall. I
wish I didn't have to check the newsgroups.

Sillent round here now, isn't it? Maybe Mr Questionnabble's
deccided he doesn't exist, or maybe he's hoping we'll think he
never did. He wasn't at his pubblishers when I went, and Mr Cee
Vee who we're suppossed to think is his edditor wasn't either.
There was just me, so I win. Anyboddy dissagree? Maybe Mr
Questionnabble's too busy just being himself and coppying from
www.tubbysfilms.com.

He's posted the correct address this time. My innards twitch as I
follow the link, to be confronted by the improved opening of my first
chapter. I scroll through it and see there's more – far more. I clench
my teeth until my jaws become a single ache, and then my mouth
stretches into some kind of grin as I read the first words of the next
chapter.

Let stalk about Ubby in Howwylud. Hiss firts flim – hiss debboo
– scalled 'The Bets Messy Din'. Snowed in, sno din, bcos snows
hound, sno sound. Cy lent sinny Ma, C? Bet messy dinno dat or
May B thaw tit was all flims worm N 2B...

It's unbelievably childish nonsense, and as it gets worse I start to
clap and laugh. Perhaps my mirth is a little too wild, especially since
I can't tell when it starts to be underlined by giggling at my back. I
jerk my head around and see Mark in the doorway. 'What are you
reading?' he splutters.