The Grin of the Dark (37 page)

'Maybe it's the new language. Maybe soon we'll all be talking like
that.' I scroll through as much as I can stand – by no means all, it
looks like. 'It's some idiot's idea of a joke, I suppose. Fun for a while,
but here's the real thing,' I say and bring up my chapters on the
screen. I open the second one, and then I let go of the mouse before
it shatters in my fist.

Let stalk about Ubby in Howwylud. Hiss firts flim – hiss debboo –
scalled 'The Bets Messy Din'...

It's word for word, and it goes on for chapter after chapter. My
eyes feel like hot coals that are about to turn black while my head
pounds with the effort to think of an explanation. Mark is laughing
hard enough for both of us. I control myself to some extent before I
turn on him. 'It was you, wasn't it?' I say through my teeth.

I'm ready with a smile as I hurry down the hall to greet Natalie.
'You look pleased with yourself,' she says. 'Did you deliver your
book?'

'All of it I've had a chance to write.'

'That's what I was asking. You took it to Colin.'

'It's in safe hands. It will be. It's safe.'

She waits to be sure I've finished before she says 'Well, are you
going to let me in?'

I feel as if we've been staging a performance for an audience across
the hall. Was there movement beyond the spyhole – a flicker like an
eyelid? 'Carry you over the threshold if you want,' I say.

'No, just let me in. I've had a long day.'

'They've been working you hard, have they?'

'It wasn't only work.'

I stare at her face and her profile and the back of her head, none
of which prompts any further explanation, and so I have to ask 'What
was it, then?'

'Oh, Simon.' She moves her shoulders but doesn't turn. 'Perhaps
we were finding you something special for your birthday,' she says.

'We.'

'That's right, me and someone at the magazine.'

Could that be Mark's father? I'm not going to enquire. Presumably
whatever she bought is in her handbag, unless it's hidden in the car.
'I hope it didn't take you away from your work too much,' I say.

'Don't worry, I had fun all day. I hope you will for the rest of it.
It's our first New Year's Eve, remember.'

I was wondering if she has been celebrating and with whom.
Perhaps that's unfair, since she has to drive soon. I'm about to tell her
at least some of this when she says 'Where's Mark?'

'Deep in his labyrinth last time I checked.'

'Which in everyday language is...'

'Playing his game,' I translate as he opens his bedroom door.

I make myself face him. His smile outdoes mine, but I'm not sure
what that means. 'All right, Mark?' I risk asking.

'What wasn't?' Natalie says at once.

'There was a bit of a row, wasn't there, Mark? That's to say I
made one. Some kind of virus has got onto my computer and turned
my work into rubbish.'

'Oh, Simon, no. I'm so sorry.'

If I were still confused I could imagine she's apologising for
infecting the computer. 'It doesn't matter,' I assure her. 'I told you,
Colin and Rufus will have it all. They can copy it back to me.'

'Did you scan for the virus?'

'It's gone.' Though the programme Joe installed didn't identify it,
the downturned mouth of the token face on the circular icon was
transformed into a broad smile to the sound of a peal of electronic
bells. 'I only wish I could have sent it back where it came from.'

'Have you any idea where?'

'Someone who's been trying to undermime my reputation ever
since I started writing about Tubby. Undermine, I mean.'

I follow this with a laugh, but perhaps Natalie doesn't notice.
'Who?' she says.

'I don't know yet. I'm hoping the university can track them down.
The kind of monster the Internet lets loose, or maybe it creates them.
See, Mark, I've been fighting monsters too.'

'I've been watching Tubby.'

Since I apologised for blaming him for the gibberish on my
computer I've been hearing gleeful laughter from his room. It
sounded so maniacal and mechanical I ascribed it to some kind of
monster. It can only have been in his game, which he must have
replaced with the disc containing Tubby's stage performance.
Nevertheless I'm glad when Natalie interrupts my thoughts by saying
'If you men will excuse me, I'm going to have a shower and get
changed.'

Mark hurries back into his room and I return to my desk. There's
no email from my publishers. When I phone the office yet again I'm
answered by the same routine about the turn of the year. Nobody
could have diverted my chapters, but I'm still trying to gain some
objective assurance – however unlikely, given the date and the
lateness of the hour – when Natalie reappears in an elegant black
dress and matching stole. As she brings herself up to date with an
overcoat she says 'Everyone ready for the occasion?'

As much as I'm likely to be, I am. Mark is a good deal more eager.
He emerges from his room as silent as he's been in there, but with a
smile he may not have let down since he went in. He's hurrying to call
the lift when Natalie says 'Our neighbours send their best, Simon.'

'Which are those?'

'The ones you were wondering about,' she says and points at the
door opposite.

For a grotesque moment I think she's including the baby I saw
jerking like a spider on a fattened thread. 'The parents, you mean.'

'Hardly.' She looks as if I've made a tasteless joke and says no
more until we're at the lift. 'Not unless they adopt, and they didn't
give me the impression they wanted to,' she murmurs. 'They're a
couple, but they're men.'

'They can't have any babies,' Mark giggles as the metal door slides
back.

Amid my bewilderment I can find only one question, however
inadequate. 'What are they called?'

'Mr Stilton,' Mark says as if he's struggling to contain an
explosion of mirth.

I manage not to comment until we're all in the grey box. 'A big
cheese, is he? How does he smell?'

'Simon.'

I ignore Natalie's rebuke, not least because she appears secretly
amused. 'What's his boyfriend's name?'

'Mr Meese,' Natalie says like a challenge.

I'm trying to decode whatever joke is hidden in the name when
the lift opens on the basement car park. One of the pallid lights – I
can't locate which – is flickering like a bloodless pulse. Shadows
twitch the Punto as if it's no less anxious to be off than Mark. Even
Natalie seems to be losing patience with me as she turns to enquire
'Aren't you with us?'

As I venture out of the lift I grasp an explanation. 'Are you sure
they weren't just visitors?'

'Very. They've been here for years before we moved in.'

'Then they must have had some recently. Of course, for
Christmas.'

'Nothing odd about that, is there? Who?'

'A woman with her baby.'

'That would be odd.'

'Don't get in yet,' I urge, because I don't want her delaying the
answer to 'Why would it?'

'I told you,' she says and further frustrates me by adding 'In you
go, Mark.'

'Can I sit in front?'

'Go ahead,' I exhort, but I'm speaking as much to his mother. 'I
don't know what you told me. Why? Tell me why.'

'For heaven's sake, Simon.' She says nothing else until Mark shuts
his door. 'They don't like children, especially not where they live,' she
murmurs. 'They said Mark is an exception because he's so quiet, ha
ha.'

Some kind of response tugs at my lips as Natalie ducks into her
seat. When she calls to me I give up staring at a wall that flickers like
a screen awaiting an image and take my place in the back of the car.
She must be wrong or misinformed, but what does that mean our
neighbours are up to? It will need investigating in the New Year. Just
now my mind can't accommodate any further confusion – it's
clenched around the need to preserve what I wrote about Tubby, an
account that nobody else may ever be able to write. 'Wake me when
we get there,' I say, because I don't want to spend the journey in
anticipation of passing the night at her parents' house. They must be
why I dread what's in store, and they're quite enough. As the Punto
coasts up the ramp into the glittering monochrome night I do my best
to take refuge in my own dark.

'Are you awake? Are you awake, Simon? We're there.'

Tubbysfilms, Tub is fill ms, Tub if ill ms, Tubby Thatstheway, Tub
it hack a way?This and more of the same is all I've been able to think
since we left home. I prise my eyelids open to see that we're in the
park. How many tents have risen behind all the foliage? No, they're
varieties of houses on a private road. Squat shapes and much taller
ones throw their shadows on a broad white housefront. By the time
I've established that the shadows belong to shrubbery and evergreens,
the Punto has turned along the devious drive towards the house, which
a sign names Rentnomore. 'Do you like it, Simon?' Mark persists.

I might find it more appealing if it weren't his grandparents'
property. To the left of the door decorated with a festive wreath are
two large curtained rooms. Two further sets of rooms and two
smaller windows above the door mount to a rakish grey slate roof.
The drive winds around the side of the house, but Natalie parks
between her parents' vehicles in front. 'Most imposing,' I tell Mark
and step onto prickly gravel.

As Bebe opens the door the thorns of the wreath click like eager
fingernails against the oak. 'Now everyone's here,' she cries.

'So long as Mr L is,' Warren shouts.

Are they determined to welcome me or just to convince Natalie
that they're trying their hardest? Did Warren call me Mr Hell? Bebe
gestures us in with no lessening of enthusiasm when it comes to me.
'Don't be shy,' she urges. 'No ceremony here.'

There should be one at midnight, and why would she deny it? I'm
too hyperconscious of words. I need to drink myself into some kind
of good time for Natalie's sake and Mark's. Bebe takes my coat in the
wide pale hall, where the secretive pattern of the silvery wallpaper
appears to vanish before it reaches the top of the blond pine stairs. As
she hangs the coat on a stand composed of bony branches, Warren
emerges from the kitchen. 'Gee, that's a sorry spectacle,' he says of
me.

'What's that?' says Natalie.

'This guy with no drink in his hand at this time of year.'

I suppose he isn't necessarily implying that I drink too much,
especially once he adds 'What can I get all of you? Come and see.'

I'm dutifully impressed by the kitchen, which features a great deal
of gleaming metal and expensive wood. I accept a capacious glass of
Californian Merlot and amble into the hall. As I savour a mouthful
from the Sinise vineyard Bebe cries 'Not yet. Don't go in there.'

I assume she's addressing Mark, who is close to the left-hand front
room. I don't see how she could use that tone to a sensible adult. In
the spirit of proving I'm one I say 'It'll be the dog, will it? What do
you call it, Morsel.'

Mark giggles immoderately. 'That's not a dog.'

Presumably he means the name, since I can hear the animal
barking, if more distantly than I would have imagined the house
could accommodate. I'm surprised he hasn't encountered or at least
heard of the dog, but before I can raise the point Bebe says 'You go
in, Simon.'

She and Warren are watching me. So is Natalie, but I can't tell
whether she's better at hiding some kind of amusement than they
presently are. 'What's going on?' I blurt.

Nobody speaks, and I'm not sure if I hear stifled laughter. Surely
the Hallorans can't have planned anything harmful when Natalie and
Mark will see it happen. I grasp the cold silvery doorknob. 'Am I
supposed to go in here?'

'You're the nearest,' Bebe says. 'You'll need to put the light on.'

I'm almost certain that her answer covered up a surreptitious noise
beyond the door. Was it a whisper, less than a word, enjoining
silence? I feel as though more people than I'm able to identify are
holding their breaths. It's mostly to bring the impression to an end
that I throw the door open.

The light from the hall doesn't reach all the way across the room
to the figures standing in the dimness. More than one of them has a
hand over its face. Is this to hold in some sound or to conceal their
identities? 'I can see you,' I call as if I'm joining in a game and turn
the light on.

As the room reveals that it's a home cinema, in which speakers
surround a suite of slouching leather that faces an expansive plasma
screen on the left-hand side wall, Colin uncovers his face. 'Happy
occasion, you old bastard,' he wishes me. 'It isn't quite your birthday,
so I can't say that yet.'

Beside him Rufus lowers his hand. 'Happy end, of the year, I
mean.'

Their companions are student Joe in a T-shirt that says SAVE IT and
Nicholas, Mark's father. I can't help directing some of the anger his
presence provokes at Rufus. 'I thought you were going to wait till I
brought my chapter in.'

'Did anyone say that?'

'I did,' I say just ahead of realising that I may have been alone
in doing so, and confront Natalie. 'Did you know this was
coming?'

'I knew your publishers were.'

'You're saying you invited them.' When she lifts her upturned
hands I say 'Why didn't you tell me not to bother going to the office?
I could have given them my chapters here.'

'And spoil the surprise?' Bebe objects.

'We figured you'd like to have some of your friends around you,'
says Warren.

'How about the rest of them?' I refuse to feel guilty for asking.

'I expect that refers to me,' Nicholas says, though it doesn't exclusively.
'I just looked in for a drink and then I had to take cover with
your friends.'

I suppose it would be churlish of me to say Joe isn't one, however
much of a chum he insists on being. I'm trying to think of a neutral
remark and feeling in danger of uttering rubbish when Mark says 'Can
Simon open some of his presents?'

'He wasn't born yet,' says Natalie. 'You don't want him
premature.'

Bebe emits a small dry sound, less a tut than a tick reminiscent of
a scratch on an old record. 'Don't worry,' I'm prompted to reassure
her. 'I never am.'

Her face seems to shrink away from my remark. 'Perhaps we
should get on with the party so someone doesn't lose too much sleep.'

'Can't I stay up after midnight?' Mark pleads. 'My other grandma
and granddad let me.'

The frozen silence is broken by a brittle jittery clicking. The ice has
shattered into fragments – into the cubes in Nicholas's glass of orange
juice, which he's agitating like a cupful of dice. He's either considering
a response or expecting one, and goads Bebe to say 'They aren't
real, Mark.'

'They're as real as anybody here,' I say. 'That's right, isn't it, you
two?'

I would welcome more of a nod from Natalie and a less intense
smile from Mark. 'Your grandmother means you aren't descended
from them, Mark,' says Warren.

'I am,' I tell him.

'Like Jesus was descended from heaven,' Mark says, grinning more
widely than ever.

'I don't believe we need smart talk round here,' Bebe says,
'especially at Christmas.'

Perhaps she heard more blasphemy than I did. I feel as though I've
been accused of it. The silence is growing uncomfortably protracted
when Joe says 'Did somebody mention a party?'

'Thank you for reminding me, Mr Kerr,' Bebe says. 'You're
entitled.'

I won't ask or even wonder if the name is a joke. As his mouth
settles into an abashed grin I protest 'It's never your birthday as well,
is it?'

'Mrs Halloran didn't say that. We're making it your day.'

'Will you all join us in the next room?' As Mark takes a pace
towards the hall Bebe adds 'Except you, Simon.'

Perhaps her smile means to be reassuring. The four partygoers give
me a variety of grins as they sidle past me out of the room. Nicholas
contrives to be last, and turns to say into my face 'Let's all try to do
what's best for the family, shall we?'

He's close enough for me to smell a hint of leather, although he's
wearing none. Just as low and with as much of a smile as I can muster
I say 'Who's this all? I can't see that many right now.'

He doesn't move, perhaps in the hope that I'll be daunted by how
much taller and broader he is. I've learned a new trick since we last
met, from the guard in Lemon Street. I'm about to make Nicholas the
stooge of my stomach – surely I'm allowed the odd joke when it's
almost my birthday – until Bebe calls 'What are you boys doing in
there? Nicholas, you're holding up the show.'

As he steps back he mutters 'You aren't as good with words as you
think you are. No wonder you lost your job.'

'Whereas you lost – ' I have to take a breath to speak after my gasp
of disbelief, by which time he's beyond earshot unless I raise my
voice. What would Tubby do with such a pompous victim?
Amusement hooks the corners of my mouth, but I suspect the
audience would be less appreciative than I would like. Perhaps I can
arrange to be alone with Nicholas later, and I continue to grin as
Mark calls 'We're ready, Simon.'

I'm advancing into the hall when I hear a hurried whisper and a
click. They've switched off the light in the next room. I have a wholly
inexplicable urge to walk out of the house or run, it doesn't matter
where. When Mark giggles beyond the door, a chill travels up my arm
from the metal doorknob and shakes me from head to foot. I must be
recovering from all my journeys, and how can I disappoint a seven-year-
old and my lover, his mother? As I ease the door open I'm not
hesitating out of dread but ensuring I don't knock anyone down,
though the notion of people toppling like ninepins in the dark fails to
bring a smile back to my lips.

The room isn't entirely dark. It's flickering like an image from a
primitive film, and so are the faces beyond a long table. When I shove
the door fully open the dim light grows still more uncertain. It robs
red hair of colour and turns freckles black as pockmarks. It plucks at
Natalie's features and her son's as if it's determined to puff up their
flesh until they're as plump as her mother. It performs a similar
illusion – using the treacherous shadows to reshape them close to
identical – with Warren's squarish face and Nicholas's longer one.
Then everyone sets about chanting 'Happy birthday to you' so enthusiastically
that I could believe there are extra guests in the dark, and
the candles on the cake in the middle of the table flare up. All the
grinning faces appear to swell towards me, and another one does in
my mind. Nobody present resembles it – not schoolboyish Colin or
doughy Joe or Rufus behind his beard, and certainly nobody else –
even if the instability of all the faces suggests they're about to
transform. When I shut my eyes to put an end to the idea I see
Tubby's face lying like a fat replete parasite on the surface of my
mind. None too soon everyone choruses 'You' at length and Mark
cries 'Now you've got to blow them all out or we won't have good
luck.'

I suppose I should be touched that he's including himself and
presumably his mother in my fortunes. I fumble for the light switch
before opening my eyes to see that a dark shape has reached it ahead
of me – only my shadow. 'I'll just put the light on so we won't be in
the dark.'

'It won't be as special,' Mark complains, but I've already slapped
the switch down. I keep my eyes open as I turn to the room. Everyone
is smiling, and Bebe is coming at me with a knife – for me to use on
the cake, of course. She lays it on the table when I wave it away, and
it shimmers like a magic blade with flame. I suck in a breath that
tastes of hot wax to extinguish the candles, but the breath emerges as
a faltering gasp. Beneath the bristling candles is a clown's wide-eyed
gleeful face.

I'm hardly aware of nervously scratching my wrist. I stop when I
notice that Mark is imitating me. As I lean towards the black and
white face of the cake I feel as if I'm confronting some unspecified
dread. I can't tell how much of the heat is in the flames and how
much in my face, though of course that isn't melting. I expel a breath
like a long resigned sigh. The flames point at my audience and give
way to scribbles of smoke. I expect the candles to relight themselves
at once, but they don't play that trick. 'Well done,' Bebe says, more
in the manner of praising a child than I like. 'You must have the first
slice, Simon.'

I poise the knife while I consider how to mutilate the face. I cut
through the button nose and as much of the right side of the grin and
the downturned mouth as I can encompass without seeming greedy. I
transfer the slice to the topmost of a stack of plates beside an array of
parcels and envelopes addressed to me. I'm about to cut the rest of the
cake when Bebe says 'Eat up, Simon. It's for you.'

'What's it like?' Mark asks before the slice divested of its candle
has reached my mouth.

Perhaps a trace of wax has strayed into the icing, because it tastes
indefinably odd. Everybody smiles more intensely than I welcome as
I take the bite. They must be encouraging me to display pleasure,
however amused they look. I do my best, although I feel as if the
confected grin I've swallowed is returning to the surface of my face,
dragging my lips into its shape. 'Good,' I'm compelled to assure
Mark, but the word emerges as such a nonsensical mumble that Bebe
frowns. Two further mouthfuls, which I mime enthusiastically so as
not to seem ungrateful, finish off my portion. I let the aching corners
of my mouth subside as I wonder 'Why a clown face, Mark?'

'It wasn't his idea,' Bebe says. 'The party was.'

'Whose was the cake?'

'Chums know what chums like,' says Joe.

Did I ever mention the circus to him? Another possibility occurs to
me, one so disconcerting that I blurt 'Have you put something in it?'

His face may be about to own up to an expression when Bebe
interrupts. 'I should very much doubt it.'

'You aren't in Amsterdam now,' Warren says and fixes his wide
eyes on me. 'I heard someone ate one of those cakes there and went
completely mad.'