The Grin of the Dark (18 page)

We're nearly at the school when I have a last try. 'I know you
were on the stage, but did you really not see me buy the paper?'

'I was looking for you,' says Mark.

'I was at the stall not a hundred yards away.'

'Looking for Tubby.' When this clarifies nothing he adds 'For you,
I mean.'

'No need to put that face on every time you mention him.' I wait
for his eyes and grin to shrink to reasonable dimensions before I say
'You must have seen what I'd bought when I came on the stage.'

'Some bits of paper and your DVD.'

'All right, I know it's the comic you cared about most.'

I'm not even sure why I brought up our visit to the fair. I had the
newspaper, even if neither Natalie nor Mark remembers seeing it. It
isn't in the apartment, but Natalie insists that she wouldn't have
thrown it away. Could I have lost it on the way home? While I don't
like to think so, it seems more reasonable than suspecting her parents.
At least I can summarise the newspaper report in my book.
Meanwhile I've locked the posters and the DVD and
Keystone Kapers
in the drawer of my desk.

Parents and their white breaths are gathering outside the
schoolyard. More than one parent stares at me longer than I glance
at them. Beyond the children dashing about the yard or settling into
groups I see the woman with the handbell. 'I'm just coming in for a
word, Mark,' I say and squeeze his shoulder as we pass beneath the
wrought-iron name. He runs to join his admirers as I make my
devious way through the crowd of children.

The little woman is mostly monochrome: black suit and tights and
shoes, white blouse, grey hair. Her economically compact face grows
neutral but watchful. 'May I help you?' she says.

'You're the head.'

'I'm Miss Moss.'

Her look may be a warning that her name is no occasion for mirth,
but it makes my face eager to contradict her. 'That's the head,' I say,
and when her raised eyebrows signify her patience 'I'm Mark
Halloran's, well, not parent, sadly, not yet anyway. Guardian, would
it be? I'm with his mother.'

I don't know whether her doggedly polite expression or my
unwieldy face is compelling me to babble, but she doesn't help by
asking 'Had you something you wanted to say?'

'I've already said a mouthful. Make that a bunch of them. I'm not
just mouthing, am I? Can't you hear me?' Instead of uttering any of
this I jabber 'I expect you'll be seeing a lot of that. Today's style of
relationships, I mean. I just wanted to establish who I am in case
anyone's wondering.'

'And who is that?'

'The way I heard it, some of the parents.' Resentment or sleeplessness
makes me add 'If that's what they are, of course.'

'I was asking for your name.'

I release a laugh that seems as uncontrollable as my face. I haven't
regained control of my speech when a voice says 'Simon Lester.'

I feel as if I've been provided with a soundtrack. 'Thank you,
Mark,' the headmistress says and hands him the bell. 'You can be my
ringer.'

Presumably I'm dismissed. I could fancy that he's ringing me out
of the schoolyard. Children move away from me, because they're
forming queues, of course. Parents clap and stamp their feet, but only
to keep warm. The bell hasn't finished ringing energetically as I pass
beneath the name. 'Thank you, Mark,' Miss Moss repeats.

The instant I turn to look, he assumes his Tubby face and swings
the bell so wildly I'm afraid he may dislodge the clapper. A number
of children laugh, some of them nervously, and their lines begin to
grow haphazard. I grin at Mark and put my finger to my lips and wag
my other hand. He responds only to the grin, and Miss Moss seems
unimpressed by my performance. As she claps for silence I hurry
away. Perhaps she's right to blame me for encouraging Mark,
however unintentionally.

I don't know when the bell stops clanging except in my head.
Surely I can't still hear it as Tower Bridge comes into view. Is an
entertainer ringing one? I seem to glimpse a wild-haired figure
prancing through the crowds, unless his baggy clothes are dancing in
the wind along the ruffled river. I don't see him leave the bridge, and
there's no sign of him when I do. I let myself into the apartment
building and waste time wondering if I heard another door shut
besides the outer one. I'm too feverishly awake now to catch up on
my sleep, and so I log online, to be greeted by an email from Rufus.

Salutations, Simon!

Keep the problems coming and we'll solve them. Let's meet
for lunch and we'll show you how. It's about time your
publishers bought you one. Can you make
in the net
for one
o'clock tomorrow? It's on Old Compton Street between Greek
and Filth, I mean Frith. Oh, and don't give this online nonsense
another thought.

There's nothing like a reunion!

Rufus Wall

Editor in Chief, LUP On Film

Why should it concern me that Rufus has renamed his job?
Perhaps a simple editor sounded insufficiently impressive, I
decide as I leave Charing Cross Road for Old Compton Street.
Women stand in doorways, mutely inviting passers-by inside, unless
I'm too preoccupied to hear their words. An unshaven juggler
crowned with a scrawny Santa Claus hat and a wide fixed desperate
grin is performing for a theatre queue, and trips after me past a row
of dead black screens – the windows of sex shops. Are the balls he's
juggling painted with faces? I have the impression that they're
grinning askew or upside down. He's so close that I could fancy he
would like to snatch my head and add it to the objects in the air.
Rather than wait to be harassed for a contribution I put on speed all
the way to the next block.

The name of the restaurant is etched on the window in elegant
lower-case type. Seafood may well be in the net, but the phrase
doesn't refer just to that. Every table bears a rotating pedestal
mounted with a computer and keyboard and mouse. Some of the
monitors display menus, but diners are also online or playing
computer games. I open the inappropriately antique panelled door
and almost collide with Rufus. He and his companion are standing
with their backs to me beside a reception desk. The other man turns,
and I see Colin Vernon, my editor at
Cineassed
.

His mischievous schoolboyish face is packed in more fat than the
last time I saw him, and rusty with much sun or a substitute. Before
I have time to grasp my reaction he swings around and seizes me by
the biceps. 'Simon, you sneaky old bastard,' he shouts as if I'm at the
far end of the long low spikily plastered room. 'How long have you
been lurking there? Weren't you ever going to speak up?'

Rufus turns fast enough to wag his greying mane and produces a
grin too wide to be hidden by his extensive beard. 'I said so, Simon,
didn't I? Was I right?'

'Tell me again about what.'

'What do you call this?' He raises a thumb at Colin, and as I mull
over my answer he declares 'A reunion.'

Colin relinquishes my arms and clasps my hand in both of his to
shake. 'So how are you surviving?' I ask him.

'A lot more than that,' he says and winks at Rufus.

A waiter has arrived, animated by Colin's boisterousness. He leads
us to a table deep in the restaurant, where Rufus swivels the computer
towards me. 'Indulge yourselves, gentlemen. It's on Charles Stanley
Tickell.'

All the items on the menu have domain names. I announce my
choice of calamari.sp and trout.co.uk, only to learn that we have to
use the mouse to communicate our orders to the kitchen. My fellow
diners send theirs, and Rufus is selecting a bottle from the onscreen
wine list when Colin frowns at me. 'Rufus was saying some little
pipsqueak is nibbling at your reputation. What's his name again?'
'Who would know? Smilemime, he calls himself.'

Colin spins the computer to face him. He types and clicks the
mouse so fast I'm put in mind of the rattling of dice. 'Wanker,' he
comments loud enough for a businessman and woman at a nearby
table to glance at him. I flash them an apologetic smile and murmur
'Colin...'

'Don't kid anyone you disagree,' he says, and no more until he
finishes examining the summaries of Tubby's films. 'Well, this is total
crap. What shall we do about him?'

'No point in questioning his versions now if I may be seeing some
of the films in California.'

'Have you found the twat anywhere else?'

'All over the Google groups.'

Colin searches them and widens his eyes as if to encompass more
of the information. 'Fucker,' he remarks almost affectionately. 'Have
you seen this?'

I vowed yesterday that I wouldn't let Smilemime trouble me any
further. I spent the day in rewriting my chapter about Fatty Arbuckle,
which I emailed to Rufus, though I've yet to learn what he thinks of
the new version. I nodded off only occasionally, and was awake to
fetch a somewhat subdued Mark from school and to buy the three of
us baltis in Brick Lane when Natalie eventually returned from work.
I slept almost as soon as I was first in bed, and wasn't conscious of
thinking about Smilemime. This morning I stayed offline while I
worked on the chapter about Max Davidson, the comic who fell out
of favour for being too parodically Jewish. Now Colin swings the
screen for me to catch up on my correspondence.

So he's making out noboddy knows my name now, is he? That's
funny coming from someboddy that can't even tell the truth
about his own. Hands up anyboddy who hasn't noticed that he
says he doesn't have a suedonym when he keeps answering to
Mr Questionabble. Good of him to say people needn't be
assocciated with him if they don't want to be. Shout annyone
that does. Quiet arround here, isn't it? I don't blame anyboddy
not wanting to get mixed up with his book, even if it's as
fictittous as this
Cinneaste
magazine he can't even spell the
name of.

A waiter has poured three generous glasses of Chablis, having
waited for Rufus to take more than a sniff. As I swallow a mouthful,
Colin reclaims the computer and sets about typing. In a minute or so
he says 'That ought to fix the little prick.'

'Could I see – ' I start, but he clicks the mouse and turns the screen
to show me his posting from [email protected].

Hello Mr Smellie or whatever your name should be. I'm Simon
Lester's editor. Yes, he wrote for every brilliant fearless issue of
Cineassed
. I'm not surprised you've never heard of it when you're
so busy contorting yourself to stuff your head all the way up
your arse. And yes, he's got books in him that'll be even more
stimulating than his magazine work. Unlike you he'll have
watched the films, not made them up.

Rufus cranes over to read it and covers his face to stifle a laugh,
but Colin is watching my reaction. 'Wrong on one point,' I feel bound
to say. 'Telling him you're my editor. You were, of course.'

'He'd still like to be,' says Rufus. 'How would that fit with you?'

'I thought you and Rufus must have been discussing a book.'

'Several.'

'Yours for one,' Colin tells me.

I'm unpleasantly aware of the flickering of screens around me.
'Aren't you my editor?' I appeal to Rufus.

'I'm still at the top of the pole, but I could do with more support.
Your old friend is buzzing with ideas, and I can't think of a better
choice when you've already worked together.'

'How are you saying we should do that?'

'Maybe like this,' Colin says and reclaims the computer again.

A waiter arrives with the starters but won't accept an order for
another bottle; Colin has to type it on behalf of our host. I'm chewing
some of my obscurely spiced squid by the time he completes his
original task and lets me see the screen. It's displaying the first page
of the chapter I sent to Rufus.

My head begins to throb, and the screen and its neighbours appear
to join in as if they're revealing a shared pulse. 'Where have you got
that?'

'It isn't online,' Colin laughs. 'I've called it up from my desk.'

The text isn't quite mine. I didn't suggest that 'Since Arbuckle is
silent, viewers couldn't know if he sounded like a eunuch', nor 'The
sight of Fatty as an outsize child in drag is creepier than it's funny'. I
wouldn't necessarily argue with either observation, but it feels as if
my chapter has mutated while I was asleep – almost as if my subconscious
or someone else's took charge of the computer. Colin is
consuming his moules.fr, scooping out the mussels and sipping from
the shells. 'Fatty may have decided his gracefulness was the wrong
kind of gay' – I suppose that's possible, and even 'Perhaps his penis
rose up against the image he was projecting onscreen'. Dozens of my
sentences have acquired extra spice to compete with these, but I don't
comment until I've read nearly to the end. 'Can we really say he
screwed Virginia Rappe to death?'

'Why not?' says Rufus, brandishing a forkful of tuna.jp. 'It's what
everyone thinks.'

'There's evidence on the net,' Colin assures me. 'Dashiell Hammett
was on the case for Pinkertons, you know.'

'If the university can live with it I can.'

Colin swallows his last mussel and stands up with alacrity I
mistake for relief until he says 'I'm off to powder my nose. Anybody
else?'

His announcing his intentions loud enough to be heard by other
diners helps me not to be tempted. When Rufus also shakes his head,
Colin hurries through the door marked Incoming Male. 'You aren't
offended, are you?' Rufus says.

'I wouldn't say that.'

'He thinks any changes he can make that you don't object to will
make it, well, we don't want anyone saying it's a reprint of your
thesis. He'll email all his tweaks to you, of course. I thought it would
leave you more time to concentrate on your Thackeray project if it's
expanding as much as you said.'

I might well prefer to explore that rather than rethink old material.
'He won't want his name on the cover, will he?'

'There'll just be yours in splendid solitude. I expect he'd appreciate
an acknowledgment inside.'

Soon Colin reappears, rubbing his nostrils with a forefinger. 'It's
settled,' Rufus lets him know at once. 'Simon, do you want Colin to
have a go at the rest of your thesis?'

'Don't lose any sleep over it,' Colin urges, laughing at my face.
'You'll both have to approve anything I change.' When I settle my
expression he says 'It's great to be working with you again. Shall I
send this back where it came from?'

'Better keep it to ourselves for now,' Rufus presumably agrees.

Colin shuts the file and returns to the newsgroup with a sprint of
his fingers on the keyboard. 'The cunt isn't there yet,' he announces.
'I'll keep an eye out for him.'

I'm about to suggest that he should leave Smilemime to me when
the businessman at the nearby table says 'Do you mind?'

Colin's glittering eyes brighten as they turn to him. 'Does your wife?'

The man's face is already suffused, but its redness intensifies. 'I'm
asking you to keep your language to yourself.'

'I'll bet you are. Don't like the question, do you?'

The young woman tries to silence her companion by resting a hand
on his arm, but he snatches it away. 'What question?' he blusters.

'Does your wife mind you shagging your secretary?'

As Rufus muffles a startled laugh, the businessman's face seems
actually to swell around his pursed lips. 'Don't try to kid us that was
just a business lunch,' says Colin. 'You could at least leave your
wedding ring at home.'

I'm by no means pleasantly reminded of the head that burst during
Lane's stage performance. I would suggest that Colin might relent,
but the young woman is quicker. 'Let's go or we'll be late,' she
murmurs.

Her companion is scarcely able to manipulate the mouse to send
their bill to the printer behind the reception desk. He avoids looking
at us while he stalks past our table as if his empurpled face is a burden
he's barely able to support, but the young woman pauses to inform
us 'I'm not a secretary.'

'Seems like we've all been promoted,' Colin remarks.

I watch the couple leave the restaurant and try to outdistance a
figure in a lolling red conical hat. It's the juggler. His prey hurry out
of sight, and the globular faces caper in the air before they and the
performer vanish in pursuit. Rufus recaptures my attention by
elevating his glass. 'Here's to rediscovery,' he proposes, 'and shaking
the world up a bit.'

I have to hope that Rufus and the university will keep Colin under
control if it's called for. I lift my glass and clink it against theirs. 'Not
too much. Just enough,' I say. Perhaps I'm discovering a deadpan
talent, since both of them laugh.