The Grin of the Dark (27 page)

Do the wielders of the sheet believe they're portraying Roman
soldiers? They march off more or less in step, revealing that Mary has
dispensed with her padding. She's supine in the hay and cradling a
swaddled baby doll. Joseph stands beside her with a bemused
expression that seems both psychologically accurate and dangerously
comical. My smothered nervous giggle earns a sharp glance from
Bebe, and I'm glad when the shepherds strike up 'Once in Royal
David's City'. It soothes my nerves almost to the end of the first line.

It isn't just that the three Magi have entered in time with the carol,
nor that the third of them is Mark. I have the notion that someone
sang not 'city' but a similar and entirely unbecoming word. Even if
they did, why should I blame Mark? I watch his lips but can't tell
whether somebody sings 'pile' for 'child' and, if so, whether he does.
Suppose all this is happening, is it any worse than childishness? The
teacher in the wings is rubbing his magic cranium no harder than
before. Perhaps my impressions are just symptoms of jet lag, but I'm
almost relieved when the carol ends and the three robed boys knock
at the stable door.

The one carrying a small chest is the first to deliver his tribute –
gold pieces or more likely chocolate coins wrapped in foil. The second
boy bows lower as he presents Mary with a blue perfume bottle representing
frankincense. She shows it to the doll and hands it to Joseph
as Mark steps forward. He's bearing a pottery jar in which Natalie
stores pasta. So loudly that I'm not the only person to jump he says
'The third Magus brings you myrrh.'

Can't he bear the silence? He's the only member of the trio who
spoke. The teacher leans out of the wings, massaging his scalp madly.
I'm loath to glance at Natalie, never mind her parents, because Mark
seemed to relish the last word so much that it resembled a bray. As
its echo lingers and lengthens inside my head he takes a last step.
Perhaps he only means to bow lowest of all, or does he trip over his
robe or slip on the hay? In any event, the jar flies out of his hands.

Mary and Joseph leap to catch it. Neither wins, and Mary drops her
burden. The jar and baby Jesus hit the boards with an impact that
sounds somehow dubbed until I realise it's augmented by the slap the
teacher deals his cranium. At least the jar doesn't break. Mary scrambles
to rescue her baby, but her mouth begins to struggle for a shape as she
picks up the doll. The top of the wrappings droops emptily, and as she
opens her mouth I know what she's going to ask. 'Where's his head?'

A woman on the front row jumps up as though she has seen a
rodent. She gropes beneath her seat and holds up the errant item. The
teacher lurches out of the wings, but Mark is closer and faster.
Darting to the edge of the stage, he holds out his cupped hands.
Perhaps his confident stance persuades the woman, or perhaps she's
won over by his wide grin. Whatever makes her thoughtless, she
throws him the baby's head.

Shocked gasps greet this, but so does uneasy laughter. More of
both accompany Mark's spirited attempts to mend the baby, at last
uniting the portions with a snap that fills the hall and sounds more
like bone than plastic. Mary's reaction doesn't help. In a stage
whisper she complains 'It's back to front.'

'Twist it round, then,' Joseph advises and immediately loses the
rest of his patience. Grabbing their first-born, he scrags baby Jesus
and thrusts the infant at his mother.

By now the teacher is reduced to retreating as many paces as he
takes from the wings while he clutches his scalp with both hands.
'Can't anybody stop this?' Bebe demands in a voice loud enough for
an actress.

To some extent Miss Moss does. She begins to sing 'O Come All
Ye Faithful' as she marches to the front of the hall, gesturing the
audience to rise to its feet and join in. None of this is quite enough of
a distraction from Mary's struggles to reassemble baby Jesus, whose
neck keeps popping out of the socket as if the head is eager to regain
its freedom. Throughout this Mark retains rather too blameless an
expression, and I can't help recalling the grin he sent me earlier – a
version of his Tubby face? His gaze keeps flickering sideways to
observe the antics of the mother of God, who abandons her attempts
to repair her offspring and wraps up the head along with the decapitated
remains, rocking them in her arms as the carol ends. The
headmistress has her back to Mary's performance. 'Thank you all for
coming,' Miss Moss says. 'Thank you to Mr Steel and all his cast for
such a memorable production.'

She leads the applause as the teacher takes a quick nervous bow
and then flaps his hands to hurry the cast offstage. The adults in the
hall chat while they wait for their children to reappear, but Natalie
and her parents are silent, and I don't know what it might be safe to
say. Some protracted minutes pass before Mark steps forth, cradling
Natalie's jar. 'It's okay,' he assures her.

'Unlike that performance,' Bebe says.

'Nothing like we came to see,' says Warren.

Natalie takes the jar. 'Thanks for saving it,' she says.

Before Mark speaks I know he's going to appeal to me. 'Didn't you
like it, Simon? You like laughing.'

I feel surrounded by unspoken warnings. 'It was an experience for
certain.'

I'm afraid he may find this insufficiently supportive, but he
rewards me with a grin that looks reminiscent. 'Wait till you see what
I've got you at home,' he says.

As the Shogun halts outside the apartments, Bebe breaks the heavy
silence. 'Would you like us to come up with you, Natalie?'
'You head off home. You've done enough.'

Mark wriggles to face me across his mother. 'Can I show you
now?'

'Maybe you should catch up on your sleep,' says Warren. 'Your
mom and Mr Lester have some issues to discuss.'

'Remember we're as close as your phone,' Bebe assures her
daughter. 'Chances are you won't be waking us.'

As the car swerves away up the alley, icy flakes like seeds of Bebe's
gaze settle on my forehead. It occurs to me to read the nameplate of
the apartment opposite ours, but when I try to clear it of half-melted
snowflakes I rub the name illegible. Mark is racing upstairs while
Natalie follows him at half the speed. I use both hands to hold my
case above the stairs so as not to chip them, and then I blunder with
it into Natalie's bedroom. 'You've come back the worse for wear,' she
says.

'Better handle me gently, then.'

I'm not sure if she's preparing even the slightest of smiles when
Mark calls 'Here it is, Simon.'

'Go on, get it over with,' Natalie tells him or me or both, and steps
well aside to let me out of her room.

Mark is sitting at my desk. Has he been using my computer in my
absence? He can't have logged online without my password, and in
any case I don't know why I should be apprehensive. Perhaps it's
simply that the notion that anyone else has used the computer makes
my work seem vulnerable – and then I notice the book in front of
him. It's
Surréalistes Malgré Eux
. 'Look what someone did,' he says
as he hands it to me.

I can see no difference when I open the book. Did I fancy that the
text might have changed somehow? I'm about to give up leafing
through it and ask Mark what he's so impatient for me to find when
I reach the pages that deal with Tubby Thackeray. The margins of
both have been pencilled solid black.

While this may be a suitably funereal tribute, I don't like having a
book defaced. 'You did this, did you, Mark?'

'I saw it in a film,' he says with a wide smile that I find wholly
inappropriate. I'm about to start by telling him so when I realise that
the blackness of the borders isn't total after all. Both side margins
contain words so faint they're scarcely legible. Before I've finished
straining my eyes I'm unconvinced the additions are worth
deciphering.

grate

mind

mined

pourtal

vorpal

portle

trope

troop

troupe

let

it

owt

ownly

con

necked

links

recht

lynx

wrecked

sub

con

shush

first

foot

your

Bill

of

men

tall

health

all

fools!

yer

round

first

for

noll

edge

first

be

last

carol

carroll

itty

bitty

god

I'm opening my mouth when I wonder if the annotations are even
more meaningless than they appear. 'Mind out, Mark,' I say and pull
the desk drawer open. On top of the small stack of posters is the one
signed by Thackeray Lane. The wispy script of the first name, before
the signature degenerates into an elongated capital, is indeed the same
as the handwriting in the book. This seems capable of scrambling my
thoughts until I see the explanation. 'Why did you do this, Mark?'

He looks inexplicably confused. 'I told you – '

'You said you got it from a film. About a forger, was it? Full marks
for learning fast but not for what you learned. You'll have me
thinking films can turn people into criminals. Maybe you can tell me
what all this is supposed to mean.'

Before I've finished speaking, Natalie is in the room. 'What has he
done now?'

'All I did was highlight the writing for him,' Mark protests as his
eyes grow wider and moister. 'That's how they sent secret messages
in a film.'

It doesn't sound like a terribly secure method. Rather than criticise
the film I wait for him to meet my gaze. 'Are you telling me you didn't
write this?'

'I swear I didn't. I only wanted to make it easy for you to see. I
looked through the paper and saw it. I was trying to read about
Tubby but I couldn't read much.'

I feel like a clever lawyer for remarking 'I didn't know you could
read French at all.'

'My computer helped.'

I'm defeated, not to mention bewildered. 'Well, thank you for
this,' I have to say, although gratitude isn't involved. 'I'm sorry I
spoke to you like that. Blame jet lag if you want.'

As his grin returns Natalie says 'Now we both really think you
should go to bed.'

'I'm glad you're home, Simon,' he says and heads for the bathroom.
I hope Natalie may agree with or add to his remark, but she only
takes the book out of my hand. With little more than a glance at the
inscribed margins she says 'How on earth could you think he wrote
this?'

'He might have copied it from somewhere. I know he didn't now.'

I'm hopelessly unsure what else I know. The package was
damaged when Joe brought it to me in Egham, but how could he have
been the forger? The only other possibility seems to be that the
autograph on the poster is fake. I've no idea where this explanation
leads; it's as distractingly meaningless as too much else that I've
encountered since beginning my research. I'm exhausted enough that
I sink onto my desk chair. 'Don't say you're going on your computer
now,' Natalie objects.

'I should drop Rufus a quick line. There may be a misunderstanding
with the bank.'

'You've got time. We'll talk when Mark's asleep.'

I attempt not to find this too ominous. Dozens of emails are
waiting: reports that messages I never sent have been returned, offers
of Viagra and other drugs, requests for me to help Nigerians or Gulf
War veterans in secret financial transactions by sending every detail
of my bank account. I delete them all before informing Rufus that I've
gathered plenty of material about Tubby and that the bank has made
a decidedly unauthorised donation. 'Maybe they mistook me for our
friend Tickell,' I add, though it doesn't feel much like a joke.

I'm supposed to be writing to the bank. I log onto the site for their
address and grin with the opposite of humour at my balance, which
is still flourishing a minus sign. Could Tess of the bank have told me
that they weren't able to restore my credit until I wrote to them? It's
her job to make herself clear. By the time I've finished emailing, Mark
has said good night from the hall. Instead of checking for Smilemime
I switch off the computer. 'Can we talk now?' I say. 'I'm pretty
shagged.'

I must be, otherwise I would have avoided the word. Natalie lets
me interpret her gaze before she relents, if she does. 'What would you
like to say, Simon?'

'I didn't know about Willie Hart, and that's the truth.'

'What didn't you?'

'She's no more a man than I am a woman, but what's anyone
expected to think with a name like that?'

'Maybe you ought to have looked a bit closer.'

'I'm not saying she didn't look female. She certainly did,' I say
with, to judge by Natalie's expression, too much enthusiasm before I
understand her remark. 'I swear it didn't say she was short for
Wilhelmina when I read it.'

'We've had quite a lot of swearing tonight, haven't we.'

'Not as much as I feel like.' I visualise this as an intertitle but say
aloud 'I believed Mark, didn't you? I hope you'll believe me.'

'Why didn't you tell me while you were there?'

'I wanted to face to face.'

'I'd rather have heard it from you than from my parents. They
made it sound like some grubby little secret they were ashamed to
have to tell me.'

'I hadn't met her then.'

'How do you – ' Natalie's mouth stiffens around the last word.
'You've discussed it with them, have you?'

'Disgust is more like it. Theirs, I mean.'

Natalie shakes her head as if too many words have settled on it.
'Just tell me. Leave the random stuff where it belongs.'

'All right, they did their best to make me betray myself.'

'What did you have to betray, Simon?'

'Not a thing,' I say, fending off a memory of three naked girls with
Tubby's gleeful face. 'I'm saying they tried. Are we happy now?'

'I couldn't say what you are. Maybe you can tell me.'

I might object that she wanted me to rid the conversation of this
kind of tangential link, but I say 'I mean is there anything else you
want to know? Anything at all.'

'How was she?'

'As professional as they come.' Hastily I add 'The time I didn't
spend watching her grandfather's films she was telling me about him
and his career.'

'Poor you,' Natalie says with, I suspect, at least as much mockery
as sympathy. 'Sounds as if you never went to bed.'

'Oh, I did quite a bit of that too.'

Natalie makes for the door, and I'm afraid that language has
tripped me up again until she says 'That's where I'm going. You're
not the only one in need of sleep.'

'Sorry. I didn't realise wondering about me would keep you
awake.'

She halts with her hand on the doorknob. 'Mark has been.'

'You should have told me. What's been wrong?'

'I hope he's just been missing you. Perhaps whatever's kept waking
him up will go away now you're home, since he won't tell me what
he's been dreaming.'

At least her hope is encouraging. 'I'll let you get in first, shall I?'

'I'd appreciate it.' As she opens the door she murmurs 'I'm glad
not to be on my own again.'

'I'll be here,' I promise and switch on the computer.

She bolts the bathroom door as I reach the newsgroups. Perhaps
the splash of water in the sink would deafen her to any other sound,
but I grab my mouth to trap whatever noise I might emit. I clutch my
face hard enough to bruise it while I stare at Smilemime's latest
message. I minimise the image and don't restore it until I hear Natalie
switch off the bedroom light, by which time I've thought to let go of
my aching face. Various members of the groups have already
responded – 'Nobody cares who any of you are' and 'Why don't you all
go forth and multiply, in other words fuck off' and 'I'd like to meet you
and separate your head' – but nobody has on my behalf. It makes me
feel spied upon by more people than I want to imagine.

So the other one of Mr Questionabble wants me to meet him
somewhere now and if I don't it shows I'm not telling the truth,
except everyboddy can see it's beccause I'm telling it he wants
to meet me and shut me up. Here's what I'll prommise. I'll meet
him if someboddy who can prove who they are comes allong to
keep the peace, but it has to be somewhere I sellect. I wonder
how many of us there'd be then. Less than he wants us all to
think. His name's nearly Less, which gives him away again, and
Colin Vernon's his CV, he'd like us to believe. If you want an idea
of his real CV and the kind of films he's mixed up in, have a look
at the site where he's performming with three girls. They do
things you couldn't dream of. He looks like he's dreamming
himself. Dream on, Mr Questionabble. Just don't bother
dreamming of tricking me. That's me in the middle of the web,
and I've got tricks I havven't even thought of yet. Better get off
it while you can, beffore you're stuck. You wouldn't want that
for Christmass.