The Grin of the Dark (30 page)

My eyes are already streaming with laughter, and soon I can barely
see for tears. I hear a few shocked gasps at my antics, but most of the
audience seem to find them even more hilarious. So, by the sound of
it, do I. My waves of mirth scarcely allow me to breathe. I renew my
assault on my blazing face and then, out of utter desperation, I slap
both cheeks at once. Either the impact frees my jaw or the shock of
the pain quells my hysteria. My last few hiccups of laughter trail into
silence, but my body continues to shake, perhaps as a reaction to the
flood of applause. 'You're the best yet,' the fortune-teller shouts.

'Wank you. It's been mumblable.' I don't know if I say this; the
clapping blurs my words. The applause subsides at last, leaving me
nervous to hear myself speak. I don't need to address the entire
audience. I turn to Tracy, who is still miming great amusement. 'I'm
going to head back,' I tell him, more loudly as my words emerge
intact. 'You stay. I'll get a taxi.'

His face doesn't change. Is he expressing astonishment at my
routine? He could at least blink; my eyes are watering in sympathy as
well as with the stinging of my bruised cheeks. 'Are you all right?
Don't do that, it isn't funny,' the woman next to him says and leans
over to shake his arm. It isn't until he lolls against her, still grinning
wide-eyed, that she screams.

I barely sleep. Whenever my consciousness tries to shut down I see
Tracy grinning like a wide-eyed skull. His lurid face has grown as
black and white as his costume. Sometimes he turns into Tubby as his
irrepressible teeth force his lips wider. That's another reason why I
keep lurching awake, and so is the way that quite a few of the
audience seemed close to blaming me for Tracy's death. I wouldn't
have left before the ambulance came – they needn't have persisted in
reminding me that I'd arrived with him, as if this made me responsible
for his fate. All the same, the memory is preferable to imagining
that I've been roused by a stealthy noise in the room. Nothing has
slithered under the bed; if I switch on the light and peer over the edge
of the mattress, no pallid flattened forehead will inch out, never mind
unblinking eyes and a grin worse than death. The notion is enough to
keep me in the dark, and if I left the bed I would only be tempted to
take my insomnia onto the Internet. That's another version of
wishing I were elsewhere, which makes me dream more than once
that I've wakened somewhere smaller. As soon as I hear people
laughing in the corridor, presumably on their way to breakfast, I use
that as an excuse to turn on all the lights and stumble to my
bathroom.

I don't linger once I've finished showering. I feel compelled to
check in the mirror that I haven't begun to grin. The time is no
laughing matter, however. It's still an hour to breakfast. Once I'm
dressed I log on, but there's no message from Willie Hart or the bank,
and even Smilemime has nothing to say. I switch off and head for the
window.

The square is deserted. The extinguished fairground makes me feel
Christmas has passed without my noticing. The topmost carriage of
the big wheel sways like a cradle. Nobody's riding in it; no excessively
circular whitish face is spying on me from the dimness. Perhaps an
object is propped up on the seat, but trying to distinguish it makes my
vision flicker like a thunderstorm. I stare until more jollity in the
corridor alerts me that it is indeed time for breakfast. If I dawdle
much longer I'll be late for my research.

Mirrors in the lift display dozens of me in retreat down two
increasingly dim corridors, but my sidelong glances don't surprise any
secret grins. The basement dining-room proves to be a mediaeval hall.
Holly encircles shields on the walls, coloured lights decorate pairs of
crossed swords. I sit at the end of a massive table, and a waitress
brings me coffee. Given the setting, her black and white uniform
resembles fancy dress. The continental breakfast seems misplaced too,
but in the lift I looked too plump for comfort. Being overweight
didn't do Tracy much good. I eat a token roll and a couple of slices
of ham and holey cheese between gulps of coffee before retreating to
my room.

The key card works on the third try, although it belongs to a
different era. I pack my suitcase and lug it to the lift, promising myself
to replace it by the time I next travel. The hotel lobby returns me to
the present day, and the receptionist gives my signature just a token
frown once the machine accepts my credit card. As I step out of the
hotel a taxi opens its door to me. I glance at the big wheel, and the
topmost carriage seems to sway in response, but surely it's as empty
as it looks.

The driver is as silent as the frost that has bleached the pavements.
Perhaps the tip I give him once he releases my case from the boot
without leaving his seat isn't worth the breath. I use various holds to
transport the case across the road and past the ruddy towering façade
of the university and along a paved path bordered by precise white
grass. By the time I reach the library my hands are shivering with cold
or strain or both.

I've brought my passport and my signed contract from London
University Press. The girl at the front desk seems convinced, even by
the approximation of my signature I produce to obtain a visitor's pass.
A grey metal lift conveys me to the third floor, which is apparently the
Blue Area, where another notice indicates that stairs lead down to
Special Collections. Are those in the Silent Study Area on Blue 2?
When I shoulder the double doors open I'm met by a whine that
sounds like an amplified dental drill but proves to be emitted by a
computer abandoned under a notice that says
STOP THAT NOISE
!
Belatedly I realise that a sign outside the doors directs me up another
flight of stairs to Green 3. Beyond a lobby decorated with a warning
that disturbance may be caused by staff loading trolleys, a long room
full of alcoves of law books brings me to Red 3 and another room
devoted to Law, where someone out of sight is giggling in a whisper.
Most of the students will have gone home for Christmas, but I'm
relieved to hear voices in the entrance to Special Collections. Two
uniformed guards who might be competing at bulkiness look up from
their desks. 'What can we do for you?' the winner of the competition
says as if he thinks I'm as lost as I'd begun to feel.

'I'd like to look in your archives.'

'That's what they all say.'

'What have you got to show?' his colleague enquires.

I flourish my passport, at which they both don half a bulging
frown. 'Don't know if that'll do,' says the bulkier fellow.

I could imagine that I've stumbled into a comedy routine, but he
must be speculating on behalf of whoever is through the door beyond
the desks. 'I'll find out, shall I?' I rather less than ask.

While the guards don't move, their massiveness seems to increase.
'We'll keep that,' one says – I'm not sure which.

'It's yours,' I say, gratefully dropping the suitcase.

I manage to steady my fingers enough in order to open the door.
A few bookcases almost touch the ceiling of a small panelled room.
Closer to the entrance, a counter overlooks a study table halved by a
partition. The woman behind the counter, who is so short that her
build acts as a reminder of the presence of the guards, turns up a
professional smile. 'How may I help?' she murmurs.

'I believe you've got the papers of an old lecturer of yours.
Thackeray Lane's the name.'

She blinks at me, so that I wonder if she thinks I'm claiming the
identity until she says 'Well, he is popular all of a sudden.'

'Who with?'

'I'm afraid we can't give out that information.'

'But you're saying someone was ahead of me.'

'They contacted us to arrange for the material to be available.' She
nods at her desk, which is heaped with box files. 'They've yet to
present themselves,' she says.

Could the applicant have been Charley Tracy? Since I seem to have
no chance of learning that, I say 'Why are you assuming it's not me?'

'We would have to query why you were disguising your voice.'

'Sorry if I should have rung up in advance. May I consult the
papers as long as they're here?' I hand her my passport and my
contract. 'There I am.'

She scrutinises the photograph as closely as any official I've
encountered during my research, and examines the contract quite as
minutely. At last she says 'You live in London.'

'I don't have to be local, do I? I was born in Preston if that's any
help.'

'With material as rare as this we usually require some form of
authority. A letter from your publishers, perhaps.'

My fingers won't keep still after my struggle with the luggage, and
I clench my fists. 'Won't the contract cover it?'

She considers the pages with a series of blinks. Eventually she says
'Have they changed their name? Surely it ought to be the University
of London Press.'

I fight down a burst of hysterical mirth at the pettiness that's
obstructing me. 'Maybe you're right,' I succeed in saying, 'and they've
brought the name up to date. Or hang on, it's a new imprint. That's
it, of course.'

'Unfortunately it doesn't really qualify as authorisation.'

Then why have we gone through this interlude? The inside of my
head is beginning to feel scraped thin and raw when it proves to
contain a lonely idea. 'Will an email do?'

'I suppose that might be acceptable under the circumstances.'

'And seeing it's Christmas,' I nearly respond but say only 'I'll call
them.'

'You'll need to do so outside.'

I'm not sure why, since I can't see anyone else in the room. I leave
my passport and the contract on the counter and step into the lobby,
where the guards raise their slow weighty heads. 'Fast reader,' one
remarks.

'I haven't finished.' Rather than admit I also haven't started, I find
the number for London University Press on my mobile and mime
patience. I don't know why I feel compelled to entertain the guards,
but I gaze towards some horizon or other and wag my head in time
with the bell. I open my mouth when Rufus answers, and then I hear
his message. 'Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon are celebrating
Christmas. Leave us your name and where we can reach you and we'll
follow it up after the festivities.'

'Is anyone there? Is there really nobody there? I'm at an archive of
Tubby's in Manchester. If anyone's listening to this, can you answer?
The library needs you to authenticate me because what I want to look
at is very rare indeed. An email would be fine, saying I'm researching
on behalf of the university press. Is there still nobody? I feel as if I've
been talking all Christmas. If I had your mobile numbers I'd call
them.'

I can think of nothing more to conjure up a listener. I mustn't
imagine that I'm trying to trick someone into breaking their silence.
As I pocket the mobile a guard says 'Sounds like you didn't get what
you have to give us.'

'The lady in here can be the judge,' I say and hurry to the door for
fear they'll head me off. 'I'm afraid everyone's packed up for
Christmas,' I inform the librarian with a smile that's meant to be both
apologetic and appealing. 'They couldn't tell you anything the
contract doesn't, could they? Can't it be enough?'

She doesn't speak, and her gaze is uncommunicative. There's
clearly only one solution. I have to dash behind the counter and
knock her unconscious, the way I should have handled the other
dwarf in Amsterdam. I can tell the guards she needs to examine a
document that's in my suitcase. Once I've hidden the files in the case
I'll inform them on my regretful way out that the document wasn't
enough to establish my identity. I've sidled two steps when she says
'I'll speak to someone. He'll have to decide.'

What was I thinking of? I feel as though for altogether too many
seconds my body became nothing but instinct and electrified nerves.
As she uses the internal phone I retreat from the counter, and stay
well out of reach while we await a senior librarian. We aren't by
ourselves after all; papers are rustling somewhere in the room. I stare
at my upside-down passport rather than meet the woman's eyes.
When the door opens I'm afraid the guards have concluded that she
needs protecting from me, but while the large grey-haired man is
wearing a dark suit, it isn't quite a uniform. He trains his pale gaze
on me for some seconds before enquiring 'You're the applicant, are
you?'

'I'm the writer, as it says. Simon Lester.'

He looks at my passport and at me, and at the contract, and at me.
What can I do if he finds against me? Only wait until I'm alone with
the woman, and then – 'You'll need to stay where Miss Leerton can
oversee you,' he says and leaves us.

I'm approved. I was close to believing that my identity no longer
mattered. I fill in a card with my details and almost put Tubby instead
of Thackeray Lane on the Subject/Interest line. The woman deposits
the files on the table opposite the counter with a muffled clunk that I
wouldn't have thought capable of setting off so many echoes. I no
longer care who else is in the room, though I'm surprised the librarian
doesn't think their smothered laughter inappropriate. Perhaps they're
amused by the echoes; my sitting at the table is hardly a reason for
mirth. 'Thank you,' I murmur, which is echoed too. I put my finger
to my lips and give the librarian a remorseful smile, and seem to hear
an infinity of boxes being opened as the lid of the first file strikes the
wood.

As I remind myself yet again that I shouldn't phone Natalie while
she's driving, a taxi draws up in front of the university. 'Where
you going, chum?' the driver calls.

'Just waiting for somebody, thanks.'

'Sure it's not me?'

I'm sure of very little, not even of the expression on his loose
roundish face. Is some kind of smile lurking within his plump pale
lips? Any number of people in cars and on buses have appeared to be
ready with mirth. No doubt I look out of place, and many of them
will have been celebrating or preparing to celebrate. The thought isn't
as reassuring as it should be, at least if I take some of the notions in
Lane's archive as more than jokes rather than utter nonsense. 'My
partner is picking me up,' I say louder than I meant to.

Either his grin is about to surface or he's making an effort to
contain it as he shouts 'Aren't you Mr Milton?'

'That's right, I'm not.' My nerves render my voice aggressive, and
I try to make amends by saying 'I've not a sonnet to my name.'

'A Mr Milton said he'd be out here.'

'Well, I haven't seen him and I'm emphatically not him. Nor he.'
As the driver continues to watch me without owning up to
amusement, I can't be bothered to control my words. 'I could be
Elmer Sitson if you like,' I say. 'Or Toni Smelser, or Elsie M. Snort.

We're all here.'

The driver shows his teeth in a grimace as contradictory as a
clown's. 'Better watch where you're looking for company,' he says
and drives deeper into Manchester.

I've no idea what the encounter was about or why it took place at
all, but I disliked the way his face quivered like a slack balloon as the
taxi moved off. I stare raw-eyed both ways along the road, but none
of the drivers that grin at me out of the dark is Natalie. I'm willing a
distant glimmer to be her white Punto when my mobile invites me to
remember. As soon as I answer it Mark says 'Is that you, Simon?'

'I can't imagine who else it would be.'

'Where are you?'

'In front of the university.'

'So are we.'

I peer about until my eyes sting, but there isn't a single white car
to be seen. 'You must be at the other front,' I joke and laugh as well.
'I'm on Oxford Road.'

'So are we.'

I shut my eyes for fear that the image of my surroundings will
vanish to reveal somewhere else. 'Are you parked?' I manage to ask.

'We're in front of the door. Can't you see us? I'm waving, look.'

I risk a blink and see nothing at all. My vision is as blank as the
inside of a screen with no power. I squeeze my eyes shut and force
them open, and succeed in seeing the latest parade of merry faces in
the dimness, but no sign of Natalie's car. 'If you're not moving,' I say
through my shivering teeth, 'can I have a word with your mother?'

'I am moving. Look, I am more.' As I clench my teeth in an effort to
control them and my mind, which feels as if it's finally about to overload,
Mark says 'Oh, you mean the car. Simon wants to speak to you.'

'Simon,' Natalie says with patience so dramatic I hope it's directed
at Mark. 'You're in the university, yes? Whenever you're ready we're
outside.'

'I'm not insside, nno.' My jaws are playing at castanets again. 'I'm
outtside the mmain enttrance.'

She's silent, and I'm afraid she has given up on me until she says 'I
know you need to catch up on yourself after your travels. Do you
think you might not be in Manchester?'

'That's riddiccullous.' The words aren't worth the struggle,
because I'm no longer addressing the phone but flourishing it at a taxi
on the far side of the road. I almost topple over my luggage in a
slapstick bid to ensure that the driver notices me. The taxi executes a
screeching turn surely too fast for the icy road. I retreat for fear it may
mount the kerb, but it halts alongside. 'Want me after all?' the driver
shouts.

It's the same man. My entire body quakes with my struggles to
control my voice. 'I'm ssorry to ttroubble you,' I call. 'Would you
mmind telling me exacttly where I am?'

'In a bad way, aren't you, chum? Been having too much fun?
Didn't know who you are and now you don't know where.'

'I know both. It's someone else that doesn't.' I brandish the phone
and jab a finger at it, almost cutting Natalie off. 'My partner says
she's waiting in front of the university. I don't see her, do you?'

'Which one?'

He can't mean which partner, but the question still disorients
me. Could Mark's directions from the Internet have done the same
to his mother? 'Natalie,' I say and take an apprehensive breath. 'Are
you certain you're in Manchester?'

'I'm looking straight at the name on the front of the building.
There isn't much wrong with my driving or Mark's navigation either.
Now, Simon, if you've finished whatever you're doing...'

I wave the phone as I call 'She's insisting she's at Manchester
University.'

'Which one?'

I feel as if the conversation has backed up, and his unintelligible
grin doesn't help. 'Manchester, England,' I say through whatever
rictus is baring my teeth. 'The world. Space. The ccosmos.'

'There's two.'

The throbbing of my brittle head makes my vision gutter. 'Two
Manchesters in England?' I ask, if I'm not pleading.

'Two universities. This and the Met up the road.'

I lower the mobile, which I've been holding aloft like a feeble
torch. 'You'll laugh. Turns out – '

'I heard. Which way are you?'

While Natalie hasn't accepted my offer of amusement, the taxi
driver seems to have. His face is wobbling with silent jollity, which
spreads pallor around his mouth and up his cheeks. I try to ignore this
while I ask 'Which way does she need to come?'

As he points ahead, I refuse to believe that his gloved fingertip
squashes more than twice the width of the finger against the
windscreen. 'Drive out of town,' I advise Natalie and pocket the
mobile as my teeth start chattering again. 'Thanks for your assassistance.'

The taxi performs a turn so violent that the driver seems in danger
of leaving his face behind. The light from a streetlamp catches the
number plate, which appears to be blank, more like a rectangular
display of teeth. As the taxi speeds into the distance I grip the handle
of my case with all my strength. I feel as if I'm holding onto the sight
of the road while I battle to regain control of my thoughts. I'm afraid
that when I greet Natalie and Mark my words may spurt forth as
nonsense, the kind I've been reading too much of, not to mention the
sort to which I was reduced in the deconsecrated chapel. Neither my
jaw nor the rest of me has finished shivering when the Punto draws
up on the far side of the road.

All too soon a gap in the traffic lets me drag my suitcase to the car.
'Well, that was an adventure,' Natalie says. 'Let's hope it's our last
for a while.'

'I sick on that.'

Is this how it sounds? She gives me an uncertain blink as she opens
the boot. 'Do you want to sit in front with mum?' Mark calls.

'Whoever's navigating should,' says Natalie.

'I'll spay in the back with nobody's mind. I made those.'

Presumably she hears me proposing to doze in the back if nobody
minds. Mark can scarcely wait for me to buckle up before he asks
'What did you find out about him?'

'Een ugh.' I don't mean this as a rebuke, but the mirror shows me
how his eyes flicker. 'Tall crater,' I mumble and let my eyelids droop,
and feel as if I'm being carried into blankness. The prospect isn't
blank for long; I might almost be watching some form of creation. I
can see the notes Lane made on the way to becoming Tubby
Thackeray, but now they're inscribed on a single scroll. However
many of them are little more than nonsense, there's no question that
they were in the handwriting I saw in the margins of
Surréalistes
Malgré Eux
, a connection that strikes me as so meaningless I can only
laugh. 'What's funny?' someone says, and then they're gone.