The Grin of the Dark Page 4

  'Nobody else here that I know of.'

  'I'll come in then, shall I?'

  I don't want to be distracted, but apparently I have no choice. I kick myself away from the desk and snatch the drawer off my lap, leaving two dusty Ls on my trousers. I slam the drawer into its niche on my way to yanking the doorknob out of Joe's hand as he starts to open the door. 'What do you want, Joe?'

  He takes a step backwards, wriggling his fingers. I half expect to see him trip over the cuffs of his extravagantly baggy jeans and tumble downstairs. Apart from those he's wearing a T-shirt that says LET'S BOTH LAUGH over a chunky sweater. His blond hair looks as though he's pulled the T-shirt off and on again. His doughy face is patched with red and well on the way to growing oval. He blinks and holds out a bag of humbugs striped like monochrome wasps. 'Care for one?' he says.

  'Not just now, thanks.'

  He more or less unwraps a mint before inserting it in his mouth, then withdraws the cellophane wet with saliva. By now he's gazing past me at the computer. 'Was that why you were crying?' he wonders.

  'I wasn't crying about anything. I don't.'

  'Nothing wrong with letting yourself go now and then,' Joe says, crumpling the cellophane in his fist. 'Get in touch with your other self. Let me help.'

  I gather that he means with the computer when he tries to sidle past me into the room. 'Better leave it to the experts.'

  'You're one, are you?'

  'On cinema I believe I am.'

  'Play it again, Sam, eh?' he says and narrows his pale eyes. 'What film's that from?'

  'No film at all. He never says that in Casablanca.'

  'Good try but no prize. It's Woody Allen.'

  'He doesn't say it either.'

  'Good grief, they're only films. Chums don't fall out over silly films.' Joe holds out his rustling fist as if he's handing me his litter to bin. 'Anyway, there's an expert here. I'm your computer man.'

  'I'm sure you'll understand if I let the shop that built the system deal with it.'

  His eyes grow moist, and he's parting his lips when the front door begins to shake. A large dog is scrabbling at it, I gather once the barking starts. 'Heel, girl. Heel,' Warren shouts outside.

  He and Bebe are beginning to remind me of uninvited pop-ups, liable to appear wherever I am. Joe drops the humbug wrapper and leaps downstairs, landing with a thud on every other step. 'Hang on, Mr Halloran,' he yells. 'I'll let you in.'

  I haven't reached my desk when I hear a scuffle in the hall. 'Sit, goddamn it,' Warren says. 'Hello, Joe. Whaddya know?'

  'Hello, Mr Halloran. Would the dog like a sweet?'

  'That's the way to make friends. Sure, I'll take one as well. What's happening in my house?'

  'I was just trying to help Simon, but he doesn't seem to want me.'

  Warren's reply is blotted out by an outburst of barking. 'Hey, Simon,' he calls once it subsides. 'Come meet Sniffer.'

  Is the name a joke? If it isn't, have I any reason to panic? My pipe is somewhere in the room, but it hasn't been used for weeks, since I ran out of the last of the grass Colin gave me as some kind of consolation. Staying in my room might suggest an admission of guilt, and so I tramp to the stairs. I've taken one step down when an inordinately large black dog on an apparently endless lead charges at me, and I can't help retracting my step. 'Don't let her think you're frightened,' Warren advises as he reels in the lead. 'No reason you should be, right?'

  'Not if you're in control.'

  The dog's head and shoulders strain above the top stair, and Warren appears behind her. Does he want to observe how she reacts to me? As he pays out the lead, she lunges to thrust her glistening black nose against my trouser pocket. My keys grind against my hip, and I'm about to protest when I remember that the keys are on my desk. 'Looks like you've got a new buddy,' Warren says.

  How ironic is that meant to be? His default smile isn't telling, but his eyes are watchful. 'You'll have to forgive me,' I say, which sounds altogether too defensive, and try lying. 'I'm not too fond of dogs.'

  'I thought you told Natalie you were. Did my hearing screw up, do you think? Or my memory?'

  'I couldn't say.' My trouser leg is growing wet as the dog's nose tries to burrow through the fabric. 'If you could just –'

  'You're allowed to move, Simon. Not too fast, though.'

  As I back towards my room I wonder if he'll let the dog pursue me. He holds it where it is, perhaps because he hears the jingling of the contents of my pocket – only coins. As Joe's head pokes up behind him, cellophane crackles under my foot. 'You haven't picked your rubbish up,' I point out.

  'Which is that?' says Warren.

  I lift my foot to show him, but the wrapping adheres to the sole of my shoe. I'm reduced to hopping about to display the evidence, a routine that starts the dog barking so loud that the confined gloomy space feels shrunken. Warren watches me scrape the cellophane off my shoe with the other, and then he says 'Couldn't you have dealt with it, Simon?'

  I'm robbed of any words it would be advisable for me to utter even before Joe says 'You could have while I was letting Mr Halloran in.'

  'Right, I'll see to it now. Here it goes. Off to the bin with you. Get in. Get in.' By the time I've shaken the sticky contents of Joe's mouth off my fingertip I'm sounding as wild as I feel. 'Anything else anyone needs me to do?'

  'You could let me look at your computer.' Joe has followed me into my room. 'I can fix this,' he says with barely a glance at the onscreen messages. 'It's simps.'

  'You still under guarantee, Simon?'

  'No, but –'

  'Quiet, girl. Simon doesn't want to sound hostile. What were you planning to charge, Joe?'

  'Chums don't charge.'

  'Sounds like a good deal.'

  If the computer fails after Joe has tinkered with it, won't Warren have to take responsibility? He and Bebe replaced Mark's, and they can do the same for me. 'Fair enough, if you say so,' I tell him.

  Joe dumps his bag of humbugs next to the computer and plants his baggy buttocks on my chair. 'Can I have your system discs?'

  I'm hauling open the lower drawer of the desk when I remember where my pipe is. I try to reveal just enough of the drawer to fumble out the plastic wallet full of discs. Joe grimaces as he examines them. 'No wonder you've lost it,' he says. 'I'll give you the latest versions.'

  Once Joe has fetched them from his room, Warren shuts the dog on the landing and perches on the edge of my bed. 'So have we found out anything today?' He's gazing straight at me and presumably addressing me.

  'Tell Bebe Mardi Gras Massacre,' I say.

  'Lie down, girl. Lie.' Once the onslaught at the door trails off with a piteous whine he says 'Why should my wife want to hear that?'

  'It's where her dish came from yesterday. Where the name did, I mean. I realise it's a rotten pun. Enough to put you off your lunch.'

  The sound of clawing at the door has given way to the scurry of the keyboard. I can't grasp any of the formulas Joe is entering on the computer. 'How about your research?' Warren persists.

  'I've tracked down some footage I don't think has ever been written about. It's on its way.'

  'I guess you can't work any faster than that. So long as you won't be too slow for your publisher.'

  'You never told me you were going to be published,' Joe complains and springs a disc out of the computer. 'How do you find the time to study as well?'

  'Because I'm not a student any longer.'

  'Lie. Lie.'

  I didn't think the dog was making enough of a commotion to deserve Warren's latest shout. More conversationally he says 'We figure Simon will be moving on soon.'

  The breath snags in my throat on the way to speech. 'You're asking me to, you mean.'

  'I have to agree with my wife, it isn't fair to the rest of our tenants. We don't need them thinking anyone is getting special treatment when he could afford to live someplace else.'

  'I won't tell so long as we're chums,' says Joe.

 
; 'When are you looking to get rid of me?'

  I thought Warren might at least deny this aim, but he says 'We can give you till the end of the year.'

  'It'll be a kind of birthday present, then.'

  'Is it your birthday?' Joe cries as he feeds the computer yet another disc. 'Many happy returns. Fixing this is my gift and I didn't even know.'

  Does he really not recognise sarcasm? Warren's smile is claiming that he didn't either. 'No, it's not my birthday,' I tell them. 'New Year, me.'

  'That should hold you,' Joe says as he gathers his discs, 'and if it doesn't you know how close I am.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Lie,' Warren says. 'Time we were on our way if she's going to hinder your work, Simon.'

  Joe leaves the discs by the computer while he unwraps a humbug and follows Warren onto the landing. The dog disposes of the sweet in two splintering crunches as she lopes downstairs ahead of Warren. As the front door shuts, Joe ambles back into my room, crumpling the humbug wrapper. He lobs it into the bin and reclaims his discs. 'Now you've got what you want,' he says from the doorway.

  Does he mean his technical help or his attempt at tidiness? As I peer at the new icons, his reflection on the window beyond the monitor grins at me so widely it ought to be painful. Indeed, at the upper edge of my vision his face is bobbing towards me on the glass, tilting from side to side with such abandon that I wonder how he's walking. I spin around in my chair. 'What – '

  I'm alone in the room. The door is barely ajar, and I hear him shutting his. I swivel my chair away from the bewildering sight and come face to face with the window. Though I'm on the upper floor, the roundish sagging pallid wide-mouthed head is bumping against the glass.

  Its substance quivers like a jellyfish as the head observes me with its unblinking perfectly circular eyes. It blunders against the pane with a faint rubbery squeal and then sails out of sight over the roof. It was a less than wholly inflated balloon; I assume its face was supposed to be a clown's. I'm reminded of the poster Joe has removed from his door since I bought tickets for Clwons Unlimited online. I do my best to dismiss the balloon from my mind as I slip the Frugonet disc into the computer to regain my access. The spectacle was almost enough to put me off taking Natalie and Mark to the circus.

  SIX - LESSER

  I'm alone in the house when somebody starts ringing the doorbell and clanking the knocker. Is it Natalie or more likely Mark? I save my last five minutes' work on the opening of They Made Movies Too and hurry out of the room. As I reach the stairs the letterbox disgorges several envelopes. All of them look sufficiently official to contain bills or other unwelcome missives. I'm taking my time until the slot emits a final card: a notification that the postman was unable to deliver an item.

  I sprint downstairs and grab the envelopes as well as the card. It's addressed to me, almost by name. I haul the door open and see the postman tramping down the short cracked path. His stocky body looks deformed by the contortions he's performing to return my package to his bag. Despite the winter afternoon, which is dark with unbroken cloud, he's wearing capacious shorts. 'Excuse me,' I call. 'Hold on.'

  He pivots as if the weight of the bag is dragging him. His rounded pockmarked face is so pale that I could imagine he's wearing makeup. When his virtually colourless eyes light on the card I'm brandishing, his small nose shares a twitch with his broad mouth. 'You Simon Lesser?' he says.

  'It's Lester, actually. That's me all right.'

  As he squints at the label on the padded envelope, the corners of his lips wince upwards and then droop. 'Says Lesser here.'

  'It's a mistake. Our normal postman knows me.'

  Neither comment pleases him. His mouth sags further before discovering a reason to invert the process. 'Got any proof you're who you say?'

  This is idiotic, but I want my mail, especially since the package may contain an aid to my research. 'I'll get something,' I tell him. 'Don't go anywhere.'

  I leave the front door open as I dump the envelopes on the hall table and dash to my room. The screensaver Joe added to the computer produces the sound of waves to reassure me that the system is still functioning although the screen is blank. I grab my passport from the drawer that hides the furtive pipe, and run downstairs. The postman stares at the passport before trudging to scrutinise the page I'm holding open. 'It says Lester,' he complains.

  'We've been through that. It's my name.'

  'Haven't you got a licence?'

  'To be myself? We don't need those yet, do we?'

  The corners of his mouth jerk up and immediately sink. 'A driving licence.'

  'I haven't, no. I don't drive.'

  'That hasn't got your address.'

  'I live here. You can see me doing it,' I protest in a voice that sounds increasingly unlike my own. I dig out my keys and shove one into the lock. 'Satisfied? There's your proof.'

  I turn the key, or at least I attempt to. The lock doesn't budge. I strive to twist the key until I'm afraid it will snap. I yank it out and realise it's the key to Natalie's apartment. I jab the right one into the lock and turn it at once. 'There,' I manage to say without shouting.

  'You want to lay off whatever you're doing to yourself. Can't even let yourself in.' An undecided grimace flickers over his lips before he thrusts the package at me, muttering 'Suppose that's yours.'

  I retrieve the keys and drop them in my pocket. I'm making to shut the door when he lurches forward. 'I need that off you.'

  I'm distracted enough to wonder if he means my passport until I gather that he's staring at the card. At last I'm able to close the door and switch on the hall light to see whose post I left on the table. Most of it is mine – invitations to order credit cards, as if my Frugo Visa isn't nearly more than enough. I tear them up unopened and stuff them into the kitchen bin, then set about unpicking staples from the padded envelope. The scruffy item inside is a videotape. It is indeed Those Golden Years of Fun.

  I hope the tape is in better condition than the packaging. It's an early VHS rental cassette in a cardboard slipcase. I suspect that the distributor – Variety Video – is small and defunct. The cover bears an amateurish collage of silent comedians, one of whom has been scuffed faceless. I've no reason to assume it's Tubby Thackeray, although he does look bulkier than his companions. The blurb on the back is uncertain of its typeface and of the space between lines, all of which have been rubbed partly illegible. 'Relive... our grandparents... laugh till they... more innocent... all the family...' Why am I trying to piece this together when I could be watching? I hurry into the communal lounge and switch on the video player.

  A tape is nesting in it. When I eject the cassette, which bears only a blank label, I can't find its slipcase. I stow it in the case of my film and plant it among the cans and dreggy glasses on the mantelpiece. Once I've entrusted my tape to the player I clear a pizza box off the least lumpy armchair as the television screen lights up. It looks as if the brightness is trying to scratch the screen white, but surely only the start of the tape is so worn. Most of the ragged glaring strips drift off the screen as the distributor's trademark appears – two Vs so close together they could be taken for a W – and I'm able to suppress some of the lingering interference with the remote control, which is sticky from someone's television dinner. Those Golden Years of Fun is compiled and narrated by Charley Tracy, which is all that the credits have to say. 'First of all there was music-hall,' a voice with a faint Lancashire accent declares over a shot of the Playhouse, a theatre converted into a cinema, and I'm wondering whether the entire commentary is in rhyme when two car doors slam in front of the house.

  I lean on one insecure arm of the chair to peep out of the window. The car is Natalie's white Punto, beside which she's on the phone while Mark runs up the path. I stop the tape in response to a prolonged eager shrilling of the doorbell, and let Mark in while Natalie tries another number as she paces after him. 'Are we going to the circus now?' Mark hopes aloud.

  'Let's let your mother finish her c
all, shall we? I was just looking at a film for my book.'

  Natalie hugs my shoulders with her free arm and parts her lips to give me a kiss just not protracted enough for Mark to voice his embarrassment. 'Is it suitable?' she murmurs.

  'For Mark? I should think so. It's clips of silent comedies.'

  'I'll leave you boys to watch it while I nip over to Windsor.'

  'Why, what's happening there?'

  'I don't know.' A quick frown pinches two of her freckles together and seems to dull the blue of her eyes. 'Mark took the call while I was driving. What did grandma say again, Mark?'

  'She wanted me to ask if you could come and then she got cut off.'

  'And she sounded how?'

  'Like it was important but she didn't want to tell me why.'

  'And now I can't get an answer on her phone or my dad's, and the land line's engaged. We've still got an hour, haven't we?'

  'Under one,' I say, since it's the truth.

  'Time enough for me to drive over and then meet you two at the circus if I don't have to stay for any reason. Better give me my ticket in case I'm late. You don't mind, do you?'

  'I won't,' I say before realising she's asking Mark.

  He gives his head two shakes so vigorous they tousle his red hair and gazes up at me. 'Can I help you with your book?'

  'You certainly can. I'd like to know what you think of a comedian no one's ever heard of. We'll see how he shapes up against the clowns.'

  All the same, as his mother hastens to her car I feel a little awkward to be left alone with Mark. I shut the front door and grin somewhat too readily at him. At least I don't ask what or how he's doing at school, but I fall back on saying 'Would you like a drink?'

  'Can I, may I have a Coke?'

  'I was thinking more of water.' So is my computer by the sound of it. 'Any use?' I have to prompt.

  'Do you mind if I wait till we get to the circus?'