The Grin of the Dark
Ramsey Campbell
Once upon a time Tubby Thackeray's silent comedies were hailed as the equal of Chaplin's and Keaton's, but now his name has been deleted from the history of the cinema. Some of his music-hall performances before he went to Hollywood were riotously controversial, and his last film was never released – but why have his entire career and all his films vanished from the record?
Simon Lester is a film critic thrown out of a job by a lawsuit against the magazine he helped to found. When he's commissioned to write a book about Thackeray and restore the comedian's reputation, it seems as if his own career is saved. His research takes him from Los Angeles to Amsterdam, from dusty archives to a hardcore movie studio. But his research leads to something far older than the cinema, something that has taken a new and even more dangerous shape...
PRAISE FOR RAMSEY CAMPBELL
'Britain's most respected living horror writer' Oxford Companion to English Literature
'Easily the best horror writer working in Britain today' Time Out
'Campbell is literate in a field which has attracted too many comic-book intellects, cool in a field where too many writers – myself included – tend toward panting melodrama... Good horror writers are quite rare, and Campbell is better than just good' Stephen King
'Britain's greatest living horror writer' Alan Moore
'Britain's leading horror writer... His novels have been getting better and better' City Limits
'One of Britain's most accomplished horror writers' Oxford Star
'The John Le Carré of horror fiction' Bookshelf, Radio 4
'One of the best real horror writers at work today' Interzone
'The greatest living exponent of the British weird fiction tradition' The Penguin Encyclopaedia of Horror and the Supernatural
'Ramsey Campbell has succeeded more brilliantly than any other writer in bringing the supernatural tale up to date without sacrificing the literary standards that early masters made an indelible part of the tradition' Jack Sullivan, editor of the Penguin encyclopaedia
'England's contemporary king of the horror genre' Atlanta Constitution
'One of the few real writers in our field... In some ways Ramsey Campbell is the best of us all' Peter Straub
'Ramsey Campbell has a talent for terror – he knows how to give you nightmares while you're still awake... Only a few writers can lay claim to such a level of consummate craftsmanship' Robert Bloch
'Campbell writes the most terrifying horror tales of anyone now alive' Twilight Zone Magazine
'He is unsurpassed in the subtle manipulation of mood... You forget you're just reading a story' Publishers Weekly
'One of the world's finest exponents of the classic British ghost story' Sounds
'For sheer ability to compose disturbing, evocative prose, he is unmatched in the horror/fantasy field... He turns the traditional horror novel inside out, and makes it work brilliantly' Fangoria
'Campbell has solidly established himself to be the best writer working in this field today' Karl Edward Wagner, The Year's Best Horror Stories
'When Mr Campbell pits his fallible, most human characters against enormous forces bent on incomprehensible errands the results are, as you might expect, often frightening, and, as you might not expect, often touching; even heartwarming' Gahan Wilson in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
'Britain's leading horror novelist' New Statesman
'Ramsey Campbell is Britain's finest living writer of horror stories: considerable praise for a man whose country boasts the talents of Clive Barker and Roald Dahl, M. John Harrison and Nigel Kneale' Douglas Winter, editor of Prime Evil
'Campbell writes the most disturbing horror fiction around' Today
'Ramsey Campbell is better than all the rest of us put together' Dennis Etchison
'Ramsey Campbell is the best horror writer alive, period' Thomas Tessier
'A horror writer in the classic mould... Britain's premier contemporary exponent of the art of scaring you out of your skin' Q Magazine
'The undisputed master of the psychological horror novel' Robert Holdstock
'Perhaps the most important living writer in the horror fiction field' David Hartwell
'Ramsey Campbell's work is tremendous' Jonathan Ross
'Campbell is a rightful tenant of M. R. James country, the genuine badlands of the human psyche' Norman Shrapnel in the Guardian
'One of the world's finest exponents of the classic British ghost story... His writing explores the potential for fear in the mundane, the barely heard footsteps, the shadow flitting past at the edge of one's sight' Daily Telegraph
'The Grand Master of British horror... the greatest living writer of horror fiction' Vector
'Britain's greatest horror writer... Realistic, subtle and arcane' Waterstone's Guide to Books
'In Campbell's hands words take on a life of their own, creating images that stay with you, feelings that prey on you, and people you hope never ever to meet' Starburst
'The finest writer now working in the horror field' Interzone
'Ramsey Campbell is the nearest thing we have to an heir to M. R. James' Times
'Easily the finest practising British horror novelist and the one whose work can most wholeheartedly be recommended to those who dislike the genre... His misclassification as a genre writer obscures his status as the finest magic realist Britain possesses this side of J. G. Ballard' Daily Telegraph
'One of the few who can scare and disturb as well as make me laugh out loud. His humour is very black but very funny, and that's a rare gift to have' Mark Morris in the Observer
'The most sophisticated and highly regarded of British horror writers' Financial Times
'He writes of our deepest fears in a precise, clear prose that somehow manages to be beautiful and terrifying at the same time. He is a powerful, original writer, and you owe it to yourself to make his acquaintance' Washington Post
'I would say that only five writers have written serious novels which incorporate themes of fantasy or the inexplicable and still qualify as literature: T. E. D. Klein, Peter Straub, Richard Adams, Jonathan Carroll and Ramsey Campbell' Stephen King
'Ramsey Campbell is the best of us all' Poppy Z. Brite
'The foremost stylist and innovator in British horror fiction' The Scream Factory
'One of the century's great literary exponents of the gothic and horrific' Guardian
'A national treasure... one of the most revered and significant authors in our field' Peter Atkins
'No other horror writer currently active is engaging with the real world quite as rigorously as Ramsey Campbell' Kim Newman
'Ramsey Campbell taught me how to write... There's an intensity and clarity to his worldview that's quite beautiful' Jeremy Dyson
'When it comes to the box of nightmares into which we all reach for inspiration, Ramsey reaches deeper than anyone else' Mark Morris
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ramsey Campbell has been given more awards than any other writer in the field, including the Grand Master Award of the World Horror Convention and the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Horror Writers Association. In 2007, he was named a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild. He is the author of over fifteen novels, numerous short stories and a collection of nonfiction. He lives on Merseyside with his wife Jenny and his pleasures include classical music, good food and wine, and whatever's in that pipe.
For more information visit www.ramseycampbell.com
THE GRIN OF THE DARK
Ramsey Campbell
First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2007
by PS Publishing Ltd.
Copyright © Ramsey Campbell 2007
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jenny was my first editor as always, even if we disagree about the prevalence of capital letters in primers. Tammy and Mat scouted London locations, and Poppy Z. Brite informed me about California. Keith Ravenscroft was my informant in Holland. The staffs of the John Rylands Library in Manchester and the Harris Library in Preston were most helpful. As Giant Albino Penguin, Sean Parker inspired me with his music. To put myself in the mood for the rewrite I often returned to Haydn's Clown Symphony (the deleted Dorati recording). Parts of the book were written in Barcelona, in Skala in Kefalonia, and before breakfast each morning at the Festival of Fantastic Films in Manchester. For background details of forgotten silent films I'm indebted to Moses Tennent's Silent Merriment (alas, itself lost and forgotten).
for Pete and Nicky Crowther
who got me out of the wods
ONE - I'M NO LOSER
I've hardly lifted my finger from the bellpush when the intercom emits its boxy cough and says 'Hello?'
'Hi, Mark.'
'It's Simon,' Natalie's seven-year-old calls into the apartment and then asks me even more eagerly 'Did you get your job?'
As I tell him, a boat hoots behind me on the Thames. An unsympathetic November wind brings the sound closer. A barge outlined by coloured lights is passing under Tower Bridge. Ripples flicker on the underside of the roadway, which appears to stir as if the bridge is about to raise its halves. The barge with its cargo of elegant drinkers cruises past me, and a moon-faced man in evening dress eyes me through a window as he lifts his champagne glass. He's grinning so widely that I could almost take him to have been the source of the hoot, but of course he isn't mocking me. The boat moves on, trailing colours until they're doused by the water as black as the seven o'clock sky.
I hear quick footsteps on the pine floor of the entrance hall and arrange an expression for Mark's benefit, but Natalie's father opens the door. 'Here he is,' he announces. His plump but squarish face is more jovial than his tone. Perhaps his face is stiff with all the tanning he's applied to make up for leaving California. It seems to bleach his eyebrows, which are as silver as his short bristling hair, and his pale blue eyes. He scrutinises me while he delivers a leathery handshake that would be still more painful if it weren't so brief. 'Christ up a chimney, you're cold,' he says and immediately turns his back. 'Mark told us your good news.'
By the time I close the heavy door in the thick wall of the converted warehouse he's tramping up the pale pine stairs. 'Warren,' I protest.
'Save it for the family.' As he turns left into the apartment he shouts 'Here's Mr Success.'
His wife, Bebe, dodges out of the main bedroom, and I wonder if she has been searching for signs of how recently I shared the bed. Perhaps the freckles that pepper her chubby face in its expensive frame of bobbed red hair are growing inflamed merely with enthusiasm. 'Let's hear it,' she urges, following her husband past Natalie's magazine cover designs that decorate the inner hall.
Mark darts out of his room next to the bathroom with a cry of 'Yay, Simon' as Natalie appears in the living-room. She sends me a smile understated enough for its pride and relief to be meant just for us. Before I can react her parents are beside her, and all I can see is the family resemblance. Her and Mark's features are as delicate as Bebe's must be underneath the padding, and they have half of Bebe's freckles each, as well as hair that's quite as red, if shorter. I feel excluded, not least by saying 'Listen, everyone, I –'
'Hold the speech,' Warren says and strides into the kitchen.
Why are the Hallorans here? What have they bought their daughter or their grandson this time? They've already paid for the plasma screen and the DVD recorder, and the extravagantly tiny hi-fi system, and the oversized floppy suite that resembles chocolate in rolls and melted slabs. I hope they didn't buy the bottle of champagne Warren brings in surrounded by four glasses on a silver tray. I clear my throat, because more than the central heating has dried up my mouth. 'That's not on my account, is it?' I croak. 'I didn't get the job.'
Warren's face changes swiftest. As he rests the tray on a low table his eyebrows twitch high, and his smile is left looking ironic. Bebe thins her lips at Natalie and Mark in case they need to borrow any bravery. Natalie tilts her head as if the wryness of her smile has tugged it sideways. Only Mark appears confused. 'But you sounded happy,' he accuses me. 'The noise you made.'
'I think you were hearing a boat on the river,' I tell him.
Natalie's parents share an unimpressed glance as Natalie asks Mark 'Don't you know the difference between Simon and a boat?'
'Tell us,' says Warren.
I feel bound to. 'One sails on the waves...'
Before Mark can respond, Bebe does with a frown that's meant to seem petite. 'We didn't know you were into saving whales. Can you spare the time when you're hunting for a job?'
'I'm not. An activist, I mean. I don't make a fuss about much. One sails on the waves, Mark, and the other one saves on the wails.'
I wouldn't call that bad for the spur of the moment, but his grandparents clearly feel I should. Mark has a different objection. 'Why didn't you get the job at the magazine? You said it was just what you wanted.'
'We can't always have what we want, son,' Warren says. 'Maybe we should get what we deserve.'
Natalie gazes at me, perhaps to prompt me to reply, and says 'We have.'
Bebe drapes an arm around her daughter's shoulders. 'You two know you've always got us.'
'You haven't said why yet,' Mark prompts me.
Through the window behind the editor's desk I could see to the hills beyond London, but when the editor conveyed her decision this afternoon I felt as if I'd been put back in my box. 'I'd be writing for them if I hadn't mentioned one word.'
Bebe plants her hands over his ears. 'If it's the one I'm thinking of I don't believe this little guy needs to hear.'
Perhaps Mark still can, because he says 'I bet it's Cineassed.'
She snatches her hands away as if his ears have grown too hot to hold. 'Well, really, Natalie. I'm surprised you let him hear that kind of language, whoever said it to him.'
'He saw me reading the magazine,' Natalie retorts, and I wonder whether she's reflecting that Bebe persuaded her not to display the covers in the hall as she adds 'I did work for it too, you might want to remember. Otherwise I wouldn't have met Simon.'
Everyone looks at me, and Warren says 'I don't get how just mentioning it could lose you a job when Natalie landed a better one.'
'She was only on design.'
'I wouldn't call that so very inferior.'
'Nor would I, not even slightly. The look was all hers, and it sold the magazine, but I'm saying my name was on half the pages.'
'Maybe you should try not telling anyone that's offering you a job.'
'You don't want people thinking you're trying to avoid work,' Bebe says.
'Simon is working. He's working extremely hard.' Rather than turn on either of her parents, Natalie gazes above my head. 'A day job and another one at night, I'd call that hard.'
'Just not too profitable,' says her father. 'Okay, let's run you to work, Simon. We need to stop by our houses.'
'Don't wait for me. I'll have time for the train.'
'Better not risk it. Imagine showing up late for work after you already lost one job.'
As Natalie gives me a tiny resigned smile Mark says 'You haven't seen my new computer, Simon. The old one crashed.'
'Nothing but the best for our young brain,' Bebe cries.
'It's an investment in everyone's future,' Warren says. 'Save the demonstration, Mark. We need to hit the road.'
The elder Hallorans present their family with kisses, and I give Natalie one of the kind that least embarrasses Mark. 'Bye,' he calls as he makes for his room, where he rouses his computer. I leave Natalie's cool slender hand a squeeze that feels like a frustrating sample of an embrace and trail after her parents to the basement car park.
The stone floor is blacken
ed by the shadows of brick pillars, around which security cameras peer. Bebe's Shogun honks and flashes its headlamps from one of the bays for Flat 3 to greet Warren's key-ring. I climb in the back and am hauling the twisted safety belt to its socket when the car veers backwards, narrowly missing a dormant Jaguar. At the top of the ramp the Shogun barely gives the automatic door time to slope out of the way. 'Warren,' Bebe squeals, perhaps with delight more than fear.
The alley between the warehouses amplifies the roar of the engine as he speeds to the main road. He barely glances down from his height before swerving into the traffic. 'Hey, that's what brakes are for,' he responds to the fanfare of horns, and switches on the compact disc player.
The first notes of the 1812 surround me as the lit turrets of the Tower dwindle in the mirror. Whenever the car slews around a corner I'm flung against the window or as far across the seat as the belt allows. Is Warren too busy fiddling with the sound balance to notice? In Kensington he increases the volume to compete with the disco rhythm of a Toyota next to us at traffic lights, and Bebe waves her hands beside her ears. The overture reaches its climax on the Hammersmith flyover, beyond which the sky above a bend in the Thames explodes while cannon-shots shake the car. Rockets are shooting up from Castelnau and simultaneously plunging into the blackness of a reservoir. They're almost as late for the fifth of November as they're early for the New Year. The Great West Road brings the music to its triumphant end, which leaves the distant detonations sounding thin and artificial to my tinny ears. 'How did you rate that, Simon?' Warren shouts.
'Spectacular,' I just about hear myself respond.
'Pretty damn fine, I'd say. The guy knew what people liked and socked it to them. You don't make many enemies that way.'
'Never do that if you can't afford to,' Bebe says.
'All I did was look into the background of the films that were topping the charts. Colin wrote the piece about testing Oscar winners for drugs. He named too many people who should have owned up, that's why we were sued.'
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