The Grin of the Dark

by Ramsey Campbell

  I don't know what he's trying to communicate. I won't pursue it while his mother can hear. I face the doors, and as they part, so do my lips at the sight of a pale object that's slithering across the floorboards into Natalie's locked apartment. The next moment the door opposite shuts as silently. No doubt I glimpsed light spilling into the corridor. Of course, whoever's in the other apartment must have dropped some item that they've just retrieved – a bag with a face on it, from Mark's description. 'Come on, Mark,' I say and prop the lift open with a suitcase. 'Let's get me out of the box.'

  I stagger into the apartment with everything that's heaviest while Natalie ensures that Mark doesn't tackle too much. My suitcases move into her bedroom. Once the rest of my belongings have found at least a temporary place Natalie says 'I'd better return the van.'

  'Do you mind if I stay and set up?'

  'Can I help you make your desk?' Mark says at once.

  'I expect Simon won't want to be distracted. You keep me company and we'll walk back by the river.'

  Mark tramps along the hall as if he's been encumbered with the heaviest burden of the day, and Natalie flashes me a private smile as she follows him. Once they've gone I indulge in feeling completely at home. Or rather, I try to, but I won't be able to until I know my computer has survived the journey. First I ought to build the desk.

  The photocopied information sheet appears to be designed to demonstrate how many languages besides English there are in the world. The diagrams seem less than wholly related to the contents of the carton. By the time I've solved the puzzle of slotting the sides of the desk into the top and preventing them from immediately sliding out again with wedges of plastic, my hands are almost too sweaty to grasp the slippery wood. It isn't much of a desk, but the one in Egham came with the accommodation. I stand it next to the corner bookcases and unpack the computer onto it. I hook up the system and switch on.

  Lost, lost, lost... I feel as if my skull has grown so hollow that it's echoing. The repetitions fill it while the initial test appears. The word is only in my head. I bring a chair from the kitchen as the screen fills with icons. When I log on to Frugonet I see that an email has arrived since I left Egham.

  Mister Lester!

  Might you be able to email me some idea of how you're faring, say a couple of chapters? That would help me write the catalogue copy so I can implant the name of Simon Lester in the public consciousness. Meanwhile, take a look at your bank balance and don't forget to send me your expenses.

  Here's to rediscovery and telling the world!

  Rufus Wall

  Editor, LUP On Film

  I pull down my list of favourites and click on the link for my bank, which hasn't been too favourite for a while. I have to type my password on the site, and another password, and the last one. They seem to be hindering the sluggish construction I have to watch. Eventually the details of my bank accounts are revealed, line by dawdling line. The current account has taken delivery from LUP today of ten thousand pounds.

  I let out a breath I wasn't aware of holding. Somewhere out of range of my reason I mustn't have been entirely convinced of my change of fortune or that it would last. I'm no longer leery of checking how much I owe on my Frugo Visa. Only fifteen hundred? I can say goodbye to that at once. I make the online payment and leave just a hundred in the current account, transferring the rest into the deposit to earn interest. I still have to provide Rufus with material, but I'm sure I have enough leads, and meanwhile I can write about Tubby's Terrible Triplets. First I can't resist discovering whether Smilemime has been silenced on the movie database.

  So everything Mr Questionabble says is right because he says so, is it? Hands up everyone that's going to believe someboddy that won't even put his real name. He's so sure of himself he has to run crying to the man who made the film he got wrong, and he still has even if he talked to him. Either he diddn't or he's so convinced he's right he can't even hear what someone who knows about films is telling him. I'll tell him again anyway. It's TUBBIES TINY TUBBIES. TUBBIES TINY TUBBIES. There's your lines, Mr Questionabble. Write them out a hundred times and maybe you'll learn something if you aren't an utter clown.

  I might leave him ranting into the void if I weren't sure that he sent Charley Tracy on a false trail and perhaps lured him away from the van at the church as well.

  If a clown is someone who plays stupid tricks on people there's only one of those here. I'm a film journalist who's researching Tubby. Stand by for revelations when I've finished.

  My fingertip hovers over the mouse, and then I send the message. I'd rather spend my time telling Natalie and Mark my good news. I can hear Mark laughing outside the apartment. I hurry to meet them, but there's nobody in the corridor when I poke my head out. Did I hear another door shut as I opened mine? I listen until my strained ears seem to conjure up a sound, but it's only the lapping of ripples on my computer.

  FOURTEEN - SITES

  As we reach the Abbey School, outside which children's uniforms are turning the world black and white, I decide not to spend the rest of the day without knowing 'Were you across the corridor?'

  Because of the babble of children, some of whom are greeting Mark, I have to raise my voice, and he isn't alone in staring at me. 'When?'

  'Yesterday, before you came back in. Were you and Natalie in the other flat?'

  'Why'd we be there?'

  'Because I thought I heard you but I couldn't see you. You can tell me if you were.'

  'We weren't, though. We just had a walk by the river like you and her wanted.'

  'Don't say that, Mark.'

  'What?' he says and gazes through the railings at the girls who greeted him.

  'Don't call your mother her, and it isn't like you and her wanted either, it's you and she.' I'm growing impatient, not least with feeling entangled in my own words. 'You know them at any rate, don't you?' I persist. 'Whoever lives opposite us.'

  'I don't and mummy doesn't.'

  What do I imagine I'm doing, interrogating Mark on the very first day I've taken him to school? I must have heard another child yesterday, perhaps one who lives across the corridor. 'Go and have a great time and I'll pick you up at four,' I tell him. 'You know why it's called school, don't you? Because it's cool.'

  I hope the discomfort in his eyes is at least to some extent a joke. I shake his hand and grip his shoulder and pat him on the head, only to suspect that I've enacted one gesture too many if not two. Calling 'Be good, Mark' after him doesn't improve my performance, but he seems confident enough as he marches through the gates beneath the wrought-iron name of the school. I'm wondering if I should linger until the bell when the prettiest of the girls says 'Who's that, Mark?'

  She giggles and covers the smile to which I've already responded. For a moment I'm absurdly flattered, and then I feel worse than uncomfortable: she's no older than Mark. I look away hastily and find I'm being watched from the doorway of the red-brick building, which reminds me of a fullscreen version of a widescreen image, since it's less than half the width of either of my old schools. The watcher must be the headmistress, although she's only just taller than the tallest of the children and as monochromatically dressed. She hands the bell she's holding to a pupil, who does his best to shake the clapper loose, and then she waits for the children to line up in classes and for the silence of the bell to settle over them. Is she still aware of me? Some of the parents at the railings are. Mark doesn't need me to wait any longer – he hasn't glanced back – and so I turn away towards Tower Bridge Road.

  I'm in sight of the crowded bridge beneath the grey undercoated sky when my phone comes to life. I recognise the displayed number, but all I say is 'Yes.'

  'Found it.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' I say and try to match Charley Tracy's accusing tone. 'When was that?'

  'Not long after you shot off, I reckon.'

  'If I hadn't I might have missed the last train home.'

  'I'd have got you to the station. Why didn't you lock it away
?'

  'Why didn't you lock me in?' I'm surely more entitled to complain. 'I could have fallen out anywhere.'

  'I got you there, didn't I? It cost a packet, this phone did, and the projector. We're not all on a university payroll.'

  'I didn't think anyone would steal them so near a church.'

  I hope he finds this less naïve than I immediately do. After a pause he says 'Any road, I've got some people for you to meet.'

  'Are they dead as well?'

  'You're never still moaning about that. I thought you'd appreciate a joke, seeing as how it's your job. I'd have took you somewhere else if you'd waited a bit longer.' Before I can articulate a retort he says 'This lot are on in London this Saturday.'

  'Who are?'

  'The Comical Companions, they call themselves. If anyone can tell you about Tubby when he was on the stage it's them. They'll be at the St Pancreas Theatre.'

  'Are you quite sure that's the name?'

  'St Pancreas Theatre. May I be struck dumb if it's not.'

  He has inserted a vowel in the second word. As I reach Tower Bridge I seem to feel it quiver underfoot with the vibrations of pedestrians and traffic. I could imagine that it's sharing my amusement. 'Is there anybody I should ask for?'

  'Just tell them your name on the door,' Tracy says and, even more abruptly than he speaks, is gone.

  Clumps of tourists are competing with the traffic on the bridge at expelling greyness into the November air. The river laps with gusto at the concrete of the north bank as I let myself into the apartment building. I jog upstairs and head straight for my computer, where an email is waiting to be deciphered.

  der simon

  gr8 2 her from u! unxpectd mal is the best. im nockd out yor interestd in orvilles work. th move archives dont sem 2 want 2 no about him. y dont u com + sta? u can c everythng i hav of his + ask me anythng u want 2 no. anytime b4 xmas is fin. lets put him bac in move history wher he blongs.

  from 1 move buf 2 anothr!

  wille hart

  Perhaps this style of writing saves Hart's time, but it gnaws at mine. Once I've returned the email to English by reading it out loud I'm able to respond.

  Dear Willie:

  Many thanks for your speedy response! Where shall I find you? Let me know and I'll book the trip. Do you have any of the films your grandfather made with Tubby Thackeray? If so, guard them with your life.

  Enthusiastically –

  Simon Lester

  I don't know if I'm hoping to have silenced my adversary on the movie database, although surely my response should have. Or am I secretly anticipating some kind of perverse fun? Certainly a grin, not necessarily of mirth, creeps onto my face as I call up the page for Tubby's Terrible Triplets.

  So Mr Questionabble's a film expert now, is he? Oh no, he says he's a researcher. That's someboddy who picks other peoples' brains because he doesn't know annything himself. If he starts sniffing around after Tubby we won't tell him annything, will we? We'd be clowns to give our knowledge to someone who won't even say his name. And does anyboddy know which stupid tricks he's going on about? If he's got annything to say he should say it like a man. He won't, though, will he? Maybe he's not one. Leslie could be a womman, come to think.

  I'm not going to lose control, although my skull feels electrified. I wait until my words are cold enough to post.

  My name is Simon Lester. I've been writing on film for years. I wouldn't dream of asking other people or even other peoples to help if they don't want to, but I would have thought that anyone who cares for Tubby's films might like to see them more widely appreciated. As for stupid tricks, let's hope we hear no more of them. If anybody takes them further it should be the victim.

  I'm about to post the message when I delete the final line. It isn't worth preserving if it might bring Charley Tracy more harassment; indeed, I should have asked him whether the call he received in the churchyard proved to be a trick. I send the revised version and take the chance while I'm online to make sure no fresh information about Tubby has shown up on the net. His first name does take me to an unfamiliar site, but a glimpse of that is enough. It offers the spectacle of corpulent performers in a variety of positions, their naked bodies glistening with greyish light as they flop over one another. I close the window hastily, to be confronted by the underlying one – the message board for Tubby's film. I stare at it as if to conjure up a response to my posting, and seem to be rewarded by an unexpected but welcome interruption: the sound of a key in the lock.

  'Well, that's the best kind of surprise,' I call as the door shuts. 'Do you want to get naughty while there's nobody around?' Presumably Natalie hasn't much to do at work before she starts next week at Arts About, a name I would have expected her mother to question if not worse. 'Come along, little girl. I've got a little present here for you. Actually, it's not so little any more,' I say and, having risen to my feet with some pleasurable difficulty, shuffle from behind the desk as she advances down the hall. But she isn't Natalie, she's Bebe Halloran.

  FIFTEEN - MOM IS RELENTLESS

  She's the next best thing to a cold shower, but I retreat to my chair in case the remains of my state are apparent. It's my top half Bebe gazes at across the desk. Her chubby face has turned paler, inflaming her freckles and even seeming to intensify the redness of her bobbed hair. As she plants her hands on her hips I blurt 'Sorry, didn't realise it was you.'

  'I should hope not.'

  Should I have leavened the remark with a laugh? I try one with 'I thought I was talking to Natalie.'

  'I should hope so.'

  She doesn't look remotely as approving as her words might seem. She holds me with her gaze as she sinks onto the flaccid leather couch, and I'm compelled to add 'It's just our joke.'

  Her face relaxes for a second, but only to frown afresh. 'What are you doing here, Simon?'

  'Working.'

  'I should hope so.'

  She's beginning to sound like a tape until she stares at my desk. 'I'm asking you why you're here and that is.'

  'You've got one of your investments back. There's room for a student in Egham.'

  'And when were you planning to let us know?'

  'I've only just moved out. My rent's paid up to the end of the month. I wasn't going to ask for any back.'

  'I should hope not. We need a month's notice.'

  I'm close to enquiring whether that applies to members of the family, but I say 'You gave me that.'

  'Excuse me, I said no such thing.'

  'Your husband did last time he was in my room. Where's Sniffer today? At home having a sniff?'

  Bebe stiffens with a leathery creak I'm tempted to attribute to her rather than the couch. 'What are you saying about my husband?'

  'He said you wanted to get rid of me by the end of the year.'

  'That's a flaky way to put it,' Bebe says and stares harder. 'Not that. What did you call him?'

  'I was talking about Sniffer. That's your bitch, isn't it?'

  'If you mean our dog she's called Morsel.'

  'Warren must have been having a joke.' At whose expense, I wonder, which provokes me to demand 'What kind of a name is that?'

  'It's the opposite of what she eats. That's the joke,' Bebe says as she stands up. 'Where do you need driving to? I can fit those in the Shogun.'

  'That won't be necessary, thanks,' I'm to some extent amused to tell her.

  'I was only looking in to check if Natalie needs anything from the supermarket. I can wait if you have work to finish,' Bebe says. 'May I see?'

  I'm making to cover up my response to Smilemime when I realise that I would be doing so with the site for obese sex. By now Bebe and her aggressively sweet perfume are at my shoulder. 'That doesn't look much like work,' she says.

  'You don't think my reputation is worth defending.'

  'I guess that might take some work. Is this how you spend your day?' Bebe says as she reads further up the thread. 'I see, you're advertising for information. Will you be doing resear
ch of your own?'

  'Obviously. Here's just the latest,' I say with perhaps the last of my restraint and click the mouse.

  Have I called up the wrong page in my haste? For a moment I'm sure Bebe is about to see fat naked bodies tumbling in slow motion over one another. No, I've brought up Willie Hart's email, at which Bebe peers for quite some time. Eventually she says 'So you'll be travelling. Where are you going to be till then?'

  'Here.' I don't believe she was in any doubt of it, and I immediately regret adding 'I thought Natalie might have said.'

  Bebe turns her back and marches into the kitchen to open the refrigerator. 'Looks like I had a wasted journey,' she says as she returns, but her pace suggests that isn't all she's thinking. She halts halfway across the room as if she wants to keep the sight of me at a distance. 'If she didn't tell us she'd taken you in,' she says, 'maybe you should wonder what she may not have told you.'

  'I think she'd tell me anything I want to know.'

  'And has there been much of that recently?'

  'Nothing I haven't been told,' I say with all the conviction I can muster.

  'You're being very modern, I must say. I wouldn't expect it of her father.'

  I want to ignore the cue, but I have to ask 'What wouldn't you?'

  'Have you really not made the connection? I thought a researcher would.'

  'If it was important I don't believe you'd be playing games.' 'If it were, Simon. Good grief, you're supposed to be a writer.' Bebe presses her lips together, webbing them in extra wrinkles, before she says 'What do you feel you're providing for my daughter and my grandson?'

  'Would love do?'

  'Would it do what? We love them more than anything else we've got, and that's why we've supported them whenever they need it. Can you?'

  'There are more kinds of support than just financial, and besides – '

  'You bet there are, and you won't find us lacking in any of them. But it didn't seem like you had many to offer when she lost her job because of stuff she didn't write.'