Dear Rufus:
Just wanted to update you. I'm on the Tubby Thackeray trail. He caused a riot at one theatre he played at, and someone died laughing at him somewhere else. I'll be visiting the grandson of the director who made all his films. I may find out more than I can write up by the deadline. Can we solve this, do you think? Oh, and I seem to have attracted some kind of Internet antagonist by putting him right about a Tubby film on the IMDb. Part of the fun of being a writer, I expect.
Yours until the final frame –
Simon
I've shut my eyes in an attempt to recall another task when I hear Natalie emerge from her room. The door swings inwards, and she blinks at me. 'What are you doing in the dark?'
'Trying not to waken anyone who shouldn't be awake.'
'No need to go blind doing it,' she says, surely not because she's suspicious of my activity, and switches on the room light. Beyond my eyelids she asks 'Haven't you been to bed?'
'Hours ago. I thought you knew I was there.'
'Well, I didn't. I'll be back in a minute.' She's at least four times that in the bathroom, but when she returns I still haven't identified the thought she interrupted. 'Do you want coffee?' she says. 'I should put something on before Mark joins us.'
Since she's wearing a robe, she means me. I'd forgotten staying naked so as not to disturb her sleep. I fetch my robe from the bedroom as she fills the percolator. 'Close the door,' she says, and then 'You might want to watch out round the school.'
'Is Mark having trouble? What do I need to sort out?'
'Not Mark. I think some of the parents were talking about you. Were you making a fuss of one of his girlfriends?'
'Me? A fuss? I may have smiled at one. That wasn't illegal last time I looked.'
'I'm only saying you might have taken a little more care when nobody knew who you were.'
'Did you tell these parents you thought it was me?'
'I had to. One of the girls thought you were Mark's father.'
I'm not going to ask how Natalie responded, but I'm provoked to ask 'So how was your day at work?'
'Good fun. Hard work but I enjoyed it.'
'You like it hard, then. Much contact with Nilochas?'
'Who did you say?'
'Sorry if I've mixed him up. Too long at the keyboard. Head full of letters and no sense. Nicholas, that's the man.'
'He's behind the scenes. I don't expect to see much of him,' Natalie says with a smile that's ready to be more of one. 'You aren't jealous, are you, Simon?'
As I open my mouth it stiffens as if a mask has been clamped to my face. I'm struggling to voice my thoughts when Natalie says 'Anyway, how were your parents?'
'Old.'
'You'd expect that, wouldn't you?'
'Older.' Rather than pursue this I say 'We've been asked up for Christmas.'
'Then we'll go, or we could for your birthday. We'll need to spend either Christmas or New Year with my parents.'
'Whichever you like,' I say, although the prospect of either with them makes me nervous.
'Let's see what Mark says.' She pours two coffees and carries them into the room. 'I may as well have my bath,' she says and is taking her Supermum mug to the door when she pauses. 'Was your trip successful otherwise as well?'
'Maybe next time.'
'I'm sure it was still worth the journey,' Natalie says and delivers a swift kiss to convince me before she pads out of the room.
I take a sip and then another from my mug, which is decorated to resemble a spool of unexposed film. I set it down almost hastily enough to spill coffee across the desk. Natalie's last question or the caffeine has booted up my brain, and I've remembered what I couldn't bring to mind: I need to check which newspaper I bought at the fair. The trouble is that the paper isn't on or in the desk. It isn't in the room.
TWENTY-THREE - MISS MOSS
We're nearly at the school when I have a last try. 'I know you were on the stage, but did you really not see me buy the paper?'
'I was looking for you,' says Mark.
'I was at the stall not a hundred yards away.'
'Looking for Tubby.' When this clarifies nothing he adds 'For you, I mean.'
'No need to put that face on every time you mention him.' I wait for his eyes and grin to shrink to reasonable dimensions before I say 'You must have seen what I'd bought when I came on the stage.'
'Some bits of paper and your DVD.'
'All right, I know it's the comic you cared about most.'
I'm not even sure why I brought up our visit to the fair. I had the newspaper, even if neither Natalie nor Mark remembers seeing it. It isn't in the apartment, but Natalie insists that she wouldn't have thrown it away. Could I have lost it on the way home? While I don't like to think so, it seems more reasonable than suspecting her parents. At least I can summarise the newspaper report in my book. Meanwhile I've locked the posters and the DVD and Keystone Kapers in the drawer of my desk.
Parents and their white breaths are gathering outside the schoolyard. More than one parent stares at me longer than I glance at them. Beyond the children dashing about the yard or settling into groups I see the woman with the handbell. 'I'm just coming in for a word, Mark,' I say and squeeze his shoulder as we pass beneath the wrought-iron name. He runs to join his admirers as I make my devious way through the crowd of children.
The little woman is mostly monochrome: black suit and tights and shoes, white blouse, grey hair. Her economically compact face grows neutral but watchful. 'May I help you?' she says.
'You're the head.'
'I'm Miss Moss.'
Her look may be a warning that her name is no occasion for mirth, but it makes my face eager to contradict her. 'That's the head,' I say, and when her raised eyebrows signify her patience 'I'm Mark Halloran's, well, not parent, sadly, not yet anyway. Guardian, would it be? I'm with his mother.'
I don't know whether her doggedly polite expression or my unwieldy face is compelling me to babble, but she doesn't help by asking 'Had you something you wanted to say?'
'I've already said a mouthful. Make that a bunch of them. I'm not just mouthing, am I? Can't you hear me?' Instead of uttering any of this I jabber 'I expect you'll be seeing a lot of that. Today's style of relationships, I mean. I just wanted to establish who I am in case anyone's wondering.'
'And who is that?'
'The way I heard it, some of the parents.' Resentment or sleeplessness makes me add 'If that's what they are, of course.'
'I was asking for your name.'
I release a laugh that seems as uncontrollable as my face. I haven't regained control of my speech when a voice says 'Simon Lester.'
I feel as if I've been provided with a soundtrack. 'Thank you, Mark,' the headmistress says and hands him the bell. 'You can be my ringer.'
Presumably I'm dismissed. I could fancy that he's ringing me out of the schoolyard. Children move away from me, because they're forming queues, of course. Parents clap and stamp their feet, but only to keep warm. The bell hasn't finished ringing energetically as I pass beneath the name. 'Thank you, Mark,' Miss Moss repeats.
The instant I turn to look, he assumes his Tubby face and swings the bell so wildly I'm afraid he may dislodge the clapper. A number of children laugh, some of them nervously, and their lines begin to grow haphazard. I grin at Mark and put my finger to my lips and wag my other hand. He responds only to the grin, and Miss Moss seems unimpressed by my performance. As she claps for silence I hurry away. Perhaps she's right to blame me for encouraging Mark, however unintentionally.
I don't know when the bell stops clanging except in my head. Surely I can't still hear it as Tower Bridge comes into view. Is an entertainer ringing one? I seem to glimpse a wild-haired figure prancing through the crowds, unless his baggy clothes are dancing in the wind along the ruffled river. I don't see him leave the bridge, and there's no sign of him when I do. I let myself into the apartment building and waste time wondering if I heard another door shut besides the oute
r one. I'm too feverishly awake now to catch up on my sleep, and so I log online, to be greeted by an email from Rufus.
Salutations, Simon!
Keep the problems coming and we'll solve them. Let's meet for lunch and we'll show you how. It's about time your publishers bought you one. Can you make in the net for one o'clock tomorrow? It's on Old Compton Street between Greek and Filth, I mean Frith. Oh, and don't give this online nonsense another thought.
There's nothing like a reunion!
Rufus Wall
Editor in Chief, LUP On Film
TWENTY-FOUR - NETS
Why should it concern me that Rufus has renamed his job? Perhaps a simple editor sounded insufficiently impressive, I decide as I leave Charing Cross Road for Old Compton Street. Women stand in doorways, mutely inviting passers-by inside, unless I'm too preoccupied to hear their words. An unshaven juggler crowned with a scrawny Santa Claus hat and a wide fixed desperate grin is performing for a theatre queue, and trips after me past a row of dead black screens – the windows of sex shops. Are the balls he's juggling painted with faces? I have the impression that they're grinning askew or upside down. He's so close that I could fancy he would like to snatch my head and add it to the objects in the air. Rather than wait to be harassed for a contribution I put on speed all the way to the next block.
The name of the restaurant is etched on the window in elegant lower-case type. Seafood may well be in the net, but the phrase doesn't refer just to that. Every table bears a rotating pedestal mounted with a computer and keyboard and mouse. Some of the monitors display menus, but diners are also online or playing computer games. I open the inappropriately antique panelled door and almost collide with Rufus. He and his companion are standing with their backs to me beside a reception desk. The other man turns, and I see Colin Vernon, my editor at Cineassed.
His mischievous schoolboyish face is packed in more fat than the last time I saw him, and rusty with much sun or a substitute. Before I have time to grasp my reaction he swings around and seizes me by the biceps. 'Simon, you sneaky old bastard,' he shouts as if I'm at the far end of the long low spikily plastered room. 'How long have you been lurking there? Weren't you ever going to speak up?'
Rufus turns fast enough to wag his greying mane and produces a grin too wide to be hidden by his extensive beard. 'I said so, Simon, didn't I? Was I right?'
'Tell me again about what.'
'What do you call this?' He raises a thumb at Colin, and as I mull over my answer he declares 'A reunion.'
Colin relinquishes my arms and clasps my hand in both of his to shake. 'So how are you surviving?' I ask him.
'A lot more than that,' he says and winks at Rufus.
A waiter has arrived, animated by Colin's boisterousness. He leads us to a table deep in the restaurant, where Rufus swivels the computer towards me. 'Indulge yourselves, gentlemen. It's on Charles Stanley Tickell.'
All the items on the menu have domain names. I announce my choice of calamari.sp and trout.co.uk, only to learn that we have to use the mouse to communicate our orders to the kitchen. My fellow diners send theirs, and Rufus is selecting a bottle from the onscreen wine list when Colin frowns at me. 'Rufus was saying some little pipsqueak is nibbling at your reputation. What's his name again?' 'Who would know? Smilemime, he calls himself.'
Colin spins the computer to face him. He types and clicks the mouse so fast I'm put in mind of the rattling of dice. 'Wanker,' he comments loud enough for a businessman and woman at a nearby table to glance at him. I flash them an apologetic smile and murmur 'Colin...'
'Don't kid anyone you disagree,' he says, and no more until he finishes examining the summaries of Tubby's films. 'Well, this is total crap. What shall we do about him?'
'No point in questioning his versions now if I may be seeing some of the films in California.'
'Have you found the twat anywhere else?'
'All over the Google groups.'
Colin searches them and widens his eyes as if to encompass more of the information. 'Fucker,' he remarks almost affectionately. 'Have you seen this?'
I vowed yesterday that I wouldn't let Smilemime trouble me any further. I spent the day in rewriting my chapter about Fatty Arbuckle, which I emailed to Rufus, though I've yet to learn what he thinks of the new version. I nodded off only occasionally, and was awake to fetch a somewhat subdued Mark from school and to buy the three of us baltis in Brick Lane when Natalie eventually returned from work. I slept almost as soon as I was first in bed, and wasn't conscious of thinking about Smilemime. This morning I stayed offline while I worked on the chapter about Max Davidson, the comic who fell out of favour for being too parodically Jewish. Now Colin swings the screen for me to catch up on my correspondence.
So he's making out noboddy knows my name now, is he? That's funny coming from someboddy that can't even tell the truth about his own. Hands up anyboddy who hasn't noticed that he says he doesn't have a suedonym when he keeps answering to Mr Questionabble. Good of him to say people needn't be assocciated with him if they don't want to be. Shout annyone that does. Quiet arround here, isn't it? I don't blame anyboddy not wanting to get mixed up with his book, even if it's as fictittous as this Cinneaste magazine he can't even spell the name of.
A waiter has poured three generous glasses of Chablis, having waited for Rufus to take more than a sniff. As I swallow a mouthful, Colin reclaims the computer and sets about typing. In a minute or so he says 'That ought to fix the little prick.'
'Could I see – ' I start, but he clicks the mouse and turns the screen to show me his posting from [email protected].
Hello Mr Smellie or whatever your name should be. I'm Simon Lester's editor. Yes, he wrote for every brilliant fearless issue of Cineassed. I'm not surprised you've never heard of it when you're so busy contorting yourself to stuff your head all the way up your arse. And yes, he's got books in him that'll be even more stimulating than his magazine work. Unlike you he'll have watched the films, not made them up.
Rufus cranes over to read it and covers his face to stifle a laugh, but Colin is watching my reaction. 'Wrong on one point,' I feel bound to say. 'Telling him you're my editor. You were, of course.'
'He'd still like to be,' says Rufus. 'How would that fit with you?'
'I thought you and Rufus must have been discussing a book.'
'Several.'
'Yours for one,' Colin tells me.
I'm unpleasantly aware of the flickering of screens around me. 'Aren't you my editor?' I appeal to Rufus.
'I'm still at the top of the pole, but I could do with more support. Your old friend is buzzing with ideas, and I can't think of a better choice when you've already worked together.'
'How are you saying we should do that?'
'Maybe like this,' Colin says and reclaims the computer again.
A waiter arrives with the starters but won't accept an order for another bottle; Colin has to type it on behalf of our host. I'm chewing some of my obscurely spiced squid by the time he completes his original task and lets me see the screen. It's displaying the first page of the chapter I sent to Rufus.
My head begins to throb, and the screen and its neighbours appear to join in as if they're revealing a shared pulse. 'Where have you got that?'
'It isn't online,' Colin laughs. 'I've called it up from my desk.'
The text isn't quite mine. I didn't suggest that 'Since Arbuckle is silent, viewers couldn't know if he sounded like a eunuch', nor 'The sight of Fatty as an outsize child in drag is creepier than it's funny'. I wouldn't necessarily argue with either observation, but it feels as if my chapter has mutated while I was asleep – almost as if my subconscious or someone else's took charge of the computer. Colin is consuming his moules.fr, scooping out the mussels and sipping from the shells. 'Fatty may have decided his gracefulness was the wrong kind of gay' – I suppose that's possible, and even 'Perhaps his penis rose up against the image he was projecting onscreen'. Dozens of my sentences have acquired extra spice to compete with
these, but I don't comment until I've read nearly to the end. 'Can we really say he screwed Virginia Rappe to death?'
'Why not?' says Rufus, brandishing a forkful of tuna.jp. 'It's what everyone thinks.'
'There's evidence on the net,' Colin assures me. 'Dashiell Hammett was on the case for Pinkertons, you know.'
'If the university can live with it I can.'
Colin swallows his last mussel and stands up with alacrity I mistake for relief until he says 'I'm off to powder my nose. Anybody else?'
His announcing his intentions loud enough to be heard by other diners helps me not to be tempted. When Rufus also shakes his head, Colin hurries through the door marked Incoming Male. 'You aren't offended, are you?' Rufus says.
'I wouldn't say that.'
'He thinks any changes he can make that you don't object to will make it, well, we don't want anyone saying it's a reprint of your thesis. He'll email all his tweaks to you, of course. I thought it would leave you more time to concentrate on your Thackeray project if it's expanding as much as you said.'
I might well prefer to explore that rather than rethink old material. 'He won't want his name on the cover, will he?'
'There'll just be yours in splendid solitude. I expect he'd appreciate an acknowledgment inside.'
Soon Colin reappears, rubbing his nostrils with a forefinger. 'It's settled,' Rufus lets him know at once. 'Simon, do you want Colin to have a go at the rest of your thesis?'
'Don't lose any sleep over it,' Colin urges, laughing at my face. 'You'll both have to approve anything I change.' When I settle my expression he says 'It's great to be working with you again. Shall I send this back where it came from?'
'Better keep it to ourselves for now,' Rufus presumably agrees.
Colin shuts the file and returns to the newsgroup with a sprint of his fingers on the keyboard. 'The cunt isn't there yet,' he announces. 'I'll keep an eye out for him.'
I'm about to suggest that he should leave Smilemime to me when the businessman at the nearby table says 'Do you mind?'
Colin's glittering eyes brighten as they turn to him. 'Does your wife?'
The Grin of the Dark Page 16