The Grin of the Dark

by Ramsey Campbell

  The man's face is already suffused, but its redness intensifies. 'I'm asking you to keep your language to yourself.'

  'I'll bet you are. Don't like the question, do you?'

  The young woman tries to silence her companion by resting a hand on his arm, but he snatches it away. 'What question?' he blusters.

  'Does your wife mind you shagging your secretary?'

  As Rufus muffles a startled laugh, the businessman's face seems actually to swell around his pursed lips. 'Don't try to kid us that was just a business lunch,' says Colin. 'You could at least leave your wedding ring at home.'

  I'm by no means pleasantly reminded of the head that burst during Lane's stage performance. I would suggest that Colin might relent, but the young woman is quicker. 'Let's go or we'll be late,' she murmurs.

  Her companion is scarcely able to manipulate the mouse to send their bill to the printer behind the reception desk. He avoids looking at us while he stalks past our table as if his empurpled face is a burden he's barely able to support, but the young woman pauses to inform us 'I'm not a secretary.'

  'Seems like we've all been promoted,' Colin remarks.

  I watch the couple leave the restaurant and try to outdistance a figure in a lolling red conical hat. It's the juggler. His prey hurry out of sight, and the globular faces caper in the air before they and the performer vanish in pursuit. Rufus recaptures my attention by elevating his glass. 'Here's to rediscovery,' he proposes, 'and shaking the world up a bit.'

  I have to hope that Rufus and the university will keep Colin under control if it's called for. I lift my glass and clink it against theirs. 'Not too much. Just enough,' I say. Perhaps I'm discovering a deadpan talent, since both of them laugh.

  TWENTY-FIVE - IN STORE

  As soon as I hear voices outside the apartment I find the exit from the net and shut down the computer. I'm feeding myself crumbs of cheese and biscuit with a fingertip before I clear away my plate and knife when Warren says 'We won't come in.'

  'Maybe just to say goodbye to Simon,' Bebe says.

  Mark is first along the hall. 'You should have come,' he tells me. 'I had a Hilarious Hamburger and some Cosmic Cake.'

  Warren's invitation was so obvious an afterthought – 'And of course you should come as well, Simon' – that I pretended to be busier than I expected to be. Even the choice of restaurant – The Kitchen Table, serving Fun Food for Families – seemed painfully pointed. 'I had to get ready,' I remind Mark. 'Packing and all sorts of last-minute stuff.'

  Warren has followed him after all. 'You don't mind we aren't taking you home with us, do you?' he informs rather than asks me. 'It would be kind of early for us to get up to run you to the airport.'

  'I do understand.'

  'Okay, have an easy journey.'

  He's turning away without having acknowledged any irony, although their house in Windsor is closer to the airport by about an hour, when Bebe halts him with a freckled hand on his shoulder. 'So who's this person you're going to visit with, Simon?'

  'Willie Hart. He makes films.'

  'Do tell us what kind.'

  'What I told you before,' Natalie intervenes. 'Erotic.'

  'I guess we might have another name for it.' Bebe glances at Mark and acts out thinking better of her punch line. 'And you'll be staying at his house,' she substitutes.

  'That's right, and researching his grandfather's films.'

  'Not the same species, we hope.'

  'He directed the comedian I'm rediscovering.'

  Warren's default smile falls askew. 'The guy whose face we kept seeing at dinner?'

  'Mark was putting on his show for people,' Natalie explains.

  'Even after he was asked to stop,' says Bebe.

  'You said it was funny,' Mark protests. 'You and grandad laughed.'

  'The first couple of times, maybe,' Warren says.

  'Let's leave it for mom to deal with. Looks like time for somebody to be in bed,' Bebe says and visibly regrets not being more specific.

  She hugs and kisses Natalie and Mark and smacks her lips in the air several inches from my left cheek. Having embraced his daughter and grandson, Warren presents me with a solitary descending handshake.

  As her parents head for the stairs, Natalie shuts the door and says 'Say good night and see you soon to Simon, Mark.'

  'I just want to show him something.'

  'Don't start another argument. We had enough of those at dinner.'

  He turns a pleading look on me. 'It's for your book.'

  'Can he quickly?' I appeal to Natalie. 'Then we'll all sleep.'

  She shrugs and turns her hands up, but her face is less resigned. Mark runs to my desk and switches the computer on. 'You know Tubby used to be called Thackeray Lane,' he says, 'but I'll bet you don't know what he was.'

  'Still a comedian.'

  'Before he was funny,' Mark says even more eagerly.

  'Go on, enlighten me.'

  'A professor.'

  He seems so proud of the information that I feel mean for saying 'Thanks for trying, Mark, but I'm afraid it's a false trail. I made the same mistake when I started looking for him.'

  'It's Tubby. That's what he was first. It's him.'

  'A professor of what was it, mediaeval history? At Manchester University, yes?' When Mark looks both disappointed and stubborn I say 'I'm really grateful you've been doing this for me, and I'm impressed. But it's someone else with the same name.'

  'No it isn't.' Mark seizes the keyboard and lifts it as if he's threatening to throw it away or smash it over the monitor. 'I can show you,' he almost wails.

  'Mark, put that down.' Natalie gazes at him until he obeys, and then she says 'I think we've had quite enough. Just you apologise and straight to bed.'

  'Should we have a glance at the evidence?' I'm sufficiently uncomfortable to propose. 'Then everybody ought to be satisfied.'

  Natalie is silent, which I hope is meant to convey acquiescence rather than a rebuke. 'Be a good boy and avert your eyes,' I say and type my Frugonet password. 'Go on then, show me what you found.'

  As he pulls down the list of my favourite sites I grow absurdly nervous. Of course there's nothing I need conceal, and as soon as Mark selects a search engine the image of fat naked acrobatic bodies slopping over one another vanishes from my mind. His search produces the references I found weeks ago: two Lanes that are places and one that was a man. 'There he is,' Mark says in edgy triumph.

  Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured in Mediaeval History, 1909–...

  'I did see that, Mark.'

  'Did you go and look?'

  'No, I went to Manchester to interview someone.'

  'I mean did you look online?'

  'Not when I could see – '

  He's already clicking on the link. He wriggles his fingers in front of the screen as if this may conjure up the information faster. The words reappear on another page, and the rest of the paragraph is filled in line by line. 'God, you're slow,' Mark complains, and I wonder if this refers to me as I read the details I never thought to check.

  Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured in Mediaeval History, 1909–1911. Subsequently developed a career as a comedian, first on the British stage and then in Hollywood. Students described his final lectures as increasingly resembling stage performances. At his last lecture scuffles broke out between students who supported his method and those who found it inappropriate. His papers are held in the university's special collection.

  The list of British library archives supplies a link to the university's web site, which barely acknowledges the presence of the material. T. Lane: papers on mediaeval history &c is all it says, but that's enough to persuade me this isn't a hoax. I feel as though I've backtracked through my search all the way to Manchester. 'Well, thanks a great deal, Mark,' I say. 'It's a good job you're more thorough than me.'

  At first he looks pleased, and then his expression grows overstated. 'I shouldn't do that too ofte
n,' I warn him. 'I don't think your mother likes it much.'

  'Do you?'

  His mouth seems to have stretched his voice thin and high, so that I could imagine a ventriloquist is using Mark's grinning head as a dummy. 'I think Tubby does it best. Leave it to him.'

  'He's dead,' says Mark and lets his mouth down.

  'I'm not mourning him,' Natalie says, though her son looks as if he is. 'You've helped Simon now. Well done. You can help him more by going to bed, and no more encores.'

  As he slouches like a premature teenager to the bathroom she says 'Ready for an adventure?'

  I fancy she's offering me one, and then I grasp that she has my journey in mind. 'Just about,' I admit.

  'You can have the bathroom first if you like.'

  I gaze at the perfunctory listing for Lane until I hear Mark emerge. 'I'll let you,' I say, which she seems to need to interpret, although there has been silence since she spoke. Once she's out of the room I return to the newsgroups and call up my name.

  TWENTY-SIX - RETORTS

  Oh dear, Mr Testy is losing his temper and using toillet language. That's what happenns when you get caught out for lying and can't own up like a man. I forgot, we're supposed to call him Simon Lester even if he's calling himself Colin. Has everyboddy noticed how simmillar the names are? C is half of S and L is next to M, and if you switch the vowwels around you've got Simon, except I don't think anyboddy would want him. Someone ought to tell him not to bother making names up. Everyboddy can see he can't spell cinneaste whichever name he calls himself.

  Colin's there before I am.

  No, we can't spell cinneaste because that isn't how it's spelled, you pathetic clown. We'd need to have extra letters spilling out of our arseholes to compete with you. Just in case anyone beside this tiresome turd is interested, my name is Colin Vernon. Let's see him make something of that.

  Smilemime does.

  So Tiresome S. L. still wants to play games with names, does he? He shouldn't have challennged a master. Vernon is just letters out of Simon Lester except for V, and that's l + e + e. He must be trying to tell us he's pubblishing himself. Is he paying himself a fortune, do we think? Watch out, I'll bet more bad words are on the way.

  This time I reach the keyboard first.

  I'm afraid it's you who are turning language bad. Can we ask you to keep a few of your consonants to yourself? Forgive me if I don't waste time attempting to convince you that my publisher and editor exist, if you honestly need convincing and don't just post anything you think may provoke a reaction. If you're as passionate about film as you give the impression you are, I should spend more time studying them and less in pursuing meaningless arguments.

  I should have reread that more closely before posting it, because it gives Smilemime an opening.

  Well, I must be doing something right, mustn't I? I've made Simon Testy be honnest for once. He's acctually addmitting he should studdy films instead of telling lies about them. Now he should addmit that if he's published annything about them or he's going to that'll all be lies as well. If he owns up I prommise not to mention him again.

  I'm not letting this lie.

  Please be aware that what you're saying isn't just untrue, it's libellous. I may not be able to trace you, but I'm sure the university will if you carry on like this. I imagine they might want to prosecute anyone who tries to discredit their publications in this way.

  Colin's there almost at once.

  You bet your bollocks we can track you down, Slimemime or whatever we're going to find out your name is. You're out of your league, so take the hint and stop bothering the big boys. And by the way, Simon wasn't saying he needs to study films, he meant you do. That should keep you quiet with any luck, and if something doesn't we will.

  I should have liked his response to be somewhat more official.

  So now my ennemy's trying to say I can't read, is he? That's a joke from someboddy who can't even get my name right. He can't lose an argument gracefully either, so he has to ressort to more words out of the toillet and try and frighten me with his gang. Ooh, I'm terriffied, look what I've done on my chair. Before he starts threatenning me he'd better remmember he's already libbelled me. He said I'd made up a Tubby Thackeray film on the IMDb. That's blackenning my repputation and my lawyer says I can sue him.

  I could call his bluff by involving Charley Tracy, but I don't want to bring any further harassment on him. I'm certain Smilemime is trying to spread confusion in the hope that I'll panic, which I'm not about to do. I really don't need Colin to reply for me.

  Bring it on then, Mileslime. Sue him and see what you get. I'd love to see you explain to a judge how your rep can be undermined when you won't even say who you are. And since it'll be the first time anyone beyond a few Internet nerds have heard of you, you'll have to convince him you've got a rep at all. I'll be in the front row and selling tickets to the most hilarious comedy in town.

  While I agree with most of this, I suggest in a private email to Colin that he might be a little less ready to invite people – even Smilemime – to sue me.

  Don't let him rattle you, Simon. It's all coming out of his arse. Anyway, you were quick enough to say the uni would chase him, weren't you? Not that I'm saying we won't if we have to. You know how I love skewering bastards. Let me see if I can get a fix on him.

  Meanwhile Smilemime has responded to his posting.

  No, you're the one that's putting on a show for everyboddy, but you're not impressing annyone. Collin's your stage name, is it? The one you use for alternattive commedy, which is a lot of fillthy language with no laughs. And whatever you call yourself you can't get my name right. Don't worry, I've got yours. Easy to remmember when you're acting like your name spells. I hope everyboddy knows what the annagram of Simon Lester is.

  It isn't Tiresome S. L. That omits the n, which could signify an indefinite number or an unknown name. I don't point any of this out, and I do my best not to be compelled to speculate, but Colin isn't so restrained.

  Timely Snores, is it? They're appropriate where you're concerned. It doesn't quite spell that, but it's better than your pissy little feeble attempt. Time, Señores? That's what they shout in a Mexican bar when everyone's finished eating their worms. I know, he spells Silent Mores, in other words quiet manners, the kind Simon has and you need to learn.

  This amuses me, but not for long.

  Oh yes, he's being very quiet while he's pretennding to be someboddy else, isn't he? Maybe he really bellieves he is if he's been eating those worms. He certainnly sounds like he's on drugs. I expect his brain's too beffuddled to work things out, so I'll put him out of his missery and tell him his secret. Simon Lester = Monster Lies.

  I've typed my reply almost before I know it.

  No, I'm not on any drugs. If I were I'd be more likely to write your kind of steaming crap. Carry on if it keeps you happy, but do us all a favour and when you've finished producing it, just pull the chain.

  How long has this been going on? I feel as if Smilemime's monomania has invaded my skull, wakening whenever I do and goading me to compose more retorts while the threat of Colin's intervention urges me to head him off, although does it matter which of us responds? At least when I post a reply it appears on every newsgroup that's involved, even if this gives me the impression that the Internet is swarming with my attempts to force Smilemime to make some kind of sense. I only wish I could revoke my last answer, however satisfying it felt until Smilemime posted his.

  Aw, did someboddy upset him? Did the nassty man say something bad and hurt his ickle feewings? It must have been true or he wouldn't have forgotten who he was suppossed to be. He isn't meant to use toillet words when he's calling himself Monster Lies, I mean Simon Lester. Maybe he doesn't reallize that tells us there's just one of him, because it spells Misster Lone as well. And maybe he'd like to explain why he keeps reading what I write if he thinks it's excremment. Could he be jeallous because people read what I write and noboddy's ever heard of him?

>   It doesn't spell Misster unless you can't spell. For some reason this is the riposte that has been clamouring for expression ever since I read his latest rant at Heathrow. I would have posted it and much more if they hadn't been calling my name at the departure gate. I kept regretting the missed opportunity all the way to Chicago, where I planned to use another Internet terminal while waiting for my onward flight. In fact the two-hour stopover barely gave me time to collect my suitcase and clear security. I still feel as if I'm shuffling forward in a sluggish endless queue, my legs wavering from lack of sleep and the effects of the gale-wracked descent the plane made. Instead I'm in Los Angeles and waiting for my luggage to appear.

  Is that mine? A man standing guard beside the end of the carousel grabs the suitcase as his mobile trills. He's discussing a film deal by the time he wheels the case past me, and I see that it's only similar to mine, like half a dozen others in the slow procession. Several items, including a parcelled ski in search of its twin, have made the rounds more than once. Most of the passengers from my flight have been reunited with their luggage. Here comes the next parade, and my case is the fifth to trundle into view, or rather a woman's identical case is. I rest my overworked eyes, and when I open them my case has stolen past me and is heading for the exit from the baggage hall. I almost sprawl on the conveyor belt in my haste to capture it, and then I haul it to the Customs desk.

  The concourse beyond it is so crowded with people and amplified voices, and my senses are so raw with wakefulness, that I feel worse than stranded until I see my name. Apparently Willie Hart has sent a driver to pick me up. Her T-shirt, which bears a logo for SEXXXY SITES, and shorts display her lithe golden limbs and hug her curves with great affection, and I wonder if she's one of Hart's performers. Even her hair, so blonde it's nearly white, is cropped close as if to bare more of her. The generous features of her oval face produce a more specific smile as I point at the name on her clipboard. 'That's me.'

  'Welcome to California,' she says and holds out a slim hand. Her handshake is warm and firm, but her skin isn't quite so young and smooth as it appeared from a distance. Eventually she lets go and says 'Pull your bags?'