Nobody looks away from me, and the man on the back row persists. 'Show us yourself.'
'I've been doing that,' I try and joke.
An impatient rumble passes through the audience, and he gives it more of a voice. 'Show us something Tubby did.'
'You're the only one that's seen these films,' Tracy joins in.
'That doesn't mean I can perform them.'
'If you're a lecturer you're a performer.'
I'm about to deny being either when a man I can't identify complains 'We haven't had our laugh yet. He said we'd have a laugh.'
I feel as if everyone is rejecting my attempts to make sense. I've had enough of striving to entertain them with words. Let them have what they're asking for. I no longer care about making a fool of myself. It's highly unlikely that I'll encounter any of them again. The worst they'll be able to say is that I didn't stand up as a stand-up, and how can that harm my reputation as a writer about films? 'All right, here's one,' I announce, and the echo sings swan. 'Tubby's Telephonic Travails. He keeps ringing people up, but all he does is laugh. Obviously we only see him, because the film's silent, but when they hear him they can't stop.'
'You're still talking. Let's see it.'
I'm disconcerted not just by my inability to locate the speaker – the dialogue might almost be dubbed onto one of the motionless faces – but by his lack of an echo. Perhaps my position means that only my voice resonates; I can't recall whether Tracy's did. If everyone wants silence, nothing should be simpler. I take out my mobile and, raising it to my face, begin to laugh without a sound.
Nobody responds with one, even when I gape and tilt my head wildly to mime communication. I might as well be labouring to draw some reaction from the flattened figures in the windows. I feel as if the general dumbness is swallowing my energy, draining my ability to communicate. I dodge to the left side of the bare stage in the hope that the action shows I'm now receiving Tubby's call. If I drop the phone and keep falling down while I attempt to retrieve it, might that trigger a titter or two? My antics are failing to do so, even when I produce a bout of silent merriment so fierce that my teeth and my stretched lips ache. The sound like a whispering giggle is static; the mobile is emitting it, at any rate. Am I attracting it somehow? It will more than do as a response. If the audience doesn't care for my performance, that's another reason to stop. 'Well, there you have it. Best I can do,' I say. Or rather, I mouth it, but not a word emerges.
'It's only my jet lag. Things have been lagging. My voice must be.' I've made better puns, but it hardly matters how feeble this one is, since not a syllable leaves my mouth. I thrust the mobile in my pocket without quelling the mocking wordless whisper, which can't be static after all. 'Anybody seen my voice?' I try appealing, but this doesn't produce it. I can't tell whether I'm mouthing the words or grinning mirthlessly at my plight; without question I'm baring my teeth. 'It's in here somewhere,' I say or rather struggle to, gazing at Tracy as if he's responsible and can help. I haven't finished straining to utter the words when I'm rewarded by a sound, though not the one I'm desperate for. Tracy has started to laugh.
'I've finished performing. I'm done. I can talk.' Even if I managed to pronounce any of this I mightn't be able to hear it for his chortling. His grin is so wide that he might be determined to surpass mine. He's clutching his sides as if to force out more laughter. How is he generating so many echoes? Because of my confusion and my endeavour to speak, I don't immediately realise that the rest of the audience is joining in with him.
'Forgive me, I'm not trying to be funny any more. This isn't meant to be.' Apparently it, or at any rate the spectacle of my attempts to say it, is. There's so much hilarity and so many glistening teeth that I could imagine the robed figures in the windows are entertained too. Tracy has snatched his foot off the ledge of the pew and is crouching wide-eyed over his mirth. 'Shut up,' I strive to tell him and the rest of them. 'I've had it. Really, that's enough.'
'I haddock. Wee-wee, that's a duck.' While I don't think I said that, it's impossible to judge in the midst of the uproar. Hearing the nonsense in my head is almost as bad; it feels like losing my grip on language. 'I meany. Stoppy now. Shutty Christup.' I can see the words like intertitles in my mind, and am suddenly afraid that if I regain my speech it will come out as gibbet, as gibbous, as gibbon, giggle, gimcrack, gimmick, gismo, gizzard. Can't I laugh? Mightn't that be a sound I could make to bring my words back? I have to laugh – everyone else is showing me how. I drag in a breath that bulges my eyes, and then I throw my head back and project something like mirth.
I don't know if it's audible. It sounds like little more than jagged static in my skull. I've outshouted Tracy before I'm convinced that my mouth is producing any noise. His hands have given up gripping his sides and are sprawled palms upwards on the bench. His face looks determined to compete with my performance, and I feel driven by his. Now that I've succeeded in laughing, can I stop? My whole body shivers as if it has gone into spasm, and my jaw aches so much that I dread being unable to close my mouth. I dig my fingers into my cheeks and lever at my jaw with my thumbs, but hysteria has clamped my mouth open. I can't think for laughing – I have the impression that it may never allow me to think again. Then instinct takes over, and my body recalls what it ought to do. I let go of my throbbing jaw and use both hands to slap my face as hard as I can.
My eyes are already streaming with laughter, and soon I can barely see for tears. I hear a few shocked gasps at my antics, but most of the audience seem to find them even more hilarious. So, by the sound of it, do I. My waves of mirth scarcely allow me to breathe. I renew my assault on my blazing face and then, out of utter desperation, I slap both cheeks at once. Either the impact frees my jaw or the shock of the pain quells my hysteria. My last few hiccups of laughter trail into silence, but my body continues to shake, perhaps as a reaction to the flood of applause. 'You're the best yet,' the fortune-teller shouts.
'Wank you. It's been mumblable.' I don't know if I say this; the clapping blurs my words. The applause subsides at last, leaving me nervous to hear myself speak. I don't need to address the entire audience. I turn to Tracy, who is still miming great amusement. 'I'm going to head back,' I tell him, more loudly as my words emerge intact. 'You stay. I'll get a taxi.'
His face doesn't change. Is he expressing astonishment at my routine? He could at least blink; my eyes are watering in sympathy as well as with the stinging of my bruised cheeks. 'Are you all right? Don't do that, it isn't funny,' the woman next to him says and leans over to shake his arm. It isn't until he lolls against her, still grinning wide-eyed, that she screams.
THIRTY-NINE - IT'S IMMINENT
I barely sleep. Whenever my consciousness tries to shut down I see Tracy grinning like a wide-eyed skull. His lurid face has grown as black and white as his costume. Sometimes he turns into Tubby as his irrepressible teeth force his lips wider. That's another reason why I keep lurching awake, and so is the way that quite a few of the audience seemed close to blaming me for Tracy's death. I wouldn't have left before the ambulance came – they needn't have persisted in reminding me that I'd arrived with him, as if this made me responsible for his fate. All the same, the memory is preferable to imagining that I've been roused by a stealthy noise in the room. Nothing has slithered under the bed; if I switch on the light and peer over the edge of the mattress, no pallid flattened forehead will inch out, never mind unblinking eyes and a grin worse than death. The notion is enough to keep me in the dark, and if I left the bed I would only be tempted to take my insomnia onto the Internet. That's another version of wishing I were elsewhere, which makes me dream more than once that I've wakened somewhere smaller. As soon as I hear people laughing in the corridor, presumably on their way to breakfast, I use that as an excuse to turn on all the lights and stumble to my bathroom.
I don't linger once I've finished showering. I feel compelled to check in the mirror that I haven't begun to grin. The time is no laughing matter, however. It's still an hour
to breakfast. Once I'm dressed I log on, but there's no message from Willie Hart or the bank, and even Smilemime has nothing to say. I switch off and head for the window.
The square is deserted. The extinguished fairground makes me feel Christmas has passed without my noticing. The topmost carriage of the big wheel sways like a cradle. Nobody's riding in it; no excessively circular whitish face is spying on me from the dimness. Perhaps an object is propped up on the seat, but trying to distinguish it makes my vision flicker like a thunderstorm. I stare until more jollity in the corridor alerts me that it is indeed time for breakfast. If I dawdle much longer I'll be late for my research.
Mirrors in the lift display dozens of me in retreat down two increasingly dim corridors, but my sidelong glances don't surprise any secret grins. The basement dining-room proves to be a mediaeval hall. Holly encircles shields on the walls, coloured lights decorate pairs of crossed swords. I sit at the end of a massive table, and a waitress brings me coffee. Given the setting, her black and white uniform resembles fancy dress. The continental breakfast seems misplaced too, but in the lift I looked too plump for comfort. Being overweight didn't do Tracy much good. I eat a token roll and a couple of slices of ham and holey cheese between gulps of coffee before retreating to my room.
The key card works on the third try, although it belongs to a different era. I pack my suitcase and lug it to the lift, promising myself to replace it by the time I next travel. The hotel lobby returns me to the present day, and the receptionist gives my signature just a token frown once the machine accepts my credit card. As I step out of the hotel a taxi opens its door to me. I glance at the big wheel, and the topmost carriage seems to sway in response, but surely it's as empty as it looks.
The driver is as silent as the frost that has bleached the pavements. Perhaps the tip I give him once he releases my case from the boot without leaving his seat isn't worth the breath. I use various holds to transport the case across the road and past the ruddy towering façade of the university and along a paved path bordered by precise white grass. By the time I reach the library my hands are shivering with cold or strain or both.
I've brought my passport and my signed contract from London University Press. The girl at the front desk seems convinced, even by the approximation of my signature I produce to obtain a visitor's pass. A grey metal lift conveys me to the third floor, which is apparently the Blue Area, where another notice indicates that stairs lead down to Special Collections. Are those in the Silent Study Area on Blue 2? When I shoulder the double doors open I'm met by a whine that sounds like an amplified dental drill but proves to be emitted by a computer abandoned under a notice that says STOP THAT NOISE! Belatedly I realise that a sign outside the doors directs me up another flight of stairs to Green 3. Beyond a lobby decorated with a warning that disturbance may be caused by staff loading trolleys, a long room full of alcoves of law books brings me to Red 3 and another room devoted to Law, where someone out of sight is giggling in a whisper. Most of the students will have gone home for Christmas, but I'm relieved to hear voices in the entrance to Special Collections. Two uniformed guards who might be competing at bulkiness look up from their desks. 'What can we do for you?' the winner of the competition says as if he thinks I'm as lost as I'd begun to feel.
'I'd like to look in your archives.'
'That's what they all say.'
'What have you got to show?' his colleague enquires.
I flourish my passport, at which they both don half a bulging frown. 'Don't know if that'll do,' says the bulkier fellow.
I could imagine that I've stumbled into a comedy routine, but he must be speculating on behalf of whoever is through the door beyond the desks. 'I'll find out, shall I?' I rather less than ask.
While the guards don't move, their massiveness seems to increase. 'We'll keep that,' one says – I'm not sure which.
'It's yours,' I say, gratefully dropping the suitcase.
I manage to steady my fingers enough in order to open the door. A few bookcases almost touch the ceiling of a small panelled room. Closer to the entrance, a counter overlooks a study table halved by a partition. The woman behind the counter, who is so short that her build acts as a reminder of the presence of the guards, turns up a professional smile. 'How may I help?' she murmurs.
'I believe you've got the papers of an old lecturer of yours. Thackeray Lane's the name.'
She blinks at me, so that I wonder if she thinks I'm claiming the identity until she says 'Well, he is popular all of a sudden.'
'Who with?'
'I'm afraid we can't give out that information.'
'But you're saying someone was ahead of me.'
'They contacted us to arrange for the material to be available.' She nods at her desk, which is heaped with box files. 'They've yet to present themselves,' she says.
Could the applicant have been Charley Tracy? Since I seem to have no chance of learning that, I say 'Why are you assuming it's not me?'
'We would have to query why you were disguising your voice.'
'Sorry if I should have rung up in advance. May I consult the papers as long as they're here?' I hand her my passport and my contract. 'There I am.'
She scrutinises the photograph as closely as any official I've encountered during my research, and examines the contract quite as minutely. At last she says 'You live in London.'
'I don't have to be local, do I? I was born in Preston if that's any help.'
'With material as rare as this we usually require some form of authority. A letter from your publishers, perhaps.'
My fingers won't keep still after my struggle with the luggage, and I clench my fists. 'Won't the contract cover it?'
She considers the pages with a series of blinks. Eventually she says 'Have they changed their name? Surely it ought to be the University of London Press.'
I fight down a burst of hysterical mirth at the pettiness that's obstructing me. 'Maybe you're right,' I succeed in saying, 'and they've brought the name up to date. Or hang on, it's a new imprint. That's it, of course.'
'Unfortunately it doesn't really qualify as authorisation.'
Then why have we gone through this interlude? The inside of my head is beginning to feel scraped thin and raw when it proves to contain a lonely idea. 'Will an email do?'
'I suppose that might be acceptable under the circumstances.'
'And seeing it's Christmas,' I nearly respond but say only 'I'll call them.'
'You'll need to do so outside.'
I'm not sure why, since I can't see anyone else in the room. I leave my passport and the contract on the counter and step into the lobby, where the guards raise their slow weighty heads. 'Fast reader,' one remarks.
'I haven't finished.' Rather than admit I also haven't started, I find the number for London University Press on my mobile and mime patience. I don't know why I feel compelled to entertain the guards, but I gaze towards some horizon or other and wag my head in time with the bell. I open my mouth when Rufus answers, and then I hear his message. 'Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon are celebrating Christmas. Leave us your name and where we can reach you and we'll follow it up after the festivities.'
'Is anyone there? Is there really nobody there? I'm at an archive of Tubby's in Manchester. If anyone's listening to this, can you answer? The library needs you to authenticate me because what I want to look at is very rare indeed. An email would be fine, saying I'm researching on behalf of the university press. Is there still nobody? I feel as if I've been talking all Christmas. If I had your mobile numbers I'd call them.'
I can think of nothing more to conjure up a listener. I mustn't imagine that I'm trying to trick someone into breaking their silence. As I pocket the mobile a guard says 'Sounds like you didn't get what you have to give us.'
'The lady in here can be the judge,' I say and hurry to the door for fear they'll head me off. 'I'm afraid everyone's packed up for Christmas,' I inform the librarian with a smile that's meant to be both apologetic and appealing. 'Th
ey couldn't tell you anything the contract doesn't, could they? Can't it be enough?'
She doesn't speak, and her gaze is uncommunicative. There's clearly only one solution. I have to dash behind the counter and knock her unconscious, the way I should have handled the other dwarf in Amsterdam. I can tell the guards she needs to examine a document that's in my suitcase. Once I've hidden the files in the case I'll inform them on my regretful way out that the document wasn't enough to establish my identity. I've sidled two steps when she says 'I'll speak to someone. He'll have to decide.'
What was I thinking of? I feel as though for altogether too many seconds my body became nothing but instinct and electrified nerves. As she uses the internal phone I retreat from the counter, and stay well out of reach while we await a senior librarian. We aren't by ourselves after all; papers are rustling somewhere in the room. I stare at my upside-down passport rather than meet the woman's eyes. When the door opens I'm afraid the guards have concluded that she needs protecting from me, but while the large grey-haired man is wearing a dark suit, it isn't quite a uniform. He trains his pale gaze on me for some seconds before enquiring 'You're the applicant, are you?'
'I'm the writer, as it says. Simon Lester.'
He looks at my passport and at me, and at the contract, and at me. What can I do if he finds against me? Only wait until I'm alone with the woman, and then – 'You'll need to stay where Miss Leerton can oversee you,' he says and leaves us.
I'm approved. I was close to believing that my identity no longer mattered. I fill in a card with my details and almost put Tubby instead of Thackeray Lane on the Subject/Interest line. The woman deposits the files on the table opposite the counter with a muffled clunk that I wouldn't have thought capable of setting off so many echoes. I no longer care who else is in the room, though I'm surprised the librarian doesn't think their smothered laughter inappropriate. Perhaps they're amused by the echoes; my sitting at the table is hardly a reason for mirth. 'Thank you,' I murmur, which is echoed too. I put my finger to my lips and give the librarian a remorseful smile, and seem to hear an infinity of boxes being opened as the lid of the first file strikes the wood.
The Grin of the Dark Page 27