The Grin of the Dark

by Ramsey Campbell

  'Come along, Mark,' Bebe says loud enough to be addressing everyone. 'Let's go where there's something nice.'

  'Go ahead, Mark. You'll have to save watching this till you're older.' As if he's unaware of aggravating Bebe's outrage Colin says to Warren 'So long as he'll be out of the way, can I ask you a favour?'

  'I guess you can ask.'

  'Your player will have single frame mode, yes? I'd love to run that disc again and see if there are any more subliminals. I'd bet a lot of money that there are. I'd bet your advance, Simon.'

  My mind is close to abandoning any attempt to grasp what is or isn't real. I don't know if my nerves make me glimpse pale mask-like features flicker over everybody's faces, but I certainly see Colin wink at Warren as he adds 'You can watch if you like.'

  FIFTY - MEMENTOS

  I hardly know where I am or when. My head feels like a balloon that's close to bursting. The enormous space inside it teems with thoughts that clamour for expression but are too swift to catch. They make me desperate to cling to saying 'I don't think that's appropriate, Colin.'

  'Why not let Warren make his own mind up? He's a big boy. So are Joe and Nicky, now you raise the subject. They could join us.'

  I know he enjoys controversy, but it isn't welcome now. 'I tempt – ' I say and battle to control my words. 'I meant – '

  'Hold on. Let me just tell Natalie I wasn't being sexist, babe. I thought you two might want to check it out together when you're on your own.'

  Bebe presses all the colour out of her lips and tries to steer Mark into the kitchen, but he lingers to hear me declare 'Don't worry, Bebebe. Nor you, I the Warren. We won't abuse your whore's fatality.'

  If I'm not certain I said that then surely they aren't, but they head for the kitchen without answering. All that matters is to prevent everyone from seeing any further images hidden in Tubby's film. Were any concealed in his earlier work? What else may I have unknowingly watched? I want to believe that subliminal flashes in the last film have made me imagine the sly hints of clowns' faces that keep almost appearing to be superimposed or otherwise present on at least some of those around me, but I need to concentrate on withholding the disc. As Colin holds out a stubborn hand for it I say 'I told you, it sin a pro pro rate.'

  Mark has begun to laugh as if I'm putting on a show. I push past Colin to carry my glass and Tubby's film into the kitchen. 'Can't you bear to be parted from it?' Bebe says, shaking her head.

  'Just seeing nobody gets hold of it,' I say with as few extra syllables as I can manage, though enough to amuse Mark.

  'Well.' Eventually Bebe adds 'Aren't you going to ask your question?'

  'Wish won?'

  She may assume I'm drunk, in which case she should blame her husband, who has topped up my glass virtually to the brim. She sighs at one or more of us and says 'What did we think of your film?'

  Just now I'd prefer not to discuss it, but they might divert my thoughts. 'What id you?'

  'I'd rather not say.'

  'I guess the movies have grown up a lot since then,' says Warren.

  'I certainly hope so,' says Nicholas.

  'I think some people may still go for that sort of thing,' Joe puts in as if he's speaking up on my behalf. 'There's still a lot of silliness around.'

  Is this honestly all they took from the film? Possibly their comments ought to quell the turmoil in my brain, but they're having the opposite effect. I look at Natalie, who says 'He still makes me feel uncomfortable. Maybe that's because of what you wouldn't have known was there.'

  Does she mean the secret frames, however numerous they may have been, or Tubby's cryptic lecture? 'You thought it was funny,' Mark protests. 'You were all laughing.'

  'We were laughing at you, sweetie,' says Bebe.

  'And at Mr Loster,' Nicholas says.

  Perhaps he doesn't pronounce it like that, but I might challenge him to repeat it if Natalie weren't quicker. 'They mean with you,' she reassures Mark.

  'No they weren't. It was Tubby. Why are you all pretending?'

  'Do calm down, there's a good child,' says Bebe. 'I think you've been seeing too much of him.'

  'I'm not a child. I know what I saw you all doing.'

  'A child and a tad bratty, do we think, mom?' Bebe says with a smile that makes my teeth ache with its sweetness. 'I guess maybe he's the one that was pretending. The way he was laughing, a person could think he was taking drugs.'

  Is there about to be an argument over how to laugh at comedies? Before I can force something like that question out of my mouth, Natalie says 'Then they'd be stupid if not worse. He hasn't been.'

  'I don't think there's any call to talk smart to your mother,' Warren says.

  'I'm afraid I'll be putting her right if she makes that kind of allegation about my son.'

  'I don't believe your mother said he'd taken anything,' Nicholas intervenes. 'What she was trying – '

  'I know what she was trying. I don't have any problems with words.'

  Surely that isn't a sly gibe at me. Ordinarily I would delight in her standing up to her parents and Nicholas, but it doesn't release any tension; it feels more as though some kind of riot is imminent. The idea is at least as ominous as all the others swarming in my skull. 'I wasn't questioning your literacy,' says Nicholas.

  'You'd be a fool to,' Colin says. 'She fixed quite a few paragraphs for me in Cineassed.'

  'You can know every word in the dictionary and still not be able to address people as you should.'

  It's absurd to think that violence will break out among these people in this expensive respectable kitchen, however much we've drunk, but something besides the flickers of clownish pallor on various faces keeps snagging the edge of my vision: an eager gleam of metal. Just enough knives to arm everyone in the room are arranged on the wall above a chopping board. As the insistent glints sting my eyes Bebe tells Natalie 'We didn't know you had anything to do with writing that magazine. You never told us.'

  'I should have given her another credit,' Colin says. 'She'd have had even more to be proud of.'

  'I think,' says Nicholas, 'some of us would rather she kept her pride for the work she's doing now.'

  'A lot of you, are there? Where's your gang, in your pocket?'

  Mark laughs, and so does Rufus. I'm not sure which of them angers Nicholas more, but I ought to head off any violence – I should take charge of all the weapons. As Nicholas says 'I really must ask you to explain yourself' I begin to sidle to the chopping board. I keep my face towards everyone, and move so gradually that nobody seems to notice. 'Not so handy with language then, eh?' Colin retorts as I wonder if my fists will be able to hold all the handles, and Mark splutters 'Why are you looking at the knives like that, Simon?'

  'My goodness,' says Bebe, 'what's wrong with him now?'

  'Maybe he'd like to contribute to the discussion,' Joe says.

  Mark grows solemn, or at least his voice does. 'You have to say what you thought of your film.'

  'That's right, you're Tubby's spokesman,' Colin says. 'Nobody knows more about him. You're the fount of all knowledge. There's nobody else.'

  'Do sit down first,' Bebe urges me. 'You're making us all nervous.'

  I'm certain nobody can be more on edge than I am, but perhaps I'm infecting my audience. I sit at the kitchen table and grip the DVD case with both hands and feel as if I'm keeping a different kind of weapon safe. 'So explain him to us,' Warren says.

  'Spray Tubby?' I protest and try again. 'Splay Nubby. Pray Ubby. Say Ub.' Each desperate attempt brings more of a giggle from Mark, and once my speech gives out completely he laughs as if only he sees the humour of my mouthing like a stranded fish. Then Rufus joins in, followed by Colin, who even applauds. Does he think or hope this will end my performance? I clutch at the plastic case and grin with the effort to utter a single word. Joe produces an encouraging laugh, and Natalie seems to think she mustn't let him outdo her for support. Will they be entertained if my straining for words turns into gasping for brea
th? Natalie's parents and Nicholas look more pained than amused, but Warren leads the most belated mirth, probably as an indication that I can stop performing. The case creaks in my grip, and I'm glad not to be holding the knives; how might I use them to fend off so much clownish glee? I feel as though Mark may never let me stop miming – as though his delight is tugging my lips into the shapes he wants to watch. I can no longer tell which if any words my mouth is struggling to form. Perhaps my antics can only be halted by a different kind of joke, and here's one. My mobile is wishing me a happy Christmas and New Year.

  I jab the button as much to silence the relentlessly merry melody as to accept the call. For a moment I imagine that the tune has broken into words, and then I realise that the blurred voices are chanting a different song. My parents must be convinced it's already my birthday, unless they're anxious to deal with the ritual and go to bed. They sound as close as the next room. If holding the phone has somehow given me back my speech, control of language is another matter. 'It severs the time,' I babble. 'It's ever that time.'

  'Stop it now, Simon,' Bebe says as if she's rebuking a child.

  I make an effort that sets my jaws trembling. 'It's never that time.'

  'It's nearly midnight,' Nicholas says, having glanced at his no doubt genuine Rolex, and looks as disconcerted as I feel.

  How long did I spend mouthing about Tubby? It doesn't help that my father is saying 'May this be your year.'

  'May you realise everything you are at last,' says my mother.

  Since when did they go in for that sort of phrasing? They sound as if they're reading from a script. 'You too,' I respond.

  'We have,' my father says.

  'We produced you,' says my mother.

  I could do without feeling so focused upon. 'Happy New Year to you both,' I say, however prematurely.

  'And a merry one to you,' my mother cries.

  My father agrees, though it's the first I've heard of any such usage. 'Are your lady and her boy there?' he adds.

  'My parents,' I explain as I hand Natalie the phone.

  'Is it later up where you are?' she suggests, presumably joking, once she has wished them a happy future, and I have the unnecessary notion that she's urging time onwards. When she gives Mark the phone I sense his defiance even before he says 'Happy New Year, grandma. Happy New Year, granddad.'

  Bebe settles for widening her eyes to elevate her eyebrows. I would ask my parents what they've said to amuse Mark so much, but they're gone when he returns the mobile. I'm distracted by Bebe, who announces 'Now it's really the New Year.'

  Indeed, I can hear bells and cheers and whooping fireworks, not to mention detonations violent enough for bombs. 'That's all for your birthday,' says Mark.

  'I don't think Mr Loster is quite that important,' says Nicholas.

  I'm virtually certain that's what he called me. Knives come to mind once more. Perhaps Rufus is anxious not to be involved in a scene, because he says 'Happy New Year, everyone, and thanks for the hospitality, Natalie's folks. We should be on our way.'

  'Happiest to all and thanks for the party,' Colin says.

  They leave the kitchen at a speed that makes me nervous, especially when I realise what I've forgotten to establish. 'When will you be going to the office?'

  'Sometime this year,' Colin assures me.

  'Don't joke about it, all right?' I'm restraining words Bebe wouldn't like. 'That printout is the only copy of what I actually wrote,' I say to Rufus more than to him. 'A virus got into the document later.'

  'It shouldn't have,' Joe objects.

  He sounds as if he's blaming me, perhaps as a form of defence. I'm ready to turn on him when Rufus says 'When do you want us to go in?'

  'When are you next in the area?'

  'We'll be driving pretty well past it tonight.'

  'Then could you collect it now?' As Rufus nods somewhat reluctantly I blurt 'I'll come with you.'

  'That isn't very trusting,' Joe says.

  I won't waste time wondering aloud what it has to do with him. 'I'll make a copy so you don't have the only one.'

  'We can and send it to you,' Colin offers.

  'You know why I'd rather it doesn't go anywhere out of our control.'

  Nicholas glances at Natalie's parents, sharing or inviting their concern. As the three of them along with Joe assume worried frowns that I suspect are mostly for her benefit, Natalie says 'Do you really have to do this now, Simon?'

  'I knee too. I need oo.' With even more of an effort I spit 'Yes.'

  She shrugs and turns her shoulder towards me, and doesn't wholly come back even when I try to wish her a belated happy New Year with a kiss. 'Hap in your ear,' I tell everyone else, much to Mark's amusement, and I'm not sure whether I said it to Natalie as well. As I hurry after my publishers Mark calls 'See you later, Simon. It's only the start of your day.'

  'Where did he learn to talk like that?' says Nicholas.

  I swing around to confront him. He asked Natalie, too proprietorially in my view. Before I can utter a retort, let alone ensure that it's coherent, he gives me a smile I'd like to tear off his face. 'Don't fret,' he says. 'They're in the best possible hands.'

  I see Natalie's parents agreeing. I might argue if that wouldn't worsen the situation. With a slowness that only parts my syllables I warn 'They bet a had.'

  Rufus has opened the front door. The icy night seizes the back of my neck to the sound of explosions and bells. 'Blow up the old,' I seem to hear Colin say, and Rufus responds 'Ring in the new.'

  I don't immediately follow them outside, because I sense that Natalie's parents and, worse, Nicholas are waiting for me to leave. Joe gives me an uninvited chummy look, while Natalie's is resigned and not overly affectionate. Then, unnoticed by anyone but me, Mark displays his Tubby face, and a version of it seems to shimmer on the faces of all his companions. Surely that's not real, but there's no doubt that his was. I can't help hoping Nicholas will be the butt of any joke. 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do,' I say and step into the dark.

  FIFTY-ONE - TIME TO TELL

  We've travelled just a few miles when I'm tempted to ask Rufus to drive me back to Windsor. Our route to London is taking us into Egham, past the park. As I glimpse the totem pole in the distance, I could imagine that the pile of wide-eyed masks is stalking over the frozen grass to match our speed. I could almost think it's craning to keep me in sight, unless one or more pallid grimacing heads have added to its stature. It's yet another of the distractions that are massing in my skull, but the thought of Mark is most insistent. What kind of fun is he having? If he's out of control I'm certain to be held responsible by his grandparents and very probably Nicholas too, but do I blame myself? Returning to Windsor isn't a solution; my presence might well aggravate any problem. Calling Natalie is unlikely to help, and I can't think of a reason to give her. I do my best to concentrate on the journey, which my overloaded brain must be rendering unreal.

  I can't see the student house in Egham, but several people are dancing up the road that leads to it. They're so plump I'm amazed that they're able to dance. Of course their baggy costumes are flapping, not their flesh. The Frugoil station looks deserted, or is a grinning face flattened against the inside of the window? We're past before I can determine whether it's a poster. Beyond Staines the sky is full of lights that put me in mind of sluggish fireworks, and as the Volvo speeds alongside the airport our progress snags a take-off and does its best to drag the airliner to earth. I open my eyes to find we're miles away along the Great West Road. I don't relish this kind of instant travel, and so I try to make conversation. 'You didn't say what you thought of the film.'

  Rufus and Colin keep the backs of their heads turned to me. 'Maybe we thought we couldn't improve on your performance,' says Colin.

  'Give it a shot,' I urge and am immediately afraid that they'll take this the wrong way. 'I mean, give me your critical opinions.'

  'I'd say he has a future,' says Colin.

  'I don't see how I can
disagree,' Rufus says.

  I would say there's too little to disagree with. Are their comments so rudimentary because they feel I've withheld mine? I'm loath to risk trying to share them; I don't think I could cope with another helpless struggle to speak. Streetlamps make my companions' eyes gleam at me in the mirror, a glassy artificial glitter that reminds me of dolls' eyes. I find it so irrationally threatening that I squeeze my eyelids shut. When I look again we're miles ahead in the West End.

  Revellers of an unsettling variety of shapes and sizes are dancing in Piccadilly Circus. A glare of light on a street sign blots out most of the letters, leaving only I ILL US. As we turn along Shaftesbury Avenue figures seem to lurch at my back in the mirror, prancing and jigging and hopping over or even onto one another. Do I glimpse an impossibly tall shape composed of dwarfish acrobats bowing towards me like a worm? Surely it's a shadow, and a shadow can't bear even a single grin. It falls behind – it doesn't spring apart and scurry in fragments along the pavement – as the Volvo inches through the crowd. If stunted figures appear to be skipping in the side streets, they must be shadows too.

  I lose sight of them as we reach Charing Cross Road. As the car takes its pace from the crowds all the way to Tottenham Court Road I feel as if we're part of a procession, but in whose honour? I'm glad when the last of the merry faces stop clustering close to the windows, turning the glass and themselves pale, as the car veers across the road. A dizzy bout of swerving through the side streets brings us to the office.

  The dark sky lends the brows of the attics an extra frown. Their windows glint as my publishers' eyes did in the mirror. I can still hear distant explosions and rejoicing, but the bells seem to have pealed their last. As Rufus slips his key, a plastic card from a different era than the door, into a slot I hadn't noticed beneath the brass doorknob, I say 'Watch out for the guard.'

  'There's no guard here,' says Rufus.

  He must mean the watchman is off duty. The door opens without a sound to reveal that the lobby is lit and deserted. Although the handwriting on the blotter that occupies much of the top of the reception desk is reversed, it looks familiar. Before I can examine it, if indeed I want to, Colin pokes the button to open the lift and reveal my face. It's decidedly too plump, though I might say the same of my companions. The mirrors on the walls insist on it while the lift quivers upwards. However hard I stare at the doors, I'm still aware of faces multiplying on both sides of me. I have to fend off the impression that a grin is spreading through them out of the dark.