The Grin of the Dark

SEVENTEEN - RESTLESSNESS

Natalie drains her glass of the Merlot that we had with dinner and sinks back on the couch, but as I slip an arm around her shoulders we hear footsteps in the corridor. The sound spurs me to tell her 'Your parents can get in.'

'Gosh, you're paranoid. That isn't them.' She leans her head away from me to scrutinise my face. 'Aren't you joking? They have a key for emergencies, but they wouldn't just let themselves in without asking.'

'Maybe we should bolt the door in future when we're in,' I have to be content with saying, because I don't want to bring up Bebe's comments about Nicholas while Mark is out of bed. I'm hoping that my smile will reassure Natalie I'm not paranoid when Mark knocks at the door of the room.

His mother sighs. 'I thought you were supposed to be asleep.'

'I nearly was. Can I come in?'

'If you must. If it'll send you back where you should be, asleep.'

He's wearing pyjamas swarming with jovial full moons. 'Looks like we've invited a lunatic in,' I remark.

Natalie doesn't seem to care for this. 'So why aren't you in bed, Mark?'

'What about my computer?'

'You aren't making sense. I think you'd better – '

'Why don't you try your DVD on it, Simon? It can play them.'

The disc I bought at the memorabilia fair doesn't work on the player or on Natalie's computer, and mine has no facility for playing DVDs. 'If it helps him sleep, do you think?' I murmur.

'If you're sure it will.'

I can't tell which of us she's addressing: perhaps both. Mark is already running to his bedroom. Several books, including a large pictorial history of films, have escaped from the bookcase under the small high window. The clothes he wore today are sprawled like a sketch of a contortionist on the Mexican blanket that covers his bed. In general the room could belong to someone twice his age, especially given the absence of toys other than computer games. Natalie takes the clothes to the wicker basket in the bathroom as I slip the disc into the computer.

An icon of a disc appears, and then the monitor turns blank as ignorance. As Mark rocks in his desk chair like a driver attempting to start a car with his own energy, the screen grows chaotic with pixels. Natalie sits next to me on the end of the bed as the pixels disappear into a black and white image. Mark bounces in his chair and claps his hands at the sight of Tubby on a stage.

I'm glad he seems to have forgotten about the erased tape. When I told him I no longer had the footage, his mouth looked in danger of writhing out of control. Tubby has his back to a prop that resembles an old fairground attraction – a long board taller than he is, with cartoonish figures painted on it and holes where their faces should be. They represent a mayor in his regalia, a queen with her crown, a judge wearing a black cap, a cowled monk hiding his hands in his sleeves, a mitred bishop or archbishop and a long-haired saint with a rakish halo. Tubby is dressed in an outsize dinner suit, which flaps blackly as he paces to the board. He dodges behind it so nimbly that I could imagine the film has been edited to lend him the power, but he's being filmed in a single uninterrupted take. He pokes his face through each hole in turn, and his grin stretches wider with every appearance. By the time he wags his head on the saint's behalf his teeth could be described as his most prominent feature. Could the long hair suggest that the white-robed figure is more than a saint? Tubby's face shrinks into the dark within the outline and then swells out again, and it takes me a moment to grasp that we're seeing a balloon with his hilarious face. Another bulges out beneath the mitre, and a third from the monk's cowl, and so on down the line until all six figures have a face. Where's Tubby? He's playing the mayor; that's the face whose eyes and lips are widening. I see the lips start to draw back from the gums, and then, with a pop that's all the more shocking for its soundlessness, the face bursts.

Natalie gasps, but not with delight. Mark giggles, to some extent at her reaction, I think. Tubby flaps out from behind the board and advances to the footlights, which lend his pallid face a waxy glow. His shadow reaches back to the faceless figure as if to question which of them is casting it. He twists his head around so far that I wince on his behalf. Having admired the spectacle behind him, where the faces have begun to sag and simper, he clutches his stomach and bares his teeth in an expanding laugh. His body shakes until its outline is a quivering mass of blackness. His mouth stretches so wide that I hear his chortling, if only in my head. He's still laughing as he flutters to the steps that lead down to the auditorium. He means to entice somebody onto the stage, to frame their face alongside five of his. As he advances towards us like a gleeful storm, however, the screen turns black.

Of course the blackness of his suit hasn't overwhelmed it; the film has cut off. In a few seconds it recommences, but in a different theatre, where identical-twin young women are performing a song and dance with ukuleles. 'I think that's all of Tubby,' I tell Mark.

'Maybe that's enough,' Natalie says. 'I don't know if I like him.'

Mark is using the miniature onscreen control panel to run the disc backwards. The blackness above the mayor's collar reconstitutes a face that retreats like a worm into earth, and then the other faces withdraw into their burrows one by one. 'I know I didn't like that,' says Natalie.

'Watch him again.'

I'm not sure whether that's an exhortation or an untypically childish plea. Tubby has retrieved his face from each member of the parade. As he repeats his performance I'm still unable to determine how he manages to dodge behind the board so instantaneously, and the emergence of his face above neck after neck puts me in mind of worms before the balloons do. When the mayor's head bursts, Natalie releases a sharp breath that sounds determined not to be a gasp. 'Show's over for tonight,' she says. 'Bed.'

'Thanks for sorting it out for me, Mark. We're a good team.'

He freezes the image as Tubby comes for the audience. 'Can I keep it in my room?'

'Better let Simon have it for safety. I expect you'll be able to watch it again if you must.'

Mark springs the disc and plants it in its case. 'Can I have the comic to read in the morning?'

'Simon will want to look after it if it's going in his book.'

'I may want another glance at it,' I say, feeling feeble. 'You can see it tomorrow if you're good.'

'You're only saying that because of her. I never spoil things. Grandma and grandad trust me all over their house.'

'You're spoiling things now, Mark. Give that to Simon and switch that off and into bed.'

'I should do as your mother says or you'll have her blaming me.' I keep my voice steady, although he has jabbed my palm with the corner of the plastic case – unintentionally, I hope. 'Thank you, Mark,' I say and walk quickly out of the room.

I lay the DVD on my desk and rub my bruised palm while I listen to Natalie's maternal murmur. As soon as she shuts his door and the one to the corridor I say 'I'm not a bad influence, am I?'

'Only on me.'

'Good job your parents can't hear you say that.'

Her inviting smile winces and grows straight. 'Seriously, I wouldn't mind if you backed me up a little more.'

'With your parents?'

'I don't need that. With Mark,' she says, and I feel as if I've been diverted from the link I was trying to make. 'I realise he's still getting used to having you here all the time, but I don't want him losing his sleep even at the weekend.'

'I'm getting used too. I haven't had all that much experience of being part of a whole family.'

'Don't undersell yourself, Simon. He was very proud to be seen with you at school.'

'Is that what he said?'

'He didn't have to. I can tell. I'm his mother.'

Is that my cue to mention Nicholas? I attempt to begin, but it's more of a struggle than I was anticipating: it feels as if my face has turned into an unmanageable mask. Before I can speak Natalie says 'So when are you off on your travels again? I may need to book him into the after-school club.'

'I'll see, shall I?'

'You could let me know tomorrow,' Natalie says, but I've already switched on the computer. Any action might be a relief from my inability to raise the subject of Mark's father. As Natalie stretches out on the couch, the Frugonet screen takes shape.

hi agn move buf!

fli 2 lax + wel pic u up. i havnt lookd @ the old gis films 4 yers. u can sort them out + c whats ther. im sur theres sum tub thacera. sta as long as u lik. i ma b filmng but no problem. mab i can giv u a standup rol if yor up 4 it. lookng 4wad 2 it! let me no whn soon as u can.

wille

'Maybe I should leave this until I'm more awake.'

Natalie swings her legs off the couch and rests her fingertips on my shoulders. 'Hi again movie buff,' she says at once. 'Fly to Los Angeles and we'll pick you up. I haven't looked at the old guy's films for years...'

When she reads to the end without hesitation I say 'Maybe I should take you along as my interpreter.'

'It sounds as if I ought to be there.' She moves to face me as she says 'What kind of film is he inviting you into?'

'The kind you think. I'm sure he's joking. I'll see that he is.'

'You'd better. You're still planning to go up to Preston as well, yes?'

'If the library has anything I can't find on the net.'

'Will you look in on your parents while you're there?'

'Possibly.'

'I should give them a call at least.'

'I'll see if I've time.' When she looks wistful I point out 'They've had plenty.'

'Not so much recently, I suppose. Perhaps you needn't blame them when you've come out the way you have.'

'So long as you're satisfied.'

'They were a bit vintage when they got married, weren't they? We don't know how much of a shock you turned out to be.'

'Enough to split them up when I was little.'

'You know I don't mean it was your fault. Didn't they both do their best for you?'

'I expect they tried.'

'And they did invite you – '

'Don't bring the wedding up.' It shrinks my mind into a hard spiky lump of emotions I'd rather not identify. 'Can't we just go to bed?'

'Let me say one more thing. Maybe they really did marry again because you were out of the way, but don't you think that could have been because they were lonely without you?'

'All right, if it makes you happy.'

Apparently this doesn't. 'Anyway,' she says, 'I thought you were busy on your computer.'

'Never too busy for you, Natty. Shall I hang on here while you get ready for bed?'

Surely she's looking resigned only to the end of our discussion. She eases the door open and listens for a few seconds. 'Just don't waken Mark,' she whispers.

As she closes the door I find the Frugojet site. I could bill the university for a more expensive pair of flights, but my Frugo Visa gives me several hundred air miles, and I don't want to take too much advantage when they've yet to publish me. The earliest available flight to Los Angeles is next week, and there's a return three days later. I buy the tickets with my card and email my arrival time to Willie Hart, and set about searching the web.

The Harris Library in Preston does indeed have the entire run of the Preston Chronicle on microfilm, but it isn't available for consultation on the Internet. It's surely worth the journey to discover what else was said about Lane in the paper. This isn't why I slap my forehead so hard that for a moment I'm afraid the sound may rouse Mark. How could I have missed the chance to question the stallholders about Lane?

I won't blame Mark or his fuss about the comic. Can't I email the Comical Companions? Apparently not now, since they have no website. It's too late to call Charley Tracy tonight, even assuming that he has the information. I ought to switch off – I heard Natalie go into the bedroom – but before I join her I wouldn't mind leaving some of my frustration behind. Just seeing that I've made my point on the movie database should be enough. I bring up the message board for the Tubby film, and then I let go of the mouse for fear that it will splinter in my fist.

Wow, we've all got to aplaud. Mr Questionabble's written abbout a film. Or maybe he means he wrote on one because he couldn't aford any paper. Maybe he hasn't noticed we all write about them on this site. Everyboddy shout if they've heard of Simon Letser. Why am I not hearing annything? If writing on a film is so important to him, I'll tell him what. He should go away and get something pubblished somewhere and then maybe we'll all be impressed, except I don't think annyone will want to pubblish him when he doesn't even know the difference between people and peoples. He must think they're the ones that are getting up to stupid tricks, or maybe that's him, because I'm sure noboddy here knows what he's raving on about. He wants people or even peoples to apprecciate Tubby, does he? Then he'd better stop making up stories abbout him.

I'm about to respond when I have an idea that shouldn't have been so belated. As I search for London University Press my mouth works on a grin. The opening page displays an enlarged colophon. The initial letters of the three stacked words are in a modern typescript, the rest of each word is more old-fashioned. The top link in the sidebar is STUDIES IN FILM. There isn't much on that page, but certainly enough. The series editor is Dr Rufus Wall, and he's announcing the first book – 'a major rediscovery of forgotten legends of the cinema by the premier young British film critic Simon Lester'.

If anybody's still awake now that Mr Mime has finished

muttering, here's a straightforward fact:

www.lup.co.uk/html/cinema

Perhaps I'm being pubblished, sorry, published because I can spell. I expect it helps. There'll be stories about Tubby in my book, but they'll all be true. Forgive me if I keep them to myself until then. And if prior publication is a requirement for posting on these boards, I wonder where Mr Mime has been published. What has he written? Under what name?

Perhaps the gibe about spelling is a little glib, but it's too late: I've sent the message. I gaze at the screen in case a counterblast appears, until I remember that Natalie is waiting for me. I switch off the computer and tiptoe along the hall to bolt the apartment door. I close the bathroom door and do my best to hush my various activities. The toothbrush buzzes like an insect that has found its way into my mouth, and I wish it were as silent as my toothy reflection. As I edge the bedroom door open I put my finger to my lips, but there's no point. Natalie is asleep.

I feel as if my argument with Smilemime has sent her to sleep. I use both hands to inch the door shut, and then I pad to the bed. Perhaps she's aware of my presence; her lips part, though without a word. When I touch them with a kiss she murmurs a phrase that has been filleted of its consonants before she turns over as if to give me more room. I slip under the quilt into the warmth she left me and reach across her to extinguish the bedside light, a pottery cottage inhabited by gnomes in drooping red hats, which she found irresistibly kitsch. As the room darkens I bring my arm under the quilt and close my eyes.

It seems that I need to put Smilemime out of my head in order to engage with sleep. Surely I dealt with all his points that were worth answering and quite possibly some that weren't, or did he raise one that I failed to grasp? I suspect he says anything that comes to mind, and he can stay out of mine. That's easier to vow than to achieve, and soon I'm back at my desk.

I don't want to see what the screen has in store. I type gibberish as random as I can manage and furiously click the mouse. The yellowed keys rattle like bones while the mouse emits its plastic chatter, but none of this helps. The screen is no longer featureless. Its sides extend backwards to form the floor and walls and ceiling of a corridor. Though it appears to stretch almost to infinity, I can just distinguish a figure that is waiting at the end. It's approaching, or am I? I would very much prefer it to keep its distance, and the distraction of Mark's voice comes as a relief.

It isn't quite so welcome once I hear his words. 'He's on. He's lit up.' Presumably he too is having a bad dream. At least his dream has rescued me from mine, and I open my eyes. A clown's blurred glowing face is beside me on the pillow.

I gasp rather less than a word and jerk away, backing into Natalie. The next moment the bedside light comes on. That's scarcely reassuring, because we're surrounded by shadowy figures in jesters' hats. I feel like a child who has wakened from a nightmare into worse until I identify them as the shadows of gnomes inside the lamp. As for the clown's face, it was printed on my wrist. I didn't realise that I hadn't washed it off or that it was so luminous. 'I'll go if you like,' I murmur, sitting up. 'I know what it'll be.'

Natalie blinks rapidly to clear her eyes. 'What will it?'

'Just this,' I say, exhibiting my wrist, but now I can't see the imprint. I'm wondering if Mark has sorted out the situation for himself when he breaks his silence with an inarticulate but heartfelt protest. I'm almost out of the room before Natalie says 'Better put something on, Simon. I know you're boys, but you aren't related.'

I grab my towelling robe from the hook on the door and struggle into the inside-out sleeves and knot the cord around my waist. I open Mark's door gradually so as not to startle him awake. The room isn't as dark as it should be; it's illuminated by a dim glow that drains everything of colour. Mark is lying on his side with his face towards the source of the illumination – the blank computer screen. I can't see whether he's asleep, even when I move to shut down the computer. Shouldn't it be displaying a screensaver if it isn't dark? I wonder if he may only recently have finished using it with the sound turned off, a possibility that's preferable to the unappealing notion that someone or something has gone to ground inside the computer. I take hold of the mouse and hear a flurry of bedclothes behind me. 'What are you,' Mark says and leaves it at that, or his drowsiness does.

'You need to switch this off when you go to bed, Mark.'

I face him to say so. When I turn back to the screen it's teeming with icons. I must have touched them off with the mouse. I shut the computer down, leaving the room illuminated by light from the hall. 'Now what were you shouting about?'

'I wasn't, and I did switch off.'

'It sounded like shouting to us. Were you dreaming?'

The charcoal sketch of his face peers out of the gloom. 'Must have been.'

'Was it to do with today? Was it this?'

I bare my wrist, on which the clown's remains have saved up a faint pallid glow. Mark holds up his like a response to a secret sign. It's more clearly defined, in particular the grin. 'Do you think you'd better wash it off?' I suggest.

'No,' Mark protests as he hides it and the rest of him under the blanket.

I pad out of the room and close the doors. I'm reclaiming my half of the quilt when Natalie says 'That was better.'

'I'll keep trying,' I say as she returns the floppy-hatted shadows to the dark. For a while I listen to be sure that Mark is quiet. Without warning it's so silent that I don't know where I am. Where was the desk in my dream? Not in this apartment, now I think about it. Why should it matter? I'm with Natalie, and there's another of her breaths. I'm nearly asleep, that's all, and then I wholly am.