The Grin of the Dark

TWO - MINIONS

All my life that's fit to print (and maybe some that isn't):

Simon Lester. Born 1 January 1977, Preston, Lancashire. Attended Grimshaw Street Primary School 1982–88, Winckley High School 1988–95. Grade A GCSE in English Language and Literature, Mathematics, Spanish; B in Physics, Chemistry, Social Studies. (History and Geography, don't ask. Would have done better if hadn't fallen in love with cinema and set out to watch every film on multiplex/television/ tape? Doubt it.) Grade A at Advanced Level in both English subjects and Mathematics, B in the sciences. Attended London University at Royal Holloway College 1995–98. Bachelor of Arts with Honours in Media Studies. Co-edited (with Colin Vernon, but would rather keep that quiet) college film magazine Freeze Frames and contributed reviews and critical essays. 1998–2000, film reviewer for Preston Gazette. Wrote articles for Sight and Sound and Empire. Then –

(Emailed by Colin Vernon. Cineassed will be most irreverent movie magazine ever. His father's backing the launch. Colin will put me up in his Finchley house until I can afford a flat. Any doubts assuaged by editorial meeting, not to mention drinks afterwards with Natalie. Had to be worth it for meeting her. Now libel case against the magazine and Colin in particular won't come to trial until next year. Assets of magazine frozen. My reputation seems to be, but mustn't let that happen to my thoughts.)

2001–02, staff writer for Cineassed. I highlight this onscreen and delete it and gaze at the absence. Whenever I mention that I've written about films, interviewers remember where they've heard of me, which is there. In that case, should I change my name? I connect to the Internet and search for an anagram generator. Here's a site called Wordssword, and I type my name in the box.

The trail of anagrams leads off the screen, but I can't find a full name that anybody rational would use. I'm encouraged to play with my letters, however. Milton Lime could be the third man's brother, Noel Morse would be related to the inventor of a code. I substitute the name that convinces me most at the top of my history. As I save the document and shut down the computer, a gust of wind rattles a plastic chair against the garden table by the dustbin, and I imagine evicting my old self to sit there in the dark. I wish I had time to search for jobs tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll be at my desk before work.

My breath grows orange as I step out of the house. Once I've tugged the door shut I take out my mobile and bring up Natalie's number. The spider in the bush twitches its luminous web as she says 'Hello?'

'Leslie Stone here.'

'Simon? Simon.' The second version is a fond but terse rebuke. 'Listen, I'm sorry,' she says. 'My parents just showed up.'

'You're saying they're back.'

'No need to be clever with words all the time,' she says, which I wasn't intending to be. 'I meant before. They rang me at work and I mentioned your interview and Mark's virus, but the first I knew they were coming was when they arrived bearing champagne and a computer.'

'That was kind of them.'

'I still wish we'd been on our own when you brought the news.'

'Never mind, soon they'll be hearing about Leslie Stone.'

'I don't think I'm getting the joke.'

'That's because there isn't one unless you think I am. I'm going to use a pseudonym.'

'I'll come and see in a few minutes, Mark. To write a book, you mean?'

The idea hadn't occurred to me, but it should have. 'What do you think?'

'They say everybody's got one in them.'

I might have liked a more personal comment. A computer illuminates a bedroom as I tramp downhill towards the Frugoil station, where a car honks at a petrol pump as if to remind me of Simon Lester's status. 'Anyway, I just wanted to let you know my plans before I start work,' I tell her.

'Good luck with them, Simon. I hope I can still call you that.'

'Call me whatever you fancy,' I say, but the horn is louder. It plays three notes that remind me of Laurel and Hardy as the impatient driver swings the car off the forecourt. 'Love you,' I say, and believe I hear an echo before Natalie vacates the mobile. I pocket it and dodge traffic across the main road.

Shahrukh scowls at me through the pay window as I reach the pumps beneath the slab of jittery white light that roofs the forecourt. I could imagine that he doesn't recognise me as a colleague, which suggests I'm turning into the person I want to be. Then he slides off the stool and tucks his overstuffed white shirt into his trousers while he plods to unlock the door. Having opened it an inch, he says over his shoulder 'You are late.'

I blink at my wristwatch, and the colon ahead of the minute blinks back. 'Just a few seconds. What's that between friends?'

'You are not meant to be late. There is much work to be done.' He wags a thumb in the direction of the clock above the shelves of cigarettes penned behind the narrow counter. 'You are slow,' he declares. 'That is off the bloody computer.'

I hope my silence will speed him on his way. Instead he says 'Are you hungry? Have you eaten?'

I know him well enough to recognise a trap. 'I've had something,' I say, though it's barely the truth.

'Do not eat any of the sandwiches that are to be thrown out. That is stealing,' he warns me. 'In fact, do not throw them out at all. Mr Khan will deal with them in the morning if nobody has paid to eat them.'

'Your father will have them for breakfast, you mean.'

'Now you are ragging me. I can take a joke if it costs nothing,' he says and points one of his fattest fingers at the refrigerator cabinet full of plastic bottles. 'What do you see there?'

'Something else I mustn't touch?'

'A gap on the shelf, and there is another. A gap is not a sale. People cannot buy a gap. Wherever you see an opening to be filled, put in what should be there.'

This time my silence takes some maintaining. 'Well, I suppose I must leave you,' he says and unhooks his fur coat from behind the door of the small office. 'Whatever you put out, write it on the sheet for Mr Khan to check.'

His knee-length pelt shivers in the wind as I lock the door behind him. His blue Mercedes darts out from behind the shop, its roof flaring like defective neon, and then I'm alone except for the security camera that keeps watch on my trudge to the stockroom. I might enjoy working here more if it made demands of any kind on me, but now that I've learned the routine it leaves my mind free to observe its own lack of employment. Perhaps Leslie Stone should plan a book.

I fetch a carton of plastic bottles and the clipboard from the concrete room, which is grudgingly illuminated by a bulb half the strength of the one Mr Khan took home. How about Product Placement? Placed to Sell is catchier, but I suspect there isn't enough to the planting of brand names in films to make a saleable book. I slash the tape on the carton with a Stanley knife. Death Scenes, then? The cinema is alive with them, and I could look at how representation has changed since the earliest one – a reconstruction of a hanging – and the ways in which different actors and genres handle them. Or is the theme unmarketably grim? I scrag two bottles from the carton with each hand and knuckle them more space in the refrigerator. Perhaps I could have fun with –

A white Volvo cruises onto the forecourt. I'm heading for the counter to activate the pump beside which the driver has halted when he opens his door. As he stands up to gaze at me over the unshadowed roof of the car my hands close into fists, or as much as they can on the plastic necks, and I almost drop to the floor, out of sight. He's what I've been dreading for months.