Parents and their white breaths are gathering outside the schoolyard. More than one parent stares at me longer than I glance at them. Beyond the children dashing about the yard or settling into groups I see the woman with the handbell. 'I'm just coming in for a word, Mark,' I say and squeeze his shoulder as we pass beneath the wrought-iron name. He runs to join his admirers as I make my devious way through the crowd of children.
The little woman is mostly monochrome: black suit and tights and shoes, white blouse, grey hair. Her economically compact face grows neutral but watchful. 'May I help you?' she says.
'You're the head.'
'I'm Miss Moss.'
Her look may be a warning that her name is no occasion for mirth, but it makes my face eager to contradict her. 'That's the head,' I say, and when her raised eyebrows signify her patience 'I'm Mark Halloran's, well, not parent, sadly, not yet anyway. Guardian, would it be? I'm with his mother.'
I don't know whether her doggedly polite expression or my unwieldy face is compelling me to babble, but she doesn't help by asking 'Had you something you wanted to say?'
'I've already said a mouthful. Make that a bunch of them. I'm not just mouthing, am I? Can't you hear me?' Instead of uttering any of this I jabber 'I expect you'll be seeing a lot of that. Today's style of relationships, I mean. I just wanted to establish who I am in case anyone's wondering.'
'And who is that?'
'The way I heard it, some of the parents.' Resentment or sleeplessness makes me add 'If that's what they are, of course.'
'I was asking for your name.'
I release a laugh that seems as uncontrollable as my face. I haven't regained control of my speech when a voice says 'Simon Lester.'
I feel as if I've been provided with a soundtrack. 'Thank you, Mark,' the headmistress says and hands him the bell. 'You can be my ringer.'
Presumably I'm dismissed. I could fancy that he's ringing me out of the schoolyard. Children move away from me, because they're forming queues, of course. Parents clap and stamp their feet, but only to keep warm. The bell hasn't finished ringing energetically as I pass beneath the name. 'Thank you, Mark,' Miss Moss repeats.
The instant I turn to look, he assumes his Tubby face and swings the bell so wildly I'm afraid he may dislodge the clapper. A number of children laugh, some of them nervously, and their lines begin to grow haphazard. I grin at Mark and put my finger to my lips and wag my other hand. He responds only to the grin, and Miss Moss seems unimpressed by my performance. As she claps for silence I hurry away. Perhaps she's right to blame me for encouraging Mark, however unintentionally.
I don't know when the bell stops clanging except in my head. Surely I can't still hear it as Tower Bridge comes into view. Is an entertainer ringing one? I seem to glimpse a wild-haired figure prancing through the crowds, unless his baggy clothes are dancing in the wind along the ruffled river. I don't see him leave the bridge, and there's no sign of him when I do. I let myself into the apartment building and waste time wondering if I heard another door shut besides the outer one. I'm too feverishly awake now to catch up on my sleep, and so I log online, to be greeted by an email from Rufus.
Salutations, Simon!
Keep the problems coming and we'll solve them. Let's meet for lunch and we'll show you how. It's about time your publishers bought you one. Can you make in the net for one o'clock tomorrow? It's on Old Compton Street between Greek and Filth, I mean Frith. Oh, and don't give this online nonsense another thought.
There's nothing like a reunion!
Rufus Wall
Editor in Chief, LUP On Film
TWENTY-FOUR - NETS
Why should it concern me that Rufus has renamed his job? Perhaps a simple editor sounded insufficiently impressive, I decide as I leave Charing Cross Road for Old Compton Street. Women stand in doorways, mutely inviting passers-by inside, unless I'm too preoccupied to hear their words. An unshaven juggler crowned with a scrawny Santa Claus hat and a wide fixed desperate grin is performing for a theatre queue, and trips after me past a row of dead black screens – the windows of sex shops. Are the balls he's juggling painted with faces? I have the impression that they're grinning askew or upside down. He's so close that I could fancy he would like to snatch my head and add it to the objects in the air. Rather than wait to be harassed for a contribution I put on speed all the way to the next block.
The name of the restaurant is etched on the window in elegant lower-case type. Seafood may well be in the net, but the phrase doesn't refer just to that. Every table bears a rotating pedestal mounted with a computer and keyboard and mouse. Some of the monitors display menus, but diners are also online or playing computer games. I open the inappropriately antique panelled door and almost collide with Rufus. He and his companion are standing with their backs to me beside a reception desk. The other man turns, and I see Colin Vernon, my editor at Cineassed.
His mischievous schoolboyish face is packed in more fat than the last time I saw him, and rusty with much sun or a substitute. Before I have time to grasp my reaction he swings around and seizes me by the biceps. 'Simon, you sneaky old bastard,' he shouts as if I'm at the far end of the long low spikily plastered room. 'How long have you been lurking there? Weren't you ever going to speak up?'
Rufus turns fast enough to wag his greying mane and produces a grin too wide to be hidden by his extensive beard. 'I said so, Simon, didn't I? Was I right?'
'Tell me again about what.'
'What do you call this?' He raises a thumb at Colin, and as I mull over my answer he declares 'A reunion.'
Colin relinquishes my arms and clasps my hand in both of his to shake. 'So how are you surviving?' I ask him.
'A lot more than that,' he says and winks at Rufus.
A waiter has arrived, animated by Colin's boisterousness. He leads us to a table deep in the restaurant, where Rufus swivels the computer towards me. 'Indulge yourselves, gentlemen. It's on Charles Stanley Tickell.'
All the items on the menu have domain names. I announce my choice of calamari.sp and trout.co.uk, only to learn that we have to use the mouse to communicate our orders to the kitchen. My fellow diners send theirs, and Rufus is selecting a bottle from the onscreen wine list when Colin frowns at me. 'Rufus was saying some little pipsqueak is nibbling at your reputation. What's his name again?' 'Who would know? Smilemime, he calls himself.'
Colin spins the computer to face him. He types and clicks the mouse so fast I'm put in mind of the rattling of dice. 'Wanker,' he comments loud enough for a businessman and woman at a nearby table to glance at him. I flash them an apologetic smile and murmur 'Colin...'
'Don't kid anyone you disagree,' he says, and no more until he finishes examining the summaries of Tubby's films. 'Well, this is total crap. What shall we do about him?'
'No point in questioning his versions now if I may be seeing some of the films in California.'
'Have you found the twat anywhere else?'
'All over the Google groups.'
Colin searches them and widens his eyes as if to encompass more of the information. 'Fucker,' he remarks almost affectionately. 'Have you seen this?'
I vowed yesterday that I wouldn't let Smilemime trouble me any further. I spent the day in rewriting my chapter about Fatty Arbuckle, which I emailed to Rufus, though I've yet to learn what he thinks of the new version. I nodded off only occasionally, and was awake to fetch a somewhat subdued Mark from school and to buy the three of us baltis in Brick Lane when Natalie eventually returned from work. I slept almost as soon as I was first in bed, and wasn't conscious of thinking about Smilemime. This morning I stayed offline while I worked on the chapter about Max Davidson, the comic who fell out of favour for being too parodically Jewish. Now Colin swings the screen for me to catch up on my correspondence.