The Grin of the Dark

Warren's invitation was so obvious an afterthought – 'And of course you should come as well, Simon' – that I pretended to be busier than I expected to be. Even the choice of restaurant – The Kitchen Table, serving Fun Food for Families – seemed painfully pointed. 'I had to get ready,' I remind Mark. 'Packing and all sorts of last-minute stuff.'

Warren has followed him after all. 'You don't mind we aren't taking you home with us, do you?' he informs rather than asks me. 'It would be kind of early for us to get up to run you to the airport.'

'I do understand.'

'Okay, have an easy journey.'

He's turning away without having acknowledged any irony, although their house in Windsor is closer to the airport by about an hour, when Bebe halts him with a freckled hand on his shoulder. 'So who's this person you're going to visit with, Simon?'

'Willie Hart. He makes films.'

'Do tell us what kind.'

'What I told you before,' Natalie intervenes. 'Erotic.'

'I guess we might have another name for it.' Bebe glances at Mark and acts out thinking better of her punch line. 'And you'll be staying at his house,' she substitutes.

'That's right, and researching his grandfather's films.'

'Not the same species, we hope.'

'He directed the comedian I'm rediscovering.'

Warren's default smile falls askew. 'The guy whose face we kept seeing at dinner?'

'Mark was putting on his show for people,' Natalie explains.

'Even after he was asked to stop,' says Bebe.

'You said it was funny,' Mark protests. 'You and grandad laughed.'

'The first couple of times, maybe,' Warren says.

'Let's leave it for mom to deal with. Looks like time for somebody to be in bed,' Bebe says and visibly regrets not being more specific.

She hugs and kisses Natalie and Mark and smacks her lips in the air several inches from my left cheek. Having embraced his daughter and grandson, Warren presents me with a solitary descending handshake.

As her parents head for the stairs, Natalie shuts the door and says 'Say good night and see you soon to Simon, Mark.'

'I just want to show him something.'

'Don't start another argument. We had enough of those at dinner.'

He turns a pleading look on me. 'It's for your book.'

'Can he quickly?' I appeal to Natalie. 'Then we'll all sleep.'

She shrugs and turns her hands up, but her face is less resigned. Mark runs to my desk and switches the computer on. 'You know Tubby used to be called Thackeray Lane,' he says, 'but I'll bet you don't know what he was.'

'Still a comedian.'

'Before he was funny,' Mark says even more eagerly.

'Go on, enlighten me.'

'A professor.'

He seems so proud of the information that I feel mean for saying 'Thanks for trying, Mark, but I'm afraid it's a false trail. I made the same mistake when I started looking for him.'

'It's Tubby. That's what he was first. It's him.'

'A professor of what was it, mediaeval history? At Manchester University, yes?' When Mark looks both disappointed and stubborn I say 'I'm really grateful you've been doing this for me, and I'm impressed. But it's someone else with the same name.'

'No it isn't.' Mark seizes the keyboard and lifts it as if he's threatening to throw it away or smash it over the monitor. 'I can show you,' he almost wails.

'Mark, put that down.' Natalie gazes at him until he obeys, and then she says 'I think we've had quite enough. Just you apologise and straight to bed.'

'Should we have a glance at the evidence?' I'm sufficiently uncomfortable to propose. 'Then everybody ought to be satisfied.'

Natalie is silent, which I hope is meant to convey acquiescence rather than a rebuke. 'Be a good boy and avert your eyes,' I say and type my Frugonet password. 'Go on then, show me what you found.'

As he pulls down the list of my favourite sites I grow absurdly nervous. Of course there's nothing I need conceal, and as soon as Mark selects a search engine the image of fat naked acrobatic bodies slopping over one another vanishes from my mind. His search produces the references I found weeks ago: two Lanes that are places and one that was a man. 'There he is,' Mark says in edgy triumph.

Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured in Mediaeval History, 1909–...

'I did see that, Mark.'

'Did you go and look?'

'No, I went to Manchester to interview someone.'

'I mean did you look online?'

'Not when I could see – '

He's already clicking on the link. He wriggles his fingers in front of the screen as if this may conjure up the information faster. The words reappear on another page, and the rest of the paragraph is filled in line by line. 'God, you're slow,' Mark complains, and I wonder if this refers to me as I read the details I never thought to check.

Thackeray Lane archive, Manchester University library. Lectured in Mediaeval History, 1909–1911. Subsequently developed a career as a comedian, first on the British stage and then in Hollywood. Students described his final lectures as increasingly resembling stage performances. At his last lecture scuffles broke out between students who supported his method and those who found it inappropriate. His papers are held in the university's special collection.

The list of British library archives supplies a link to the university's web site, which barely acknowledges the presence of the material. T. Lane: papers on mediaeval history &c is all it says, but that's enough to persuade me this isn't a hoax. I feel as though I've backtracked through my search all the way to Manchester. 'Well, thanks a great deal, Mark,' I say. 'It's a good job you're more thorough than me.'

At first he looks pleased, and then his expression grows overstated. 'I shouldn't do that too often,' I warn him. 'I don't think your mother likes it much.'

'Do you?'

His mouth seems to have stretched his voice thin and high, so that I could imagine a ventriloquist is using Mark's grinning head as a dummy. 'I think Tubby does it best. Leave it to him.'

'He's dead,' says Mark and lets his mouth down.

'I'm not mourning him,' Natalie says, though her son looks as if he is. 'You've helped Simon now. Well done. You can help him more by going to bed, and no more encores.'

As he slouches like a premature teenager to the bathroom she says 'Ready for an adventure?'

I fancy she's offering me one, and then I grasp that she has my journey in mind. 'Just about,' I admit.

'You can have the bathroom first if you like.'

I gaze at the perfunctory listing for Lane until I hear Mark emerge. 'I'll let you,' I say, which she seems to need to interpret, although there has been silence since she spoke. Once she's out of the room I return to the newsgroups and call up my name.

TWENTY-SIX - RETORTS

Oh dear, Mr Testy is losing his temper and using toillet language. That's what happenns when you get caught out for lying and can't own up like a man. I forgot, we're supposed to call him Simon Lester even if he's calling himself Colin. Has everyboddy noticed how simmillar the names are? C is half of S and L is next to M, and if you switch the vowwels around you've got Simon, except I don't think anyboddy would want him. Someone ought to tell him not to bother making names up. Everyboddy can see he can't spell cinneaste whichever name he calls himself.

Colin's there before I am.

No, we can't spell cinneaste because that isn't how it's spelled, you pathetic clown. We'd need to have extra letters spilling out of our arseholes to compete with you. Just in case anyone beside this tiresome turd is interested, my name is Colin Vernon. Let's see him make something of that.

Smilemime does.

So Tiresome S. L. still wants to play games with names, does he? He shouldn't have challennged a master. Vernon is just letters out of Simon Lester except for V, and that's l + e + e. He must be trying to tell us he's pubblishing himself. Is he paying himself a fortune, do we think? Watch out, I'll bet more bad words are on the way.