The Grin of the Dark

'Just to say hello as neighbours do. I heard you in the corridor.'

'What did you hear?'

I feel as if the conversation has reverted to its opening. I'm distracted by the toddler, which is bouncing so vigorously I can't focus on it to disprove that its gleeful face is swelling out of the white hood like a balloon. Of course the hood is simply being shaken off, and the screen isn't really displaying naked babies crawling over one another. I veer across the corridor, but I'd have to go all the way into the apartment to identify the greyish images. 'You were laughing at something,' I tell the woman. 'Can I ask what?'

'When?'

The question is little more than a baring of her teeth. 'Just before we met,' I say.

'I wasn't there. Whatever you heard, it wasn't me.'

I'm tempted to retort that she isn't audible now, but the view behind her has grown even more distracting. How can the toddler's antics be reflected in the glass within the frames of all the posters? Certainly there's pallid movement inside every frame, and I'm even less able to distinguish the posters themselves. As for the toddler, he has twirled like the contents of a spider's web to face me. With the distance or the movement of the sling or both, I'm unable to determine how widely he has begun to grin. The hood has fallen back, which lends it an unpleasant resemblance to a ruff of whitish fat. The toddler's plump unhealthily pale face quivers at each bounce, and I can do without the notion that it looks ready to slither off his bald head. I'm trying to find some element of normality as well as showing concern as I say 'Is that safe?'

'That has a name.'

Her lips haven't finished moving when she turns away. Perhaps she has decided that the toddler is indeed in peril, since she slams the door. I didn't notice her footwear, but she must be wearing strapless sandals for her tread to sound so large and floppy. 'Did he want to talk, then? Is that why he did such a dance?' she asks louder than seems to makes sense, and if I let myself I could imagine she's talking to me. I shut my door harder than she closed hers. I haven't time for any more meaningless diversions. I need to see what Thackeray left behind.

THIRTY-SEVEN - REMOTENESS

'Hi, Mark. What have you been up to?'

'I've been watching your DVD with Tubby on. Mummy said you wouldn't mind if I was careful.'

'Did she? Maybe you should be careful you don't wear it out.'

'That's silly. DVDs don't wear out. We've got him for always now.'

'Calm down, Mark. No need to panic. Maybe you shouldn't watch it too much in case you wear your brain out.'

'I won't. It makes my brain feel lots more awake. You wanted me to watch so I could tell you what I thought.'

'You did, so there's no need – '

'I've thought some more.'

'Ah. Well, as long as you have, what's the conclusion?'

'It isn't like Laurel and Hardy or any of them. It's like seeing a very old play, like the one we did at school last week.'

'I can't say I see the resemblance.'

'Maybe they've both got old things in. You know, faithy things. It still makes me laugh.'

'I won't ask which. Seriously, I hope you're finding other diversions as well.'

'What are those?'

'Activities. Fun. I'm impressed by how grown-up you are, Mark, but don't miss out on things you may not have time for when you're older.'

'I've been looking for Tubby for you.'

'That's very thoughtful of you. Where?'

'Sorry. It sounded like you thought he was round here.'

'All right, Mark, have a laugh and then tell me where.'

'Where would you look for anything? On the Internet, of course.'

'I should warn you, you may find a lot that isn't true and never was. Stuff people imagine or make up for reasons that don't make any sense.'

'I'll show you what I've found when we see you.'

'I'll be waiting. Is Natalie there?'

'Here I am. I thought you'd never finish discussing someone we needn't name. How's your hotel?'

'Lives up to its name and doesn't let you forget it. Shouts it everywhere you look.'

'Lots of style, you mean.'

'Don't know about the substance, though.'

'I expect you can survive until we pick you up.'

'I honestly don't mind if we all make our ways to my parents.'

'We'll come for you. Mark's very proud of his route off the Internet.'

'See you tomorrow, then. Love to both.'

'Ours to you,' says Natalie and leaves me alone in a room where everything appears to be about to effloresce or to twist into another shape: the unfurling head and foot of the double bed, the almost angelically winged chair, the tips of the curves of the rest of the bedroom furniture, the glass fans that crown the mirrors. I'm not sure if this is art deco or nouveau, and I don't think the hotel is any surer. My damaged suitcase looks misplaced in the midst of so much extravagance, and so does the television, especially since it can receive the Internet. I wander to the window, which has silenced what I take to be a Mancunian tradition – a fair that fills Piccadilly Gardens with enough coloured lights for a thicket of Christmas trees. The soundless riot of activity makes me feel even more detached from my surroundings. Before I decide how to spend my evening I ought at least to check my email. I log on to find a message from Colin, and not just a message.

Salutations to our foremost name! We both think you've made an excellent start on our book, not that we'd expect less. I've made just the odd tweak. For instance, maybe it should address the subject faster – we don't want anyone to think you wish you were writing about something else. Film is the art of the last century just like the Internet is the medium of the future, so don't give people any chance to get away from it. I've attached the changes to you. Let me know how they look.

Am I reluctant to open the attachment? My fingers are recalling how crippled they were by lugging the suitcase. I have to press them together to regain enough control to click the mouse.

Some resurrections can't be suppressed, and Tubby Thackeray's won't be. Never heard of him? You won't be saying that for long. His comedies caused controversy when they went much further than his rival Charlie Chaplin, and they're set to cause it now. Genre can't contain them. Whatever rules you think slapstick has, he breaks them. They must have looked like anarchist propaganda, but they're too anarchic for propaganda. Perhaps by the end of this book we'll be on our way to understanding what they are...

Most of the chapter isn't so spectacularly recast. Some of the ideas in the first paragraph are versions of points I made later on. I feel oddly distanced from the material and unable to work up much anger. If anything, I'm glad we have a final draft that the publisher can use to help promote the book. Jet lag must be why, whenever I attempt to ponder Tubby's films or my notes about them just now, my mind swarms with undefined connections and feels close to overload. At least Christmas will give me a break, after which I'm sure I'll be able to write.

There are at least a dozen other emails, but none from Willie Hart or from the bank. I delete the mass mailings unread and check the newsgroups. Smilemime hasn't responded to my challenge. I ought to take that as an admission of defeat – I hope everyone else does – but, entirely ridiculously, I feel neglected, ignored, hardly even present. It must be another symptom of jet lag, but I wish I could phone someone for company – and then I remember that I may have unfinished business.

'Films for fun...' I wait for Charley Tracy to finish inviting me to call the mobile if there's a panic. My nerves do feel electrified by the time it gives me a chance to say 'Anybody there? I was wondering – '