'Wank you. It's been mumblable.' I don't know if I say this; the clapping blurs my words. The applause subsides at last, leaving me nervous to hear myself speak. I don't need to address the entire audience. I turn to Tracy, who is still miming great amusement. 'I'm going to head back,' I tell him, more loudly as my words emerge intact. 'You stay. I'll get a taxi.'
His face doesn't change. Is he expressing astonishment at my routine? He could at least blink; my eyes are watering in sympathy as well as with the stinging of my bruised cheeks. 'Are you all right? Don't do that, it isn't funny,' the woman next to him says and leans over to shake his arm. It isn't until he lolls against her, still grinning wide-eyed, that she screams.
THIRTY-NINE - IT'S IMMINENT
I barely sleep. Whenever my consciousness tries to shut down I see Tracy grinning like a wide-eyed skull. His lurid face has grown as black and white as his costume. Sometimes he turns into Tubby as his irrepressible teeth force his lips wider. That's another reason why I keep lurching awake, and so is the way that quite a few of the audience seemed close to blaming me for Tracy's death. I wouldn't have left before the ambulance came – they needn't have persisted in reminding me that I'd arrived with him, as if this made me responsible for his fate. All the same, the memory is preferable to imagining that I've been roused by a stealthy noise in the room. Nothing has slithered under the bed; if I switch on the light and peer over the edge of the mattress, no pallid flattened forehead will inch out, never mind unblinking eyes and a grin worse than death. The notion is enough to keep me in the dark, and if I left the bed I would only be tempted to take my insomnia onto the Internet. That's another version of wishing I were elsewhere, which makes me dream more than once that I've wakened somewhere smaller. As soon as I hear people laughing in the corridor, presumably on their way to breakfast, I use that as an excuse to turn on all the lights and stumble to my bathroom.
I don't linger once I've finished showering. I feel compelled to check in the mirror that I haven't begun to grin. The time is no laughing matter, however. It's still an hour to breakfast. Once I'm dressed I log on, but there's no message from Willie Hart or the bank, and even Smilemime has nothing to say. I switch off and head for the window.
The square is deserted. The extinguished fairground makes me feel Christmas has passed without my noticing. The topmost carriage of the big wheel sways like a cradle. Nobody's riding in it; no excessively circular whitish face is spying on me from the dimness. Perhaps an object is propped up on the seat, but trying to distinguish it makes my vision flicker like a thunderstorm. I stare until more jollity in the corridor alerts me that it is indeed time for breakfast. If I dawdle much longer I'll be late for my research.
Mirrors in the lift display dozens of me in retreat down two increasingly dim corridors, but my sidelong glances don't surprise any secret grins. The basement dining-room proves to be a mediaeval hall. Holly encircles shields on the walls, coloured lights decorate pairs of crossed swords. I sit at the end of a massive table, and a waitress brings me coffee. Given the setting, her black and white uniform resembles fancy dress. The continental breakfast seems misplaced too, but in the lift I looked too plump for comfort. Being overweight didn't do Tracy much good. I eat a token roll and a couple of slices of ham and holey cheese between gulps of coffee before retreating to my room.
The key card works on the third try, although it belongs to a different era. I pack my suitcase and lug it to the lift, promising myself to replace it by the time I next travel. The hotel lobby returns me to the present day, and the receptionist gives my signature just a token frown once the machine accepts my credit card. As I step out of the hotel a taxi opens its door to me. I glance at the big wheel, and the topmost carriage seems to sway in response, but surely it's as empty as it looks.
The driver is as silent as the frost that has bleached the pavements. Perhaps the tip I give him once he releases my case from the boot without leaving his seat isn't worth the breath. I use various holds to transport the case across the road and past the ruddy towering façade of the university and along a paved path bordered by precise white grass. By the time I reach the library my hands are shivering with cold or strain or both.
I've brought my passport and my signed contract from London University Press. The girl at the front desk seems convinced, even by the approximation of my signature I produce to obtain a visitor's pass. A grey metal lift conveys me to the third floor, which is apparently the Blue Area, where another notice indicates that stairs lead down to Special Collections. Are those in the Silent Study Area on Blue 2? When I shoulder the double doors open I'm met by a whine that sounds like an amplified dental drill but proves to be emitted by a computer abandoned under a notice that says STOP THAT NOISE! Belatedly I realise that a sign outside the doors directs me up another flight of stairs to Green 3. Beyond a lobby decorated with a warning that disturbance may be caused by staff loading trolleys, a long room full of alcoves of law books brings me to Red 3 and another room devoted to Law, where someone out of sight is giggling in a whisper. Most of the students will have gone home for Christmas, but I'm relieved to hear voices in the entrance to Special Collections. Two uniformed guards who might be competing at bulkiness look up from their desks. 'What can we do for you?' the winner of the competition says as if he thinks I'm as lost as I'd begun to feel.
'I'd like to look in your archives.'
'That's what they all say.'
'What have you got to show?' his colleague enquires.
I flourish my passport, at which they both don half a bulging frown. 'Don't know if that'll do,' says the bulkier fellow.
I could imagine that I've stumbled into a comedy routine, but he must be speculating on behalf of whoever is through the door beyond the desks. 'I'll find out, shall I?' I rather less than ask.
While the guards don't move, their massiveness seems to increase. 'We'll keep that,' one says – I'm not sure which.
'It's yours,' I say, gratefully dropping the suitcase.
I manage to steady my fingers enough in order to open the door. A few bookcases almost touch the ceiling of a small panelled room. Closer to the entrance, a counter overlooks a study table halved by a partition. The woman behind the counter, who is so short that her build acts as a reminder of the presence of the guards, turns up a professional smile. 'How may I help?' she murmurs.
'I believe you've got the papers of an old lecturer of yours. Thackeray Lane's the name.'
She blinks at me, so that I wonder if she thinks I'm claiming the identity until she says 'Well, he is popular all of a sudden.'
'Who with?'
'I'm afraid we can't give out that information.'
'But you're saying someone was ahead of me.'
'They contacted us to arrange for the material to be available.' She nods at her desk, which is heaped with box files. 'They've yet to present themselves,' she says.
Could the applicant have been Charley Tracy? Since I seem to have no chance of learning that, I say 'Why are you assuming it's not me?'
'We would have to query why you were disguising your voice.'