The Grin of the Dark

'Sorry if I should have rung up in advance. May I consult the papers as long as they're here?' I hand her my passport and my contract. 'There I am.'

She scrutinises the photograph as closely as any official I've encountered during my research, and examines the contract quite as minutely. At last she says 'You live in London.'

'I don't have to be local, do I? I was born in Preston if that's any help.'

'With material as rare as this we usually require some form of authority. A letter from your publishers, perhaps.'

My fingers won't keep still after my struggle with the luggage, and I clench my fists. 'Won't the contract cover it?'

She considers the pages with a series of blinks. Eventually she says 'Have they changed their name? Surely it ought to be the University of London Press.'

I fight down a burst of hysterical mirth at the pettiness that's obstructing me. 'Maybe you're right,' I succeed in saying, 'and they've brought the name up to date. Or hang on, it's a new imprint. That's it, of course.'

'Unfortunately it doesn't really qualify as authorisation.'

Then why have we gone through this interlude? The inside of my head is beginning to feel scraped thin and raw when it proves to contain a lonely idea. 'Will an email do?'

'I suppose that might be acceptable under the circumstances.'

'And seeing it's Christmas,' I nearly respond but say only 'I'll call them.'

'You'll need to do so outside.'

I'm not sure why, since I can't see anyone else in the room. I leave my passport and the contract on the counter and step into the lobby, where the guards raise their slow weighty heads. 'Fast reader,' one remarks.

'I haven't finished.' Rather than admit I also haven't started, I find the number for London University Press on my mobile and mime patience. I don't know why I feel compelled to entertain the guards, but I gaze towards some horizon or other and wag my head in time with the bell. I open my mouth when Rufus answers, and then I hear his message. 'Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon are celebrating Christmas. Leave us your name and where we can reach you and we'll follow it up after the festivities.'

'Is anyone there? Is there really nobody there? I'm at an archive of Tubby's in Manchester. If anyone's listening to this, can you answer? The library needs you to authenticate me because what I want to look at is very rare indeed. An email would be fine, saying I'm researching on behalf of the university press. Is there still nobody? I feel as if I've been talking all Christmas. If I had your mobile numbers I'd call them.'

I can think of nothing more to conjure up a listener. I mustn't imagine that I'm trying to trick someone into breaking their silence. As I pocket the mobile a guard says 'Sounds like you didn't get what you have to give us.'

'The lady in here can be the judge,' I say and hurry to the door for fear they'll head me off. 'I'm afraid everyone's packed up for Christmas,' I inform the librarian with a smile that's meant to be both apologetic and appealing. 'They couldn't tell you anything the contract doesn't, could they? Can't it be enough?'

She doesn't speak, and her gaze is uncommunicative. There's clearly only one solution. I have to dash behind the counter and knock her unconscious, the way I should have handled the other dwarf in Amsterdam. I can tell the guards she needs to examine a document that's in my suitcase. Once I've hidden the files in the case I'll inform them on my regretful way out that the document wasn't enough to establish my identity. I've sidled two steps when she says 'I'll speak to someone. He'll have to decide.'

What was I thinking of? I feel as though for altogether too many seconds my body became nothing but instinct and electrified nerves. As she uses the internal phone I retreat from the counter, and stay well out of reach while we await a senior librarian. We aren't by ourselves after all; papers are rustling somewhere in the room. I stare at my upside-down passport rather than meet the woman's eyes. When the door opens I'm afraid the guards have concluded that she needs protecting from me, but while the large grey-haired man is wearing a dark suit, it isn't quite a uniform. He trains his pale gaze on me for some seconds before enquiring 'You're the applicant, are you?'

'I'm the writer, as it says. Simon Lester.'

He looks at my passport and at me, and at the contract, and at me. What can I do if he finds against me? Only wait until I'm alone with the woman, and then – 'You'll need to stay where Miss Leerton can oversee you,' he says and leaves us.

I'm approved. I was close to believing that my identity no longer mattered. I fill in a card with my details and almost put Tubby instead of Thackeray Lane on the Subject/Interest line. The woman deposits the files on the table opposite the counter with a muffled clunk that I wouldn't have thought capable of setting off so many echoes. I no longer care who else is in the room, though I'm surprised the librarian doesn't think their smothered laughter inappropriate. Perhaps they're amused by the echoes; my sitting at the table is hardly a reason for mirth. 'Thank you,' I murmur, which is echoed too. I put my finger to my lips and give the librarian a remorseful smile, and seem to hear an infinity of boxes being opened as the lid of the first file strikes the wood.

FORTY - MET

As I remind myself yet again that I shouldn't phone Natalie while she's driving, a taxi draws up in front of the university. 'Where you going, chum?' the driver calls.

'Just waiting for somebody, thanks.'

'Sure it's not me?'

I'm sure of very little, not even of the expression on his loose roundish face. Is some kind of smile lurking within his plump pale lips? Any number of people in cars and on buses have appeared to be ready with mirth. No doubt I look out of place, and many of them will have been celebrating or preparing to celebrate. The thought isn't as reassuring as it should be, at least if I take some of the notions in Lane's archive as more than jokes rather than utter nonsense. 'My partner is picking me up,' I say louder than I meant to.

Either his grin is about to surface or he's making an effort to contain it as he shouts 'Aren't you Mr Milton?'

'That's right, I'm not.' My nerves render my voice aggressive, and I try to make amends by saying 'I've not a sonnet to my name.'

'A Mr Milton said he'd be out here.'

'Well, I haven't seen him and I'm emphatically not him. Nor he.' As the driver continues to watch me without owning up to amusement, I can't be bothered to control my words. 'I could be Elmer Sitson if you like,' I say. 'Or Toni Smelser, or Elsie M. Snort.

We're all here.'

The driver shows his teeth in a grimace as contradictory as a clown's. 'Better watch where you're looking for company,' he says and drives deeper into Manchester.

I've no idea what the encounter was about or why it took place at all, but I disliked the way his face quivered like a slack balloon as the taxi moved off. I stare raw-eyed both ways along the road, but none of the drivers that grin at me out of the dark is Natalie. I'm willing a distant glimmer to be her white Punto when my mobile invites me to remember. As soon as I answer it Mark says 'Is that you, Simon?'

'I can't imagine who else it would be.'

'Where are you?'

'In front of the university.'

'So are we.'

I peer about until my eyes sting, but there isn't a single white car to be seen. 'You must be at the other front,' I joke and laugh as well. 'I'm on Oxford Road.'

'So are we.'

I shut my eyes for fear that the image of my surroundings will vanish to reveal somewhere else. 'Are you parked?' I manage to ask.

'We're in front of the door. Can't you see us? I'm waving, look.'

I risk a blink and see nothing at all. My vision is as blank as the inside of a screen with no power. I squeeze my eyes shut and force them open, and succeed in seeing the latest parade of merry faces in the dimness, but no sign of Natalie's car. 'If you're not moving,' I say through my shivering teeth, 'can I have a word with your mother?'