The Grin of the Dark

'That's why you're calling.'

'You think I'd go through all that rigmarole for a few quid? Go ahead, cut it off, but that's not why I'm here. See the fortune that's vanished from my account? That's what my publishers paid me. You don't pay it to them. You've done it before and it wasn't funny then.' I'm driven by a nervous fancy that all these words are outdistancing nonsense I would otherwise utter. 'And don't tell me I've got to write in,' I carry on. 'I did that last time when you asked me and it hasn't worked, has it? This needs to be sorted out while I'm on the phone. You owe me that much.'

There's silence before Tom of the bank says 'Who was it you spoke to again?'

'She's already told you. Millie here did, I mean. Tess.'

'I'm afraid nobody of that name works here.'

I stare at the adviser, who seems to be avoiding my gaze. 'Then I must have been put through to a different section.'

'You only could have come through here,' says Tom.

'All right, so who sounds like Tess? She was breaking up when I talked to her.'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

'Coming apart, and don't say I sound as if I am.' That's also meant for the adviser with her eloquently averted gaze. 'Her voice was. I mustn't have got her whole name.'

'We have nobody called anything like Tess.'

'Then who are you saying she was?' I retort, more savagely as I hear laughter at my back. I'm about to confront whoever finds my confusion amusing when I realise that an object has been planted on my head. Something akin to a fat pallid spider dangles close to my eyes, and as I slap it away I see my faint reflection overlaid on the display of my poverty. I've acquired a jester's cap complete with a silent bell. I snatch it off and fling it across the bank as I whirl around, almost toppling the chair. Too late I see it was a Christmas hat, the kind Natalie and Mark are wearing. Nevertheless I demand 'What are you trying to do to me, Mark?'

Though his broad grin wavers, it doesn't shrink. 'We got them in the market. I thought you'd like one too.'

'I did say you should wait, Mark.'

His mother sounds as if she's trying to console him. If he's upset by my reaction, why is he still grinning? Perhaps her tone is aimed at me, because she's gazing at the computer screen. 'Oh, Simon,' she says.

'Don't worry, it's going to be dealt with. I won't move until it is.'

Mark retrieves the hat from the counter in front of a teller's window, beyond which a silhouette on a blind is typing at a computer. 'Don't you want it?' he asks me.

'Go on, put it on me. I can't look more of a fool than anyone else.'

As Mark jams the hat on my head so enthusiastically it feels urgent, the phone enquires 'I'm sorry?'

'Somebody's just stuck a silly hat on me. Well, more than somebody. My, not exactly my son. My partner's son.'

Natalie must think I'm distracted by her presence or Mark's, because she murmurs 'Shall we be outside?'

'Hang around. I wouldn't mind a witness,' I say and wield the receiver. 'Anyway, let's not get too festive. The line was so bad I must have got her name wrong. The important question is how you're going to close your hole in my account after you've put my money back in.'

My words feel close to unstable again, even when I remind myself that Tom can't see the hat lolling over my head. My imprecise reflection could make me imagine that I'm being watched by a buffoon on the far side of the screen – one who grins as he says 'I'm afraid it isn't that simple.'

'Me neither, matey.' As far as I can tell my teeth keep this quiet, which only makes it harder for me to retort 'What isn't?'

'The authority for payment must have come from you.'

Isn't he supposed to call me Mr Lester now and then? Sir would be acceptable as well. 'Mustn't. Didn't,' I assure us both.

'I can promise you our computers don't make payments on their own.'

I'm tempted to wonder aloud if faith in technology is the new religion until he says 'I'm very much afraid you will have to write to us with all the details of the situation before – '

'Same as lasty. Re that.'

My invitation to read my previous complaint must surely have emerged more whole, because he says 'How did you communicate with us?'

'He may,' I inform him, and my teeth click as I try to bite the words into shape. 'Email.'

'I've checked while we've been speaking. I'm afraid we have no record of receiving anything from you about this.'

'Well, I wrote it. Sent it too. Don't ask me who got it.' I fancy my response may not sound quite like this – I seem to hear myself say tit and ass, for instance – but then my last sentence catches up with me. As I struggle to restrain my language, the worst that escapes is 'Bastard.'

'I'm sorry?'

'I know who's doing this. He stole my work to make me look bad and he's been screwing with my finances. He's all over the Internet.'

'I can't make sense of what you're saying.'

'I don't know his name but I know the one he's using. Don't tell me you can't track him down. There has to be some trace for you to follow where he hacked into my account.'

'I do apologise, but I can't understand what you're saying. If you could put – '

'Never mind writing. I can talk. It's the oldest form of communication, you know.' Every word leaves my mouth feeling less controllable, because I'm uttering little if any of this. 'Smilemime,' I cry. 'That's his pseudonym.'

At least, I labour to, but not a syllable escapes. I'm convinced that if I manage to pronounce the name, it will destroy the verbal dam. 'Smilemime,' I repeat as audibly as I said it in the first place. 'Smilemime.' The shrill word squeaks against the inside of my teeth, but I've no idea what expression is baring them and bulging my eyes. Perhaps it could be mistaken for the amusement with which Mark greets my antics. 'Smilemime,' I shriek mutely, which reminds me of performing Tubby's Telephonic Travails in the chapel of fun. Tracy's features rise to the surface of my mind, his teeth splitting the etiolated flesh with a helpless grin. 'Are you there?' Tom says, but I've snatched the receiver away from my face. As I brandish the phone with no plan beyond ending any resemblance to Tubby, the adviser reaches across her desk, but Natalie is quicker. She relieves me of the phone and says 'Who's this, please?'

Her tone must be intended to take the listener off guard. It works for me – I feel addressed. 'I'm with Simon,' she explains, and now I have a sense that she's dubbing my dialogue. 'He can't just now. He's under a lot of strain... I see what's wrong, but what will he need to do?... How soon can you deal with that?... You can't... I understand... He will... Happy Christmas.'

Is it her performance that has left me speechless? I watch her return the phone to the adviser. 'You will have to write in, Simon,' she says. 'Sadly there won't be anyone there till after Christmas.'

'He was there now. You let him go.' I'm straining to make certain she hears this when an employee shouts me down.

'The bank will be closing in five minutes,' he announces. 'We will be open again for business on the 29th.'

Won't they still be working behind the scenes for at least the next few hours? If I email from the library, surely that would reach Tom before he finishes, or is the library shut too? I dash for the exit, my hat flopping like a drunken parasite on my head – drunk with the intellect it's draining from me, or something is. As I hurry out beneath a sky as black as the inside of my skull, Natalie catches up with me. 'It's all right, Simon,' she murmurs. 'It will be.'

My response is terse and sharp enough to bypass my clenched teeth. 'How?'