The Grin of the Dark

I seem to have forgotten how to work my body. One hand continues to hold the darkness shut tight while the other claws at the gleefully quivering features. Before I can snatch my hand away it dislodges the face, which peels away from the skull and slithers downwards. Was it some kind of parasite? As I hear it thump the floor of the wardrobe, the bones at which my fingertips are unable to stop fumbling give way like a puffball. My hand plunges into the depths of the dark, taking me with it. I clutch at the door and fling myself towards it, which slams my head against the seat in front. 'Where are we?' I gasp.

'Don't do that,' says Natalie. 'You'll have me thinking we're lost again.'

I'm not sure if she's talking to me or to Mark, who gives me a grin that looks secretive in the mirror. The bare stage beyond the windscreen is an illuminated patch of deserted lightless motorway that the night is paying out, a spectacle as convincing as a backprojection. An oncoming signboard indicates a junction for Manchester. Once we're safely past I ask 'Did I say goodbye?'

'Just about,' Natalie says with a hint of a frown. 'You seemed very anxious to leave all of a sudden.'

'We never found you,' says Mark.

Is that supposed to be encouraging? It makes me feel trapped in too small a space. Of course I'm not still in the wardrobe, whatever pale object is darting towards my feet. It isn't solid; it's light from the sign for another junction – for Birmingham, which leaves Manchester about a hundred miles behind. Then the car tilts, because we're in London and descending the ramp to the basement car park. Now it's standing on end and lumbering upwards. No, that's the lift, and once Natalie unlocks the apartment I stagger along the corridor to dump the suitcase outside our room before blundering into the main one. I need to sit somewhere that isn't moving, and I don't mind where. On second thought I do, and there's only one place that seems stable to me. I may even close my hands around the sides of my computer to embrace it as I sit at my desk.

FORTY-FIVE - IN LEMON STREET

This time it's Mark's voice that wakens me. 'I've got him for you, Simon. Here he is.'

For an unfocused moment I think he means Lane, whose notes recommence their random clamour in my head. All rites are play... gods and demons alike don masks to address us, and who can say for certain which they are?... is the cosmos not itself a makeshift mask?... the clown takes his face from the devil of the mummers' plays... The last one jars me more awake, and as I struggle free of the quilt Mark plants my mobile in my hand. 'Who is it?' I ask the phone or him.

'Is this Simon? You sound a bit removed.'

'It is, yes. Who are you?'

'Your publisher.'

'Rufus? Forgive me, I've just this moment woken up. I've been trying to reach you or Colin for days.'

'So your secretary was saying, if that's who she is. Can you afford one of those now?'

'That was Mark. He's seven, and as for – '

'I'd have guessed a lot older. Someone must be bringing him up right.'

'I hope so, but what I was saying, I'll be begging in the street if my finances aren't sorted out.'

As I'm assailed by a memory of miming in Amsterdam, Rufus says 'Well, tut. What's spoiling your festivities?'

'They've paid you money they should be paying me. The bank's paid the university, I mean,' I say and strive to take hold of my words. 'Haven't you been picking up all the messages I left?'

'Maybe Colin has. The finance people are gone until the New Year. I imagine you're better off speaking to them.'

'Can't you? You're my editor.'

'Technically Colin is. Anyway, we'll see what can be done when we come back to the office.'

This feels like a flare in my brain. 'You're there now?'

'Not officially. We'll be shutting down shortly for the year.'

'Have I time to bring in my new chapters? I'd like someone else to have them besides me, but you know why I won't be emailing them. I've written up all of Tubby's films except the last one.'

'Depends how long you'll be.'

'No longer than I have to. I'm on my way now, all right? I'm on my way,' I gabble, heading for the bathroom. 'Thanks, Mark,' I say and pass him the mobile, but a thought halts me in the corridor. 'How did you manage to call them?'

'I just tried the last number, the one you kept calling.'

'Could you do me one more favour? Could you find the way to Lemon Street on the net?'

'Is that where your publishers are? Can I come?'

'I think you should,' I say, since Natalie's at work despite the time of year.

I rush my bathroom performance, grinning through foam as I brush my teeth, and compete with myself at dressing. I thought I might feel empty, having devoted several days to describing all the films, but it's as if Tubby has been stored at some deeper level of my mind. Mark is waiting as I sprint to grab the chapters from my desk. He's wearing a fat jacket and holding a printout of the route. 'That's the ticket,' I tell him and race him downstairs.

The white sky is a mass of padding. Everything looks faded – the Tower, the bridge, even the river. It's frost or the muffled light, but I have the impression that more than my foggy breath is intervening between me and the world. If I could define what has settled on my mind, I might be able to dislodge it. I dash across the roads whenever they're safe for Mark and at last down the steps into the Underground. The queues at the booking windows are even longer than those for the ticket machines, and I join one of the latter kind, only to find that it makes up for its brevity with slowness. I'm having to restrain myself from trying to beg my way to the front of the adjacent queue by the time I reach the machine. I specify the tickets and slot my credit card. The machine considers a response for quite a few seconds before displaying PAYMENT NOT AUTHORISED.

I don't know what escapes my mouth: words, perhaps, but none I recognise. The machine sticks out a mocking tongue – my card. I snatch it and am about to thrust it back in the slot, once I've regained enough control not to snap it in half in the process, when Mark says 'I can do it. I've got lots.'

'Go on, then. I'll pay you back.'

I won't deny feeling relieved to see him take out not cards but cash. The machine gives him tickets and change, our cue to run for the barrier and down an arrested escalator as a chill wind rises to meet us. How can so many commuters be using mobile phones down here? They must be playing games, however fixed their grins look. All the way to Euston the carriage resounds with electronic chirping, so that I could imagine I was in an aviary if I didn't feel surrounded by a giant subterranean computer.

The sky has grown fatter and whiter. I wonder if the poster fluttering on a lamppost along Euston Road could have been left by the Comical Companions, but I'd rather not be reminded of them. As I turn down Gower Street, past a turreted cruciform university building like a red-brick maze, Mark runs ahead in search of the side road. 'Careful, Mark,' I shout as I labour to keep up. Surely I'm moving faster than Tubby could. Mark isn't far short of the British Museum when he vanishes towards Soho. As I arrive panting at the junction, which is indeed with Lemon Street, he reappears around the six-storey corner, grinning almost too widely to say 'Quick, it's here.'

He's making it sound as if our destination is about to vanish. When I follow him along the Bloomsbury street I can't see where he's leading. His eyes must be sharper than mine. The apartments outside which he halts seem indistinguishable from the neighbouring blocks, five storeys rising to attics that protrude from the steep roofs. It takes me some seconds to notice that among the cloudy nameplates beside the massive oaken door is one for LUP, since the typeface isn't in the style of the colophon. Despite the number of businesses, there's just one doorbell. I clutch the envelope stuffed with chapters under my arm and thumb the marble button within the brass disc.