Is it connected to a servant's bell? The clangour sounds more like a handbell. Whichever I've rung, it brings no answer beyond a momentary echo. When my publisher's nameplate has grown white several times with my breath I give the button twice the push. The bell rings in a frenzy, but there's no other result. Is Rufus too distant to hear? Mark takes hold of the scalloped brass doorknob, which dwarfs his hand. He's only starting to twist the knob when the door swings silently inwards.
The lobby is half the size I was expecting. Plain white corridors lead out of both sides. A chair with a leather seat attends an imposing reception desk that bears a brass inkstand next to a blotter strewn with spidery handwriting, all of which might suggest that the past isn't so easily modernised. Tipsy plastic letters on a board beside a lift name tenants: doctors or psychiatrists, information technologists and my publishers, who are up in 6-120. The silence makes my ears feel plugged, and the lift isn't shifting from the top floor. 'Anybody here?' I shout.
Mark giggles, possibly with surprise. 'You are.'
I jab the button beside the lift. The indicator counts backwards so slowly it looks close to innumerate. The grey doors open to reveal Mark's gleeful face and mine. The side walls are mirrors too. I stare at the doors as the lift crawls upwards, but I'm aware of skeins of our faces at the edge of my vision. We aren't halfway when a movement to my left, away from Mark, catches my attention. He's grinning at my reflection, and I can't help responding. As I turn to the closest of his reflected faces I see myself grinning behind my own back. The sight must amuse him, because his mouth widens, compelling me to reciprocate. How much longer are we going to be caged with all this? If we continue to infect each other with painfully silent mirth I may not be able to speak to anyone. Are our faces growing more wildly hilarious the further they retreat into the mirrors? There can't be any other faces among them or behind them, but my vision has begun to flicker with the strain of trying to make certain by the time the doors creep apart. The laugh so faint it sounds secretive must be Mark's, because they open onto an empty corridor.
Mark looks both ways as though he's parodying kerbside safety and then runs left towards the 6-140s. The numbers to the right are higher still. How far does the building extend? As I step into the low narrow corridor, which is lit only by infrequent grimy skylights, Mark reaches the end. In an instant he's nowhere to be seen.
The cramped passage makes me feel clumsy and obese as I start after him. Overhead the sky is advancing like a glacier, but surely I'm faster, though I seem to have made little progress when Mark's flattened image slips out of the wall. That's how it looks until I see the corridor bends left. As he raises his hands I have the notion that he means to tug, however uselessly, at the grinning mask of his face. Instead he cups his hands around his mouth to shout 'They're here.'
He disappears at once. When I reach the corner he's standing outside a door as white as its neighbours and featureless apart from the hyphenated brass digits above the metal grimace of a letterbox. Given his eagerness, I'm surprised he hasn't gone in. 'Special delivery,' I call and press the handle down, but the door is locked.
'Rufus,' I shout and knock beside the 6. The sounds seem muffled by the dimness, too sapped of energy to travel far. When I knock harder the digits appear to quiver, but that's all. Could Mark and I have mistaken the number on the board downstairs? 'Let's make sure where we are,' I say and take out my mobile to poke the redial button.
A phone rings in my ear and beyond the door. I'm wishing I could enter as readily as that by the time the answering machine does its job. 'Happy New Year from Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon at London University Press,' says Rufus. 'Leave us your details and we'll be in touch when we've rung out the old.'
'Rufus? Colin? You aren't there, are you? Have you gone?' I scarcely know what I'm saying as I force myself to speak despite the mocking imitation of my voice on the far side of the door. It's on the answering machine, of course, however much it amuses Mark – so much that he covers his mouth. 'I'm leaving you my chapters,' I say, although my editors will find the manuscript before they hear the tape. I end the call and pocket the mobile and shove the envelope into the letterbox.
I have to use my free hand to open the reluctant flap, which yields barely enough to admit the envelope. I jam my finger and thumb under the flap while I lean on the package. Suddenly it flies out of sight as if it has been snatched from my hand. Did I glimpse some kind of whitish object through the slot? If I did, it looked plump. I crouch to peer through the letterbox as I should have in the first place. It frames the opposite corners of two sketchy white desks, beyond which a dormer window exhibits a virtually stagnant lump of sky. I must have glimpsed that, even if I don't understand how. I'm attempting to distinguish the titles inked on the spines of an untidy pile of DVDs on the left-hand desk when I unbend, and the flap clanks shut. 'Did you hear that?' I gasp.
Mark almost can't answer for giggling. 'It was you.'
'Not the door,' I say and hear the sound again. Someone is laughing in the corridor.
It's deserted except for us, and every door is shut. I'm about to conclude that the surreptitious mirth is in the depths of my skull when I realise that the door farthest from the lift is slyly ajar. The secretive chortling may be muffled by a hand, but it sounds indefinably familiar. 'Who is that?' I don't quite yell.
'I'll see,' Mark says and sprints along the corridor.
'Better wait in case – ' I waste time and breath in saying.
I'm not even halfway to the door when Mark pushes it open and darts out of sight. 'What's so funny?' he calls. 'Me and Simon want to know.'
His voice has grown hollow. Before he finishes, it's almost blotted out by footsteps flopping downstairs. 'You can't get away,' Mark shouts and joins in the laughter. 'We want to know who you are.'
As I reach the door I hear him on the stairs. This isn't the end of the corridor, it's just another corner. More doors and grubby skylights are the features of a passage at least as long and dim. 'Mark, wait for me,' I shout and elbow the door aside as it swings shut. 'Mark.'
He isn't on the only visible flight of stairs, which leads to a landing between floors. The close white walls cut off any further view. His footsteps don't hesitate. Like the much larger and looser ones, they're gathering speed. 'Let them go, Mark,' I call and blunder after him.
I'm running out of breath. My voice is so enfeebled it's as bad as silent. I'd be able to race downstairs if there were a banister, but I daren't risk more than two steps at a time with my palms pressed against the chilly walls. The stairs are dimly lit by a greyish glow that puts me in mind of an old film, and suppose it flickers out like one? I feel the dimness gathering like grime on me as I dodge across the landing and plunge down the next flight. 'Mark,' I plead just about aloud.
I've abandoned calling to him by the time I stumble to a halt. Surely this is the ground floor, though the exits are unnumbered, but the stairs continue downwards. Has the humorous fellow led Mark to the basement? Their distant headlong footsteps sound softened – by carpet, of course. They're on this floor. I drag the door open and lurch into the corridor.