The Grin of the Dark

I let out a sound too furious to contain syllables and bruise my elbows on the desk while I blot out the sight of the relentless word so that I can think. I've copied all my work onto discs, and I have a printout of my thesis. The crash is surely no worse than inconvenient. I'm trying to find the phone number of the computer shop among the bills and invoices in my desk drawer when the door rattles with a knock and then with several. 'Simon?' my neighbour Joe calls. 'Was that you?'

'Nobody else here that I know of.'

'I'll come in then, shall I?'

I don't want to be distracted, but apparently I have no choice. I kick myself away from the desk and snatch the drawer off my lap, leaving two dusty Ls on my trousers. I slam the drawer into its niche on my way to yanking the doorknob out of Joe's hand as he starts to open the door. 'What do you want, Joe?'

He takes a step backwards, wriggling his fingers. I half expect to see him trip over the cuffs of his extravagantly baggy jeans and tumble downstairs. Apart from those he's wearing a T-shirt that says LET'S BOTH LAUGH over a chunky sweater. His blond hair looks as though he's pulled the T-shirt off and on again. His doughy face is patched with red and well on the way to growing oval. He blinks and holds out a bag of humbugs striped like monochrome wasps. 'Care for one?' he says.

'Not just now, thanks.'

He more or less unwraps a mint before inserting it in his mouth, then withdraws the cellophane wet with saliva. By now he's gazing past me at the computer. 'Was that why you were crying?' he wonders.

'I wasn't crying about anything. I don't.'

'Nothing wrong with letting yourself go now and then,' Joe says, crumpling the cellophane in his fist. 'Get in touch with your other self. Let me help.'

I gather that he means with the computer when he tries to sidle past me into the room. 'Better leave it to the experts.'

'You're one, are you?'

'On cinema I believe I am.'

'Play it again, Sam, eh?' he says and narrows his pale eyes. 'What film's that from?'

'No film at all. He never says that in Casablanca.'

'Good try but no prize. It's Woody Allen.'

'He doesn't say it either.'

'Good grief, they're only films. Chums don't fall out over silly films.' Joe holds out his rustling fist as if he's handing me his litter to bin. 'Anyway, there's an expert here. I'm your computer man.'

'I'm sure you'll understand if I let the shop that built the system deal with it.'

His eyes grow moist, and he's parting his lips when the front door begins to shake. A large dog is scrabbling at it, I gather once the barking starts. 'Heel, girl. Heel,' Warren shouts outside.

He and Bebe are beginning to remind me of uninvited pop-ups, liable to appear wherever I am. Joe drops the humbug wrapper and leaps downstairs, landing with a thud on every other step. 'Hang on, Mr Halloran,' he yells. 'I'll let you in.'

I haven't reached my desk when I hear a scuffle in the hall. 'Sit, goddamn it,' Warren says. 'Hello, Joe. Whaddya know?'

'Hello, Mr Halloran. Would the dog like a sweet?'

'That's the way to make friends. Sure, I'll take one as well. What's happening in my house?'

'I was just trying to help Simon, but he doesn't seem to want me.'

Warren's reply is blotted out by an outburst of barking. 'Hey, Simon,' he calls once it subsides. 'Come meet Sniffer.'

Is the name a joke? If it isn't, have I any reason to panic? My pipe is somewhere in the room, but it hasn't been used for weeks, since I ran out of the last of the grass Colin gave me as some kind of consolation. Staying in my room might suggest an admission of guilt, and so I tramp to the stairs. I've taken one step down when an inordinately large black dog on an apparently endless lead charges at me, and I can't help retracting my step. 'Don't let her think you're frightened,' Warren advises as he reels in the lead. 'No reason you should be, right?'

'Not if you're in control.'

The dog's head and shoulders strain above the top stair, and Warren appears behind her. Does he want to observe how she reacts to me? As he pays out the lead, she lunges to thrust her glistening black nose against my trouser pocket. My keys grind against my hip, and I'm about to protest when I remember that the keys are on my desk. 'Looks like you've got a new buddy,' Warren says.

How ironic is that meant to be? His default smile isn't telling, but his eyes are watchful. 'You'll have to forgive me,' I say, which sounds altogether too defensive, and try lying. 'I'm not too fond of dogs.'

'I thought you told Natalie you were. Did my hearing screw up, do you think? Or my memory?'

'I couldn't say.' My trouser leg is growing wet as the dog's nose tries to burrow through the fabric. 'If you could just –'

'You're allowed to move, Simon. Not too fast, though.'

As I back towards my room I wonder if he'll let the dog pursue me. He holds it where it is, perhaps because he hears the jingling of the contents of my pocket – only coins. As Joe's head pokes up behind him, cellophane crackles under my foot. 'You haven't picked your rubbish up,' I point out.

'Which is that?' says Warren.

I lift my foot to show him, but the wrapping adheres to the sole of my shoe. I'm reduced to hopping about to display the evidence, a routine that starts the dog barking so loud that the confined gloomy space feels shrunken. Warren watches me scrape the cellophane off my shoe with the other, and then he says 'Couldn't you have dealt with it, Simon?'

I'm robbed of any words it would be advisable for me to utter even before Joe says 'You could have while I was letting Mr Halloran in.'

'Right, I'll see to it now. Here it goes. Off to the bin with you. Get in. Get in.' By the time I've shaken the sticky contents of Joe's mouth off my fingertip I'm sounding as wild as I feel. 'Anything else anyone needs me to do?'

'You could let me look at your computer.' Joe has followed me into my room. 'I can fix this,' he says with barely a glance at the onscreen messages. 'It's simps.'

'You still under guarantee, Simon?'

'No, but –'

'Quiet, girl. Simon doesn't want to sound hostile. What were you planning to charge, Joe?'

'Chums don't charge.'

'Sounds like a good deal.'

If the computer fails after Joe has tinkered with it, won't Warren have to take responsibility? He and Bebe replaced Mark's, and they can do the same for me. 'Fair enough, if you say so,' I tell him.

Joe dumps his bag of humbugs next to the computer and plants his baggy buttocks on my chair. 'Can I have your system discs?'

I'm hauling open the lower drawer of the desk when I remember where my pipe is. I try to reveal just enough of the drawer to fumble out the plastic wallet full of discs. Joe grimaces as he examines them. 'No wonder you've lost it,' he says. 'I'll give you the latest versions.'

Once Joe has fetched them from his room, Warren shuts the dog on the landing and perches on the edge of my bed. 'So have we found out anything today?' He's gazing straight at me and presumably addressing me.

'Tell Bebe Mardi Gras Massacre,' I say.

'Lie down, girl. Lie.' Once the onslaught at the door trails off with a piteous whine he says 'Why should my wife want to hear that?'

'It's where her dish came from yesterday. Where the name did, I mean. I realise it's a rotten pun. Enough to put you off your lunch.'