The Grin of the Dark

The sound of clawing at the door has given way to the scurry of the keyboard. I can't grasp any of the formulas Joe is entering on the computer. 'How about your research?' Warren persists.

'I've tracked down some footage I don't think has ever been written about. It's on its way.'

'I guess you can't work any faster than that. So long as you won't be too slow for your publisher.'

'You never told me you were going to be published,' Joe complains and springs a disc out of the computer. 'How do you find the time to study as well?'

'Because I'm not a student any longer.'

'Lie. Lie.'

I didn't think the dog was making enough of a commotion to deserve Warren's latest shout. More conversationally he says 'We figure Simon will be moving on soon.'

The breath snags in my throat on the way to speech. 'You're asking me to, you mean.'

'I have to agree with my wife, it isn't fair to the rest of our tenants. We don't need them thinking anyone is getting special treatment when he could afford to live someplace else.'

'I won't tell so long as we're chums,' says Joe.

'When are you looking to get rid of me?'

I thought Warren might at least deny this aim, but he says 'We can give you till the end of the year.'

'It'll be a kind of birthday present, then.'

'Is it your birthday?' Joe cries as he feeds the computer yet another disc. 'Many happy returns. Fixing this is my gift and I didn't even know.'

Does he really not recognise sarcasm? Warren's smile is claiming that he didn't either. 'No, it's not my birthday,' I tell them. 'New Year, me.'

'That should hold you,' Joe says as he gathers his discs, 'and if it doesn't you know how close I am.'

'Thanks.'

'Lie,' Warren says. 'Time we were on our way if she's going to hinder your work, Simon.'

Joe leaves the discs by the computer while he unwraps a humbug and follows Warren onto the landing. The dog disposes of the sweet in two splintering crunches as she lopes downstairs ahead of Warren. As the front door shuts, Joe ambles back into my room, crumpling the humbug wrapper. He lobs it into the bin and reclaims his discs. 'Now you've got what you want,' he says from the doorway.

Does he mean his technical help or his attempt at tidiness? As I peer at the new icons, his reflection on the window beyond the monitor grins at me so widely it ought to be painful. Indeed, at the upper edge of my vision his face is bobbing towards me on the glass, tilting from side to side with such abandon that I wonder how he's walking. I spin around in my chair. 'What – '

I'm alone in the room. The door is barely ajar, and I hear him shutting his. I swivel my chair away from the bewildering sight and come face to face with the window. Though I'm on the upper floor, the roundish sagging pallid wide-mouthed head is bumping against the glass.

Its substance quivers like a jellyfish as the head observes me with its unblinking perfectly circular eyes. It blunders against the pane with a faint rubbery squeal and then sails out of sight over the roof. It was a less than wholly inflated balloon; I assume its face was supposed to be a clown's. I'm reminded of the poster Joe has removed from his door since I bought tickets for Clwons Unlimited online. I do my best to dismiss the balloon from my mind as I slip the Frugonet disc into the computer to regain my access. The spectacle was almost enough to put me off taking Natalie and Mark to the circus.

SIX - LESSER

I'm alone in the house when somebody starts ringing the doorbell and clanking the knocker. Is it Natalie or more likely Mark? I save my last five minutes' work on the opening of They Made Movies Too and hurry out of the room. As I reach the stairs the letterbox disgorges several envelopes. All of them look sufficiently official to contain bills or other unwelcome missives. I'm taking my time until the slot emits a final card: a notification that the postman was unable to deliver an item.

I sprint downstairs and grab the envelopes as well as the card. It's addressed to me, almost by name. I haul the door open and see the postman tramping down the short cracked path. His stocky body looks deformed by the contortions he's performing to return my package to his bag. Despite the winter afternoon, which is dark with unbroken cloud, he's wearing capacious shorts. 'Excuse me,' I call. 'Hold on.'

He pivots as if the weight of the bag is dragging him. His rounded pockmarked face is so pale that I could imagine he's wearing makeup. When his virtually colourless eyes light on the card I'm brandishing, his small nose shares a twitch with his broad mouth. 'You Simon Lesser?' he says.

'It's Lester, actually. That's me all right.'

As he squints at the label on the padded envelope, the corners of his lips wince upwards and then droop. 'Says Lesser here.'

'It's a mistake. Our normal postman knows me.'

Neither comment pleases him. His mouth sags further before discovering a reason to invert the process. 'Got any proof you're who you say?'

This is idiotic, but I want my mail, especially since the package may contain an aid to my research. 'I'll get something,' I tell him. 'Don't go anywhere.'

I leave the front door open as I dump the envelopes on the hall table and dash to my room. The screensaver Joe added to the computer produces the sound of waves to reassure me that the system is still functioning although the screen is blank. I grab my passport from the drawer that hides the furtive pipe, and run downstairs. The postman stares at the passport before trudging to scrutinise the page I'm holding open. 'It says Lester,' he complains.

'We've been through that. It's my name.'

'Haven't you got a licence?'

'To be myself? We don't need those yet, do we?'

The corners of his mouth jerk up and immediately sink. 'A driving licence.'

'I haven't, no. I don't drive.'

'That hasn't got your address.'

'I live here. You can see me doing it,' I protest in a voice that sounds increasingly unlike my own. I dig out my keys and shove one into the lock. 'Satisfied? There's your proof.'

I turn the key, or at least I attempt to. The lock doesn't budge. I strive to twist the key until I'm afraid it will snap. I yank it out and realise it's the key to Natalie's apartment. I jab the right one into the lock and turn it at once. 'There,' I manage to say without shouting.

'You want to lay off whatever you're doing to yourself. Can't even let yourself in.' An undecided grimace flickers over his lips before he thrusts the package at me, muttering 'Suppose that's yours.'

I retrieve the keys and drop them in my pocket. I'm making to shut the door when he lurches forward. 'I need that off you.'

I'm distracted enough to wonder if he means my passport until I gather that he's staring at the card. At last I'm able to close the door and switch on the hall light to see whose post I left on the table. Most of it is mine – invitations to order credit cards, as if my Frugo Visa isn't nearly more than enough. I tear them up unopened and stuff them into the kitchen bin, then set about unpicking staples from the padded envelope. The scruffy item inside is a videotape. It is indeed Those Golden Years of Fun.

I hope the tape is in better condition than the packaging. It's an early VHS rental cassette in a cardboard slipcase. I suspect that the distributor – Variety Video – is small and defunct. The cover bears an amateurish collage of silent comedians, one of whom has been scuffed faceless. I've no reason to assume it's Tubby Thackeray, although he does look bulkier than his companions. The blurb on the back is uncertain of its typeface and of the space between lines, all of which have been rubbed partly illegible. 'Relive... our grandparents... laugh till they... more innocent... all the family...' Why am I trying to piece this together when I could be watching? I hurry into the communal lounge and switch on the video player.