The Grin of the Dark

THIRTY-NINE - IT'S IMMINENT

I barely sleep. Whenever my consciousness tries to shut down I see Tracy grinning like a wide-eyed skull. His lurid face has grown as black and white as his costume. Sometimes he turns into Tubby as his irrepressible teeth force his lips wider. That's another reason why I keep lurching awake, and so is the way that quite a few of the audience seemed close to blaming me for Tracy's death. I wouldn't have left before the ambulance came – they needn't have persisted in reminding me that I'd arrived with him, as if this made me responsible for his fate. All the same, the memory is preferable to imagining that I've been roused by a stealthy noise in the room. Nothing has slithered under the bed; if I switch on the light and peer over the edge of the mattress, no pallid flattened forehead will inch out, never mind unblinking eyes and a grin worse than death. The notion is enough to keep me in the dark, and if I left the bed I would only be tempted to take my insomnia onto the Internet. That's another version of wishing I were elsewhere, which makes me dream more than once that I've wakened somewhere smaller. As soon as I hear people laughing in the corridor, presumably on their way to breakfast, I use that as an excuse to turn on all the lights and stumble to my bathroom.

I don't linger once I've finished showering. I feel compelled to check in the mirror that I haven't begun to grin. The time is no laughing matter, however. It's still an hour to breakfast. Once I'm dressed I log on, but there's no message from Willie Hart or the bank, and even Smilemime has nothing to say. I switch off and head for the window.

The square is deserted. The extinguished fairground makes me feel Christmas has passed without my noticing. The topmost carriage of the big wheel sways like a cradle. Nobody's riding in it; no excessively circular whitish face is spying on me from the dimness. Perhaps an object is propped up on the seat, but trying to distinguish it makes my vision flicker like a thunderstorm. I stare until more jollity in the corridor alerts me that it is indeed time for breakfast. If I dawdle much longer I'll be late for my research.

Mirrors in the lift display dozens of me in retreat down two increasingly dim corridors, but my sidelong glances don't surprise any secret grins. The basement dining-room proves to be a mediaeval hall. Holly encircles shields on the walls, coloured lights decorate pairs of crossed swords. I sit at the end of a massive table, and a waitress brings me coffee. Given the setting, her black and white uniform resembles fancy dress. The continental breakfast seems misplaced too, but in the lift I looked too plump for comfort. Being overweight didn't do Tracy much good. I eat a token roll and a couple of slices of ham and holey cheese between gulps of coffee before retreating to my room.

The key card works on the third try, although it belongs to a different era. I pack my suitcase and lug it to the lift, promising myself to replace it by the time I next travel. The hotel lobby returns me to the present day, and the receptionist gives my signature just a token frown once the machine accepts my credit card. As I step out of the hotel a taxi opens its door to me. I glance at the big wheel, and the topmost carriage seems to sway in response, but surely it's as empty as it looks.

The driver is as silent as the frost that has bleached the pavements. Perhaps the tip I give him once he releases my case from the boot without leaving his seat isn't worth the breath. I use various holds to transport the case across the road and past the ruddy towering façade of the university and along a paved path bordered by precise white grass. By the time I reach the library my hands are shivering with cold or strain or both.

I've brought my passport and my signed contract from London University Press. The girl at the front desk seems convinced, even by the approximation of my signature I produce to obtain a visitor's pass. A grey metal lift conveys me to the third floor, which is apparently the Blue Area, where another notice indicates that stairs lead down to Special Collections. Are those in the Silent Study Area on Blue 2? When I shoulder the double doors open I'm met by a whine that sounds like an amplified dental drill but proves to be emitted by a computer abandoned under a notice that says STOP THAT NOISE! Belatedly I realise that a sign outside the doors directs me up another flight of stairs to Green 3. Beyond a lobby decorated with a warning that disturbance may be caused by staff loading trolleys, a long room full of alcoves of law books brings me to Red 3 and another room devoted to Law, where someone out of sight is giggling in a whisper. Most of the students will have gone home for Christmas, but I'm relieved to hear voices in the entrance to Special Collections. Two uniformed guards who might be competing at bulkiness look up from their desks. 'What can we do for you?' the winner of the competition says as if he thinks I'm as lost as I'd begun to feel.

'I'd like to look in your archives.'

'That's what they all say.'

'What have you got to show?' his colleague enquires.

I flourish my passport, at which they both don half a bulging frown. 'Don't know if that'll do,' says the bulkier fellow.

I could imagine that I've stumbled into a comedy routine, but he must be speculating on behalf of whoever is through the door beyond the desks. 'I'll find out, shall I?' I rather less than ask.

While the guards don't move, their massiveness seems to increase. 'We'll keep that,' one says – I'm not sure which.

'It's yours,' I say, gratefully dropping the suitcase.

I manage to steady my fingers enough in order to open the door. A few bookcases almost touch the ceiling of a small panelled room. Closer to the entrance, a counter overlooks a study table halved by a partition. The woman behind the counter, who is so short that her build acts as a reminder of the presence of the guards, turns up a professional smile. 'How may I help?' she murmurs.

'I believe you've got the papers of an old lecturer of yours. Thackeray Lane's the name.'

She blinks at me, so that I wonder if she thinks I'm claiming the identity until she says 'Well, he is popular all of a sudden.'

'Who with?'

'I'm afraid we can't give out that information.'

'But you're saying someone was ahead of me.'

'They contacted us to arrange for the material to be available.' She nods at her desk, which is heaped with box files. 'They've yet to present themselves,' she says.

Could the applicant have been Charley Tracy? Since I seem to have no chance of learning that, I say 'Why are you assuming it's not me?'

'We would have to query why you were disguising your voice.'

'Sorry if I should have rung up in advance. May I consult the papers as long as they're here?' I hand her my passport and my contract. 'There I am.'

She scrutinises the photograph as closely as any official I've encountered during my research, and examines the contract quite as minutely. At last she says 'You live in London.'

'I don't have to be local, do I? I was born in Preston if that's any help.'

'With material as rare as this we usually require some form of authority. A letter from your publishers, perhaps.'

My fingers won't keep still after my struggle with the luggage, and I clench my fists. 'Won't the contract cover it?'

She considers the pages with a series of blinks. Eventually she says 'Have they changed their name? Surely it ought to be the University of London Press.'

I fight down a burst of hysterical mirth at the pettiness that's obstructing me. 'Maybe you're right,' I succeed in saying, 'and they've brought the name up to date. Or hang on, it's a new imprint. That's it, of course.'

'Unfortunately it doesn't really qualify as authorisation.'

Then why have we gone through this interlude? The inside of my head is beginning to feel scraped thin and raw when it proves to contain a lonely idea. 'Will an email do?'

'I suppose that might be acceptable under the circumstances.'

'And seeing it's Christmas,' I nearly respond but say only 'I'll call them.'

'You'll need to do so outside.'

I'm not sure why, since I can't see anyone else in the room. I leave my passport and the contract on the counter and step into the lobby, where the guards raise their slow weighty heads. 'Fast reader,' one remarks.

'I haven't finished.' Rather than admit I also haven't started, I find the number for London University Press on my mobile and mime patience. I don't know why I feel compelled to entertain the guards, but I gaze towards some horizon or other and wag my head in time with the bell. I open my mouth when Rufus answers, and then I hear his message. 'Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon are celebrating Christmas. Leave us your name and where we can reach you and we'll follow it up after the festivities.'

'Is anyone there? Is there really nobody there? I'm at an archive of Tubby's in Manchester. If anyone's listening to this, can you answer? The library needs you to authenticate me because what I want to look at is very rare indeed. An email would be fine, saying I'm researching on behalf of the university press. Is there still nobody? I feel as if I've been talking all Christmas. If I had your mobile numbers I'd call them.'

I can think of nothing more to conjure up a listener. I mustn't imagine that I'm trying to trick someone into breaking their silence. As I pocket the mobile a guard says 'Sounds like you didn't get what you have to give us.'

'The lady in here can be the judge,' I say and hurry to the door for fear they'll head me off. 'I'm afraid everyone's packed up for Christmas,' I inform the librarian with a smile that's meant to be both apologetic and appealing. 'They couldn't tell you anything the contract doesn't, could they? Can't it be enough?'

She doesn't speak, and her gaze is uncommunicative. There's clearly only one solution. I have to dash behind the counter and knock her unconscious, the way I should have handled the other dwarf in Amsterdam. I can tell the guards she needs to examine a document that's in my suitcase. Once I've hidden the files in the case I'll inform them on my regretful way out that the document wasn't enough to establish my identity. I've sidled two steps when she says 'I'll speak to someone. He'll have to decide.'

What was I thinking of? I feel as though for altogether too many seconds my body became nothing but instinct and electrified nerves. As she uses the internal phone I retreat from the counter, and stay well out of reach while we await a senior librarian. We aren't by ourselves after all; papers are rustling somewhere in the room. I stare at my upside-down passport rather than meet the woman's eyes. When the door opens I'm afraid the guards have concluded that she needs protecting from me, but while the large grey-haired man is wearing a dark suit, it isn't quite a uniform. He trains his pale gaze on me for some seconds before enquiring 'You're the applicant, are you?'

'I'm the writer, as it says. Simon Lester.'

He looks at my passport and at me, and at the contract, and at me. What can I do if he finds against me? Only wait until I'm alone with the woman, and then – 'You'll need to stay where Miss Leerton can oversee you,' he says and leaves us.

I'm approved. I was close to believing that my identity no longer mattered. I fill in a card with my details and almost put Tubby instead of Thackeray Lane on the Subject/Interest line. The woman deposits the files on the table opposite the counter with a muffled clunk that I wouldn't have thought capable of setting off so many echoes. I no longer care who else is in the room, though I'm surprised the librarian doesn't think their smothered laughter inappropriate. Perhaps they're amused by the echoes; my sitting at the table is hardly a reason for mirth. 'Thank you,' I murmur, which is echoed too. I put my finger to my lips and give the librarian a remorseful smile, and seem to hear an infinity of boxes being opened as the lid of the first file strikes the wood.