The Grin of the Dark

by Ramsey Campbell

  The Hallorans stare at me in the mirror as if they weren't thinking of Cineassed. After a pause Warren says 'Shows you should be careful who your friends are. You could end up with their reputation.'

  I'm not sure if he's talking to me or about me. Planes rise from Heathrow like inextinguishable fireworks. A reservoir is staked out by illuminated fishermen beside the old Roman road into Staines. Warren brakes in sight of the video library that's my daytime workplace, and then the car screeches off a roundabout to Egham. As we leave the main road near the outpost of London University, Bebe tuts at a student who's wearing a traffic cone on his head like a reminiscence of Halloween. The Shogun halts at the top of the sloping side street, between two ranks of disreputable parked cars. 'Open up while I find a space, Simon,' Warren directs.

  I hurry to the slouching metal gate of the middle house they own and manoeuvre the gate over the humped path. A large striped spider has netted the stunted rhododendron that's the only vegetation in the token garden apart from tufts of grass. The spider is transmitting its glow through its equally orange web to discolour the leaves, except that the glare belongs to a streetlamp. I sprint to the scabby front door and twist my key in the unobliging lock. 'Hello?' I shout as the door stumbles inwards. 'Here's your landlords.'

  Though the hall light is on beneath its cheap mosaic shade, nobody responds. Wole's door is shut – a ski-masked cliché on a poster bars the way with a machete – and so is Tony's, on which Gollum holds the fort. Besides a stagnant smell of pizza, do I distinguish a faint tang of cannabis? I try to look innocent enough for all the tenants as I swivel to meet Bebe. 'Just letting the men know you're here in case they aren't decent,' I improvise.

  She turns to Warren, who has parked across the driveway of their house on the right. 'He's alerted the students we're here.'

  'Showing solidarity, were you, Simon?'

  'It isn't so long since I was one. Thanks again for letting me rent the room.'

  I watch the Hallorans advance in unison along the hall, which is papered with a leafy pattern designed for a larger interior. Bebe knocks on Wole's door and immediately tries it while Warren does the same to Tony's, but both rooms are locked. Bebe switches on the light in the sitting-room and frowns at me, although I've left none of the items strewn about the brownish carpet that's piebald with fading stains. In any case the debris – disembowelled newspapers, unwashed plates, two foil containers with plastic forks lounging amid their not yet mouldy contents, a sandal with a broken strap – hardly detracts from the doddering chairs of various species in front of the elderly television and dusty video recorder. Bebe stacks the containers on top of the plates and takes them to the kitchen, only to find no space in the pedal bin, any more than there's room for additional plates in the sink. 'Simon, you're supposed to be the mature one,' she complains and dumps her burden among the bowls scaly with breakfast cereal on the formica table top. 'How long have you been letting this pile up?'

  I'd tell her where I spent last night, but Natalie prefers to leave them in some doubt of our relationship until I have a job we can be proud of. I try remaining silent while Warren takes the rubbish out to the dustbin, but Bebe performs such a monodrama of tuts and sighs as she sets about clearing the sink that I'm provoked to interrupt. 'I can't play the caretaker when I'm out at work so much.'

  'Students are investments like these houses,' Warren says, grinding home the bolts on the back door. 'Investments the rest of us make.'

  Bebe thrusts a plate at me to dry. 'How much of one do you think you are, Simon?'

  I lay it in a drawer rather than smash it on the linoleum. 'If Natalie values me, that's what matters.'

  'How romantic. I expect she'd be pleased.' Bebe hands me another plate before adding 'I believe we matter as well. We've invested a whole lot in her.'

  'I meant to tell her we met somebody she used to know,' Warren says. 'He's done real well for himself and anyone involved with him.'

  Am I supposed to say she can have him or perhaps yield more gracefully? I know they're waiting for her to lose faith in me. Even renting me the accommodation makes it harder for us to meet and characterises me as a parasite. Arguing won't help, but I have to hold my lips shut with my teeth while I stow the dishes.

  Warren's comment loiters in my head as he leads the way upstairs. A tear in the scuffed carpet snags my heel. Bebe lets her breath be heard when she sees the clutter in the communal bathroom. Joe's door has acquired a poster for a troupe presumably deliberately misspelled as Clwons Unlimited. Warren's knock brings no answer, and the door is locked. 'I'll open up if my quarters are due for inspection,' I say.

  'That would be helpful,' says Bebe.

  I was joking, and if they don't understand that, they're the joke. I might say as much, but I've nothing to hide except how demeaned I feel. I throw the blank anonymous door wide and switch on the light under the tasselled Japanese shade Natalie hoped would cheer up the room. Her parents stare in, though there isn't much to see or criticise. My clothes are stored in the rickety wardrobe, and yesterday I dragged the quilt over the bed. Books are lined up on shelves next to the skeletal desk on which my computer has pride of place. 'Do tell me what you're looking for if I can help,' I say.

  'It seems to be in order,' Bebe says but gives a quick ominous sniff.

  'We'll check our other properties,' says Warren, 'and then we can run you to the gas station.'

  'I'm not due for an hour yet, thanks. I've things to do here first.'

  'Do say they'll be productive,' Warren urges.

  I clench my fists as I watch my landlords' heads jerk puppet-like downstairs. Warren's scalp is lichened by a green segment of the grubby lampshade, Bebe's is tinged an angry red. Warren glances up at me, and a smile widens his mouth. I can't take it for encouragement, even if it glints green. Once the front door shuts I switch on my computer. The Hallorans have said too much this time. I'll surprise them and perhaps Natalie as well. I'm going to take charge of my life.

  TWO - MINIONS

  All my life that's fit to print (and maybe some that isn't):

  Simon Lester. Born 1 January 1977, Preston, Lancashire. Attended Grimshaw Street Primary School 1982–88, Winckley High School 1988–95. Grade A GCSE in English Language and Literature, Mathematics, Spanish; B in Physics, Chemistry, Social Studies. (History and Geography, don't ask. Would have done better if hadn't fallen in love with cinema and set out to watch every film on multiplex/television/ tape? Doubt it.) Grade A at Advanced Level in both English subjects and Mathematics, B in the sciences. Attended London University at Royal Holloway College 1995–98. Bachelor of Arts with Honours in Media Studies. Co-edited (with Colin Vernon, but would rather keep that quiet) college film magazine Freeze Frames and contributed reviews and critical essays. 1998–2000, film reviewer for Preston Gazette. Wrote articles for Sight and Sound and Empire. Then –

  (Emailed by Colin Vernon. Cineassed will be most irreverent movie magazine ever. His father's backing the launch. Colin will put me up in his Finchley house until I can afford a flat. Any doubts assuaged by editorial meeting, not to mention drinks afterwards with Natalie. Had to be worth it for meeting her. Now libel case against the magazine and Colin in particular won't come to trial until next year. Assets of magazine frozen. My reputation seems to be, but mustn't let that happen to my thoughts.)

  2001–02, staff writer for Cineassed. I highlight this onscreen and delete it and gaze at the absence. Whenever I mention that I've written about films, interviewers remember where they've heard of me, which is there. In that case, should I change my name? I connect to the Internet and search for an anagram generator. Here's a site called Wordssword, and I type my name in the box.

  The trail of anagrams leads off the screen, but I can't find a full name that anybody rational would use. I'm encouraged to play with my letters, however. Milton Lime could be the third man's brother, Noel Morse would be related to the inventor of a code. I substitute the name that convinces me most at the top of my histor
y. As I save the document and shut down the computer, a gust of wind rattles a plastic chair against the garden table by the dustbin, and I imagine evicting my old self to sit there in the dark. I wish I had time to search for jobs tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll be at my desk before work.

  My breath grows orange as I step out of the house. Once I've tugged the door shut I take out my mobile and bring up Natalie's number. The spider in the bush twitches its luminous web as she says 'Hello?'

  'Leslie Stone here.'

  'Simon? Simon.' The second version is a fond but terse rebuke. 'Listen, I'm sorry,' she says. 'My parents just showed up.'

  'You're saying they're back.'

  'No need to be clever with words all the time,' she says, which I wasn't intending to be. 'I meant before. They rang me at work and I mentioned your interview and Mark's virus, but the first I knew they were coming was when they arrived bearing champagne and a computer.'

  'That was kind of them.'

  'I still wish we'd been on our own when you brought the news.'

  'Never mind, soon they'll be hearing about Leslie Stone.'

  'I don't think I'm getting the joke.'

  'That's because there isn't one unless you think I am. I'm going to use a pseudonym.'

  'I'll come and see in a few minutes, Mark. To write a book, you mean?'

  The idea hadn't occurred to me, but it should have. 'What do you think?'

  'They say everybody's got one in them.'

  I might have liked a more personal comment. A computer illuminates a bedroom as I tramp downhill towards the Frugoil station, where a car honks at a petrol pump as if to remind me of Simon Lester's status. 'Anyway, I just wanted to let you know my plans before I start work,' I tell her.

  'Good luck with them, Simon. I hope I can still call you that.'

  'Call me whatever you fancy,' I say, but the horn is louder. It plays three notes that remind me of Laurel and Hardy as the impatient driver swings the car off the forecourt. 'Love you,' I say, and believe I hear an echo before Natalie vacates the mobile. I pocket it and dodge traffic across the main road.

  Shahrukh scowls at me through the pay window as I reach the pumps beneath the slab of jittery white light that roofs the forecourt. I could imagine that he doesn't recognise me as a colleague, which suggests I'm turning into the person I want to be. Then he slides off the stool and tucks his overstuffed white shirt into his trousers while he plods to unlock the door. Having opened it an inch, he says over his shoulder 'You are late.'

  I blink at my wristwatch, and the colon ahead of the minute blinks back. 'Just a few seconds. What's that between friends?'

  'You are not meant to be late. There is much work to be done.' He wags a thumb in the direction of the clock above the shelves of cigarettes penned behind the narrow counter. 'You are slow,' he declares. 'That is off the bloody computer.'

  I hope my silence will speed him on his way. Instead he says 'Are you hungry? Have you eaten?'

  I know him well enough to recognise a trap. 'I've had something,' I say, though it's barely the truth.

  'Do not eat any of the sandwiches that are to be thrown out. That is stealing,' he warns me. 'In fact, do not throw them out at all. Mr Khan will deal with them in the morning if nobody has paid to eat them.'

  'Your father will have them for breakfast, you mean.'

  'Now you are ragging me. I can take a joke if it costs nothing,' he says and points one of his fattest fingers at the refrigerator cabinet full of plastic bottles. 'What do you see there?'

  'Something else I mustn't touch?'

  'A gap on the shelf, and there is another. A gap is not a sale. People cannot buy a gap. Wherever you see an opening to be filled, put in what should be there.'

  This time my silence takes some maintaining. 'Well, I suppose I must leave you,' he says and unhooks his fur coat from behind the door of the small office. 'Whatever you put out, write it on the sheet for Mr Khan to check.'

  His knee-length pelt shivers in the wind as I lock the door behind him. His blue Mercedes darts out from behind the shop, its roof flaring like defective neon, and then I'm alone except for the security camera that keeps watch on my trudge to the stockroom. I might enjoy working here more if it made demands of any kind on me, but now that I've learned the routine it leaves my mind free to observe its own lack of employment. Perhaps Leslie Stone should plan a book.

  I fetch a carton of plastic bottles and the clipboard from the concrete room, which is grudgingly illuminated by a bulb half the strength of the one Mr Khan took home. How about Product Placement? Placed to Sell is catchier, but I suspect there isn't enough to the planting of brand names in films to make a saleable book. I slash the tape on the carton with a Stanley knife. Death Scenes, then? The cinema is alive with them, and I could look at how representation has changed since the earliest one – a reconstruction of a hanging – and the ways in which different actors and genres handle them. Or is the theme unmarketably grim? I scrag two bottles from the carton with each hand and knuckle them more space in the refrigerator. Perhaps I could have fun with –

  A white Volvo cruises onto the forecourt. I'm heading for the counter to activate the pump beside which the driver has halted when he opens his door. As he stands up to gaze at me over the unshadowed roof of the car my hands close into fists, or as much as they can on the plastic necks, and I almost drop to the floor, out of sight. He's what I've been dreading for months.

  THREE - ENTITLEMENT

  I shove the bottles into the refrigerator and slam the glass door and straighten up from my useless belated crouch. The driver meets my gaze and climbs into the Volvo. It backs away from the pumps as if he's trying to retract the sight of me, and then it coasts over to the shop. It vanishes beyond the window, and I'm able to hope that it's gone until the driver reappears around the building. He's Rufus Wall, and he was my film tutor.

  His largely ruddy brow looks even more exposed than I remember, as if his shaggy mane and the beard that blackens most of his wide face from the cheekbones down have tugged his forehead barer. He's all in black: polo neck, trousers, leather jacket and gloves. Having tried the door, he leans his face towards the glass. 'Simon?' he says so conversationally that I decipher rather than hear what he's saying. 'May I come in?'

  Mr Khan wouldn't like it – won't, if he checks the security recording. I'm tempted to use this as an excuse not to admit Rufus. A wind lifts his mane, and I imagine the chill on his nearly pensionable neck. I can't leave him standing in the cold, however awkward our conversation is going to be. I unlock the door, and he sticks out a hand that feels plump with leather. 'Sorry to take you away from your task,' he says. 'I was told you'd be here.'

  My reputation has sunk even lower than I thought, then. 'Who told you?'

  'Joey, was it, or just Joe?' He waits for me to lock the door, then folds his arms and gazes at me. 'What do you think you're doing here, Simon?'

  'Shall we call it resting?'

  'In the actor's sense, I take it. Do you know where you're going, though?'

  He's as persistent as ever. In tutorials that helped me clarify my ideas. Other students weren't so comfortable with it, and I no longer am. 'I don't know if I ever told you,' he says, 'you wrote the best thesis I've ever had to mark.'

  'Well, thank you,' I say, and an insecure bottle lolls against the inside of the glass door as if I need reminding of my job. 'Thanks a lot.'

  'What a beginning, I still think. I read it to some of my colleagues, how you'd asked all your film buff friends about poor old Polonsky who was once hailed as the greatest filmmaker since Orson Welles and every single one of them thought you meant Polanski. I can't imagine a better way of showing how reputations get lost.'

  'Maybe I'm doing that myself now.'

  'It wasn't your fault your magazine was sued.' His gaze drifts to the glossy ranks of two-dimensional breasts on the topmost shelf of magazines. 'Wouldn't you rather be writing than selling this stuff?'

  'If you know any editors to
recommend me to, you can be sure I'll be grateful.'

  'I don't think I'll be passing your name on to any of those.'

  I adjust the bottle in the cabinet, but turning my back on him doesn't hide much of my bitterness. 'I'd better get on with the job I'm paid to do, then.'

  'Could I borrow some of your attention for just a few minutes?'

  I shut the cabinet and fix my gaze on Rufus. 'Here's all of it.'

  'That's more like my old student.' He clasps his beard as if he's testing it for falseness and says 'Have you heard of the Tickle bequest?'

  'Sounds like a joke.'

  'Not as far as you're concerned, I hope. Charles Stanley Tickell,' he says, and this time I hear the spelling. 'One of our students between the wars. Very much an arts man, books above all. Apparently nothing upset him so much in the war as seeing a library bombed. Now he's left really quite a lot of dosh to the university. We have to use it the way he wanted, to publish books.'

  'Don't you already?'

  'Not many of the kind he liked. Books on the art of the last century, and of course that includes the cinema. I've been asked if any of my students have it in them, and you needn't wonder whose name I told them. That's why I won't be mentioning you to any other editors. If we can make this work, and I'm several hundred per cent certain that we can, I'll be editing our cinema imprint until I retire.'

  Is he entrusting me with that responsibility? It's almost too much and too abrupt, but I can't afford to be daunted. 'Do you know, I've been thinking of books I could write.'

  'Tell me.'

  'Final Films, that would be about the last films people made and what they show us about the cinema. Dying to be Filmed, about death scenes, of course. We're in the Movies, that would look at how the cinema feeds into everyday reality so much everyone takes it for granted. And maybe there's a book in how films send up other films and rip them off. I might call it Haven't We Seen That Before?'