The Grin of the Dark

willingly, but this doesn't satisfy the impromptu director. He's urging them to mimic the crippled antics of the giants.

Perhaps Mark and his companion feel bound to obey because they're leading the youthful parade. I'm not certain which of them begins swaying, but in a few seconds they're both doing so with an abandon that looks positively intoxicated. The pair of boys behind them has started to compete when a woman shouts 'Lise, that's enough.'

She's the mother of Mark's partner. The girl halts uncertainly, bringing all the children to a standstill, while the giants wobble to confront the interruption and the dwarfs dodge behind them. 'Come along,' her mother says, tramping down to the ring. 'We're going home.'

As the girl bites her lip and her mother takes her by the hand, the clowns on the benches leap into the ring and surround them. Falling to their knees, they clasp their hands in silent entreaty and bend backwards so as to turn their stricken faces up. The posture emphasises every rampant crotch. 'Move out of the way, please,' the mother says more sharply yet.

That isn't why the clowns jump up and scatter. They're trying to head off several families that are ushering reluctant children towards the exit. Nobody is likely to be won over by their supplications when these involve so much thrusting of their crotches. As the last of the parents reclaim their children, Mark climbs to head me off. 'Can I watch?'

I assume he's hoping the show will continue. Just now the clowns are pursuing the families, wiggling their fingers at any child who looks back, until I'm close to fancying that it's some kind of secret sign. 'Let's see what happens,' I murmur.

The giants have hobbled to flank the exit. They look capable of falling on anyone who tries to leave. As each family does, a clown prances close behind, jerking his outthrust crotch high and gripping his midriff in silent laughter. These parting japes are too much for the spectators who've remained seated – for the parents, at any rate. They lead or in some cases drag their children to the exit and are sent packing by the same rude dance. I haven't seen the people leave who were talking as we sat down, but when I glance over my shoulder I find we're the solitary audience.

If Mark doesn't want to leave, I won't insist. He could see worse on children's television. I sit up straight and fold my arms, and so does Mark. Perhaps that's too peremptory, because all the clowns in the ring scamper to the lowest bench opposite us and sit symmetrically, the clown with the small head in the middle of the group, the dwarfs at either end. The giants remain beside the exit and clasp hands to form an arch.

Are the clowns on the bench waiting for us to move so that they can mimic us? Their fixed stares and superimposed contradictory grimaces don't even hint at their intentions. I'll have to move soon, because I'm finding it hard to breathe, but I feel as if neither Mark nor I should be the first to stir. Could we all be awaiting a new arrival? It might be Natalie, though only by coincidence. I take another constricted breath, and Mark emits a muted giggle. Then we both start as a phone begins to shrill.

The clown with the small head twists around, pulling his costume tight around his swollen torso, and grabs the mobile from behind him. Instead of answering it, he holds it out to us. 'Shall I get it?' Mark whispers.

'I expect so.'

As he runs to fetch the phone his shadow slides down the canvas behind the clowns and shrinks to meet him in the centre of the ring. The leader of the troupe points at me with the mobile and hands it to Mark. It repeats the same strident note in pairs – the sound of a phone from the last century – as he brings it to me. He's so eager that I hope he won't be disappointed by the pay-off. I poke the button to accept the message and hold the mobile so that he can hear.

Has it anything to offer except static? When I press it to my ear I grasp that the waves of sound are too patterned to be random. As the hissing grows more solid and more resonant I identify it as the beginnings of laughter. The mirth is distant, but not for long. It swells until I have to lower the phone, to save my ear as much as to let Mark listen. Even now it seems too loud, filling the tent and shivering the canvas, except that a wind must be doing at least the latter. Are the clowns adding to the laughter? Their faces are quivering like jelly as they expose their prominent teeth and clutch at their midriffs, and yet the gleeful merriment sounds like the product of a single mouth. The mobile feels weighed down by hysteria, and my senses are so overwhelmed that I seem unable to move my hand. Then the chortling begins to subside, and the quaking of the clowns lessens in sympathy. At last the noise trails off in a series of hisses that dissolve into uninterrupted static, and the phone goes dead.

Mark gazes up at me, and the performers watch just as intently. I've no idea what anyone expects, since the mobile is as inert as a terminally infected computer. 'Is anything else going to happen?' I wonder aloud.

I might as well not have spoken. There's as little response when I hold out the phone to the clowns, and when I shrug and lay it on the bench to my right, away from Mark. Why should I be expected to perform any more? That's the job of the clowns, however they spell themselves. I'm close to saying so until I notice that they aren't as still as I thought; their eyes are turning leftwards in unison and then back to me. They have to do this several times before I realise they're indicating the exit. 'I think that's it,' I murmur.

Mark seems happy enough. The outrageousness of the show must have satisfied him. As we head for the exit I brace myself for a last prank, but the seated clowns stay where they are. Their united gaze keeps hold of us, and their fattened fingers wriggle, presumably to send us on our way. I glance back from the exit, but nobody is prancing after us, and the jerry-built giants aren't about to collapse on us. Mark peers up at them in delicious expectant panic as I guide him clear of their rickety legs and out into the dark.

There's no sign of the departed audience. We're making for the dim foreshortened avenue behind the tent when the field grows abruptly darker, swallowing Mark's faint shadow and mine. All the lights inside the tent have been switched off. Without its whitish glow it reminds me of an ancient monument, but I'm wondering what the clowns can be up to in the dark. Might they be creeping out of the exit? I can think of no reason why they would, nor why we should wait on the chance that they are. 'Let's see if we've time to watch the film again,' I say to speed Mark onwards.

It's even darker beneath the oaks. The entangled branches seem to prevent any light from filtering down out of the scraps of sky. The hulking trunks are closer together than I would expect oaks to grow. I hold Mark's small chilly hand as we trot along the middle of the avenue; I wouldn't want him to run ahead and collide with anything unseen. Have we strayed into a different avenue? I'm glimpsing the totem pole through the trees on our left, although the pile of wide-mouthed glimmering faces seems to skulk behind them whenever I try to distinguish it more clearly. I even imagine some activity beyond it, rapid movements of pale dim limbs whose gait puts me in mind of an injured spider. If it was one of the giant clowns, where would the other be? When I look back the avenue appears to be deserted, although blocked by the looming bulk of the tent. I face forward again, and Mark clutches at my hand.

The alarm is only the tune of my mobile: 'You must remember this...' The song from Casablanca has lost some of its appeal in the gloom caged by trees. Mark relaxes his grip as I continue walking and lift the mobile to my face. 'What's been wrong with your phone?' Natalie apparently doesn't want to know, because she goes on 'Where are you?'

'Heading for the road near Frugoil.'

'It's all over, then.'

'It seems to be.'

'I'll pick you up at the gate.'

'What did – ' I begin, but the phone is unoccupied except by waves of static. Mark pulls me left around a bend, beyond which the avenue leads straight to the totem pole by the water. Once we emerge from beneath the trees I'm certain that the faces are incapable of springing apart and forming a line to meet us. I can see lamps above the wall at the far side of the field, and I'm disconcerted to find the sight so reassuring. I release Mark's hand as we cross the lawn to the gate.

Natalie's Punto is panting on the road. 'Was it good?' she asks as I let Mark have the front seat.

'It was funny.'

'Lots of laughs,' I say and shut the rear door. 'What did your parents want?'

Natalie meets my gaze in the mirror. 'I'll tell you later,' she says, and I suspect that I won't relish the experience.