an eager page fills the screen.
THE SILENT FILMS OF TUBBY THACKERAY AND ORVILLE HART.
By Vincent Steele.
It looks like the title page of a student's thesis or some even more unpublished item. The typeface gives it the appearance of a manuscript that has been submitted for approval. I send the blank expanse of the rest of the page up the screen, and then I suck in a breath I can't hear for the throbbing of my head.
Chapter 1: An Overview of the Careers of Thackeray and Hart.
We shouldn't think of history as fixed. That goes for the cinema too now that so many lost films are being rediscovered. Sometimes we could think they're memories repressed by the collective unconscious. We can see why people preferred to forget Stepin Fetchit, but how long will anyone remember he existed? Audiences once laughed at Max Davidson, but by now few people even recall how his brand of Jewish humour was judged unacceptable...
It's my opening chapter with a few words changed. The entire text is, and worse still, it more succinctly expresses everything I wrote. As I scroll past the end of the chapter I grow insanely fearful that the screen will show me thoughts I've had but not yet written. The only further matter is the date the site was last updated. According to the bottom line, that was weeks before I emailed my chapter to Colin.
It isn't true. Whoever created the site – who else but Smilemime – could have put in any date. I'm clinging to the notion as the nearest thing I have to reassurance when the librarian comes over to murmur 'Please be quieter or we'll have to ask you to leave.'
I've no idea what sounds I may have been uttering – very likely less than words. I respond as best I'm able, but she doubles her frown. 'I beg your pardon?' she by no means begs.
'I said you can ask.' Surely I didn't say cunt arse. 'Who am I supposed to be disturbing?' I object. 'There's nobody else here.'
I mean other than her colleagues. Whoever's laughing uncontrollably is somewhere beyond the room, although the noise is so invasive that she would be better employed in hushing it instead of me. When her gaze doesn't leave me I blurt 'I'll go as soon as I've dealt with this.'
I email Colin that our correspondence has been hacked into and copy the address of the web site and exhort him and the university to do their worst. 'That wasn't too noisy, was it?' I say, only for my chair to rouse the echoes with a screech on the linoleum. 'Merry Christmas.'
I'm heading for the exit when the librarian says 'You've not paid.'
I struggle to contain my rage. 'Will you take a card?' I say like a Christmas conjurer.
'Not for two pounds. That's the minimum charge.'
I dig in my hip pocket, but my hand is shaking so much I can barely grasp my change. The librarian watches the jerky movements of my fist inside my trousers with disfavour until I dump the coins on the counter. 'Ninety shits, nine tits even,' I surely can't be saying as my almost uncontrollable forefinger pokes at the cash. 'And a big one, and another little one. Go on, take my last penny. You won't get all that in your pudding,' I seem compelled to joke.
I can't quite believe I'm seeing her recount the money. Suppose she calls security for the sake of a few pence? Here comes a guard – someone with big feet, at any rate. As the footsteps halt somewhere out of sight the librarian begins to plant the coins in various compartments of a drawer. 'I'll be off before I can cause any more chaos,' I tell her. 'Have a merry one.'
Does she murmur in response, or is it an echo? When I emerge from the reference library I can't decide whether the renovations have created a new maze. Plastic rustles beyond the stairs, where the unidentifiable towering figure in the ground-floor vestibule is still shrouded in the material. Outside, the chill that turns my breath white aggravates my shivers as I fumble out my mobile. I grit my teeth in an expression that makes several Christmas shoppers stay well clear as I suffer through the celebratory message tape. 'Eck your chemail, for Christ's sake,' I blurt, and my teeth also get in the way of my next line. 'We need to find out how this wastard stole my burk.'
I won't be emailing any more of it. That lets me feel a little less vulnerable, but not enough. Having no money in my pocket doesn't help. I skirt the covered market, where the stallholders are wearing almost every size of droopy red hat, and find a branch of my bank. I insert my debit card in the machine embedded in the old stone wall and type my secret number, and wait, and lean forward to peer at the display, which looks pale with frost or with my breath. Then the world seems to tilt in sympathy, and I become aware of saying no, louder and louder. In the queue behind me a woman says 'You should be in a film.'
FORTY-TWO - TESS
The white bobble of the personal adviser's red hat blunders against her eyebrows as she lifts her chubby face, and she grins as if I've made a joke or am one. She shakes her head to lodge the bobble behind her ear as she says 'How can we help you today?'
I've queued ten minutes for a festively attired clerk to inform me that I have to consult a personal adviser, and as long again before this one became available, which is another reason why I blurt 'More than you have been recently, I hope.'
Her wide lips close over her grin and reopen little more than a slit. I'm reminded of the one that mouthed my debit card. 'Do you bank at this branch?' it enquires.
'No, in London. Egham, rather. I need to change that.'
'I'm afraid you can't do that here. You'll need – '
'I don't want to.'
'Excuse me, I thought you just said you did.'
'Not now,' I protest, feeling in danger of becoming trapped in a ponderous comedy routine. 'Not here.'
'Then what seems to be the problem?'
'It more than seems. Let me have a look at my accounts. Here's who I am.'
As she examines my debit card the bobble deals her brow a gentle thump. She sweeps it back and says 'Anything else, Mr Lester?'
'What's wrong with that? It's yours, I mean your bank's.'
'It's just that we need at least two forms of identification before we can give out personal details.'
'Look, this doesn't make sense. Your machine would have given me money with just the card and no questions asked.'
'I can see it could seem funny, but – '
'No, it doesn't seem the least bit bloody funny. Nothing does,' I say so loudly that it appears to jar my phone awake. If the caller is Colin or Rufus, can he identify me? But the display shows Natalie's number. I'm striving to think how she could help me persuade the adviser as I exclaim 'Hello.'
'Ow,' Mark says and laughs.
'Sorry, Mark. Didn't mean to be so loud, but what do you want? I'm rather busy here just now.'
'Where are you? We can't see you.'
'What are you talking about? Don't joke.'
'We went in the library but the lady said you'd gone, and we can't find you.'
'I'm at my bank. Go past the market and you'll see it on the way to Granddad and Grandma Lester's. Tell your mother to hurry, will you? She may be able to help.'
As I end the call I realise she won't need to. 'I'll show you,' I tell the adviser. 'Come outside.'
I hold the street door open until she has to follow, and then my urgency tails off. Three people are queuing at the cash machine, all of them with mobile phones. The girl in front of me is using hers to film her grin, and I feel included in the image. I occupy the wait by smiling at the adviser between glances in search of Natalie and Mark, but her straight lips are as unyielding as metal. At last I reach the machine. As I type my number I'm suddenly afraid that the system will reject it and confiscate my card. Isn't there a limit to the number of times you can present a card within a given period? Then the screen exhibits the lack of funds in my current account and, once
