At least, I labour to, but not a syllable escapes. I'm convinced that if I manage to pronounce the name, it will destroy the verbal dam. 'Smilemime,' I repeat as audibly as I said it in the first place. 'Smilemime.' The shrill word squeaks against the inside of my teeth, but I've no idea what expression is baring them and bulging my eyes. Perhaps it could be mistaken for the amusement with which Mark greets my antics. 'Smilemime,' I shriek mutely, which reminds me of performing Tubby's Telephonic Travails in the chapel of fun. Tracy's features rise to the surface of my mind, his teeth splitting the etiolated flesh with a helpless grin. 'Are you there?' Tom says, but I've snatched the receiver away from my face. As I brandish the phone with no plan beyond ending any resemblance to Tubby, the adviser reaches across her desk, but Natalie is quicker. She relieves me of the phone and says 'Who's this, please?'

Her tone must be intended to take the listener off guard. It works for me – I feel addressed. 'I'm with Simon,' she explains, and now I have a sense that she's dubbing my dialogue. 'He can't just now. He's under a lot of strain... I see what's wrong, but what will he need to do?... How soon can you deal with that?... You can't... I understand... He will... Happy Christmas.'

Is it her performance that has left me speechless? I watch her return the phone to the adviser. 'You will have to write in, Simon,' she says. 'Sadly there won't be anyone there till after Christmas.'

'He was there now. You let him go.' I'm straining to make certain she hears this when an employee shouts me down.

'The bank will be closing in five minutes,' he announces. 'We will be open again for business on the 29th.'

Won't they still be working behind the scenes for at least the next few hours? If I email from the library, surely that would reach Tom before he finishes, or is the library shut too? I dash for the exit, my hat flopping like a drunken parasite on my head – drunk with the intellect it's draining from me, or something is. As I hurry out beneath a sky as black as the inside of my skull, Natalie catches up with me. 'It's all right, Simon,' she murmurs. 'It will be.'

My response is terse and sharp enough to bypass my clenched teeth. 'How?'

'The bank will put everything in order once they hear from you. I've got enough to tide us over till the New Year, or if there's any need we can always go to my parents for a loan.'

The prospect seems to release my words, and I have to suppress my reaction to it for her sake and Mark's. 'They've already heard from me,' I object, 'the bank. He was acting stupid. No wonder I gave up when he made me feel I couldn't get through to him.'

Natalie gazes at me for a long pale breath that reminds me of an empty speech balloon, and then she says 'I couldn't follow you either.'

'I did a bit,' Mark says and grins in some triumph.

I don't know which of them is more disconcerting. As my teeth start to chatter with exhaustion and the icy night if nothing else, Natalie says 'Try to calm down, Simon. No more scenes.'

'Scenes,' I protest, at least approximately.

'Like that, and they aren't going to forget you in the library either. You don't need to act like that, do you? Your book's the way you want to be known.'

My chattering teeth leave me unable to reply, if indeed I want to. She takes my arm and Mark holds my other hand. Our hats flop about as I'm led away from the bank. 'Let's have peace now,' Natalie says. 'It's that time of year.'

FORTY-THREE - ST SIMON'S

'I'll bet my pension you've never been out driving so late before, Mark,' says my mother.

'Only on my computer.'

Natalie frowns across me at him. 'It's news to me. Just when was that?'

'When I was looking for things for Simon.'

'That's kind of you, Mark,' I say, 'but you mustn't lose your sleep at your age.'

'I couldn't anyway.'

'I'll bet you've never been out at midnight, though,' my mother insists. 'You're going to be in at the birth.'

Mark giggles with embarrassment or in case her comment is a joke, and Natalie sends him another frown as she sits back. I wish we'd used her car, but I didn't want my father to think we didn't trust his driving. With three people on the rear seat the Mini seems insanely straitened, as Thackeray Lane might have put it while he was coherent. I feel as if I'm being transported in a cell along a barely distinguishable route – glimpses of houses clogged with darkness, the flickers of lit windows, the occasional reveller who grins at the car. 'How far are we actually going?' I ask.

'Listen to him, Mark. He sounds younger than you, doesn't he?' says my mother.

Didn't she make a similar quip last time they took me for a drive? As if the memory has created a physical link, a Christmas tree rears up beyond the windscreen. I could imagine that its lights are trying to fend off the darkness that leads to it along five roads. 'Isn't this where you brought me before?' I protest.

'You've been here before all right,' my father says and laughs.

When my mother joins in I have the unpleasant idea that they're trying to project their confusion onto me. The tree brandishes its glaring multicoloured branches as it pirouettes with massive sluggishness while the Mini takes the first exit, beyond which I can't see anything except two ranks of houses squashed tall and thin. Curtains seem to shift as if we're being watched, but perhaps that's the restlessness of Christmas lights. 'It does seem rather a long way to come to church,' Natalie says.

'We thought we'd give you an extra treat,' says my mother, 'since we've got a bit of time.'

'We'll show you where he came into the world,' my father says.

For a moment I'm unable to ask 'Who?'

'Now who do you think?' cries my mother.

'Is it Tubby?' Mark responds with at least as much enthusiasm.

'Lord love us, no,' my father declares. 'Don't tell me Simon's got you as obsessed as he is.'

My mother twists around to smile at us. 'Who else is it going to be except Simon?'

'I don't remember this,' I say like a contradiction of my ringtone.

'Of course you don't, you silly boy. How could anyone?'

At once the car is flooded with illumination that suggests spotlights have been turned on. They're lamps on a street that crosses the one we're following. As the car swings left my mother says 'Here it is. Do you think they'll put up a plaque one day, Mark?'

Both sides of the road are lined with pale misshapen bungalows approached and separated by a maze of paths sprouting toadstool lights. I might be amused by the appearance of a gnomes' village if I weren't so troubled. 'We never lived here,' I risk saying.

'Isn't this it, Bob?' my mother pleads. 'I was sure it was.'

My father glares at me in the widescreen mirror. 'You're doing it again,' he mutters.

Is he accusing me of making the car veer as he looks away from the road? 'Be careful, Bob,' my mother exhorts. 'You've got a child in the car. You should have let his mother drive.'

'You can't, Sandra.'

If he was blaming me for confusing her, I could equally blame him as she says 'That's where I used to hold Simon up for you to see.'

She's gazing at the window of a bungalow. Despite the pallor of the curtains, the room appears to be dark. As the car slows to give everyone more of a look, Natalie says 'I thought you said he was born in a hospital.'

'I'd have been frightened to have him at home,' my mother says and laughs. 'They've pulled it down and built these.'

'She's not that far gone yet,' my father says.

The relief I was starting to feel snags on his comment. As the car regains speed, Mark wriggles to keep the bungalow in view. 'Was that Father Christmas?'

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