The Grin of the Dark

spoken earlier. Was it the man who craned over my shoulder? He isn't behind the shelves now. He must have made the comment on his way out. I sprint past the security gate, which holds its peace, into Stephen Street. He isn't there, nor can I see him from the junction with Tottenham Court Road. He should be easily identifiable; he was bulky enough, or his clothes were. Once I tire of gazing at the lunchtime crowds I retrace my frustrated steps. It's the quickest route to meeting Natalie for lunch.

As I turn corner after narrow corner the wind blows away my misty breath. An awning flaps beyond an alley, a sound like footsteps keeping pace with me, except that they would be absurdly large. I dodge across Oxford Street behind a bus full of children with painted faces and sidle through the parade of early Christmas shoppers to Soho Square. In the central garden, around which the railings look darkened by rain that the pendulous sky has yet to release, a loosely overcoated man is opening and closing his wide mouth in a silent soliloquy or a tic.

The Choice Cuts restaurant is across the square, next door to the film censor's offices. Three steps up lead directly into the bar, which is decorated with photographs of people who have had problems with the censor, a signed portrait of Ken Russell beside one of an equally fat-faced Michael Winner. Natalie is at a table in a semicircular booth halfway down the darkly panelled room, under a poster that repeats IT'S ONLY A MOVIE. As soon as she sees me she slides off the padded bench. 'Simon, I tried to call you.'

I forgot to switch my mobile on when I left the library. The table bears two drinks besides hers, and at once I know why she looks apologetic. Her greeting might be the cue for the door marked CENSORED next to the bar to open, revealing her parents. 'Was this place your idea?' Bebe says, perhaps before noticing me. 'Oh, hello, Simon.'

'It was mine,' I say. 'What's wrong with it?'

'I could do without the pictures in the comfort station. Warren says his was just as bad.'

'We were in the West End and we happened to call Natalie,' Warren says, closing a hand around my elbow. 'We can leave if you want to celebrate by yourselves.'

'Don't feel you have to leave when you've got drinks.'

'You'll have one for sure.' When I admit to it and identify it Warren tells the barman 'White wine for our guest.'

'I'll join you in a minute.' I feel driven to discover what offences the Gents may be concealing. The white-tiled room proves to feature framed stills from old sex comedies, of performers whose nakedness is obscured by their embraces. There's even the odd nipple, but nothing to hinder my using the nearest urinal. I'm distracted only by a flapping beyond the high window. Is it an injured bird? It sounds more like someone with outsize flat feet repeatedly leaping to try and peer through the grille of the window. I zip myself up as soon as I can and am nearly at the door when something behind me lets out a harsh rattling breath. Of course I strayed too close to the hand dryer.

Natalie's parents are next to her on the plump bench. Bebe pats the space beside herself. 'We ordered for you,' Warren says. 'We have to be out of here relatively fast. Natalie said what she thought you'd like.'

Does he see any connection between his last two sentences? As I take a mouthful of whatever the house wine is meant to be, his wife says 'So do you think that magazine will give your publisher a problem?'

'He's going to make sure it doesn't. He's my old film tutor.'

'He won't be working for the university any more, then.'

'He is, but now he's editing for them as well.'

'I guess relying on the state is safest.'

'We won't be doing that. An old boy has left them all his money to publish art books that'll sell.'

'Let's hope they do. Here's to his memory.' Warren clinks his glass against his family's and at last mine, at which point he asks 'What's the series you're planning?'

'It isn't a series as such, but I've got quite a few books in my head.'

'We thought you'd been commissioned to write a whole series, didn't we, Warren? Tell us what they're about, then, Simon.'

'I'm working on one about people in film who've fallen from grace.'

'You'll know about that.' Bebe finishes her drink and brandishes a finger and her glass for any waiter to respond, then lowers both in my direction. 'Didn't you write about it for your degree?'

'I did, and now Rufus wants me to expand it for publication.'

'You'll need to change it as much as you're able, I suppose.'

'I don't know why you should say that,' Natalie intervenes. 'I thought it was a good read, and Simon's tutor certainly did.'

'Your mother means he'll need to so the university don't think they're getting stuff they already paid good money for.'

'They won't be,' I say and take advantage of the arrival of a waiter to order another drink. 'I'm researching someone they'll never have heard of.'

'Researching,' Warren says. 'What's that going to cost in time and money?'

'As much as it has to, I should think. They'll be paying my expenses.'

'So long as your grant covers it,' Bebe quite unnecessarily says.

'It isn't a grant,' Natalie objects before I can.

'Grant, expenses, whichever. Money the university will be paying to keep him afloat. Do you have a title, Simon?'

'It's They Made Movies Too.'

'That's what you called your thesis, is it?'

'That was Forgotten Filmmakers,' Natalie says. 'This sounds like a real book.'

Though her parents are no more than silent, it feels discontented. I've no idea what I might be provoked to say if I weren't inhibited by the approach of waiters, one bearing glasses, the other with a tray of lunch. I was expecting an appetiser. I know we would have to be seated at the bar to share Canape Apocalypse, but I thought the Hallorans might have ordered the mixed starters, In the Realm of the Senses. My kebab platter is called I Spitted Your Fave, while Natalie has ordered Duck a la Clockwork Orange and her father has chosen Last Grouse on the Left. Bebe inhales the aroma of her Mardi Gras Casserole and lifts her face prettily towards the waiter. 'Smells good, but why's it called that?'

'I couldn't say, madam. I'll have to ask.'

'Don't go anywhere,' Bebe says and turns to me. 'Here's the guy who can tell us.'

'I don't know either, sorry.'

'Oh dear. Maybe you don't know as much about the movies as you think.'

However irrational my reaction may be, the presence of the waiter makes Bebe's comment almost physically unbearable. I blank out for a moment as if my brain has crashed. At least when I regain my awareness, nobody seems to have noticed. Natalie's expression includes sympathy and a plea that I shouldn't lose my temper. I unload a skewer with my fork and lay the pointed shaft along the edge of the plate. I won't be responding to Bebe's challenge here or now, but I'll remember it. I'm all the more determined to put myself and Tubby Thackeray back where we should be on the map.

FIVE - LOST

Mardi Gras Massacre is a 1981 film set in New Orleans, though reportedly you mightn't know until the final reel fills up with carnival footage. Earlier a maniac removes the hearts from three naked women, or rather from the same rubber body double thrice. The film was banned in Britain the year it was made, otherwise even fewer people would have heard of it. Perhaps the management at Choice Cuts should explain the names of dishes to the staff.

While I'm consulting the Internet Movie Database I revisit Tubby Thackeray's page. All the titles are dead and black, with no links to further information, and he doesn't have a message board. I move to abebooks, an assemblage of booksellers, and enter Surrealistes Malgre Eux in the search box. Three shops have the book. The cheapest copy, described as annotated in pencil, is at Le Maitre des Livres in Quebec. I send the details of my credit card and pay for express delivery. Now I just need to be as lucky with Those Golden Years of Fun.