want people to think you're a postman you need to get yourself a uniform.'
'I don't want anyone to think I'm anything but what I am. I'm a writer. Now please let me pass.'
I stride to the door and grab the knob, but the guard doesn't budge. 'I said excuse me,' I say and haul at the door. It has barely stirred when he thrusts out his stomach and deals me a thump with it, so that I'm hardly able to stay on my feet as I stagger backwards. I feel still more idiotic for gasping 'What do you think you're doing?'
'Want to sue me for assault? That'd be a laugh.'
'Just stand out of my way and I'll forget anything happened.' I might as well not have made this immense effort to be reasonable, since he only moves to block the doorknob. 'You're going to look worse than a fool when I report this,' I say less evenly than I would like. 'I've told you I was delivering a book to my publisher.'
'Who are they when they're at home?'
'They're on the board,' I say and mime not needing to look. '6- 120.'
'That's what Loop is supposed to be, is it?'
'London University Press. Rufus Wall and Colin Vernon.'
'Just the two of them? Doesn't sound like much of a publisher.'
'The main operation will be elsewhere.' It must be, and I struggle to ignore the distraction, because it's aggravating a fear of losing control of my words. 'Here, look,' I say, dragging out my wallet to produce my credit card. 'This is who I am.'
He lowers his head like a bull and inverts his grimace. 'Does it work?'
I almost demand how much he knows and from where. 'What do you mean?'
'Meant to think it's real, am I? That's supposed to be your name and you're supposed to be a writer. Can't be much of one if you have to bring your book and I've never heard of you.'
My words are coming apart in my head, and I'm not sure that my rage will help me assemble them. 'How long are you going to keep this nonsense up?' I snarl, tramping forward. 'What do you want to happen to my son?'
'Depends what he's been up to.' The guard protrudes his stomach as he adds 'That's if you've even got a son.'
How many of his random comments are going to happen on the truth? 'This is getting nobody anywhere,' I say and snatch out my mobile. 'I'm calling the police.'
'That should be fun.'
'I neam it,' I assure him and fight to regain at least verbal authority. 'Do you really think a crinimal would call them?'
'A what?'
'Crimimal. Criminimal.' My mouth forms into a mirthless grin that tries to bite back the gibberish. I brandish the phone and shout 'Watch.'
'Wonder who you're really calling.'
'I'll show you the numb, the number.'
'That's another of your tricks, is it? You should be on the stage.'
I thrust the mobile at him, which only makes him advance his stomach further. I'm about to devote all my energy to pronouncing 'You call it' when the phone sets about wishing us a merry Christmas. For a moment I don't know why the displayed number is familiar, and then I recognise Mark's. I almost drop the phone, I'm so desperate to speak to him. 'Where are you?'
His response is a laugh and then more of them. He must be amused because we asked each other the question in chorus, but he sounds close to hysteria. 'I'm stin the buildnig,' I gabble, which I'm afraid may tickle him afresh. 'Where are you?'
'Here.'
'Don't joke juts snow,' I plead, and the handbell – the device in a white plastic box above the door, at any rate – begins to clang.
The guard opens the door about a foot. I can't see past him, but I hear Mark say 'Is Simon there?'
'I'm here, Mark. This fellellow thinks I'm a burlgar, would you believe. He won't let me out.'
While this is directed largely at the guard, it's Mark who responds. He begins by laughing rather too much, and then he raises his voice. It sounds frenzied, perhaps with hilarity. 'Help, anyone,' he cries. 'They've caught Simon Lester. They've trapped him.'
'No need for that, son,' the guard murmurs. 'Keep it down.'
'Help, help.' The rebuke increases Mark's hysteria, mirthful or otherwise. 'They've got Simon Lester in there and they won't let him go.'
'Do you think a crininal would cause a scene like that?' I demand. 'Make sense.'
'Help. Help.' By now Mark's cries are painful to hear. 'He's shut up and it's nearly his birthday.'
The guard swivels his slow head towards me while continuing to block my escape. 'Is that right?'
I can scarcely understand him for Mark's pleas. 'It is, and I wanted to get my work out of the way.'
I don't know what moves him: my insistence on the truth, or Mark's protests, or some motive of his own? As if he's suddenly gained weight he inches forward with lingering ponderousness and edges the door open. 'Go on before I change my mind,' he says and tells Mark 'Here he is for you. Stop that now. This is a quiet neighbourhood.'
I'm barely past the door when it slams behind me. Mark seems eager to speak, but doesn't until we reach Gower Street. As we turn towards the station he says 'That was fun.'
'What was?' I ask, perhaps too sharply. When he doesn't answer I say 'What happened after you ran off?'
'I lost them.'
'You didn't see who it was, you mean?'
'I think I did.'
'What did they look like?'
'Like him,' Mark says and jabs a thumb over his shoulder.
I twist around, but the street is deserted. It takes me a moment to realise 'You're talking about the man who wouldn't let me out.'
'Right, him.'
'How much like?'
'I'm not sure. I only saw him for a moment and he was making a face.'
I won't ask what kind, despite a sudden irrational notion that Mark is referring to the guard. Before long the thought makes me look back again to confirm that the street is still empty. 'Is that clown following us?' says Mark.
'Nobody is that I can see.' I do my best to leave it at that, but feel prompted to remark 'I think I've had enough of clowns for a while.'
'Which ones? Not Tubby.'
'Perhaps even him for a little while.'
This silences Mark all the way to the station. The bulbous mirrors by the ticket barrier inflate his face, which might be reproachful or incredulous – hard to tell, since he isn't speaking. Once we've descended to the platform, at the far end of which several revellers are blowing party hooters and executing a fat random dance, his muteness forces me to say 'When I said clowns I was thinking of the circus.'
'Is there one? Can we go?'
'You liked what you saw so much you want more.'
'Don't you?'
'I think I could live without it.'
This time there's no doubt that his expression is both disbelieving and censorious. 'I thought you liked Tubby.'
'I don't understand. What does what we saw when you came round have to do with him?'
Mark laughs a shade uncertainly. 'He was it,' he says as a hooter rasps derisively and sticks out its paper tongue. 'He's what we saw.'
'On the video, you mean.' When Mark nods I'm able to laugh. 'Sorry, I thought you meant at the circus.'
He more than matches my laughter. 'How could I mean that?'
