'It was a bit like him in some ways, don't you think?'
'I don't know,' Mark says and giggles again. 'I didn't see it.'
'When didn't you? What do you mean?'
I can't tell if he's amused by the questions or by my emitting far more syllables than they need. 'Ever,' he manages to say. 'We never went.'
He's making some kind of joke. However unfunny I find it, it needn't bother me. 'What did we do, then?'
He grins as if he thinks I'm the joker. 'Walked all over the park like it was a maze, but the circus wasn't there. And then mum called you and picked us up.'
I feel as if everything – his widening grin, the vast cold breath of an approaching train, the revellers protruding extra tongues as if they're portraying frogs – is about to vanish like an image that can no longer keep up its pretence. I clutch at a memory that seems capable of saving me. 'Hold on, Mark. She asked how it was and you told her it was funny.'
'The film was. Tubby's film.'
'I know which film we saw.'
My words are carried off by the wind of the train – I'm not even sure I hear them for its thunder. I can only follow Mark into the carriage. As he sits opposite me I expect him to be grinning more widely than ever, but his eyes look concerned despite his mouth. 'You were only kidding about the circus, weren't you?' he says.
'That's right, just kidding,' I say and wonder which of us is deceiving the other, if we aren't both part of an elaborate trick, but by whom? The revellers wave us off, sticking out their eager tongues in a raucous chorus. 'Let's be quiet now,' I say as the train speeds into the dark.
The harder I struggle to recall details of the circus, the more I seem to be imposing similarities on my surroundings. At Farringdon someone ducks his head between his legs, but he isn't about to stand on it. As the train pulls out of Barbican a man starts miming a comic song, except that the window must be robbing him of sound. At Moorgate a lanky man in flapping clothes runs alongside the carriage, but he can't be so tall that he needs to crouch to grimace at us. At Liverpool Street a child is sitting on a man's shoulders – just sitting, not hopping up to stand on them before perching on the man's head. At Aldgate I try to establish who's laughing without the slightest pause for breath somewhere down the carriage, but lurching to my feet shows me nobody. Perhaps I should have concentrated on the platform, since I'm left with the fancy that the faces and expressions of the spectators on it were too nearly identical. Light after light sails by in the tunnels between stations, so that the windows seem to flicker like an old film. Whenever I catch Mark's eye he renews his grin as if he's savouring my joke all over again – mine or someone else's. Such thoughts are dangerous: they make everything feel untrustworthy, Mark included. If I somehow imagined the circus, how much does it matter? Thackeray Lane seemed uncertain whether he'd had a similar experience. Perhaps if I write about both I'll be able to grasp them or at least my own. Writing is one way to make sense of the world. Just now I want nothing more than to be at my desk, where I'll be able to regain some kind of control.
At Tower Hill I tramp up the escalator ahead of Mark. In the unassertive light of the puffy whitish sky everything – the roads, the office blocks, the Tower, passers-by in the mood for a new year, ourselves – looks less substantial than I would prefer. That's a problem of my consciousness, but if I'm receiving an imperfect image, how close is it to reality? I need to narrow down my thoughts to put them in order, but we're hardly in the apartment when Mark says 'What shall we do now?'
'Something by ourselves for a while, I'd like.'
'Shall we play my Christmas game?'
'You go ahead. It's just for one person, isn't it?'
'You ought to see. It's like a maze with no way out.' Perhaps he notices that the prospect fails to appeal, because he says 'Can I watch Tubby, then?'
'I suppose so. Where's the disc?'
'In my room.'
I may take that up with him or Natalie later. 'Go ahead,' I say for now, making for my desk.
I don't know how long I stare at the blank screen. If I'm looking for peace in its featurelessness, it only reflects my confusion. I need to deal with anything that's waiting. I log on and delete a mass of emails from unknown senders with subject lines I won't even try to decipher. Or did the nonsense conceal words I ought to have recognised? I'm not going to make my skull feel even thinner by straining to recall. I wish I didn't have to check the newsgroups.
Sillent round here now, isn't it? Maybe Mr Questionnabble's deccided he doesn't exist, or maybe he's hoping we'll think he never did. He wasn't at his pubblishers when I went, and Mr Cee Vee who we're suppossed to think is his edditor wasn't either. There was just me, so I win. Anyboddy dissagree? Maybe Mr Questionnabble's too busy just being himself and coppying from www.tubbysfilms.com.
He's posted the correct address this time. My innards twitch as I follow the link, to be confronted by the improved opening of my first chapter. I scroll through it and see there's more – far more. I clench my teeth until my jaws become a single ache, and then my mouth stretches into some kind of grin as I read the first words of the next chapter.
Let stalk about Ubby in Howwylud. Hiss firts flim – hiss debboo – scalled 'The Bets Messy Din'. Snowed in, sno din, bcos snows hound, sno sound. Cy lent sinny Ma, C? Bet messy dinno dat or May B thaw tit was all flims worm N 2B...
It's unbelievably childish nonsense, and as it gets worse I start to clap and laugh. Perhaps my mirth is a little too wild, especially since I can't tell when it starts to be underlined by giggling at my back. I jerk my head around and see Mark in the doorway. 'What are you reading?' he splutters.
'Maybe it's the new language. Maybe soon we'll all be talking like that.' I scroll through as much as I can stand – by no means all, it looks like. 'It's some idiot's idea of a joke, I suppose. Fun for a while, but here's the real thing,' I say and bring up my chapters on the screen. I open the second one, and then I let go of the mouse before it shatters in my fist.
Let stalk about Ubby in Howwylud. Hiss firts flim – hiss debboo – scalled 'The Bets Messy Din'...
It's word for word, and it goes on for chapter after chapter. My eyes feel like hot coals that are about to turn black while my head pounds with the effort to think of an explanation. Mark is laughing hard enough for both of us. I control myself to some extent before I turn on him. 'It was you, wasn't it?' I say through my teeth.
FORTY-SEVEN - SOMEONE ELSE
I'm ready with a smile as I hurry down the hall to greet Natalie. 'You look pleased with yourself,' she says. 'Did you deliver your book?'
'All of it I've had a chance to write.'
'That's what I was asking. You took it to Colin.'
'It's in safe hands. It will be. It's safe.'
She waits to be sure I've finished before she says 'Well, are you going to let me in?'
I feel as if we've been staging a performance for an audience across the hall. Was there movement beyond the spyhole – a flicker like an eyelid? 'Carry you over the threshold if you want,' I say.
'No, just let me in. I've had a long day.'
'They've been working you hard, have they?'
'It wasn't only work.'
I stare at her face and her profile and the back of her head, none of which prompts any further explanation, and so I have to ask 'What was it, then?'
'Oh, Simon.' She moves her shoulders but doesn't turn. 'Perhaps we were finding you something special for your birthday,' she says.
'We.'
'That's right, me and someone at the magazine.'
Could that be Mark's father? I'm not going to enquire. Presumably whatever she bought is in her handbag, unless it's hidden in the car. 'I hope it didn't take you away from your work too much,' I say.
