The Grin of the Dark Read Online Free PDF

shoulder. When I glance up, sunlight
through the blinds behind him sears my vision. I have the impression
that his face is very pale, at least in part, and unnecessarily large,
perhaps because he's looming so close. As I blink like an unearthed
mole he shuffles out of view beyond the only bookcase, and I head for
the counter, above which a screen announces that a copy of Silent Secrets is awaiting a reader called Moore. 'Did you find what you
wanted?' the librarian says.
    'I was hoping for more, to be honest.' When she tilts her long face
up as though her interrogative smile has lifted it I say 'You won't
have heard of Tubby Thackeray, by any chance?'
    'He does seem to ring a bell.' She ponders and then shakes her
head, displacing her smile. 'I must have someone else in mind. I don't
think I've heard of him.'
    'Some of us have.'
    I turn but can't identify the speaker. None of the readers at the tables
is looking at me, nor at anyone else for having spoken. I'm not even sure
how close the man's voice was. 'What was that?' I ask the librarian.
    'I said I haven't heard of him.'
    'Not you, the other person.' When she looks perplexed I murmur
'The one who just spoke.'
    'I'm afraid I'm not able to help you there.'
    How could she have been unaware that someone was talking so
loud? I'm about to wonder when I realise that every time I've
addressed her she has gazed straight at my lips. 'Sorry, you're, I see,'
I babble and swing around to question our audience. 'Tubby
Thackeray, anybody?'
    Do they think I'm inviting someone to reveal he's the comedian?
Nobody betrays the least hint of having 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