The Overnight Part 1

The Overnight.

Ramsey Campbell.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

In March 2000 I went to work full-time at the Cheshire Oaks branch of Borders. Most of my friends were shocked that I needed to take a job other than writing, though Poppy Z. Brite sent several enthusiastic e-mails. My wife, Jenny, was supportive as always. In the months I worked at the shop I made quite a few friends and conceived this book out of my experience. What more could I ask? Let me thank all my colleagues for helping make my time there so enjoyable: Mary, Mark, Ritchie, Janet, Emma, Derek, Paul, Lisa, Melanie M, Mel R, Mel of the cafe, Craig, Will, Annabell, Angie, Richard, Sarah H, Sarah W, Judy, Lindsay, Fiona, Barry, Laura, Colin, Vera, Millie, Joy, John and Dave. None of them resembles any character in this book, but the lift is a different matter. My editor, Melissa Singer, was once again a fount of useful suggestions. --ix

WOODY.

What time is this supposed to be? He seems hardly to have slept but already there's the travel alarm. No, it's the cordless phone that comes with the house and is forever wandering off. The m.u.f.fled shrilling makes him feel jet-lagged all over again, though it's months since he moved to England. He sprawls out from under the quilt that's meant to protect him from the northern English weather, only to find he's left the phone downstairs. A robe would be welcome, but the tag is twisted around the hook on the door and the phone may not wait. Maybe it's Gina thinking it's daytime this side of the ocean. Maybe she's decided to give his bookstore a chance after all. but already there's the travel alarm. No, it's the cordless phone that comes with the house and is forever wandering off. The m.u.f.fled shrilling makes him feel jet-lagged all over again, though it's months since he moved to England. He sprawls out from under the quilt that's meant to protect him from the northern English weather, only to find he's left the phone downstairs. A robe would be welcome, but the tag is twisted around the hook on the door and the phone may not wait. Maybe it's Gina thinking it's daytime this side of the ocean. Maybe she's decided to give his bookstore a chance after all.

He slaps the switch for the barely shaded light and tramps fast out of the room and down the stairs that aren't quite as wide as a telephone booth. Banisters slick with chilly paint the colour of old teeth creak a warning not to lean on them too hard. The globe over the stairs spends most of its energy just being yellow. He wouldn't have thought, until he walked on it barefoot, that a carpet could be so cold, but it can't compete with the linoleum in the --2 kitchen. The phone isn't in there either. At least renting a house so small n.o.body except Brits would want to own it means there aren't many places for a phone to hide.

It's in the front room, by the chair facing the television that has so few channels it doesn't even need a TV TV Guide. Guide. The stale chocolate curtains are drawn, and he switches on the pink-shaded light on the way to the chair. The phone isn't by it, it's down the side, and what else is he dredging up? A candy wrapper decorated with hair and fluff, a greenish coin so old he doubts it's legal. He turns on the phone with his other hand. "Woody Blake." The stale chocolate curtains are drawn, and he switches on the pink-shaded light on the way to the chair. The phone isn't by it, it's down the side, and what else is he dredging up? A candy wrapper decorated with hair and fluff, a greenish coin so old he doubts it's legal. He turns on the phone with his other hand. "Woody Blake."

"Is that Mr Blake?"

Did he dream he just told the man that? "You got me, sure enough."

"Mr Blake the manager of Texts?"

By now Woody has shaken the sticky paper off his fingers into the dented wastebasket embellished with the same florid paper as the walls. He risks perching his unprotected rear on the edge of the p.r.i.c.kly armchair. "That's what I am."

"It's Ronnie on patrol at Fenny Meadows Retail Park. We've got an alarm at your shop."

Woody's on his feet. "What kind?"

"Could be false. We need someone to check."

"I'm on my way."

He's already past the shadows a flight of plaster ducks left on the stairway wall. Half a minute in the bathroom takes some of the pressure off, and then he's back into clothes that have borrowed a chill from the building. He adds the overcoat that was heavy enough for the Minnesota winter and slams the lumbering front door behind him as he steps onto the sidewalk, which is all of six feet wide. Two strides take him to the car he rented, an orange Honda, though it would be white except for the streetlights that make everything look steeped in pumpkin juice from last week's Halloween. The street--what the Brits call a terrace, houses squeezed together like a red brick --3 concertina with their front windows bulging out--is silent except for him and his orange-tinted breath. The car marks its s.p.a.ce with an ochreous cloud before turning one hundred and eighty degrees, past the Flibberty Gibbet pub that apparently used to be called the Hangman and the premises where half the local men seem to spend their days betting on horses. Half a mile of terraces and traffic signals showing him red lights on n.o.body's behalf takes him out beyond the houses and the sidewalks, past lush verges where dandelions are flowering late in the year and streetlamps colour evergreens autumnal. Two miles of highway bring him to the motorway, the freeway between Liverpool and Manchester. He's hardly topped the speed limit when he has to brake for the exit to the retail park.

He's sure the bookstore has the best position of any business in the half-mile oval. As soon as he drives onto the exit ramp he sees the giant elongated letters spelling TEXTS along the two-storey concrete wall. Fog surrounds the store with a whitish aura. He drives around the outside of the development, past several uncompleted buildings, and through the entrance between the Stack o' Steak diner and the Frugo supermarket. Trios of saplings planted in strips of gra.s.s decorate the blacktop of the parking area. They net Woody's car with shadows cast by floodlights standing guard over the stores--the Stay in Touch mobile phone showroom, Baby Bunting next to Teenstuff, TV'Id with its window full of televisions, the Happy Holidays travel agency sharing an alley with his bookstore. An incessant chirping like the cry of a huge maddened nightbird fills his ears as he parks across three s.p.a.ces in front of the entrance to Texts.

A heavyweight in uniform with a clipboard under his arm plods to meet him. "Mr Blake?" he shouts in a voice as flat as his crew cut and an accent as broad as his earnest humourless face.

"And you have to be Ronnie. Not too long, was I?"

It takes a consultation of his fat Wack wrist.w.a.tch and a --4 good scratch of the scalp to let the guard say "Nearly seventeen minutes."

He's shouting louder than ever, which together with the squalling of the alarm feels capable of crowding all the intelligence out of Woody's head. "Let me j..." Woody yells, gesturing at Texts, and types on the keypad between the handles of the gla.s.s doors. Two twelve one eleven admits him to the mat that says READ ON! between the security pillars. He taps another code on the alarm panel, which is showing a red light for the sales floor, and then there's an aching silence except for a tiny shrill buzz he would blame on a mosquito if he were still working in the New Orleans branch. He hasn't identified the source when Ronnie says "You'll need to sign my board."

"Happy to when I've checked the store. Will you help?"

The guard is clearly daunted by the sight of half a million books, beginning with the table heaped with Tempting Texts beyond the mat. Woody switches on all the lights in the ceiling tiles and turns left past the counter with the cash registers and the Information terminal. "You could take the other side," he suggests.

"If anyone's up to no good I'll fix them."

Ronnie sounds eager to manhandle someone. He sets off fast into and out of Travel and History, where Woody noticed through the right-hand window that the shelf-end promotions are due for renewal--he'll remind Agnes, Anyes as she calls herself, that customers deserve to see something new every time they visit Texts. He's quickly through Jill's Fiction and Literature aisles in front of the left window. There's no hiding place by the side wall full of video ca.s.settes and DVD'S and compact discs, and the shelves in the middle of the floor are no taller than his shoulders. Wilf's section is so tidy you might think n.o.body had time for Beliefs any more, religions or the occult either, but every book has its reader--that's another Texts motto that is international now. Meanwhile, Ronnie's head is dodging back and forth in Jake's Genre Fiction aisles. --5 "Nothing," he says as Woody catches his eye, "just books."

Woody can't help taking this personally. n.o.body should be so unenthusiastic when Texts has a world of books to offer--it bothers him more than the possibility of an intruder. "What kind do you read?" he calls.

Ronnie is in Erotica before he admits "Funny stuff."

"Humour's on the side wall."

Though Woody was playing safe, Ronnie looks as if he's struggling to the conclusion that it was a joke at his expense, and so Woody turns his attention to the back wall, the children's section. Some of the alcoves look as if monkeys had been let loose on the shelves. That isn't how they should be left at the end of the day; he'll need to have a word with Madeleine. n.o.body is lurking behind the chairs in any of the alcoves--it would take a dwarf to do that--but a book is sprawled on its face on the carpet in Tiny Texts. It's a first reading book with a single-syllable word opposite a picture on each of the pairs of board pages. Surely Madeleine wouldn't have left it there; perhaps its fall triggered the alarm. Woody checks that it hasn't been damaged and returns it to its shelf. He has found nothing else unshelved by the time he meets Ronnie beside Tempting Texts.

The guard is poking out his lips at them. Some bestseller appears to have captured his fancy. Woody is about to encourage him when Ronnie slams the clipboard on top of the pile of Ringo Ringo by by Jingo. Jingo. "That's for you, you little p.i.s.ser." "That's for you, you little p.i.s.ser."

However much he hates the Beatles or just the drummer, there's never an excuse for damaging a book--and then Woody sees what the a.s.sault accomplished. A mosquito is twitching its last on the famous nose. Ronnie sc.r.a.pes the insect off with a thumbnail he wipes on his trousers, leaving a snotty trail under Starr's left nostril. "It's all this global warming," Ronnie mutters. "Weather doesn't know where it is any more." --6 Woody cleans the cover with his handkerchief until there 'so no trace of the incident. He's watching the guard pore over inking a letter on the clipboard sheet when the overhead speakers burst into song. "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy..." It's the first track on the compact disc that head office provides to liven up the staff when they're fitting out and stocking a new branch. Woody has to admit it's one of the few things that make him ashamed to be American, and why has it started up? Perhaps a similar glitch in the power supply tripped the alarm. As he turns off the player behind the counter, Ronnie frowns at it. "I liked that," he complains. 'so no trace of the incident. He's watching the guard pore over inking a letter on the clipboard sheet when the overhead speakers burst into song. "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy..." It's the first track on the compact disc that head office provides to liven up the staff when they're fitting out and stocking a new branch. Woody has to admit it's one of the few things that make him ashamed to be American, and why has it started up? Perhaps a similar glitch in the power supply tripped the alarm. As he turns off the player behind the counter, Ronnie frowns at it. "I liked that," he complains.

Woody ignores the implicit request while the guard labours over writing and at last pa.s.ses him the clipboard and a ballpoint fractured by his grasp. FALS ALARM TEXT 'So BOOKSHOP 00.28-00.49, says the whole of the inscription, followed by an inkspot. "Thanks for looking after my store," Woody says as he tries to incorporate the inkspot in the first of his vowels, though this lends it a resemblance to the less blind of a pair of eyes. 'So BOOKSHOP 00.28-00.49, says the whole of the inscription, followed by an inkspot. "Thanks for looking after my store," Woody says as he tries to incorporate the inkspot in the first of his vowels, though this lends it a resemblance to the less blind of a pair of eyes.

"That 'so my job." 'so my job."

He sounds as if he thinks Woody said too much. Maybe he thinks the manager oughtn 'that to be so proprietorial. Woody is tempted to reveal this is the first branch he's managed after working his way up through New Orleans and Minneapolis, but if that didn't mean enough to Gina, why should it to the guard? It was bad enough that she took a dislike to Fenny Meadows, far worse that she couldn't say why. Impressions are no use if you can't or won't put them into words. No doubt Mississippi is where she ought to stay--this wouldn't be her kind of weather. "Okay, I guess we're through for the night," says Woody, realising too late that Ronnie is nothing of the kind. 'that to be so proprietorial. Woody is tempted to reveal this is the first branch he's managed after working his way up through New Orleans and Minneapolis, but if that didn't mean enough to Gina, why should it to the guard? It was bad enough that she took a dislike to Fenny Meadows, far worse that she couldn't say why. Impressions are no use if you can't or won't put them into words. No doubt Mississippi is where she ought to stay--this wouldn't be her kind of weather. "Okay, I guess we're through for the night," says Woody, realising too late that Ronnie is nothing of the kind.

Ronnie drags his shadows past the stores and unoccupied properties towards the guards ' hut next to Frugo as Woody resets the alarm. The floodlights sting his eyes until he climbs into the Honda, but he'll save feeling tired for --7 ' hut next to Frugo as Woody resets the alarm. The floodlights sting his eyes until he climbs into the Honda, but he'll save feeling tired for --7 when his head returns to the pillow. As he speeds onto the slip road, graffiti on the concrete pillars under the motorway meet the headlamp beams, short crude words in primitive letters as giant as the mind behind them is small, he suspects. That's one breed of customer Texts can manage without, and Woody hopes Ronnie and his colleagues will keep them clear until the store has its own guard. Otherwise he's sure his staff are up to any challenge, including the Christmas season, however much more experience they would have brought to it if the store had opened in September. He couldn't have brought that about; the builders overran their schedule. Now he can do everything that's required, though, and he needn't expect less of the staff. It doesn't matter where he lives until he's happy with the store. Maybe that's really why Gina decided against working there: she didn't like sharing his narrow bed, though it didn't stay cold for long. The possibility brings a wry smile to his lips as he drives onto the motorway and the fog sinks into the glow of the retail park. --8

JILL.

Fifteen minutes take Jill 'so Nova out of Bury, where delivery vans have turned the narrow main street into an obstacle course, and onto the motorway past Manchester. A faster quarter of an hour brings her to Fenny Meadows Retail Park. Mist precedes her across the tarmac and trails across the wet green fields towards the distant Pennines, a darker jagged frieze cut out of the grey horizon. She parks behind Texts, whose final plastic letter towers like a giant worm over the car. She touches the photograph of her daughter that's perched above the windscreen mirror. "We can do this, Bryony," she declares. 'so Nova out of Bury, where delivery vans have turned the narrow main street into an obstacle course, and onto the motorway past Manchester. A faster quarter of an hour brings her to Fenny Meadows Retail Park. Mist precedes her across the tarmac and trails across the wet green fields towards the distant Pennines, a darker jagged frieze cut out of the grey horizon. She parks behind Texts, whose final plastic letter towers like a giant worm over the car. She touches the photograph of her daughter that's perched above the windscreen mirror. "We can do this, Bryony," she declares.

The blank concrete alley between Texts and the Happy Holidays travel agency leads straight to the books she's responsible for, or at least to the sight of them through the display window. Fiction and Literature didn't sound too daunting, since Jake has Genre Fiction, but trying to invent shelf-end promotions kept her awake last night. Her seps are going septic, she can't help thinking now, and she still has to concoct a way to promote Brodie Oates, the bookshop's first visiting author. Her doubts must have escaped --9 onto her face, because Wilf looks uncertain how to greet her across the counter. "Don't worry, Wilf," she says and wonders if he too has a reason as she makes for the stafriendroom.

The door to the featureless concrete stairway lets her in once she shows the plaque on the wall her staff badge. Beyond the toilets confronting each other across the pa.s.sage at the top, the stafriendroom door isn't so particular about whom it admits. Though Jill is five minutes early, the rest of her shift is seated at the laminated table in the pale green windowless room. Jill takes her card from the Out rack and slides it along the slit beneath the clock and drops it in the In. Connie gives her a big pink-lipped smile bright enough for a toothpaste ad as Jill sits down. "Ouch," Connie says and twitches her small snub nose at the squeal of the chair on the linoleum. "No rush, Jill. You aren't really late."

Angus makes to hand Jill a copy of today's Woody's Wheedles sheet but s.n.a.t.c.hes his hand back when Connie is faster. For a moment the August tan that's fading from his elongated face turns even blotchier. The weekend figures are the best yet for the branch, and now Woody wants to see the weekday sales increase. "Anybody with ideas, just pin them on the board," says Connie as she deals everyone printouts of the shift rota. "Gavin, that's a monster yawn, you're shelving. Ross, could you put security tags inside anything over twenty pounds? That's price, not weight, but it could be both. Anyes, you can be informative at Information. Jill, you're a till till eleven."

As Jill hurries downstairs she's hoping she'll have time to remind herself of the various routines the till demands, but Agnes is looking for help with a queue. Jin types her staff identification number at Till 2 and rubs her clammy hands together. "Who's next, please?"

A thin but pregnant girl in a floor-length raincoat wants to buy six romances with her Visa card. The codes on the books scan, the till accepts the card, and Jill remembers to 10 lay each book on the pad that neutralises any security tag a manager may have hidden randomly in them. From the heap under the till she peels off a plastic Texts bag that squeaks against her nails and loads it with the books, not forgetting to smile and say "Enjoy them" as she hands the package to the customer. "Who's next, please?" brings her a large man in a small hat of the same p.r.i.c.kly tweed as his suit. He presents Jill with his armful of a single book on fighter aircraft and then a cheque, which she has to feed into the till so that it prints the details of the transaction on the back. The till hums to itself while she pleads silently that it won't shred the cheque. At last the till sticks out its tongue, and she only has to compare signatures--they're not quite the same, but surely close enough--before she writes the guarantee card number under the print from the till. The largest bag only just accommodates the book, and she has hardly finished struggling with them when a young mother, who keeps hoisting a toddler with her left arm, dumps a handful of books on the counter, along with a Texts gift voucher for half their price and a Switch card. She delivers a running commentary on Jill's actions as the till buzzes to itself like an insect all the more dangerous for being half-awake--"Now look, the register's had its breakfast and the a.s.sistant has to give it Patricia's piece of paper that we call a voucher. Now see, the a.s.sistant has to type all mummy's big long number from her card"--and it hardly helps that she has to explain more than once that she isn't calling Jill a sister. "Enjoy your books and come back to see us soon," Jill says at last and takes the chance to tickle Patricia under the chin; at least, she tries, but the toddler draws back. "Thank you," the young woman says briskly and carries both her items out of the shop.

As Jill treats herself to a quiet but expressive sigh, Agnes sidles along the counter from the Information terminal. "Sorry I left you to serve all those people," she slightly more than whispers, stowing her black tresses behind an ear to reveal a thin pale bony cheek mottled by 11 embarra.s.sment. "The computer didn't seem to want to help me find a book."

"Don't worry, Agnes, we're all still learning," Jill says and is resting a look of encouragement on her when the ceiling speaks. "Jill call four, please. Jill call four."

She feels as if Connie has caught her loafing. At least she doesn't have to use the public address system to reply. She doesn't like listening to herself on the speakers, which show up her Mancunian accent as though the voice she hears in her head is a posh costume she can't quite affect, or perhaps one with holes she doesn't notice. When they're connected Connie says "Would you mind taking your lunch now? Wilf wants to shoot out at twelve and Ross does at one."

It's only eleven, and Jill is working until six. At least she'll be able to finish Brodie Oates' novel sooner, and surely then she'll have ideas. She hurries to clock off and open it while the microwave rotates her carton of last night's vegetable chili with a series of m.u.f.fled metallic creaks. The cover of the book is blank except for the author's name and Dressing Up, Dressing Down Dressing Up, Dressing Down lettered in various fabrics: no photograph, just "This is the author's first publication" on the back flap. She hasn't finished the opening paragraph of the final chapter when she glances around to discover who's peering at it over her shoulder, but of course the cold breath on the nape of her neck belongs to the air-conditioning, which also fumbled at a corner of the page. She feeds herself straight from the carton with a fork while she reads. How much of a joke is the ending supposed to be, and on whom? When the man alone in a room removes all his costumes he turns out to have been every character: the Victorian detective whose quarry, the jewel thief, proved to be himself in drag; the sergeant in the First World War who was revealed as his daughter; the mysterious Berlin nightclub singer, her child and a hermaphrodite; the sixties private eye who couldn't decide what s.e.x he was and who discovered these were all 12 lettered in various fabrics: no photograph, just "This is the author's first publication" on the back flap. She hasn't finished the opening paragraph of the final chapter when she glances around to discover who's peering at it over her shoulder, but of course the cold breath on the nape of her neck belongs to the air-conditioning, which also fumbled at a corner of the page. She feeds herself straight from the carton with a fork while she reads. How much of a joke is the ending supposed to be, and on whom? When the man alone in a room removes all his costumes he turns out to have been every character: the Victorian detective whose quarry, the jewel thief, proved to be himself in drag; the sergeant in the First World War who was revealed as his daughter; the mysterious Berlin nightclub singer, her child and a hermaphrodite; the sixties private eye who couldn't decide what s.e.x he was and who discovered these were all 12 his relatives by taking psychedelics and communing with his genes halfway through the book, which then started rewinding itself ... Jill forks up the best mouthful, which she has saved until last, but it's a lump of foil disguised by sauce. She spits it into a sheet of kitchen roll and drops that in the pedal bin, then returns to staring at the book.

The meaning has drained out of the t.i.tle by the time a mouth behind her licks its huge lips. Whoever was about to page must have decided against it, because the speaker falls silent. Surely the t.i.tle has to suggest a promotion-- the initials, even. "May sound like a DUDD, but it's not," or, if she's to be more honest, "Is this a DUDD? Judge for yourselves"... "Did B. O. write a DUDD? Buy it and find out" ... A moment's thought exposes how bad any of these ideas would look, but now the syllable seems to be stuck in her head: not even a proper word, just a lump of less than language. It thumps in her skull like a drum or the start of a headache. Dudd, dudd, dudd, dudd... She's glad to have it interrupted by the sight of Wilf, except that he stands in the doorway as if he's waiting to be told what to do and a.s.sumes she knows. A beaky frown multiplies itself above his patient greyish eyes and long blunt nose before he rubs his broad not unattractively bony face. "So," he says, "er..."

"What can I do for you, Wilf?" "Do you think I could slip away about now?" Jill has to glance at her watch to convince herself what he means. How has she managed to spend an entire hour upstairs? She hasn't even had a coffee, which might have helped rouse her brain. "Sorry, of course, you head off," she gasps as she springs to her feet and makes for the stairs so fast she almost forgets to clock on. At least that means her mind is on the job, she tells herself. At least she's giving all of herself to the shop that she can. Surely that's as much as anyone could ask. 13

MADELEINE.

"Look at all these books. How many books does Dan think there are? Are there lots of books?"

"Lost."

"Not lost, Dan, lots. Dan isn't lost, is he? And these books aren't. Most of these books are on their shelves. These here are shelves. Shelves are where the shop keeps books. Does Dan have shelves at home?"

Shouldn't the boy's father know? He must think talking primers aren't supposed to. He's with his son in Tiny Texts and talking louder than the music even Mad knows is Handel on the speakers. She's in the next bay, Toddlers' Texts, where some of the books are indeed strays thin enough to be waifs and a Teenage Text is sprawling on top of a shelf of simplified fairy tales. Sometimes she thinks the only T to describe her section is Trouble. "Sh.e.l.ls," Dan shouts and giggles just as loud.

"Shelves, Dan. Shall we find Dan a book now? Which book would Dan like?"

"These ones," Dan says, trotting out of the bay in a straightish line. "Nice." 14 Mad has to suppress a snorty laugh, because he's bound for Erotica. Ross catches her eye across the Psychology section but seems unsure whether to expect to share a grin, although they agreed to stay friends. When she responds with a wink he looks away quickly without finishing his grin. He's making for the little boy, who has pulled Sensual Sensual Discipline Discipline off a low shelf, until the father arrives and s.n.a.t.c.hes the book. "Not nice," he says, slapping erotic portfolios on the top shelf with it, and stares at Ross followed by Mad. "Not nice at all." off a low shelf, until the father arrives and s.n.a.t.c.hes the book. "Not nice," he says, slapping erotic portfolios on the top shelf with it, and stares at Ross followed by Mad. "Not nice at all."

She could fancy he has sensed some trace of their relationship, but they've nothing to regret. They aren't going to let any awkwardness develop at work. She's forgetting the solid silky feel of Ross inside her, and the shower gel his p.e.n.i.s tasted of; she has already forgotten how his tanned square blond-topped face looked at no distance at all. She gives him a smile she doesn't mean to be too secret and returns to loading her trolley, which she hopes she's not off more than usual, with misplaced books. Dan's father chooses a book with small words in aloud and marches his son off in step with Handel, and Mad wheels the trolley into Tiny Texts, where she lets out an oh that's close to an ow. Half a dozen shelves are in a worse state than she found when she started tidying.

Ross parts his lips as he ventures over, and she remembers the trace of a flavour of minty toothpaste. "Sorry," he murmurs as he observes the disorder. "I didn't see him doing it. I wouldn't let a kid of mine do that."

"You never mentioned you had any."

"I've not. You know me, I'm cautious." A memory seems to discolour his tan while he adds "I meant if I had."

"I did know that, Ross." If they were still together he would have realised she was teasing, but now she wonders how much they need to be wary of saying. "I'd best get on," she says. "I've still got books to bring down."

She hopes hearing Dan's father hasn't turned her 15 monosyllabic. Once Ross retreats to his territory she tidies the shelves yet again before clattering the books on the trolley into order and filing them where they ought to go. She's at full speed now, which is the way she likes to feel. When she badges herself into the concrete lobby where the shop takes deliveries, however, the lift stops her dead.

Is it the slowest object in the building? She has to jab the b.u.t.ton twice to summon a descending rumble beyond the metal doors. They twitch as a m.u.f.fled female voice that reminds Mad of a secretary says "Lift opening." Two trolleys have been going for a ride in the cage as grey as fog, but there's room for her and hers. She thumbs the Up b.u.t.ton to be told "Lift closing."

"Go on then, there's a good lift."

She could imagine that it waits for her to finish speaking before it shivers its doors and drags them shut. As it shudders upwards the trolleys nudge one another with a sound like someone very young fumbling with a drum. "Lift opening," the voice says as the cage settles at the top of the shaft. The doors fidget, unless they appear to because Mad is staring hard at them. Frustration sends her through the gap the instant it parts wide enough; frustration makes her almost stamp as she and the trolley reach her stock racks. When she began her shift they held no more than an hour's worth of books, but now they're stuffed.

Stamping won't clear them, nor staring either. New books come with the job every day. She sets about loading the trolley so fast she doesn't understand why she's overcome by a shiver. Perhaps the air-conditioning is playing tricks--no, somebody behind her is. She twists around to find Woody watching her from the doorway to the staffroom at the far end of the aisle of metal shelves. The door must have let in a draught as quiet as he was. He fingers the squared-off tail of his flattened turfy hair as if it conceals a switch that raises his equally black eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. "Falling behind?" he calls. 16 "Only if my underwear's not tight enough." Whoever she might say that to, he certainly isn't among them. "Not for long," she tells him.

He pads past the Returns and Damaged racks and nods at her shelves without taking his gaze off them. He looks more patient than reproachful, but there's a hint of pinkishness about his long cheeks, and an extra furrow in his wide forehead. "The public can't buy what they don't see. Nothing should be up here longer than twenty-four hours."

"Just these have." Mad gropes for the books that today's delivery pushed into hiding. She keeps her back to him as he says "If you find you need help, talk to your shift manager."

She wouldn't need it if someone had tidied her section in her absence last night. She'd rather not tell tales about workmates--she can deal with the culprit herself. Woody leaves her to unload her shelves, but she's certain she senses him watching her. She has to laugh at herself, if a little nervously, when she turns and finds she's alone in the stockroom. She steps her pace up, though the books make so much noise on the trolley she wouldn't hear anyone behind her. At last she's able to trundle the books to the lift, where she pokes the Down b.u.t.ton and dodges out. She can imagine feeling trapped by sluggishness if she rode the lift down.

She retrieves her trolley and hauls the door to the sales floor wide, then speeds her books through before thirty seconds can be up and trigger an alarm. By the time the metal elbow tugs the door shut she's in the Teenage bay, where armfuls of books have to be shifted to make room for newcomers. She hasn't quite stopped feeling watched, though Ross isn't watching; he's at a till, while Lorraine is behind the Information terminal. Woody can watch her on the screen in his office if he wants to, in which case he sees her shelve rather less than half her trolley load before six o'clock brings her dinner break.

She leaves the trolley by the delivery doors--trolleys 17 are never to be left unattended on the sales floor in case children play with them and hurt themselves or someone else and Texts is sued, as happened in Cape Cod--and jogs upstairs. She fills her yellow Texts mug from the ivory percolator and sits down with her Frugo dinner. Soya prawn salad sounded tasty, but there's an underlying grittiness that reminds her of picnic food dropped on the ground. She can only persevere with eating out of the plastic carton while she borrows questions from books for her first children's quiz. When Jill clocks off at the end of her shift Mad asks her if the questions are too hard. "Bryony could answer most of those," Jill says with some pride.

"You should bring her. She might win."

"It's meant to be her father's day with her." Jill's large face is always a little too earnest for thirty, and now the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes don't look as if they have been left by smiles. She pa.s.ses a hand over her decidedly red hair that's tamed by a cut just short of severe. "I'll see what she wants to do," she says.

Mad mentions that she and Ross are just friends now, and more of Jill's shift overhear. Gavin unleashes a yawn that hefts his heavy eyelids and stretches his long cheeks past his sharp raw nose towards his pointed stubbly chin, Agnes looks uncertain whether to be sad or brave or both on Mad's behalf. Everyone pretends not to be thinking about Ross as he sprints upstairs. Lorraine is close behind him, and breaks the uncomfortable silence. "Can I sling your books off the trolley downstairs, Madeleine?"

She sounds about to break into a chortle. Mad often thinks that, like Lorraine's laugh that goes with the horses she rides and her accent with ambitions to dissociate itself from anywhere near Manchester, her tone seems forced because her glossy pink lips are smaller than her face needs them to be. Lorraine raises her left eyebrow like the top of a question mark composed of golden fur, and Mad stands up to feed the last of her salad and its carton to the 18 pedal bin. "I'm using it, Lorraine. I'll get back to it now."

"You've not had all your break yet, have you? You don't want to show the rest of us up."

"I don't, but I need to catch up on my shelving."

'Tell management to give you more time on it, then."

Mad washes her mug over the sink heaped with them and plates and utensils. She wipes the mug on a Texts towel and stands it in the cupboard above the sink, and turns to find Lorraine still gazing at her. "I wouldn't need so much time," Mad says, "if somebody had tidied it last night and a few other nights when I wasn't here as well."

Lorraine tilts her gaze up as though she's praying silently or observing her eyebrows, a gesture that provokes Mad to demand "Who was supposed to last night? Was it you, Lorraine?"

The subject of the question widens her eyes but otherwise leaves them how they are until Gavin says "I think it was, Lorraine, was it?"

"It may have been," she says, then glares at him. "Remind us all what it's got to do with you, Gavin."

His yawn may be his answer. It's Ross who comments "Weren't you saying staff should stick together, Lorraine?"

"Gracious me," Lorraine says and follows her blank gaze out of the door. "If the boys are going to gang up I think the ladies had better leave them to it."

n.o.body wants to appear to be trailing after her, but Mad makes for the route through the stockroom. She's limbering up to be the swiftest she's ever been as she wheels the trolley onto the sales floor and into the Teenage alcove, only to halt as if she's been caught by the neck. Half a dozen books, no, more have been turned with their spines to the backs of the lowest shelves since she went for her break.

Did someone think it would be fun to give her more work? She stalks along the alcoves in search of the villain, but there's n.o.body. As she retraces her steps more slowly, daring any more books to be out of place, Ray ambles 19 over from Information. His generously jowly pinkish face has adopted the paternal expression it wears whenever he heads a shift meeting. "Lost something?" he enquires.

"My mind if I have to put up with much more of this."

He runs his hand over his reddish neck-length hair, rendering it even more variously curly. "Of what's that when it's playing for the league, Mad?"

She knows football is second only to his family but doesn't see the relevance just now. "Look what someone did while I was upstairs."

He tramps after her into Teenage and peers where she's pointing. Once he has finished sucking his mouth small and wry he says "Well, I didn't see anyone. Did you, Lorraine? You were over here before."