The Overnight Part 5

Gavin hasn't quite finished a yawn when he says "Isn't there what's his name?"

"I should think there'd have to be," Ray tells Woody like a teacher apologising for a pupil to a headmaster.

"The one who wrote about here," Gavin insists. "Somebody Bottomley."

"Okay, Agnes, Anyes, that's your section. Find out what there is to know and tell Connie," Woody says. "All right, we need to move this along. I'm keeping you guys off the floor. Think promotions and events and give them to Connie by let's say three o'clock, but there's another way I hope you can all help. The chief and her squad will be here from New York to see how we're shaping up in less than two weeks. We're going to show them every book in order on the shelves and as tidy as the day before we opened, and not a single item in the stockroom."

"Can we manage that?" Jill says.

"Good to hear from you again, Jill, and the simple answer is I'm asking everyone to work all night the night before the big day."

"Count me in," Greg says at once. 68 "I'll have to see who could look after Bryony," says Jill.

"Are we getting double time?" Lorraine asks.

'Time and a half," Woody says. "That's everyone, me included. You know I'll be here."

When n.o.body responds at once, he clears his throat so sharply Jake imagines it must hurt. "No absolute urgency," Woody says. "I'll put up a sign-up sheet so people can commit once they've cleared their schedules. Ray?"

"I'll be on it, don't worry."

"No, I mean will you a.s.sign jobs? Just remember," Woody adds as his gaze snags on each of them, "anything you do to help the store is helping you as well. It's the public that keep us employed."

As he heads for his office at last, Connie takes his place. "Provocative window, Jill," she says. "I think that's the word."

"So long as it gets people's attention, would you say?"

"And brings them in. I haven't seen too many tickets going yet. When I've done my leaflets you could all make sure you give one to every customer, and it wouldn't hurt to start telling them now who they'll be able to meet."

Jake sees Greg struggling on behalf of the shop to overcome his aversion to the idea. A laugh that tastes like a sneeze catches in Jake's nostrils as Ray dispatches him to shelve books. He's the first into the stockroom, where a hollow clapping of ca.s.sette boxes on the Returns shelf greets him--his entrance must have disturbed them. The skeletal shadows of the few empty racks twitch almost imperceptibly beneath the fluorescent lights, one of which is unsettled, buzzing like a torpid insect. His shelves are heaped with romances; books all the colours of candied sweets are close to toppling off the edge. He fetches a trolley from outside the lift, which for an instant he fancies he hears uttering a single word, and trundles it to his racks. He grabs the first heap of romances to turn it horizontal on the trolley, and the pile behind it spills backwards, sprawling in all directions wherever there's room. "Don't be 69 damaged," he pleads, and manages not to knock down any more as he reaches for the books. He inches his fingers behind the bulk of them, and his fingertips encounter an object squashed behind them.

It's as cold as the wall it slithers down. It seems to writhe away from his touch as he recoils so hastily that a stack of romances topples onto his chest. It must have been a book, however much larger it felt, as well as too clammy and obese and not even flat enough to begin with. He's already unsure how much he imagined or what sound he emitted that brings Ross into the stockroom. "That was truly camp, Jake," he says. "Were you calling for help?"

"What does it look like?"

"Here's some." As he grabs the topmost books from the pile against Jake's chest he b.u.mps Jake's nipple with his thumb, perhaps to demonstrate he isn't threatened. "How did you end up like that?" he amuses himself by asking.

"Something fell down at the back I couldn't seem to reach."

"Shall I try?"

"That'd be more than sweet of you."

Ross leans across the shelves and gropes blindly about until Jake begins to grow afraid for him. He's breathing fast and shallowly, which appears to disconcert Ross, when Woody hurries in to demand "Who was making that noise?"

"n.o.body," Ross objects and renders his voice manlier by half an octave. "We were just talking."

"We had a bit of a panic," says Jake. "Over now."

Ross drops an armful of books on the trolley. "I expect you shouldn't try to handle too much all at once, Jake."

"I'm not sure what I'm seeing here," Woody says. "Ross, you need to deal with your own section before you start lending a hand."

He watches Ross find a trolley and take it and his increasingly red face to the video racks. He doesn't return to the office until both Ross and Jake are busy with their 70 stock. Jake's hands start to feel grimy with apprehension as he reaches further into the gloom in the depths of his shelves. He s.n.a.t.c.hes the last books away from the wall to reveal nothing but concrete, bare except for a faint muddy shapeless stain. Whichever book unnerved him by slipping away from him, he must have retrieved it without knowing.

All four shelves of the trolley are br.i.m.m.i.n.g with romances, and more are piled on top. Jake has seen funerals move faster than he dares to wheel them to the lift. He inches the trolley between the doors as soon as they're wide enough. As he steps in and thumbs the grubby b.u.t.ton, Ross tries to catch him up. "Lift opening," the mechanical voice promises, only for the doors to close. The cage lumbers downwards and shudders to a halt before it repeats itself in, Jake thinks, not nearly so female a voice. Is the source already wearing out, or the lift itself?

He has pushed less than a foot of trolley clear of the doors when they clamp themselves on it. Bruising his thumb on the b.u.t.ton fails to shift them, and when he wrenches at them he feels as though his fingers are sinking into mud, an impression the greyish dimness aggravates. Of course the doors are edged with rubber, and after not much of a struggle they sidle apart. He runs the trolley out so fast that two books with hospital staff on the covers are left behind. As he picks them up he's fearful that the doors will seize the opportunity to shut him in, though why should that make him so apprehensive? He lurches upright and darts out to lay the books on top of the trolley, then pulls open the door to the sales area and trundles his burden out just soon enough to prevent the alarm from squealing about him.

He's hardly begun to sort the contents of the trolley when Ross emerges from the lobby with another full of computer manuals. "Sorry it shut. I didn't mean to keep you out," Jake calls, which brings him a forgiving grin 71 from Ross. It looks uneasy too, perhaps because the new guard is staring at them both with some distrust. As Jake wonders if he should save Ross from any further misunderstanding, Greg marches up to the guard and thrusts out a hand. "I didn't get the chance to introduce myself before. I'm Greg."

"Frank," the guard discloses and shakes the hand while he does.

"You'll have met the boss," Greg says in the tone of a second in command. "Do you know the others here? That's Ross. Angus. Madeleine, she's usually in the children's section. That's Lorraine just joining the rest of us." With a pause to quarantine the information, he adds "That's Jake."

"We've met."

Frank's lack of enthusiasm provokes Jake to shout "We hit it off right away, didn't we? I'm only sorry I didn't get to hold your hand like Greg."

They stare at him with a dislike so identical he thinks it's as dull as the fog. For a moment he even imagines that the advancing murk beyond the doorway behind them has been attracted by the prospect of a quarrel, or something in the fog has; certainly he feels spied upon. Perhaps it's Woody at his office monitor or just the thought of him. It's enough to single Jake out until he turns back to his shelving and forces himself to ignore it, along with Greg and Frank and anyone else who disapproves of him. At seven there'll be Sean, but for now there are the colours of the bunched spines, colours he can almost taste as he wields the alphabet: cherry, orange, lime, lemon... It doesn't seem to matter that he's reducing the books to little more than blocks of pastel and himself to the kind of stereotype too many of his colleagues may a.s.sume he is, more a decorator than a bookseller. All he knows is that the colours are helping to fend off the greyness that has closed around the shop and, if he let it, around his mind as well. 72

ROSS.

When Mad returns from being called away by Woody her face looks as though it's hiding a mask that's capable of rendering her thoughtful bemus.e.m.e.nt blank. Ross recalls those layers of expression from when she was deciding to end the relationship. He's no nearer knowing if they mean he's expected to ask a question, but as soon as her gaze happens to encounter his, it draws him over to Teenage Texts. "What did he want?" he murmurs.

"Seems I shouldn't have announced Jake's boyfriend had to go."

Lorraine takes issue with this, though Ross isn't sure if it's Mad's comment that has attracted her from Information or the sight of him with Mad. "Why shouldn't you?" Lorraine demands.

"I was supposed to call Jake to the phone because the message wasn't for the public. I just thought I was saving time."

"If you ask me management won't let you win. I'll bet Woody would have been in a sulk if you'd called anyone 73 away while he was trying to persuade us to lose our sleep."

Lorraine and Mad are regarding each other as though they're competing at sweetness, yet Ross feels they're most aware of him; he feels like a device they're using to communicate. "I don't mind working all night," he says. "Could be an experience."

"Why do men feel they have to prove they can do things there's no need for?"

"I don't think that really fits, does it?" says Mad. "I'm on the sheet with Ross."

"Oh, are you?" says Lorraine as though she couldn't be less interested. "Anyway, if you want anything from me I'm not far."

"I think I've forgotten why I would, Lorraine," Mad says.

"We call it sticking together, those of us that do. We need to when the shop doesn't hold with unions. If we let ourselves put up with even little things they'll just get worse."

"That one wasn't little, it was microscopic. I'd have forgotten it by now if you hadn't joined in. Sticking together has to be good, though. When you're in my section it would be great if you could give it a bit of a tidy if you see anything out of place."

"There's a few of those around the shop," Lorraine says more meaningfully than the words can really bear, and more than Mad bothers to acknowledge. She leaves Lorraine a smile so faint it contradicts itself as she returns to pulling out books that are leaning their spines against the Teenage wall in imitation of their readers. As Lorraine stalks back to Information, whatever she's h.o.a.rding up to say seems to trail over Ross like a shadow. No wonder he feels safest shelving his computer books.

Quite a number of the manuals are at least twice the size of most of the rest of the stock, but though that means he has fewer items in a trolleyful, it also needs him to make more s.p.a.ce for each. He has to move the contents of 74 three shelves to fit just one guide to Linux in, and once he finishes lugging the books about he has to shift the subject markers. Without the dozens of plastic tags that name systems and languages and applications and every aspect of the Internet, he would have no idea where anything belongs. He's attempting to memorise at least some of the order when the phones begin to ring.

The ten-second rule says that every call should be answered by then. Lorraine is bagging books for a man in a puffy anorak, and so Ross hurries to the phone at Information. "Texts at Fenny Meadows, Ross speaking, how may I help?"

"Chief there?"

Ross seems to have heard the woman's voice before. "May I ask who's calling?"

"He'll know. He'll be seeing me."

He isn't sure if he should take her brevity for rudeness--her voice is oddly stiff. "Still light, is it?" it apparently costs her an effort to ask. "Dark here."

Perhaps she's tired. "I'll just put you on hold," he says, and does so before thumbing the Page b.u.t.ton. "Woody call ten, please. Woody call ten."

He has barely replaced the receiver when it shrills. "What can I do for you, Ross?"

"There's a caller on line one for you."

"With a name, maybe?"

"She wouldn't say."

"Always get a name and give yours."

"I told her mine. She said you'd know her. I think she's calling from abroad."

"I believe you could be right. Thanks, Ross."

Ross tramps back to his shelves to find s.p.a.ce for another blocky volume. As he rearranges books he hears a m.u.f.fled fitful panting huge enough to be audible through the delivery lobby. Soon a giant or somebody with ambitions to be as loud as one starts pounding on the outer door. Ross is moving to respond until he hears the door 75 clank open. He has made room for one more manual when Woody appears from the lobby, outside which Ray is loading cartons onto a pallet truck from a lorry that's adding exhaust fumes to the fog. Ross has the impression that the fumes are hardly moving, instead thickening the murk. The inner door shuts as Woody strides over to him. "What did you do to my call?"

"Nothing. Put it through."

"Nothing sounds more like it. There wasn't anybody."

"I said I was putting her on hold. She'd understand that, wouldn't she?"

"She'd have to be kind of stupid not to," Woody says and stares at him as though Ross implied it was the case.

"I meant if she was American." Ross sees Lorraine straining to listen and turns away for fear she'll intervene before he says "Maybe she lost the connection."

"I guess then she'll call back. What did she say to you exactly?"

Ross is going nowhere near Woody's last word. "She'll be seeing you, I think she meant soon."

"Really. That is news." Woody glances from his watch to the phone, and Ross deduces that he's reminding himself that no personal calls should be made from the shop. "Anyway, back to work," Woody says. "I need a hand unloading the new stock. I'll try and find you an extra hour to finish shelving."

Clearing the trolley will take more than an hour, but Woody is already on his way. "Bring that with you," he says over his shoulder and admits them to the lobby as Ray shuts the outer door with a clank. "We'll take over now, Ray," Woody says. "You're busy enough."

He jabs the b.u.t.ton by the lift. "You can leave the cart here," he tells Ross as Ray heads upstairs and the lift speaks. "If anyone needs it they'll let you know."

Ross is trying to decide how recently he heard the voice beyond the doors. He's about to risk a question when Woody says "Can you grab that?" 76 He's leaning on the handle to release the brake and push the pallet truck into the lift that is only a few inches wider, but one of the uppermost of the cartons has started to topple. Ross squeezes between the entrance to the lift and the contents of the truck to clamp the topmost cartons of all four stacks between his arms. He presses his forehead against the insecure carton, which is as cold as the fog it smells of. "Better hold on till we get upstairs," Woody says.

Ross shuffles backwards into the lift as the truck advances until his spine thumps the rear wall. "Okay?" says Woody and pokes the up b.u.t.ton. The voice of the lift still sounds m.u.f.fled as a laugh somebody is hiding behind a hand; it must be blocked by the cartons that are all Ross can see or feel or smell. When he opens his mouth he tastes cardboard and fog. "Was t..."

The lift jerks as it sets about hauling itself upwards. The truck lurches perhaps no more than an inch towards him, enough to pinion him against the wall. "Okay?" Woody says again.

"I should be." A carton has trapped the left side of his face against the icy metal wall, but at least that leaves most of his mouth free to shout "Who did we hear just then?"

"All I heard were you and the elevator. Who do you mean?"

"The lift," Ross yells, though his squashed nose is struggling to breathe. "Whose voice is it?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Came with the elevator."

The lift jerks again, and the carton grinds Ross's face against the metal. "Can you pull it away a bit?" he's barely able to shout.

"No room to let the brake off. Don't worry, nothing can move."

Cartons are crushing Ross's chest now. They're robbing him of the last of his breath and any chance to take another. "Please," he gasps, but it travels no farther than the 77 darkness that's a carton leaning on his face. The announcement that the lift is opening sounds so m.u.f.fled it might be underground, and he no longer cares how much the voice reminds him of Woody's caller on the phone-- they couldn't have been so similar. In a few seconds the lift carries out its promise, and in a few more Woody manages to release the brake. Ross staggers forward, clinging to the stacks of cartons. "Just drop it," Woody says as he halts the truck at the unloading bin, then peers at Ross. "Everything okay?"

"Will be."

Once Ross has filled his lungs so hard they ache he dumps the carton on top of the bin, which is the size of a table for four and crowned with thick wire mesh. Woody slices through the parcel tape with a knife and inverts the carton. When he lifts it, armfuls of books are left standing on the mesh while the packing falls into the bin with a tinkle of polystyrene. Before Ross has picked up a single book Woody deals at least a dozen onto the stockroom racks. By the time Ross begins placing a handful Woody has grabbed another pile and lets his gaze slump on his a.s.sistant's meagre burden. Ross tries to match his speed, heaping books against his bruised chest, which they chafe as he dodges from rack to rack, scarcely glimpsing the t.i.tles as he divests himself of them: Insects Have Rights Too; The Royal Corgi Annual; Collectible Hotel Freebies; Jesus Was a Joker: Puns and Wisecracks of Christ; Chat Shows that Changed the World; To Boldly Split: English as It Insects Have Rights Too; The Royal Corgi Annual; Collectible Hotel Freebies; Jesus Was a Joker: Puns and Wisecracks of Christ; Chat Shows that Changed the World; To Boldly Split: English as It 'so Spoke... Ross has helped sort three cartons' worth, though Woody is leaving him even further behind, when Connie wanders into the stockroom. "Help," she remarks. "More books." 'so Spoke... Ross has helped sort three cartons' worth, though Woody is leaving him even further behind, when Connie wanders into the stockroom. "Help," she remarks. "More books."

"That's what Christmas means." Woody slashes a carton and tips it up. "Coming to help, did you say?"

"Still working on events. I'm afraid Adrian Bottomley won't be one. I asked him if he'd like to do a signing, and he seemed fine with it till I mentioned where we are." 78 "Don't stop," Woody tells Ross, who has halted to listen. "What's wrong with that?" he says just as sharply to Connie.

"I got the impression he didn't think enough people would turn up to make it worth his while."

"Screw him and anyone that doesn't want to be part of the team. Okay, see what else you can put on our leaflets." When she hesitates, Woody says "You can leave us alone. I guess we're both safe."

Connie grins in case she's meant to but looks puzzled as she exits. Woody is recalling how he fancies he caught Ross and Jake together, of course. Ross can't think how to deal with this; his mind seems entirely occupied by the process of sorting books. Indeed, it doesn't occur to him to check the time until Woody opens the last carton but one. "Getting tired?" Woody enquires as Ross consults his wrist.w.a.tch.

"It's supposed to be my break."

"Want to finish this first? Shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes."

Ross imagines Lorraine's reaction if she even suspected him of agreeing to that. He does so mutely nonetheless, and the task is finished not too long after Woody said it would be. "I guess that won't have hurt your appet.i.te," Woody tells him.

Does he eat in his office? Ross has never seen him do so in the staffroom or even help himself from the percolator, which presents Ross with a gush of coffee so strong that an inch of milk still leaves it resembling mud. As Woody returns to his office Ross fetches from his locker the ham sandwiches he made last night while his father loitered in the kitchen as if he was close to finding a way to help. He drops them on the table and opens the crinkled foil they're wrapped in before flattening a cybergaming magazine beside them. If Mad saw him now she might emit a single tut and bring a plate to slip under the sandwiches; Lorraine 79 would shake her head and her ponytail at the sight of the kind of magazine she says only men read. He finds himself willing them both to stay downstairs. He should have realised asking Lorraine out would lead to problems.

Enjoy your episodes, his father says. They're what life's made of. Don't expect to spend it all with one person; that's not natural. He sees this is his father's method of dealing with the way his wife left him with three-year-old Ross and never came back from a holiday with girlfriends that was meant to be just a break--it justifies how his father has never lived with anyone except him for longer than a few months since--but it feels right to Ross too. It was why he took his chance with Lorraine when she surprised him with friendliness, but should he have been no more than friendly? Is he bound to antagonise either her or Mad? Struggling to think about them reduces him to gazing at pictures of computerised fights while he sticks food in his mouth. When he hears Woody utter a sound too savage to have time for words, for a moment it seems to be expressing his own frustration. "What is it?" Connie cries.

"Little--was Whatever else Woody might have said he leaves behind as he flings the door to the stairs wide and bounds down them, missing every other one. Connie's startled gaze catches Ross's as she swivels her desk chair and peers into Woody's office. "We've been invaded," she says as though she doesn't understand what she's seeing.