The Overnight Part 9

Connie senses he hopes that will disqualify him, but Woody says "That's going to take you what, five minutes at your speed? We'll carry the seats down and you follow as soon as you're done. Gonna help me, Connie? Jill needs to be shelving."

"You go first, Jill." Connie feels absurd for saying this as they reach the doorway, because she's too aware of trying to establish she's still a manager. She stacks four chairs to Woody's seven as Wilf sinks into the last one with the Brodie Oates book. "Lots of new books for you, Jill, and don't forget Lorraine's," she can't or at any rate doesn't resist saying on her six-legged way through the stockroom.

"I'm not about to forget her."

Woody plants his stack before the lift and knuckles the b.u.t.ton. "See to these while I tell the group everything's on its way, can you?" he says. "I'll catch you at the bottom."

The rapid trapped staccato of his footfalls on the stairs is brought to an end by the clank of the bar on the door, and then Connie hears the lift hauling itself upwards. Beneath its creaks there's another sound: a woman's m.u.f.fled voice. Whoever she's addressing seems unable to get a word in, or is she the voice of the lift? If Connie pressed her ear against the door she might hear what's being said, but before she can bring herself to do so the lift announces that it's opening and twitches wide.

She isn't sure why she doesn't quite trust it. She props a chair against the double thickness of the door and 115 transfers the stacks by degrees into the lift: four, three, three. As she ventures in to push the b.u.t.ton, she's poised to dodge out again. The lift tells her it's closing and is meant to wait a few seconds for anyone who's entering. Instead the eager door shoves the chair at her, and there isn't room for her to sidle past it. As she flings the chair aside she realises she ought to have used it to force the lift open. She's certain she has trapped herself, but she scrambles out and almost falls headlong as the door snaps shut at her back.

She stares as if that may convince Jill she either didn't stumble or intended to. Did she hear the briefest pause, almost like a stifled giggle, between the syllables of the second word the lift p.r.o.nounced? It must have been a fault in the mechanism. She trots downstairs as Woody reappears from the sales floor. "Should be a lively discussion," he says. "They aren't just readers, they're a writers' group."

Connie refrains from imagining that he receives a m.u.f.fled answer from within the lift. It must have said it was opening, because after a pause that makes him click his tongue as though summoning an animal, it does. "Oh, I thought someone was in here," he says.

She a.s.sumes that's a rebuke for leaving the chairs unattended. The one she threw aside has fallen over. He plants it on the heap of three and loads them with three more, and strides out with his arms locked under them while she dashes to retrieve the others. Woody must think she wants to match his speed. He holds the door to the shop open just long enough for her to slip through. "Here we are, everyone," he calls. "Please take a seat."

As Connie follows him into the Teenage alcove, the people she saw wandering the aisles and lingering over books converge. Most of them are old enough to travel free of charge, apart from two young women who succeed in looking both intense and timid. Once the chairs are arranged in an oval the oldest of the group, a short stout woman with hair plaited like a greying cake, who's wearing voluminous green slacks and a cardigan so 116 multicoloured it borders on the biblical, remains standing. "Are you both talking to us?" she elects herself to ask.

"Our volunteer's on his way, ma'am." Woody is staring at the door as if this may conjure Wilf when Agnes calls overhead "Manager to counter, please. Manager to counter."

She needs someone to authorise a refund to a teenager with stubbly pimples who has returned a concert video by Single Mothers on Drugs. As Connie initials the voucher, Wilf emerges from hiding. "Here's our champion reader," Woody announces, which seems not to appeal to Wilf, and makes for the tills as the customer, having crowned himself with a motorcycle helmet, tramps out of the shop. "What happened there?" Woody demands.

"What did he say was wrong, Anyes?"

"No music on it, and it didn't look like a concert either."

Woody frowns as if he thinks Connie should have learned at least that much before authorising any refund, and then he grabs the tape. "I'm going down to the video store to look at this."

As soon as he's out of the shop, Agnes says "Connie, don't you think we should all go to the funeral?"

"We can't, can we? Somebody needs to be here."

"Couldn't we close for it would only be a couple of hours or so? Don't you think Lorraine is worth that much?"

"There's no use saying that to me, Anyes. It's Woody you'd have to persuade."

"I thought you might ask him if you thought it was important."

"I'm sure you can. You seem capable enough," Connie says while she tries to hear what's happening in the Teenage alcove. The woman with the greyish ma.s.s of plaits has folded her arms so fiercely she appears to have no b.r.e.a.s.t.s and is pointing one forefinger at Wilf. "What's your interpretation?" she's saying in a teacher's schoolyard voice. "It's your choice of book."

"It isn't really. The girl who chose it isn't, isn't here."

"It's your shop's choice, and you're the shop. We only 117 bought it because we were told. Hands up anyone who would have otherwise." She rubs her lips together for the instant during which she shakes her head at the tentative gestures of the two young women. "So explain why you set it if it wasn't just someone's idea of a joke," she challenges Wilf.

"It could have been the author's, some of it anyway, do you think? He'll be here next week in person if you want to ask him."

"We're asking you. Your boss says n.o.body reads like you. What do we all want to know?"

"What the ending's meant to mean," says one young woman, and the other nods.

"The ending," their spokeswoman cries decisively and jerks her open hands at Wilf, paroling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "We'd all like to hear what he makes of that, wouldn't we?"

A murmur of general agreement is combined with laughter bereft of mirth. Wilf sits forward on his chair and lifts his gaze clear of his audience, only to catch Connie's eye across the sales floor. He glances hastily away and blinks at n.o.body in particular as he mumbles "Maybe it depends how you understand the rest of the book."

"How do you?" the second young woman is eager to discover, but is overruled. "We'll come to that," the organiser says. "We want to know what we're expected to get out of the very last paragraph."

"What did you all think? Did you have different ideas?"

"Let's hear yours first. Your boss said if anybody could make sense of it you could."

Connie has stayed behind the counter so as not to embarra.s.s him, but she needs to deal with the events leaflets. She's pacing sidelong when his eyes meet hers again. His trapped stare feels as if it's desperate to clutch at her. "I can't," he says and lurches to his feet like a puppet hoisted by its mottled head. He stumbles between the chairs and seems about to flee behind the scenes, then abruptly veers towards Connie. "Could someone else possibly do this?" he pleads. 118 "What is it, Wilf?"

"I'm..." He wags his fingers in front of his face and pinches the air as if he's trying to drag something out of his brain. "I've ...8 "It'll be a migraine, will it?" Agnes tells him.

"I don't know, I've never had one," he says, then peers at her with something like grat.i.tude. "Before," he adds.

Connie wonders if Agnes means to adopt Lorraine's role of speaking up for her colleagues even if they haven't asked her to. "Are you really not going to be able to carry on, Wilf?"

His eyes glisten like the shrouded tarmac outside. "I'm sorry. I'm letting everyone down."

Presumably that's a yes. Connie would take charge of the reading group herself, but she has only leafed through the book. She lifts the nearest phone and sends her voice into the air in search of Jill. "Let your people know we're sending a subst.i.tute," she says to Wilf, "and then what will you do?"

"There's nowhere you can lie down, is there?" Agnes says. "Try sitting with your eyes shut. You won't be able to drive home."

"Can you leave your shelving for later, Jill," Connie doesn't ask. "Apparently Wilf has a migraine and we need someone to talk to his group about the Brodie Oates book."

"I don't know if I liked it."

"Then don't lie about it. Get them talking, that's your job. They're in Teenage. Come straight down," Connie says and cuts her off.

Wilf has trudged to give the readers' group the news. The plaited woman throws up her hands and her gaze as he retreats to the armchair nearest to his section and sinks into it, closing his eyes. He opens them almost at once and stares at the books ahead of him before covering his eyes with a hand and sinking deeper into the chair. Connie is about to offer him some paracetamol when Jill appears 119 with a gla.s.s of water and a brace of aspirin. Once she has ministered to him he hides his eyes again as she marches to the Teenage alcove without glancing at Connie. She perches on the edge of the empty chair and says "I'm Jill. Who liked the book?"

Connie has to hold her mouth straight as Jill is met by silence. Eventually the young women admit they rather did. Connie would linger to hear how Jill deals with the plaited woman, but that won't repair the leaflets. She leaves the counter as Woody stalks into the shop. "Let me know if this guy returns anything else," he says, dropping the ca.s.sette on the Returns shelf. "It's been taped over."

"What with?"

"Some old historical movie. One of your battles, it looks like. It isn't even tuned in right. No wonder he didn't want to keep it." By now Woody's staring at Wilf and Jill. "What's been going on while I was out?"

"Wilf's got a migraine," says Agnes. "Jill's read the book."

"Tell him to sit upstairs till he recovers, for G.o.d's sake," Woody tells Connie.

She's taking a resentful hot-faced step towards Wilf when Agnes says "Connie said I had to ask you about closing for the afternoon so we can all go to Lorraine's funeral."

"Woody wants you to sit upstairs so the public doesn't see you." Having hurried to tell Wilf that, Connie strays back towards the counter to hear Woody say "Why all? Some of you didn't get on with her too well is how I remember it."

"I'm certain her parents would like everyone to go."

"They won't know how many staff there are, will they? It makes no sense to shut down for any length of time when we're already a person short. And I'm going to need anyone who wants to attend the funeral if it isn't their day off to commit themselves to working overnight next week. 120 I hope everyone will anyway when they'll be helping to get her section the way she'd want it."

As Agnes stares at Woody in disbelief, Wilf makes for the staffroom. Connie follows him in case he can't see to line up his badge with the plaque on the wall, but he unites them deftly enough. Halfway up the stairs he twists his head around to blink at her as if he feels hunted. "Sit at Ray's desk so people can take their breaks," she says. "It's his day off."

Wilf grips the arms of Ray's chair and lowers himself in front of the blank computer screen. As Connie switches on her monitor he flattens a hand across his eyes. She deletes the unwelcome apostrophe and is rereading the doc.u.ment when she notices that he's spying through his fingers. "Anything else you can see I should do?" she asks.

He shuts his fingers so fast and hard she's afraid he'll pinch his eyes between them. "No," he mutters.

The image on the monitor shifts like fog. As she scowls at it to convince herself it hasn't played another trick, Angus hastens into the staffroom and fills his mug with coffee from the percolator. She knows he won't refuse anyone a favour. She's about to ask him to glance at the doc.u.ment until Agnes darts out of the stockroom. "Angus, are you working overnight next week?"

"I was going to. I've put my name down."

"I wasn't saying you shouldn't, only Woody says anyone that does is free to go to the funeral. I still think we all should be. I think we would be if we stood together."

She has raised her eyes and her voice towards Connie, who tries to ignore her by studying the screen. The harder she concentrates, the less meaningful the words on it appear, even once Agnes returns to the stockroom. As Connie decides to print out a leaflet in case any errors will be more obvious on paper, Woody sprints upstairs, humming the tune the overhead speakers inflicted on everyone for weeks before the shop opened: "Goshwow, gee and whee, 121 keen-o-peachy..." "Got to keep our spirits up," he remarks to Angus. "Here's the man we need."

"Nearly finished my break," Angus a.s.sures him and gulps half a mugful.

"Hey, no need to choke yourself. I'm going to ask you to help me out next week. You didn't hang out with Lorraine much, did you? You weren't one of her particular crowd if she had one."

An angry clatter of books on a trolley in the stockroom is followed by a silence like a held breath. "I only knew her to work with," Angus admits.

"So you won't mind giving her funeral a miss, will you? You'll be releasing somebody who cares."

"Won't her parents wonder why I stayed away?"

"You ever meet them?"

"Not yet, b..."

"Then I guess they don't know you exist. It'd only stir them up if anyone made an issue of it, and they don't need that right now, do they? That's settled then, yes? I can count on you."

"I expect so," Angus says, and Connie senses he's hoping this will somehow placate Agnes. "I mean, you can," he has to add for Woody's benefit, provoking a furious onslaught on the trolley in the stockroom. He drains his mug and dumps it amid its predecessors in the stagnant sink before fleeing downstairs while Woody examines Connie's screen. "How's it looking now?" he enquires.

"I can't see a problem, can you?"

"I'm always seeing those," he says and glances towards the security monitor in his office. "I'm afraid the writers weren't too fond of your buddy Jill."

"I wouldn't call her that exactly."

"Is that so? Something between you I should know about?"

"As far as I'm concerned there's nothing between us at all." 122 Only some of his watchfulness drains into the stare he has turned on Connie. "She wasn't too successful at selling them on your book," he says. "Most of them went away wondering why we recommended it."

"Why, have they gone already? How long have we been up here, Wilf?"

As Wilf shakes his head without letting go of his eyes with his hand, Woody says "Half an hour at least by my watch."

Has she been at the screen all that time? Through the clinging ma.s.s of her confusion she hears Woody say "I'm afraid they weren't all that impressed with you either."

She's starting to feel as she imagines Wilf does. "I can't remember ever speaking to them."

"With your leaflet. I let them think it was some printer's fault, but I don't like having to hide things on behalf of the store. Will I have to again?"

"Don't you know? You're looking at the same thing I am."

"I'm looking at you, Connie," he says and lowers his gaze to the screen. "Print it as soon as you're happy with it, and then you can shelve a bunch of Lorraine's books so people have a chance to buy them."

She has to a.s.sume he's seeing no more mistakes than she is--none at all--but as he veers into his office she wonders if he and her brain could be conspiring to play a trick. She glares at the screen until the words revert to marks utterly devoid of meaning. As she starts the printer on the basis of nothing except desperation, Wilf releases a low groan that she could take to be voicing her helplessness. For a moment she wants to confess it, and then she takes her mouth in a firm hand. She's just tense after what happened to Lorraine, she tells herself. They all must be, and it will ease eventually. She isn't about to talk herself out of a job. 123

Angus

A s his mother steers the Vectra onto the Fenny Meadows slip s his mother steers the Vectra onto the Fenny Meadows slip road she says "You don't want to drive us the rest of the way, do you?"

Is she telling him so or that she would prefer it if he did? "Do you want me to?" he counters as the roundabout dredges itself up from the fog at the foot of the ramp.

"That has to be up to you, doesn't it, Angums?"

He's so intent on concealing his wince at the nickname he keeps hoping she will let him leave behind that he hasn't replied by the time they arrive at the roundabout. The motorway rears over them, exposing its wet greyish pockmarked underside above concrete pillars snared by graffiti like vegetation too primitive to have defined its species. "It isn't far," he says, feeling trapped in a conversational game where the loser is whoever makes an unqualified statement, which is how he feels most of the time with his parents. "I mean, I could give it a try."

"You'd like to be able to get yourself about, wouldn't you, though don't think for an instant your father and I 124 mind bringing you and collecting you. You're on our route."

"Maybe I shouldn't risk driving in this."

"I'm sure that's sensible if you don't feel confident enough. I only thought you'll have to learn sooner or later to cope with conditions like these, and there shouldn't be much on the move in your car park."

When he doesn't respond she drives under the motorway again. The fog lumbers after them through the gloomy dripping pa.s.sage while it disentangles itself from the graffiti ahead, and then it seems to stagnate in the retail park, replacing the sky and denying the mid-morning sun and reducing the buildings to pallid blocks of mould. The Vectra crosses the car park, pa.s.sing random strips of turf guarded by lank trees fattened by the fog. Tyre marks gape like glistening mouths on either side of the tree Mad's car felled; they're already overgrown with new gra.s.s. Beyond them Texts heaves up from the murk that clings to the display window and obscures patches of the Brodie Oates promotion. "Your father will pick you up tonight then, Angums," says his mother.

"Thanks. I'll drive us to the motorway tomorrow if I can."

She tilts her head an inch away from him, and her eyes farther. "Don't be so anxious to please everyone or you'll end up pleasing n.o.body, especially yourself."

He feels as if he's being urged to turn on her--by a part of himself he would rather not acknowledge, not an audience that's skulking in the fog. He clenches his teeth to shut up his tongue while she pats his cheek, a gesture that suggests a yearning for all the kisses he couldn't avoid outside the school gates, and murmurs "Go on then, Angums, make us proud."

He clutches his packed lunch and waves to her as the car bears away the L-plate like a badge of every time he has stalled the engine or accelerated instead of braking or skinned a tyre against the kerb. At least he's not that bad at work, he thinks as the fog swallows a last tinge of red. He 125 hurries into Texts, and Woody's giant voice goes off like an alarm. "Keep smiling. n.o.body likes a grouch."

The corners of his mouth haul themselves to attention before he realises Woody is addressing Agnes. As she observes his reaction her blank expression twists into a scowl. "That's worse. We don't want to see that again," Woody's voice descends to say, and as she ducks behind the counter so fast she appears to have been seized by a cramp. "Any time you'd like to join us, Angus, we can start."

Angus is glad she's too busy hiding her grimace to watch him scurry to obey. The only customers are two studiedly bald men who seem to have marked out a pair of armchairs as their territory. Perhaps they intend to buy presents for children; each of them is leafing through a book with very few words to a page. Their dull eyes barely flicker as Angus hastens past with a rattle of containers in his lunch box.

Everybody at the staffroom table does indeed appear to be waiting for him. Ross looks relieved he has appeared. Jill seems ready to defend herself, surely not against him. Gavin opens his mouth, but the nearest to a greeting he produces is a yawn he mostly swallows. Jake says "Here's the boy" more enthusiastically than Angus is certain he likes. He's saved from having to respond by Woody, who darts out of his office. "Okay, let's get you up to speed," he says not much more quietly than he sounded overhead. "I'll take this, Nigel. Maybe part of the problem is Brits managing Brits."

Nigel shrugs and meets n.o.body's eyes as he tramps into the stockroom. He doesn't hesitate or glance back when Gavin says "That's a bit racist, isn't it?"

"Hey, we don't need that word round here. We don't need anything that stirs up trouble. If we don't admit we're different we can't learn from whoever's got it more together, am I right? Take a seat whenever you're through there, Angus." 126 Angus is trying to clock on but has the the impression that the card isn't registering; it feels as if impression that the card isn't registering; it feels as if the the slot is clogged with mud, though when he peers in, it looks clear. He swipes the card once more and drops it in the In rack and hurries to sit down, not soon enough to prevent Woody from saying "There's a small example of the stuff we need to get rid of." slot is clogged with mud, though when he peers in, it looks clear. He swipes the card once more and drops it in the In rack and hurries to sit down, not soon enough to prevent Woody from saying "There's a small example of the stuff we need to get rid of."