The Overnight

by Ramsey Campbell

  "Then you're agreeing with me, aren't you? You ought to be able to do something as the manager. I'll have a word with Agnes if I may."

  "Can't do, I'm afraid."

  "What have you got against that? You just said—"

  "Busy. Will be all night. The whole store to prepare for an occasion, and people that ought to be helping aren't. Don't worry, you can trust me. Everyone's safe while I'm in charge."

  Neither this nor his smile seems to reach the woman, who says "I'd still like to speak to my daughter."

  "As I said, not possible. Please don't try again. I'll be taking all the calls."

  He feels more overheard than ever. He feels as if by lowering his voice he has drawn an audience closer, one he can't even see. Agnes scowls sidelong at him as she stoops as little as she has to for a book. When her mother emits a gasp of outrage or incredulity he dispenses with the phone. "I want to see you in my office now, Angus," he shouts as the exit to the staffroom gives way to his badge.

  He can see Agnes from the office too. As he watches sluggish downcast stunted Angus cross the floor he observes her resting a hand on the phone at the counter. He sends his voice down to her and the rest of the staff. "Let's keep our minds on why we're here tonight, shall we? Talk to me if you have to talk to someone. Right now we don't need anyone except who's here."

  He's gratified to see Agnes snatch her hand away as if the phone itself has accused her. When she glares about the ceiling he feels the corners of his mouth lift, inverting the expression she takes to her shelves. He would invite her to find a smile if he hadn't to deal with Angus, who ventures into the office with a very tentative grin. It wavers between lessening and turning puzzled as Woody says "You don't believe in sharing your encounters with the store, then."

  "Encounters with the store." If possible even more dully Angus says "What kind?"

  "Not with the store." Woody finds it difficult to credit that anyone working for Texts could be so stupid. "With the man you met," he says through his smiling teeth, "while you were supposed to be publicising us."

  "You mean the, what would you call it." Angus devotes altogether too many seconds to coming up with "The historian."

  "I wouldn't call him that, no. More like an interfering son of a bitch, and maybe you can tell me why he was hanging round here."

  "I got the feeling it was because of Lorraine."

  "Sick as well as interfering, it sounds like. Looking for material he can use in his next book, or maybe in the one with Fenny Meadows in it if he ever sells enough to reprint it."

  "He wasn't just talking about Lorraine. He wanted to tell someone about Fenny Meadows."

  "Yeah, I heard that stuff from him. Some of it I wouldn't be surprised if he made up. You know what's a whole lot more important? The one thing he said that was any use, you didn't post our advertising on the cars like you were told to."

  "I did some. I thought most of the leaflets were for the shops."

  "You thought you knew more about how to push the store than me, did you? There's too much thinking getting in the way around here." The comment makes Woody feel asinine, especially since he isn't sure what he means by it. "In future," he tells Angus, "I guess you'll know just do what you're told."

  "I ran out."

  By God, now even he's arguing. Woody thought he was one of the people who could be relied upon to commit themselves to the team. "Okay, why don't you do that," Woody rather more than suggests, but Angus only blinks a dumb question at him. "Run out of here. Run down to your shelving."

  Having to explain his point seems to rob it of wit. He turns his back on Angus so as to be ready to catch him on the monitor. He has a good idea of what will follow, and it does. Angus has scarcely returned to the sales floor when Agnes swoops to question him about the interview. As Woody spies on their unsmiling conversation he mouths the words he thinks they're using, and then he realises they're wasting not just their time but his and, worse, the store's. "Can we keep chat for our breaks tonight," he directs through all the speakers. When Angus retreats guiltily to his shelves while Agnes gazes in frustration after him, Woody adds "Connie, join me in my office."

  Perhaps it's apparent from his tone that he isn't inviting her out of friendliness, but he doesn't understand why Jill should observe her departure with more of a smile than she has displayed since arriving for work. He watches Connie sink out of sight beyond the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. When he hears footsteps on the stairs he can't help being confused by their upward progress; he's close to imagining that someone unidentifiable is being drawn towards the room. He jumps up, leaving his chair in a spin, and hurries into the staffroom as the door reveals Connie after all. She looks taken aback by his appearance—surely by finding him so near. "I'm shelving," she says somewhat defensively. "Do you want me to carry on?"

  "You don't think that would take too much readin."

  She looks ready to smile at this; in fact, she begins to. "How's that again?"

  "It just came to me that I don't know how much readin you do."

  "Quite a lot whenever I've the time. I don't talk like that, do I?"

  "Working for the store has to need readin, right? Or maybe you'd call it workin."

  "To be honest with you, Woody, if there's a joke I'm not getting it."

  "Not gettin it either, I guess. Hey, that makes the both of us. Why don't we take a look at your leaflet together."

  She holds her hands and her pink lips slightly open in a fashion he suspects she has meant to seem appealing ever since she was a child. "They're all out there. Shall I go down and get one?"

  "No need. It's here waitin to be seen." When she responds with a frown like a twitch of a nerve in her forehead Woody wrenches his smile wider. "You can bring it up on your computer. Go ahead, cough it up on the screen."

  She moves to her section of the office desk barely fast enough to keep him from telling her not to waste time. A greyish surface patched with symbols so vague as to be meaningless swells into view on her monitor and forms into the desktop screen. She snaps at it with the mouse, on which she has inked whiskers, then employs the pallid smooth limbless object to dig into her files. As the publicity text quivers into sight and steadies itself she murmurs "What did you want to look at?"

  "Take a good look."

  She takes at least that before releasing a gasp that sounds like the reverse of the breath she just sucked in. "Oh Lord. Oh no. You're joking."

  "I'm not, no. Were you?"

  "What could have stopped me seeing that?"

  "Do you know, I'd have asked the same question."

  "I'm serious. What could have? I've never been that careless. I don't believe anyone could have had a reason before to say I was at all. Scatty maybe, but that's how I like to be with people." With the briefest pause for agreement or encouragement, not that Woody is minded to provide either, she adds "There's something about this place I'm starting not to care for much."

  "You know what, I feel the same way about staff that aren't loyal to the store."

  "Loyal how? Doesn't it include saying if you see things are wrong?" It isn't conscientiousness Woody hears but nervous triumph as she demands "What's that?"

  Her gaze appears to be trying to sidle behind the computer. "Try a shadow," he says impatiently enough to tug his smile awry.

  She pushes the keyboard aside and drags the monitor away from the wall. Woody is reminded of someone turning over a rock to reveal what's underneath. Is she trying to distract him from the incomplete word on the screen? He wishes he'd conducted the interview downstairs, however embarrassing that might have been for Connie; she's wasting time he could have filled with shelving. She has indeed exposed a mark on the wall, but he's far less than impressed. "So somebody needed to wash their hands."

  "It's here as well."

  The back of the monitor bears the imprint of another hand, or perhaps the same one. In both cases the lengths and sizes of the fingers are a good deal more various than the digits of a
ny hand should be. Woody's on his way to frowning when the explanation becomes clear. "The guy who brought the computers up must have been wearing gloves."

  "Was he? Did you see him?" Before Woody can assure her without remembering that he did, she makes to lift the monitor back into position, only for her hand to flinch away. "It's still damp," she protests.

  Woody plants his hand on the mark to feel nothing except plastic and perhaps a hint of grit. "It isn't now," he says and shoves the monitor close to the wall.

  "Did we decide you wanted me to shelve?" Connie seems to hope.

  "Sure, once you've fixed your mistake, and why don't you print out a few copies I can show to our visitors tomorrow."

  She looks afraid that something may squeeze up from behind her desk and fumble at the computer. "Jesus, I'll do it," Woody says so harshly his teeth ache.

  He types the extra g and, having saved the document, sets the printer to emit fifty copies while he watches grey figures genuflect and rise up on the security monitor. He's heading for the stairs at a rate that's intended to make Connie follow when she picks up a leaflet instead. "Are we sure this is how it should be? I don't seem to be able to tell any more."

  "Who are you saying is responsible for that?"

  She shakes her head and waves her hands on either side of it to signify her brain or the surroundings. Woody grabs the topmost of the leaflets the printer has churned out. By the time he has finished scanning the clammy page it has grown chill, though surely not moist, in his hand. "I don't see a problem." he informs her.

  "Shall we ask someone else?"

  "Why would I want to do that?"

  "In case there's anything neither of us is seeing."

  "I'm seeing plenty. Mainly how the night is going to be wasted if I don't stay on top of some people."

  Her lips part, either to object or because she realises she's included, only to press themselves an even paler pink. "Okay, let's get back to shelving," Woody says and holds the door open so that she obeys. He hurries downstairs behind her to speed her up and sprints back to Wild Life, where he sorts the books and unloads the trolley so fast that a book falls open at a photograph of chimpanzees in the jungle beating one of their number to death. He scoots the trolley to the elevator and is slamming books into place when Agnes approaches him. "Isn't it time we started taking our breaks?"

  "Has anyone been here that long?" When he glances at his watch he's by no means entirely pleased to find that the store will be closing in less than half an hour. "I take it by we you mean you," he says.

  "Someone has to be first."

  "Someone has to set an example, sure enough. Hey, I hope there's a smile in there somewhere. Okay, the sooner you break the sooner you can be back at work. Let's make certain we keep it to ten minutes."

  She ought to realise that starts now, especially since she was so impatient for it, but she lingers to demand "Have you called someone about Gavin?"

  "I've done everything that's necessary."

  "And?"

  "I expect we'll hear more in due course."

  Even she can't quite bring herself to accuse him of lying. In any case it's presumably the truth. She contents, if that's the word, herself with a challenging look, no match for his smile. When she makes for the staffroom he doubts she has time for the coffee he assumed she would use to liven herself up. Perhaps he can allow her the extra minute or two if it helps her work harder—but then her voice erupts beneath the ceiling. "Has anybody got a mobile I can borrow? I'll pay for the call."

  He dashes up to the office to find her watching the security monitor through his doorway. Is it possible she even dared to use his extension? "What gives you the idea you can use the PA for that kind of message?" he feels profoundly restrained for enquiring.

  "It's quicker than going round everyone. I thought you'd want me to save time."

  "And who are you proposing to call?"

  "My parents to tell them how I am so they can get some sleep. I don't think anyone can object to that when I'm on my break and not using any of the phones the shop wants to keep all to itself."

  He feels alternately hot and cold from his dash or with anger. Can he believe her? Suppose she plans to call the police about Gavin and bring more inconvenience? He's considering whether he should put her on her honour, if that still means anything to Brits like her, when Ray's voice booms through the speakers. "If it's not a very long call, Anyes, you can pinch mine."

  "There you are, Ray thinks he's allowed to use the PA," Agnes is pleased to inform Woody as she hurries to the stairs.

  Woody's stinging eyes feel so swollen he could almost fancy that an insect bit him. He seizes the receiver in his office and sends his voice to say "Will everyone be aware that the phones are only to be used for the good of the store."

  This appears to rekindle Ray's interest in the books heaped at his feet as Agnes lets herself down off the bottom of the screen and then bobs up close to him in the top left-hand quadrant. Ray slips a mobile phone out of his jacket and hands it to her with a swiftness Woody finds surreptitious. Woody takes the stairs in twos, to recommence shelving and ensure she doesn't overstay her break. She has stepped outside to phone, but is back well in time. It's only when she loiters next to Ray that Woody feels he has to interest himself in their conversation. They aren't discussing Gavin; Ray is complaining "I wanted my wife to be able to get in touch. More than likely she'll be up half the night with the baby."

  "I honestly don't know what could have gone wrong. All I did was switch on and dial."

  "I charged it this morning." Ray pokes a button, but nothing responds. "Still dead as mud," he takes time to notify her.

  "I can't understand it. I wouldn't have left you phoneless, I hope you know." She raises her voice to call "Has anyone else got a phone?"

  "Why, so you can kill theirs as well?"

  "So we don't have to depend on the shop."

  "I guess that's exactly what you should be doing," Woody tells everyone.

  Nigel has raised his head at her appeal but has second thoughts about any offer he was proposing to make. "I left mine at home," Ross admits. "I don't know anyone who'd want to call me now."

  "My boyfriend's got hold of mine," Jake is eager everyone should hear.

  Greg stares hard at him and then not much more gently at Agnes. "I'm surprised you haven't got one of your own."

  "I didn't bring it. I thought I could rely on the shop like we were just told. Are you saying you can lend me one?"

  "I can't imagine why you'd think I would be, under any of the circumstances."

  Woody sees that neither of them means to look away before the other does. He's suddenly aware of two shaven-headed men in armchairs—of how the books propped on their laps remind him of the placards contest judges hold up. "You have just a couple of minutes, Agnes," he says.

  "Maybe I should stop trying to get on with people I don't. Maybe I should call it a day before you lock up."

  "Can't call it a day when it isn't one," Mad remarks as she snatches a book off a Teenage shelf.

  He would like to believe she intends to jolly Agnes out of her sullenness, but Woody could have managed without the interruption and without Greg's. "So long as you're aware you'll be letting every single one of your colleagues down, Agnes."

  "Okay, Greg, I'm handling this."

  "Greg wants you to think he only cares about this place," says Agnes. "Cares a lot more than he does about the people in it, anyway."

  "I'm sure he cares about some of us deep down," says Jake.

  A splutter that the shelves he's kneeling behind don't quite muffle escapes Nigel. Greg gives Woody a look that's on the way to holding him responsible and unprepared to wait long for him to intervene. He isn't entitled to confront Woody like that. Nobody here is, and the way to remind them is to deal with the actual culprit. "Agnes? Your time's up."

  "You're telling me you want me to go."

  Can she really think he means that? He's being made to feel
as if his words have to struggle up from some unsuspected medium, emerging blurred almost beyond recognition. "Right," he says. "To go and shelve."

  "You're asking me to stay."

  If she's trying to convince herself or any of the listeners that she has won the skirmish, she isn't clever enough. "I'm sure everyone here wants you to," Woody says for them to hear.

  He realises he should have put it differently when the seated men raise their eyes to her—eyes drained of all expression. It doesn't help that nobody else is looking at her. After a pause that makes his smile twitch, she says "Maybe there are people I oughtn't to land with more work."

  Once she deigns to resume shelving he returns to Gavin's. The confrontation has left his skull feeling stuffed with mud and grit. The books the seated men are holding on their laps have started to put him in mind of identity plaques in a police photograph, especially when he thinks how they must appear on the security monitor. He's beginning to wonder if the immobility of the men is distracting or infecting his staff. Aren't their movements too sluggish? He does his best to set them an example with a shelf's worth of new books before he glances at his watch. "Texts will be closing in fifteen minutes," he shouts. "Please take any final purchases to the counter."

  The seated men seem unaware that the announcement has any relevance to them. Woody shelves loudly and rapidly for most of five minutes. Since this fails to stir them, he uses the phone next to Reptiles to declare "Texts will be closing in ten minutes." This has no apparent result either, nor does filing books so vigorously that he cuts a knuckle on the edge of a shelf. Well before his next proclamation is due, he's obliged to consult his watch while he sucks his rusty finger. The second hand crawls like an insect tethered on a thread around the dial, and when at last it grows vertical again he feels released to breathe. "Texts will be closing in five minutes," he and the overhead speakers say. "Would customers please make their way to the exit. The store will be open tomorrow at eight."

  The seated pair could pass for statues in a museum, complete with descriptions of themselves. He's wondering how long to give them before he updates the broadcast when Nigel goes over to murmur to them. Their heads may rise an inch or so, but that's all. Before long Ray joins his colleague to no effect beyond more murmuring. Far too many of the staff are more interested in eavesdropping than shelving, which is another reason why Woody hurries to intervene. "Look, we've told you it's nothing personal," Nigel is saying. "We have to shut for the night now, that's all."