"He said you lot aren't going home," one of the men objects.
"He shouldn't have told you. I don't know why he did."
"You calling him a liar?" one says with sudden enthusiasm.
"I'm not calling him anything. I'm simply asking you politely to let us shut, and so's he."
"Shut it whenever you like."
The other seated man laughs or grunts at this before adding "Let's see who's the most politest, you or your mate."
Ray and Nigel turn to Woody with some relief instead, prompting the men to twist their heads an inch or so in his direction. Their faces are stagnant, their eyes expressionless as fog. "They've brought another of their mates," the left-hand man informs nobody or everyone.
"Reckon he's the leader of their gang."
He feels as though they have draped their inertia over him like a thickening grimy web. "My staff have asked you nicely," he says with a smile that needs some conscious maintenance. "Can you leave now, please."
"We're in no bugger's way," the right-hand man says.
"We're comfy, us," his crony adds.
"We're closed to the public now. We aren't insured for anyone but staff."
Woody's almost certain that's the case, but the men look as if they know he isn't. "Never mind saying we're public," one somewhat obscurely complains.
"We've been here every day. We deserve a bit of credit."
"Have you bought anything?" enquires Nigel.
Woody has the impression Nigel wants to make up to him for failing to eject the men, and Ray also tries by remarking "You don't seem to read much."
"Who says you've got to read to be here?"
"You lot don't all. The one that tore the book up and stuffed it in the other bugger's gob, he couldn't and he works here."
"Not any more," Woody immediately feels he had no need to say.
"You could all be like him, far as we know." Ignoring Woody, the left-hand man says to Nigel "Let's hear you read a goodnight story and maybe we'll give you some peace."
"And you read us one as well," his comrade says to Ray.
Ray and Nigel swing around from avoiding each other's eyes to meet Frank's arrival. The guard has taken long enough to quit defending the entrance from nothing except fog. "Look out, here's reinforcements," the left-hand man remarks.
"More if they're needed," Greg vows, slamming a book onto a shelf and marching over.
The men tilt their heads as if they're enjoying their slowness. "We having a fight?" one hopes, enthusiastically for them.
"If you insist," Woody says before anyone else can speak. "With the law if you don't move right now."
Perhaps the last phrase is too ambitious. Even the sense of the rest appears to take time to seep through. "You really want us going out there," the right-hand man eventually has to have confirmed.
"You got it. We really do."
"You'll be stuck all night with just them that's here," his companion points out.
"I guess we'll live."
"All right, we know where we're not wanted." An unnecessary number of seconds make themselves felt before he follows his words out of the left-hand chair. His associate heaves himself up with the same sticky gasp of moist leather, muttering "That's what we know all right."
Frank tramps after them down the Poetry aisle with Woody in his wake, and Greg stays in Woody's, leaving Ray and then Nigel to bring up the rear. They're herding the men out of the store, not being led towards the blank wall of fog that towers above the floodlights and embraces the dark. As the men shuffle off the READ ON! mat and onto the sidewalk one says "Don't reckon the bluebottles would get here too quick in this."
"He means the police," Nigel murmurs to Woody.
"There won't be a reason for me to call them now, will there? Good night," Woody bids the sullen backs as he secures the door.
The men swivel their torsos and stare at the clicking of the keypad. They haven't finished staring when their feet begin to carry them into the fog. Soon it dilutes the figures, then flattens them and fills their outlines with a shifting pallor before it absorbs them. As Woody watches to be certain they're gone for the night, he hears Nigel murmur "You rather landed us in that, didn't you, Ray?"
"Like to tell me how?"
"You didn't have to give them quite so much information just because they asked if we were leaving too."
"It's called being friendly, Nigel. That's how we are up this end of the road, and aren't we supposed to be welcoming everyone? That's the routine, isn't it, Woody?"
"I guess I can't argue with that."
"If anyone did any landing, Nigel, maybe it was you getting their backs up."
"I've had no complaints about how I handle people. I'm not expecting any either."
"Maybe it was you not being from round here did it."
"I'd say they'd have to be rather stupid, anyone who reacted that way."
"Why, aren't we allowed to notice any more if someone talks different from us?"
"More grammatically, you mean."
"Next you'll be saying I'm another thickie like someone else turned out to be."
"Hey, I talk more different than any of you," Woody intervenes. "Let's just make sure we're on our own at last with no distractions." That brings the argument to an end without his having to chide them in front of the rest of the team. He's still in control, and he raises his voice until it sounds as big as the interior. "Okay, everyone go to the edge."
Nobody does so, not even Greg. Ray and Connie look as though they want to exchange glances. "Go to the walls as far apart as you can," Woody says, grabbing the nearest phone from the counter to give himself more of a voice. "Get it now? Take a good look on the way that there's nobody else here."
Is Agnes deliberately lagging because she can claim she's only doing as she was told? As he watches her his skin crawls hot and cold, and his eyes prickle like patches of a rash. When she reaches the video section at last he succeeds in relaxing his grip on the phone, which has been creaking in his ear like a structure about to collapse. "Fine, everyone stay where you are and look around. Clear?"
He doesn't immediately understand why several of them seem close to insulted, and then he smiles at himself and, more importantly, at them. "I'm saying is the store clear?" he amplifies, and the phone does.
"Clear," Greg calls, followed by a chorus of everyone else; Woody sees their mouths move, at any rate.
"Fine, fine. Now give everyone you can see a smile." Woody lets his linger on each member of the team in turn before asking "Anyone had less than they think they deserve? Then let's be sure to keep that up for the night."
Frank emits a cough from beside the security posts. "We've all got a smile for you too, right, guys?" Woody says, and the store does in his voice.
The guard begins to turn towards the exit before at least one of them has finished smiling. "I'll be getting home, then," he mumbles, rubbing one reddened cheek.
"Thanks for your help today. Travel safe."
As Woody unbuttons the door Frank takes a heavy pace away from it; he might almost be recoiling from the prospect of the fog. "Good luck," he says too loud to be speaking only to Woody, who could almost imagine he isn't being addressed at all.
Woody doesn't respond until the door is locked. "We don't need it, do we?" he shouts as Frank tramps past the window, dragging his blurred swollen shadow across the fog. The shadow slithers down it and vanishes into the glistening sidewalk as he turns the corner of the store. Soon a giant muffled cough is audible behind the building, and then the motorcycle chugs out of the retail park. Before too long the harsh clogged throaty sound is no louder than the miniature violins overhead, which seem to scurry off with it and silence it. "Okay, now it's just the team," Woody shouts. "Everyone back where you were. Let's find out what we're capable of tonight."
Madeleine
"Mad." The word seems to hang in the air until she dances up, when Woody's disembodied voice says "Take your break now, please."
&
nbsp; She has finished shelving her books at last, and tidying her section too. She knows it isn't the way to think, but she's tempted to welcome the fog if it keeps grubby little hands away from making a mess of her shelves. As she gives her alcoves a satisfied inspection, Woody adds "Ross, you break as well."
Nobody could mistake Ross's reaction for eagerness. Once he raises his head above his aisle, where she could imagine he was doing his best to hide, he takes longer still to risk eyeing Mad. When she flashes him a neutral smile she feels as if Woody's invisible stare is trying to pull her lips into the shape he favours. "You look as if you could do with a coffee," she calls across the shop to Ross. "I don't mind telling you I could."
That's more than true. As she holds her badge against the plaque beside the door up to the staffroom she shuts her eyes for what she assumes is a moment, only to open them to find Ross next to her. The door yields to his shove, and he holds it open for her even when she's well through it. "Don't worry, Ross," she murmurs. "You know I don't bite."
His mouth struggles to hold back an expression, and she remembers that he knows the opposite. She almost thinks she glimpses the faintest lingering mark of her teeth on his neck. As she hurries upstairs she feels as though she's trying to outrun her remark, which she would never have made if she were more awake, but neither the staircase nor the equally windowless staffroom offers any escape. All she can do is lift his mug and hers down from the wall cupboard. Whoever put them away seems not to have cared about how, since several others topple forward with them. Ross saves those by reaching up behind Mad but almost drops them when her shoulders meet his chest. By the time she shuts the cupboard he's on the far side of the table and pretending that they didn't touch. "Ross," she rebukes him.
"Sorry," he mumbles, blinking about for somewhere safe to look.
"For what?" For touching her or for recoiling? Rather than embarrass him by appearing to wait for an answer, she says "Shall we just try and get on together? There are too many people round here at each other's throats."
She's speaking quietly to ensure Woody doesn't hear over the clatter of books on at least the third trolley he has loaded so far. When her choice of words catches up with her she hopes Ross didn't hear either. She turns away to pour the coffee and to avoid imagining any vestige of her bites, which she can almost taste. The percolator bubbles with a muddy sound as she plants the mugs on the table and says "I mean, shall we agree to forget the past? It doesn't have to affect us, does it? No reason we can't still be friends."
Ross ducks to gaze into his coffee and then ventures to glance up. "I thought we were."
"That's good." A sense that his eyes aren't revealing all he feels prompts her to add "Don't you think?"
"I said. Only forgetting might be harder."
There's no doubt where his memory has lodged. "I wouldn't ask you to forget Lorraine."
"I'm glad." He looks rather less than that for a pause before he says "I should have gone out there. She might still be alive."
"It wasn't your fault. Nobody could say it was. You were stopped."
"I should have anyway. It's only cowards that blame other people when they could have done something themselves."
His unhappy contemplation settles on her until she blurts "Are you saying I could have?"
"No, of course not. Absolutely not. Well …"
"Let me have it. You just told me you weren't a coward."
"Maybe if you'd parked out in front like Agnes …"
"Yes, if I had, what, Ross?"
"Maybe whoever stole your car wouldn't have had the chance to."
"You think we'd have seen them in all this fog?" Her hand that was reaching for her coffee jerks as though she's indicating the walls. His suggestion isn't new to her; she's kept herself awake at night with it. When she says "Even Agnes doesn't park close enough to be noticed" she wants to convince them both.
"About time everybody did." He feeds himself a gulp of coffee and almost spouts it back into the mug. "God, this is strong."
Mad takes a sip, which is at the very least enough. "Ouch, you're right. Who made it?"
"I did."
Woody's voice is so loud that for a moment she thinks he's using the speakers. She sees Ross realise as she does that everything they've said may have been heard in the stockroom. He cups a hand to send a whisper at her. "Does it taste stale to you?"
The coffee flavour is so overwhelming that she can't distinguish whether there's more to it. She's about to risk another sip when the thunder of books on wood ceases and Woody appears in the stockroom doorway. "I figured I'd help the team stay awake."
He looks like insomnia embodied, though his lips are peeled back from his teeth in a smile that seems bent on denying he's anything but fresh. His dark blue shirt is so rumpled he might have slept in it, and the last time he shaved he missed an inch of stubble around the left hinge of his jaw. His wide eyes glisten like raw wounds. Mad thinks he's going to urge them to drink up his brew, but he says "Who's at whose throats?"
How long is her careless use of words likely to haunt her? She wants nothing more than to be rid of them, which is partly why she says "I wasn't thinking of anyone in particular."
"That sounds like you were thinking of everyone."
It occurs to her that this isn't far from the truth, but it's surely up to him to notice; she isn't about to get anybody into trouble. "No, I was exaggerating," she says, hoping it's true.
"I need to be careful who I put together, though, right?"
"That's up to you."
"At least you guys are good together. Of course, you used—" His smile wobbles and his gaze appears to sink into his eyes. "But then you—" There's another interlude for his smile to grow uncertain whether to look contrite or amused or both. "Gee, I do apologise. I couldn't have been thinking. Would you like me to stick around while you're up here together?"
"No need at all," Mad says, the first word in chorus with Ross.
"I guess I've managed to unite you, huh?" Woody's presence is making the room feel yet more enclosed by the time he says "You've another few minutes. I'll leave you to it."
As soon as they hear the trolley rumbling towards the lift, Ross murmurs "I've had enough."
She assumes he doesn't mean only the coffee he pours down the sink. She isn't sure if she's included, but can't help feeling that she is, since he hurries downstairs without leaving her even a glance. She certainly won't care. She sips her coffee and wishes she had a book to read, though she's unable to call a single one to mind. There's none in the staffroom; she doesn't know when she last saw anybody reading in here. She could look in the stockroom except for having had enough of Woody. "If you're up for books, Nigel, take these," she hears him saying by the lift. "I'll grab some more."
Instead he wanders back into the staffroom. "I guess I'm entitled to a break," he says. "When you're through here you can help Nigel shelve."
She braces herself for his company, but he heads for his office. She's attempting once again to taste the coffee when he begins to speak. Is he telling her to finish her break? It's clear from his tone that he's talking to someone. Mad's effort to distinguish his words makes the walls appear to flicker and shift like fog, unless that's a symptom of her lack of sleep. Her skull feels brittle and teeming with static by the time she grasps he's saying "That's how we like it, guys. Keep on moving down there."
He must be addressing the security monitor, but she doesn't enjoy being alone with his voice. "Let's get lively or I'll have to call you up," he says. "That's it, keep on bobbing up out of that stuff." Obviously this is how the images on the screen look to him, and no wonder if he's had as little sleep as she suspects, but that's hardly reassuring either. She's sipping coffee quicker than her body welcomes when she hears him say "Hey, you're ahead. You're the man."
This time it isn't just his utterance that bothers her. Why didn't she notice the echo before? It seemed to repeat only his last three words, and sounded more than muffled: buried, she
's tempted to think. Perhaps Woody has become aware of it and turned towards whichever section of his office is producing the effect, because when he says "You're the one, sure enough" the low dull thick voice doesn't follow his words so much as underlie them. If he's no longer facing the screen, whom is the remark intended for? She has to assume he's talking to himself, not an idea that encourages her to linger. She downs rather less than a mouthful of coffee and empties the rest into the sink. She rinses the mug and leaves it on the draining-board, and hears Woody speak again as she heads for the stairs. Is he talking in his sleep now? She could imagine that the echo, which sounds more subterranean than ever, is close to absorbing his low voice, but the idea makes no sense. She's wondering as she returns to the sales floor whether she ought to mention his behaviour to Connie or Nigel or Ray, until she notices what she overlooked. She needs to tidy away the books the men who occupied the armchairs left behind.
Both the large thin books are Tiny Texts. One is called A Is For Ant; the other says it's for Angel. Might little readers end up confused if they saw both? No doubt they would be young enough to accept a smile from the ant as well as from the angel, especially since the ant is such a simplified cartoon. At least they would be too young to know other words the letter stands for: abyss, accuse, agony, alien, ambush … Mad has no idea why these and more are floating up in her head. She holds the books against her chest and makes to plant them on the top shelf in her first alcove, but nearly drops them as she sees the bottom shelf.
Rather than cry out, she traps her lips between her teeth. Some of the picture books are the wrong way up, several are the wrong way out, and two are sprawling on top of the others. She knows she didn't leave any of her shelves like that; she never would have. She slams the A books into place at the very start of her section before she calls out "Who's the helpful person?"
The Overnight Page 23