The Overnight

by Ramsey Campbell

  She's peering down the aisle she's in and along the one that leads to the exit to the staffroom. "What are you seeing?" Jill asks across the shelves.

  "Under the door."

  Jill cranes her neck and then ventures down her aisle to veer into the one Mad hasn't glanced away from. "I can't see anything," she admits.

  "Me neither with you in the way."

  "Sorry," Jill says, to some extent as though she is, and backs against the nearest shelves, only for Mad to complain "Now I can't either. I could have sworn there was, I don't know, a big stain on the floor."

  Jill is following her frustrated gaze out of politeness when Woody demands "What am I seeing now? Who called time out?"

  "It's nothing," Connie tells him. "Just a mistake. I expect we're all getting tired." Before Greg can raise the objection he's opened his mouth for, she adds "Some of us, anyway."

  Mad takes the criticism to be aimed at her but seems uncertain whether to focus her resentment on Connie or Jill. As Connie tramps back to her shelving Jake returns to his. He's hoping it may conceal him from the tensions he feels gathering like a storm, but it offers no refuge. Once he has found space for yet another of Jill's novels he has to retreat one shelf further from the window, and now he's unable to read the names on the packed spines except by pressing his neck against his shoulder and crouching like a hunchback within inches of the books. He straightens his head up and stoops lower to grab the next lump of cardboard and paper from the heap of them. Sweat collects behind his knees, clamminess encases him but keeps giving way to a chill, both of which make him feel so feverish he surely ought to be in bed. He wishes he were there with Sean and no fever except the kind they create between them. Since there's no possibility of that, he wants Sean to be peacefully asleep, not least so that he'll be ready to collect Jake if the sun ever rises. The dead glow through the window seems to have rendered time as inert as itself, and Jake has to squint fiercely at his watch to be certain why it appears to have lost a hand. He's about to speak when Connie says with hardly any patience "What now, Mad?"

  "It mustn't be anything. You told Woody it wasn't. I expect it's just me being mad."

  "Don't be like that," Jill says. "If you—"

  "Don't be childish like you think everyone else is, you mean?"

  "You are," says Connie, "if you don't tell us if there's something you should tell."

  Mad stares towards her shelves along the rear wall and takes a long loud breath. "I thought I saw someone on the floor. Go on, say it's me imagining someone's been messing with my section."

  Jake peers towards the alcoves, which are dim as the depths of the fog. For a moment he fancies he glimpses a head that inches around the end of an aisle and immediately shrinks or shrivels into hiding, but its owner would have to be on all fours or no taller than an infant. Nevertheless Jake is tempted to come to Mad's defence even before Greg remarks "Either that or Agnes has got out."

  Incredible though Jake finds it, Greg apparently intends this as a joke. Jake is sure the girls would side with him if he attacked Greg for it, and has to force himself to concentrate on a more important issue. "It's quarter past three, no, seventeen past. When did Ross leave?"

  "Some of us were too busy to be watching the clock."

  "That isn't fair, Greg," Jill objects. "Jake wasn't. That's why he's asking."

  "He's been out there too long," says Mad. "All night, it feels like. Even longer."

  "I wouldn't put it past him to have sneaked off home," Greg says. "If we're expected to believe Nigel could have, Ross certainly could."

  Jake is delighted Greg can't have realised he has given him the cue to say "Then someone else will have to go."

  "So there'll be even more work for anyone who cares about the shop, you mean."

  "No," Jill says, "because Ross mightn't have thought of going more than one way."

  "That's clear as mud to me."

  "Maybe he won't have gone on the motorway if he forgot the phones up there will still be working. If he'd found a phone box on the other road someone would be here by now."

  "That's assuming he bothered to try."

  "If he didn't," Mad retorts so furiously she sounds close to abandoning language, "that's all the more reason for someone else to, isn't it?"

  Greg's face grows dull with understanding that he has trapped himself. He picks up a book and stares at it as though nothing else matters. "So what plan is anyone suggesting?" Connie asks.

  "Someone tries the motorway," Jake says, "and someone tries the bottom road in case there's a problem."

  "Don't tell us," Greg mutters just audibly. "You'd like to take the bottom road."

  "I'd like to help, that's right. Agnes has been shut up long enough. But I haven't got a car."

  "I'd rather not go out by myself if I'm going," says Mad.

  "I don't see why you should." Connie waits for agreement to begin spreading over Greg's face before she says "Go out by yourself, that is."

  As Greg shelves the book with a thump like a fist on a table she returns to the counter. She's only reaching for the phone when Woody's voice falls on her. "Let me guess. The cavalry's here at last."

  "Not exactly. Well, not really at all. We think something may have happened to Ross or he'd be back by now and there'd be help."

  "All the news is bad, huh? That's why you all look like you're stuck in mud. Okay, let's see if I can get you moving," Woody booms like an uncle talking at a child, and begins to sing. "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy …"

  "We're just deciding what to do." Connie raises her voice to give it some authority or counter his. "Actually, we've decided. There's more than one place we could phone for help from, so we think it'll be best if we make a concerted effort."

  "Talk English, Connie. I don't get why you Brits have to dress things up fancy."

  Jake feels like shouting that they invented the language, but he would only be extending the argument that seems to be gathering around them, embedding them in the stagnant twilight. He has the notion that Connie intends to free herself of it by saying "I want to send people out to both of them."

  "And how about the reason we're all here?"

  "Getting the shop ready for tomorrow, well, today, you mean."

  "Tell me another if you know one."

  "We're never going to be able to finish in time now. I'm certain your New Yorkers will understand."

  "Yeah? I don't. See if you can make me."

  "The light's too bad. The further you go from the window the worse it gets. We don't want people ruining their eyes for nothing and having to go home, do we? I wouldn't be surprised if we all end up in bed with colds as well."

  "You think that's too much to ask of the team when they promised to fix up the store."

  "We've already been through that. There won't be time. Don't worry, you won't be on your own. I'll stay."

  "You won't be the only one," Greg declares.

  "Greg's saying he will too, and there's Angus and Ray even if they haven't had any luck with the fuses."

  "That right? You two still there? I'm talking to Ray and Angus."

  They grunt beyond the door in the darkest corner of the shop, so nearly in unison that they might be speaking in a single muffled voice. "They said yes," Connie transmits.

  "So they're still working on the fuses, right?"

  "Yes," the double voice responds.

  "Tell me, Connie."

  "They say they are."

  "So let's give them a while longer. Could be they're almost there."

  "Don't you think Agnes has been brave long enough? If I were her I'd be making a lot more fuss by now." With a movement that suggests an attempt to wriggle free of the retarded discussion Connie turns, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. "Anyone who's going, go. I'll take the responsibility. The door isn't locked."

  Jake lingers to replace on the pile the book he's holding rather than simply dropping it. He and Mad and Jill are abreast of the counter when Woody says "I
don't believe what I'm seeing. Looks like the dogs are out of their gates."

  "They're all trying to leave," Greg shouts. "It doesn't need them all, does it? I don't think they'll come back."

  "Try it shriller and maybe he'll hear you," Jake says before he realises Woody can through the receiver Connie is no longer soundproofing.

  "I guess maybe I don't either. Okay, everyone back to the shelves."

  "I said go," Connie insists, jabbing the receiver towards the exit.

  "You wouldn't say that if he wasn't out of action," says Greg.

  Jake's eager to watch her squashing him but is even more anxious to leave. As he hurries past the counter with Mad and Jill in his wake, Woody says in a voice like a huge false smile "Hey, am I not getting through any more? I can hear myself fine."

  "You are," Greg shouts and nods hard at the ceiling. "Everyone can hear."

  Jake closes his fist around the metal handle, which feels as cold and wet as a stick pulled out of mud. He has to blame his handful of sweat, which must also explain why the metal gives the impression of crawling with rust. He tugs at the handle, and the glass door vibrates against its twin with a faint low gong note, but that's all. "Connie," he says higher than he means to. "It's not unlocked."

  "It shouldn't be, either," Greg remarks.

  "It is, Jake. That's how I left it. Just push, pull, I should say."

  Jake does both, vigorously. The glass clanks like a large loose pane in a storm while the fog beyond it stirs as though it's either mocking the movement he's desperate to produce or gathering itself to confront him. He shakes the door until it jangles, and then says as calmly as he's able "If it isn't locked I don't know what it is."

  Connie plants the receiver firmly on its stand and strides to give both doors an interrogative shake. "I don't understand, but it's all right," she says and types numbers on the keypad before triumphantly flinging the doors wide. At least, that's clearly her intention, but the result is no more than a paralysed glassy clank.

  "Forgotten the code again?" Woody enquires, audibly smiling. "Don't ask me."

  "That was right. I know it was," Connie assures everyone but him, and keys it in a second time, then hauls at the doors until they creak. Jake almost cries out, afraid that they'll shatter, leaving her clutching the handles and riddled with fragments of glass. At last she lets go, panting "It's got to be something to do with the power."

  Jake is about to break the silence, which feels like the imminence of thunder, when Jill says what he's thinking. "We'll have to break our way out, then."

  "I don't know if I want to be responsible for that," says Connie.

  "Just don't be responsible for stopping us," Jake blurts.

  "It'll have to be broken sooner or later," Mad says. "How else are the emergency people going to get in?"

  Connie fingers her lips as if she's feeling for her own expression before saying "What would you use? We can't have anybody hurt."

  None of them has noticed that Greg has dodged behind the counter to the phone until Woody says overhead "Something you think I should know, Greg?"

  "They're saying they'll smash the door down."

  "They won't be doing anything like that. Tell them so nobody can say they didn't hear."

  "Woody forbids it," Greg says and, as if to please him further, doesn't entirely resist smiling.

  "Pass me the phone, please." By the time she finishes speaking Connie is opposite Greg at the counter and thrusting out a hand. "Give it to me," she practically spits.

  "Woody, do you want me to—"

  "Do as you're told." She grabs the phone away from his face, and the earpiece clubs him on the ear. "That was your fault," she informs him, turning away from him. "If we don't open it somehow, Woody, what's going to happen to Agnes?"

  "Nothing that hasn't already. Maybe nothing I'm not putting up with myself."

  How can anyone side with him after that? It seems to Jake that Woody has ensured Connie won't oppose any means of escape, and at once he knows what to do. He dashes to the trolley he has unloaded and drives it towards the exit. Mad and Jill look shocked as they catch up with his plan, but they move to either side of the trolley to help ram the door. He's backing off to take a longer run at it when Greg darts from behind the counter, rubbing his ear to make certain everybody knows it's injured, to position himself in front of the door, arms and legs stretched wide. "You've been told," he shouts.

  "You're my man, Greg," Woody bellows. "They shall not pass."

  "Better get out of the way," Jake warns Greg, nudging the trolley in his direction. "Stay like that and you'll get this up your arse."

  "Yes, move, Greg," Mad urges.

  "We're going to do this," Jill says. "You'll have to move."

  Connie slams the phone down and folds her arms. "You've made your point, Greg, and now will you please step aside. I'm in charge down here, and I don't want anyone coming to harm."

  "Woody can see everything, so you can't be in charge."

  Jake feels as if the women's frustration with Greg has been added to his own loathing. Perhaps they're experiencing that emotion too, because it has grown so oppressive that he needs to discharge it somehow or he'll suffocate. As the trolley thunders forward he visualises how it will burst Greg's crotch unless he dodges. At almost the last moment he veers the trolley at the glass, but Greg sidles rapidly as a crab to block it. Jake exhorts himself not to falter, but the trolley shudders to a halt inches short of Greg. "Move," Jake nearly screams.

  "Who's going to make me? I don't see any men to."

  Jake shoves the trolley backwards and flies at him. A contemptuous smile is parting Greg's lips before he realises he has brought Mad and Jill on himself as well. They grab his arms and strive to budge him while Jake manages to refrain from seizing him by the throat and digs his nails between Greg's ribs instead. Greg attempts to laugh, but it isn't amusement that bares his teeth. In a few seconds he loses enough balance for his attackers to hurl him aside so violently he staggers behind the counter.

  Jake runs to the far end of the trolley while Mad and Jill grab the sides. It has barely started to trundle forward when Greg lurches into its path. As he makes to arrest it Jake rams it into his stomach. He gasps and flounders backwards, and Jake wonders with no apprehension at all whether Greg will be the object that shatters the glass. But Greg surges red-faced at the trolley, and Jake darts around it to keep him off.

  He has to rob Greg of more balance than last time. He tells himself he's being rational, but it also feels insanely satisfying to kick Greg on the shin with all the force he can draw from his hatred. As Greg recoils hopping, fighting to grin away his tears, Jake chases him and hooks a foot behind his ankle. A shove at his pudgy chest overbalances him to thump the floor behind the counter with his shoulders or, for all Jake cares, his head. "Do it now," Jake shouts at Mad and Jill.

  He's advancing to stand over Greg when Connie cries "Jake."

  Doesn't he only intend to keep Greg where he is? He's about to tell her as much, even though he grudges any reassurance that may offer Greg, when the thunder of the trolley culminates in a shrill peal. For a moment the right-hand door stands its ground, and then it collapses outwards, strewing the pavement with hundreds of fragments as though an immense jewel box has spilled its contents. Mad and Jill flinch back, and Jill wheels the trolley away from the hole as though she's rescuing it from a sudden swell of fog. The two women are stepping forward almost hand in hand when Woody speaks, so loud and allencompassing that Jake could imagine the voice is in the fog as well as in the corners of the shop. "Anyone that leaves the store now, don't bother coming back."

  Mad and Jill hesitate in front of the threshold composed of shattered glass. Connie stares at Greg's left hand, with which he's gripping the edge of the counter to haul himself into a crouch. Jake thinks she's about to hammer on Greg's fingers with her fists or otherwise disable him. He's disappointed when she takes Greg's robustness as an excuse to head for the exit. "That can inc
lude me, then," she says. "I've had enough."

  As Jake follows her towards the gap the alarm begins to squeal. Greg wobbles to his feet and shows Jake his teeth as if he believes the shop is accusing the deserters. Jake is enraged by growing nervous that the noise may alert someone, presumably a guard, for who else could it call out of the fog? It falls silent for as little reason as it made itself heard, and he's waiting for the women to finish picking their way over the debris when Greg stumbles towards him. His face is heavy with determination not to let Jake escape. Jake treads on glass and twists around to wait for him, stooping for a handful he can grind into Greg's eyes. Then Connie says "That's as far as you go, Greg. Remember what Woody just said about leaving the shop."

  The frustration that narrows his eyes and mouth is feeble compared to Jake's. This is so intense it feels vast, as if a presence the size of the fog is experiencing it too. He could almost think the huge voice belongs to such a presence. "Let them go, Greg. You're all we need."

  Greg doesn't look entirely comfortable with this as he takes a reluctant pace backwards. Jake resists the temptation to kick glass at him. He's following the women past the window full of books that seem drained not just of colour but of any meaning when Woody booms "You can hear me out there, right? I guess you're hoping I'll change my mind and let you in."

  Connie increases her pace, and the other women trot to stay beside her. Before Jake catches up with them they dodge around the corner of the shop, leaving him alone with Woody's giant muffled voice. "I know you're listening. Let's see your faces. How many of you are there? Let's see them all."

  Jake has the disturbing notion that the words are aimed at the fog. Otherwise there's silence apart from his panicky footsteps; there's no sound from the alley into which the women disappeared. A succession of shivers, not only because of the clinging fog, overtakes him as he dashes to the corner. The women are close to the far end of the alley, which looks walled off by mud. As he hastens to join them he sees that it's a thick mixture of fog and darkness. "What's happened to the lights behind the shops?" Connie seems to think someone ought to know.