The Overnight

by Ramsey Campbell

  "Where's that?" Jill hears herself ask sleepily.

  "The phone. You're passing it. You've passed it. The phone box."

  Jill slits her sticky eyelids and is confronted by a multitude of eyes glinting at her out of the dark. They could belong to hundreds of swollen spiders or a single immense one, but then she recognises them as beads of moisture on the tips of the hedges. She can't see a phone box, not until the brake lights paint its lower section crimson in the mirror and splash the interior dull red. She leaves the engine running to power the lights while she says "I'll phone about the shop. What do you want to do about your car that doesn't involve me driving back?"

  Connie seems almost too enervated to say "Just get us home."

  The call may take too long for Jill to risk leaving the lights on with the engine off. She's certainly not about to trust Connie or even Gavin with the key in the ignition. She snatches the key and gropes her way out of the car to pace alongside, one hand on the slimy roof. Two diagonal paces away from the rear bring her close enough to the phone box that she senses it looming over her. She fumbles at the door, which feels moist enough for rot, and locates the drooling metal handle. As she lets herself in, the box lights up with a glow that she could think has floated upwards rather than appeared beneath the cramped ceiling. It stays lit as the door shuts with a creak that seems to find an echo in the hedge behind the box.

  There's no directory on the rusty metal shelf, but she doesn't need one. Someone has sprayed incomprehensible symbols over the mirror and the framed notices, rendering all the words unreadable and trapping her exhausted face in a thick web. The tarry paint has caught the phone as well. As she lifts the chill receiver, the light dims as though it's shrinking from a waft of fog. She taps one of the most basic three-digit numbers in the world as soon as she's greeted by the dialling tone, muffled though it is. When it's silenced by a click, she calls "Hello? Operator? Hello?"

  "Operator."

  It's hardly surprising if so late at night the female voice sounds somewhat mechanical. "I'm not sure which service I need," Jill admits.

  "Which?"

  "It's an emergency. Someone's been trapped in a lift for hours, and there's no power in the building at all. Can you connect me with whoever will deal with it?"

  "Connecting." Before it reaches the last syllable the voice cuts itself off, and in a very few seconds one so similar Jill could mistake it for the first if she let herself says "Power emergency service."

  "All our electricity has gone off. That's you, yes?"

  "Electricity. Yes."

  "It means someone's stuck in a lift. Can you fix that too?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know if you'll know the area. It's quite new. Fenny Meadows."

  "Yes."

  Jill hasn't heard so much agreement for a while; by now the voice sounds positively enthusiastic. "It's a shop there," Jill says. "Texts, the bookshop."

  "Yes."

  "I ought to tell you it's very foggy there. It is here too, quite a way away"

  "Yes."

  The enthusiasm seems misplaced now, though Jill assumes it's intended to be reassuring. "I can leave it with you then, can I?" she suggests.

  "Yes."

  Perhaps she has asked one question too many; the voice has dipped half an octave, which makes her think it's impatient. "Thank you," she says, and hangs up the scrawled receiver on its similarly defaced hook. At once she feels foolish for not giving her name in case management would have learned she made the call, and shouldn't she have ascertained whether Mad or Jake has already been in touch? The apparently sourceless light flickers overhead as if it's about to fail, and she doesn't want to be shut in the box in the dark. She shoves the door so wide it catches the twigs outside; that must be why the hedge gives a creak extensive enough to suggest that something is raising itself behind quite a length of it. She runs to the Nova and lowers herself into the driver's seat just as the box and the livid patch of hedge around it are engulfed by blackness like a rush of mud. "That's dealt with," she says, and succeeds in locating the ignition to revive the engine and the lights. "Everyone ready to move?"

  "I don't think I came this way," Gavin says.

  "Just let her drive," Connie blurts. "We'll have to get somewhere."

  "All right, forget I said it. Sorry, Jill."

  Jill can't help smiling like a fool when she realises they're afraid of how she may behave if they start another argument. That's close enough to agreement for her, and when the Nova coasts forward she's sure she has done something right; they're leaving the hungry frustration behind. Although she has no idea what that means, it's enough that the view of the fog doling out the road and the hedges no longer seems nearly as oppressive. She hasn't taken many foggy breaths when Connie hopes aloud "Is that the main road?"

  There's certainly light ahead. In not too many seconds it's brighter than the glow Jill's headlamps are lending to the fog. It's bright enough for floodlights; indeed, that's what Jill thinks the source may be. Then the fog thins while retreating, and she sees a tall streetlamp beyond a gap between two pairs of bulky houses. "This isn't where I came along from," says Gavin.

  "It doesn't matter, does it?" Connie says. "We'll be out in a minute."

  Once Jill has crossed the dual carriageway so as to head for Manchester she realises Connie was referring to the car. "Stop," Connie orders. "I'll take this cab."

  Jill has scarcely braked when Connie flings herself out of the Nova and sprints ahead, waving and shouting if not screaming at the taxi. As it halts and backs up she calls "Gavin, do you want to share?"

  "I might if you don't mind, Jill."

  "Why should I mind? I want to get home like everyone else."

  "I'll see you, then." He yawns and stretches in the process of opening the rear door, then lingers to say "I'll see you, won't I?"

  "We don't know at the moment, do we? I expect we'll find out soon."

  "I don't think I know what soon feels like any more." He's demonstrating this by the speed at which he leaves the car when Connie shouts "Are you with me or not, Gavin?"

  "Thanks for getting us out," he murmurs to Jill, and hurries to the taxi as fast as his lingering stiffness allows.

  The taxi switches off its roof light and races away. Jill follows more slowly, and in a short time she's alone with the parade of twinned houses on either side, mostly dark except for the towering streetlamps. The blocks of light are softened, but it's only fog. She can't recall when that became the case, let alone what she means by it. Perhaps she will once she has slept. A few minutes' drive shows her that she joined the main road a couple of miles past the route she took to Fenny Meadows some unimaginable period ago. At least there's another way to the bookshop, which ought to bring more custom if someone erects a sign for the retail park.

  Before long she reaches the motorway to Bury and leaves behind the last of the fog. There's nobody about to object to her driving as though she's in a built-up area. Eventually she is, where the clocks among the shops inform her that it isn't much later than four in the morning, though she can hardly believe she hasn't missed Christmas. A few windows embroidered with fairy lights or occupied by trees laden with coloured bulbs only make her feel the season has passed her by. Of course she will be spending it with Bryony, but she's so tired that the thought of not doing so starts her rubbing her eyes, both to stay awake a little longer and so as not to weep.

  A milk float prowls moaning down the next side street as she turns along her road. There's plenty of space outside her house for the Nova, but nevertheless she scrapes a tyre against the kerb while reversing. The dandelions she prevented Geoff from denying Bryony sprawl over the path; they're bedraggled by dew and flattened by the harsh light of a streetlamp. Jill unlocks the front door none too expertly and pushes it past whatever obstruction it always encounters. She finds the switch for the hall light, then types the alarm code, a date that feels meaningless just now. She plods into the kitchen to fill a glass with water
and raise a feeble toast to her reflection in the window. Having run another glassful, she's sipping it when she's confronted by muddy footprints all along the hall.

  They're hers, of course. She forgot to use the doormat. She shuffles her shoes clean on it, but the carpet will have to wait until she's awake. Instead she trudges to the phone and dials Geoff's number. Once he has finished saying he's on tape and the rest of it, she murmurs "Only me, Bryony. Just wanted you to know I'm home. I'm off to bed now. I hope it'll be you that wakes me up."

  She replaces the receiver and carries the glass past the exhibition of pony drawings. Perhaps sometime she'll be able to afford riding lessons for Bryony, she thinks dreamily, though how likely is that if Jill's out of a job? All that matters is that they'll be together and manage somehow. Jill brushes her teeth in front of the foggy mirror, having performed the rest of the minimum required by the bathroom. She gives the faint muddy tracks on the stairs a reproachful blink as she heads for her room, where she wriggles gradually into bed before switching off the final light. As she closes her eyes she holds Bryony in her mind in case that brings a dream of her. Perhaps Jill won't hear her coming upstairs. Perhaps Jill won't know she has company until she wakens to see a small face close to hers.

  Greg

  "Keep it up, Greg. You'll go down in the history of the store. I only wish I could be with you. If there's anything else I can do, just say the word."

  Greg isn't going to ask for a break. If Woody doesn't think they can afford the time, how can he disagree with that? Far too many of the staff have succumbed to weakness without his succumbing too. He stoops to retrieve book after book and hold them close to his face while he deciphers each author's name and each title. Another dozen or so and he'll be able to move to the opposite shelves at the end by the window. He's crouching in the dimness to locate Khan when Woody says "So where did I go wrong, Greg? Advise me on that if you can."

  Greg would have to leave his task to do that, and Woody mightn't want to hear that he could have chosen better personnel. As Greg finds the book a place among its tribe, Woody says "Okay, let me tell you. I guess you'd be too modest to admit it, but I ought to have hired more guys like you. Pity I couldn't just clone you and have a storeful of Gregs."

  Greg lifts the next book—King, which is a step up from the previous author—and permits himself a humble smirk for as long as it takes him to rise halfway. "Hey, award yourself a smile or two," Woody urges so close to the phone that his huge voice grows blurred. "I wouldn't mind seeing a few."

  Greg sends one in his general direction before concentrating on the mass of royalty that occupies three shelves. He hasn't identified where the thousand or more pages in his hand should go when Woody booms "Another, maybe? It's getting kind of lonely up here."

  His words and the closeness of his voice have started to make Greg uncomfortable. He's unable to separate them from the waves of heat and chill that flood him each time he exerts himself. Whenever he bends or straightens up, the ache in his bruised shoulders fastens on the back of his head where it struck the floor. Perhaps Woody didn't see that Greg was knocked down by, of all people, Jake. Greg hopes not. He's certainly not about to tell Woody, let alone his own father, who he's sure would finally conclude Greg isn't worthy to be called his son. It's enough for Greg to know he remained, having played the man against the mob. He forces a smile and directs it at the ceiling before he reverts to searching for the gap he should make for the book. "Don't do it just for me," Woody says. "I'm sure you can use it as well."

  Greg does his best to smile at finding more Kings at his feet. Of course he's in favour of the monarch, all the more so if it were a man, but the repetition of the word seems to drain it of meaning. Perhaps that's the fault of the dimness that is stinging his strained eyes. As he turns books to face outwards so as to clear space for additional copies, Woody says "You didn't answer my question back there. You're making me feel kind of useless."

  With a book in each hand Greg glances at the dark where he can almost visualise Woody hovering, and stretches his arms wide. He means to mime incomprehension, but Woody says "Up to me to figure out how I can help, huh? Let's try this."

  When he begins singing Greg can't react until he has planted both volumes on the shelf. By then Woody has repeated "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy" several times, though not always the melody. Greg smiles with all the energy he can summon and waves his hands on either side of his head to chase away Woody's behaviour. "Say, since it's just us listening I guess I can say you look like a minstrel in this light," Woody says. "Join in if you like."

  Greg shakes his head as he ducks for books, and feels as if the clammy insubstantial burden of Woody's voice is pressing him down. Woody has stopped singing, but for how long? As Greg holds his breath for fear he'll recommence, Woody says "No? Don't let me distract you from that fine job. Holler if there's anything you need, that's all I'm asking."

  What Greg needs is not to be alone in shelving. He jerks his hands at the shelves around him. "Say what?" Woody enquires. "Speak to me."

  Greg stands up with a pair of Kings and mouths "Angus" at the ceiling. "Still not getting it," Woody complains.

  Greg marches to the counter, where he drops the books beside the nearest phone and snatches the receiver. "Does Ray still need Angus? Couldn't Angus see if he can come through the other door?"

  "Try the one they're at again first if you like."

  This feels like being put in charge downstairs. Greg doesn't know how long it has been since either of his colleagues was heard from. Ray must have told Angus to keep quiet or sent him packing. Greg sets down the receiver and strides after his shadow, which the dimness stretches into anonymity. He's annoyed by the need to keep glancing over his shoulder, but the exit is open since the deserters smashed their way out, though he did his best to block the gap with a pair of double-parked empty trolleys. He can't help feeling that some mischief has been or is going on around him; perhaps that's because he's unable to discern the order of the books he's passing or even to remember whose responsibility they used to be. He's some yards short of the exit to the staffroom when he shouts "Ray, will you let us know what stage you've reached?"

  Apart from the last of his footsteps there's silence. He understands Ray has to concentrate, but that surely needn't entail rudeness. Can Ray have fallen asleep on the job, and Angus too? Greg pounds on the door with the side of his fist in case anyone requires wakening. "Could someone answer, please?" he shouts and leans his ear against the door.

  In a moment he hears a repeated sound but can't identify it. However much it resembles the dripping of water, it must have to do with the fuses. "Angus," he bellows. "We want to know if you're at a loose end."

  Because of his position most if not all of his voice seems to stay outside the door. Nevertheless he hears movement, and is straining to interpret it when Woody demands "What's going on?"

  Greg marches to the nearest phone and gropes for the receiver. He's distracted by an impression that the children's books are as jumbled as Madeleine kept claiming they were. It's too dark to be certain, and if they're disarrayed he more than suspects she's to blame. As he squints to distinguish which button to press, Woody connects them. "Here I am, Greg. You're not on your own."

  "I'm assuming they both have to be there, but I haven't had an answer yet."

  Woody's voice expands to fill the shop. "Ray or Angus, Greg's outside by himself. He needs to know you're there."

  Greg wouldn't have phrased it quite like that, and isn't wholly happy with the response it brings. The movements beyond the door sound as if somebody is coming to life in mud; the shuffling seems not just aimless but unpleasantly soft. The best, if hardly acceptable, explanation Greg can find is that Angus is rousing himself from whatever he found to lie on. "Well, don't stay there," Woody exhorts. "Go to the door."

  Greg is about to echo this when he realises it was addressed to him. While he resents being classed with Angus, he would be wrong to show it
. As he strides to the exit, Woody says "Greg's there now, Angus. See if the two of you can shift that goddamned door."

  Greg applies his badge to the plaque as he thumps the door with one shoulder, sending an ache across and up his neck, but he might as well not be a member of staff. He runs at the door and bruises the heels of his hands on it with no other result. He's labouring entirely on his own. At first he hears Angus rubbing part of himself over the far side of the door—both his hands, perhaps, since the surface sounds large enough for his face. Is he too stupefied to locate the metal bar? Now he seems to be shuffling about as though he's prancing with idle delight, so loudly it suggests Ray has joined in. Greg hurries to the phone to report "I'm making no headway, and I've no idea what anybody else is up to."

  "You can hear me, right, Angus? Anything more you can do to help Greg?" After not much of a pause, Woody's voice shrinks into Greg's ear. "Anything?"

  "Nothing at all."

  "Okay, Angus, why don't you see if you can find your way down to the door by the elevator. You can check how Agnes is."

  The shuffling recommences, though now it sounds like meat being dragged across the floor. Greg hasn't managed to sort out the noise when Woody addresses him without bothering to keep the phone between them. "Plenty of shelving to finish while you wait, Greg. Give him a yell when you're down, Angus."