The Overnight (31 page)

Mad assumes this is aimed at her and whoever sided with her. All at once she feels both nervous and stupid. What is she expecting anyone to find? If a child were lurking in the shop it would surely have failed to keep silent by now, and who else would have hidden so as to disarrange her books except a child? If by any chance an unnaturally noiseless little intruder has succeeded in remaining unseen—if perhaps it's crawling on all fours towards the exit and too lacking in intelligence to realise there's no escape that way—the impression makes her uneasier than she can comprehend. She begins to sidle alongside the rear wall as Angus does along the counter so that nobody can dodge unnoticed out of the aisles between them. Tiny violins provide a relentless accompaniment that feels as though a swarm of strings is embedding itself in her brain. She tries to remember to breathe while swallowing a sour upsurge of coffee that tastes far too stale. She can't help growing tense in case a shape darts out of the next aisle, but when she almost lets a cry loose it's because Jake has. "What was that?"

"Good God, don't squeal so loud," Greg tells him. "You'll give everyone a headache."

"There, quick." Jake is waving a hand at a nearby aisle. "It went along there. Head it off."

At first Greg seems too busy displaying his aversion to Jake's gesture, but he marches to the far end of the aisle Jake blocks. "Where is it?" Jake cries. "It wasn't moving fast. It didn't come out here."

"What are you trying to say you saw?"

"Some kind of grey, grey thing low down. It poked out and went back in when I saw it like a slug when you touch it."

"I shouldn't think anyone's surprised there's no sign of anything like that."

"I'm telling you I saw something," Jake insists more shrilly.

"Then tell us where it went."

Mad isn't sure if Jake intends to answer by demanding "What's that stain?"

"I can't imagine. Maybe you know more about such things than I do."

Mad is less than eager to see, but she's the next to look once she has checked the intervening aisles with Angus. In the middle of the space between Jake and Greg is an irregular greyish discolouration about a foot across. No doubt because Jake has lodged the image in her head, she's reminded of the mark a slug or rather a mass of them might leave. "So what are you dreaming up now, Jake?" Greg enquires. "It melted? Went through the floor?"

"It was there," Jake contends. "You'd have seen it if you hadn't been complaining about your poor little delicate ears that can't cope with anybody showing any feelings."

"It's men not sounding like men I don't care for."

"I'm not surprised if people have started imagining things," Agnes says behind Greg before he has finished speaking. "I expect more of us may from missing our sleep."

Mad assumes Agnes is offering her as well as Jake the excuse. The rest of the staff have converged on the aisle, having searched the extent of the shop without result. Is Mad going to persist in the belief that there's an intruder? What possible point would there have been in disorganising a shelf's worth of books? All it has achieved is to set her and Jake apart from the others, if either of them lets that happen. "Everybody happy now?" Nigel hopes aloud.

"Everybody satisfied?" Ray adds or translates.

Jake looks at Mad but withholds his expression. She must have forgotten to tidy that one shelf; nothing else makes sense. "Got to be," she says for both of them.

Jake is turning away as though his vigorous shrug has spun him round when Woody's voice flies out of its various lairs. "Someone needs to let me know what you're playing at down there."

Ray and Nigel both head for phones, and Nigel is the winner. "Some of us thought we could have had a better look around before we locked up," he informs the phone.

"You mean I could have," Woody says throughout the shop.

"All of us. You keep saying we're a team."

"So what did the team decide?"

"We're on our own in here."

"Okay, I don't mind if everybody smiles about it this one time. What does it take to cheer you up? Hey, I'll tell you something that ought to—it's nearly Christmas. That has to start bringing us some more custom soon."

Mad thinks that should have begun happening weeks ago, and perhaps Nigel is keeping the same thought quiet. "Still no smiles?" Woody booms from everywhere. "What we need is a truckload of goodwill."

Nigel shuffles on the spot as if he regrets he was so keen to reach the phone, until Woody says "Ross, grab a disc of some Christmas music. It can go on my tab."

Ross spends so long at the compact disc shelves that Mad grows edgy with impatience. At last he brings Nigel a copy of
Santa's Disco
, which wouldn't have been her choice. It hardly matters; when Nigel ousts Vivaldi with it, there's no sound. "Let's try something else," he urges.

This time Ross eventually selects
Carnival of Carols,
which Mad would have chosen in the first place. The trouble is that it doesn't play either, and when Nigel replaces it with Vivaldi, that too is as silent as the swaying of the fog outside the window. As he jabs the buttons again, Woody demands "What's the holdup now?"

Nigel grabs the receiver and keeps poking the controls of the player as if he's on a leash that's the telephone cord. "Something's gone wrong. Nothing will play any more."

"So don't waste any more time on it. Why don't you all vote on some Christmas songs and sing while you work."

"Like the slaves we're expected to be," Agnes remarks.

"What was that? What did she say, Nigel?"

Nigel hesitates before mumbling "I don't think I quite caught it."

Greg clears his throat with an eloquence he may be hoping will communicate itself to Woody. It must have fallen short of the phone, since Woody says "I guess maybe she's thinking I should join in and not just tell everyone else what to do, am I right? Here's a tune to get us in the mood."

Mad doubts that she's alone in growing apprehensive as he draws an amplified breath. Once he begins to sing she wouldn't be surprised if nobody knows where to look. He's performing either at the top of his voice or with his mouth against the mouthpiece; the huge blurred song audibly trembles the speakers. Among the less appealing aspects of his performance is his inability to remember most of the words, largely confining himself to an exhortation to let it snow. Mad is wondering if he would prefer that to fog when he interrupts himself. "Hey, this wasn't meant to be a solo. Don't tell me you don't know that song. It was in a movie some of you have to have watched."

"To be honest, and I don't know how alone I am in this," Nigel says, "I think we'd work better without singing."

Everyone but Greg makes their agreement visible at once. "Don't nod so much or you'll be nodding off," Woody says, with what kind of a smile isn't clear. "Maybe I ought to serenade you instead."

The nervous silence this provokes is interrupted by the clank of a bar on a door. Connie hurries out of the exit from the staffroom, followed by Jill. Both seem to be trying not to betray how Woody's voice has driven them downstairs. In a moment he cuts himself off with a magnified clatter that prompts Ray to shout "Time to get back to work."

Nigel clearly thinks either that he doesn't need to be told or that he should have done the telling. He trudges back to Humour as the rest of the staff move away from the stain on the floor. Is everyone determined to ignore Woody's behaviour? Mad doesn't want to lose the chance to bring it up. "Did you hear anything odd while you were upstairs?" she calls.

"That isn't much of a joke," says Connie.

"I mean apart from what we've all been hearing."

"I didn't," Ross apparently thinks worth establishing.

"It was after you left me alone up there. Woody …" The only words Mad feels able to use convey less than she wants them to. "Woody talking to himself."

"Maybe he's decided that's the best way to avoid arguments round here," says Nigel.

As Ray stares hard and sharply at him across the floor, Jill says "I think we'd have heard him if he had been. There wasn't any other talking going on up there."

Mad has the impression that Angus intends to prevent a quarrel by remarking "I'm glad he's stopped singing at least. That song didn't make me feel much like Christmas."

"He was only trying to get us smiling," Greg objects. "What's the matter with the song? Too American for you?"

"Too mixed up with that Bruce Willis film with all the mindless violence."

"I thought the film was bloody terrific," Ray says. "Must have left my mind at home."

This time it's Nigel who sends a look too eloquent for words across the shop. Meanwhile Jake enquires "What did you think of it, Greg?"

"Nothing wrong with heroism. He's only trying to save his wife and her workmates."

"Wasn't it the one where he's in his vest all the time? And you nearly had us believing that wasn't your kind of thing."

Greg's face stiffens and grows mottled, and Mad finds herself wishing for an interruption; even Woody calling for more smiles might do. All the altercations have made the air feel thickened, prickly, close to suffocating. She can't judge whether the shop is hot as rage or cold as loathing. Once Greg ends the confrontation by planting a book on a shelf with a sound like a blow with a club, Mad sets about putting her chaotic books in order. She's hoping everyone is preoccupied enough with work to gain some inner calm when Ross complains "Hang on, don't put anything on my shelves. I've got no room."

"I need space too," Angus protests. "Anyway, they aren't your shelves or mine. They're Gavin's when he comes back to work."

"Don't say that's an angry Angus," Ray calls, apparently to Nigel. "We're never going to have a bit of mindless violence, are we? Seriously, now, you lads want to shake and make up."

Ross pretends to ignore him, only to seem provoked by him. "If you don't give me some room," he mutters at Angus, "I'll have to move books all the way to the end of the aisle."

"Same here if you start crowding me. Sorry, you've got to stay out of my patch."

"Children," Jill says, raising her head above her shelves to shake it at the pair. "It can't be worth falling out over, can it? Shall I help one of you and somebody else help the other?"

The sole immediate response is Connie's. "You're awfully fond of telling people they're like children, aren't you, Jill."

"Maybe it takes someone that's had one to see it," says Ray.

At first Nigel confines himself to eyeing him, and then he lets his thought out. "The rest of us are blind, is that it? Those of us who wish we could have one and can't must be the worst."

"I don't know why you had to share that with us, Nigel. It's the first any of us heard you had a problem, am I right?"

Mad hears a wordless grunt, not necessarily of agreement, that she can't locate. "In that case I'd better apologise to anyone I've upset, had I?" says Nigel. "Lock our home lives up at home, that's how we work at Texts."

"It ought to be, shouldn't it?" Greg somewhat more than murmurs.

"Give it a rest, Greg," Ray says. "We don't need to hear from you every other bloody minute."

A mass of unspoken agreement seems to clot the air and turn it as uncomfortably warm as Mad imagines Greg's face if not the whole of him has grown. Rather than glance at him, she continues pulling books off the messy shelf. "My offer's still on if someone else would like to match it," says Jill.

"Just let me put these right and I will."

"Never mind, Mad. We know your section has to be perfect before you'll help anyone else."

She's the last person on the staff Mad would have expected to fall out with her. Is she really saying what everyone thinks? If Mad swung around, would she see all of them resenting her before they could don their false smiles? As she crouches on her knees, she feels as if she's both hiding from scrutiny and being dragged down by it; she's certain she is being watched. It must be Woody at his monitor. Perhaps he's about to enquire what the latest problem is, in which case Mad wouldn't be surprised if whoever answers blames her—but it's Jake who brings the pause that feels silenced by fog to a finish. "I'll give you a hand. Where do you want it, Angus?"

"You could start at the far end and give me all the space you can."

"I bet you're not the only man here who'd prefer that. Don't fret, I'll do my best to open up your end."

Greg clears his throat so fiercely it's little short of spitting, and then the shop fills with a clamour of handfuls of volumes being reshelved. The resonance seems to extend under Mad's knees; she could imagine that the floor is being shaken by an enormous knocking from beneath. Either the coffee has failed to wake her as much as she hoped or the wakefulness is affecting her nerves. She tries to ignore the staccato uproar as she pushes the last of her books into place. They only just fit; indeed, they're so snug that she wonders if little children would have the strength to remove them. She's reaching for the first book on the shelf to move it to the one above when she's distracted by the shadow at the foot of the bookcase.

It reminds her of the stain Jake found, except that it's moving. It's spreading, because it isn't a shadow but moisture that's seeping off the lowest shelf. She drags half a dozen books free to reveal that the moisture is underneath them. It's under all the books—no, it's been squeezed out of them. She opens the topmost of the books she has stacked on the floor, and a clown's face meets her with a grin as wide as its baggy mottled cheeks. Its colours are starting to run, its outline is melting, and the first two letters of the solitary word for it on the left-hand page have merged into a single character like an illiterate capital D.

She leafs through the rest of the book and a scattering of the others. All the pictures are even further on the way to shapelessness. She wobbles to her feet, brandishing the first volume, though she doesn't like touching any of them; they feel softened by the furtive damp, close to disintegrating in her grasp. Nobody spares her a glance as she straightens up. The inside of her skull seems to grow jagged with the incessant clatter of handfuls of books, and there's a stale taste in her mouth. She's trying to decide whom she would least dislike to approach—who is least likely to react as though she's indulging her finicky self—when Woody's swollen buzzing voice is added to the din, which sinks beneath it. "Can a couple of you bring your muscles up here? Something's wrong with my door."