Jill seizes the trolley as the lift begins to creep shut. As she races into the stockroom she fancies running Connie down in what would after all be an accident, but the room is deserted. A book topples off a pile out of sight on a rack, and then the silence holds itself still and thick. It must have been a book, though it sounded oddly soft as well as large. No wonder her nerves are distorting her impressions when she's worried about Bryony. She flings armfuls of novels onto the trolley until it's full and plods behind it to the lift, which opens as soon as it has raised its crumbling voice. She shoves the trolley in and thumbs the button, then dodges out and runs downstairs to the phone by the Teenage alcove. For a moment—God, longer—there's only a featureless patch in her mind where Geoff's number should be, and then she dredges it up to dial.
"Hi there. Geoff here or maybe not, which is why you're listening to a tape. Whatever I'm doing I hope you're having as good a time as I am. Talk to me about anything you like and don't forget to say who you are at least and where I can get in touch."
"It's Jill. It's mummy, Bryony, if you're listening," Jill adds, which brings her no answer either. "I thought you two might be there by now. I expect you've gone somewhere for dinner, have you? Don't bother telling me I'm silly for asking when you can't answer. I just wanted to say I'm here at work and I'm fine, Bryony, so you make sure you sleep all night for me. If you feel like saying good night you can always ring this number," she's desperate enough to suggest, and reads it off the plastic stand. "You ought to put your mobile number on the machine, Geoff, and then I could speak to her right now."
This isn't just for him to hear. Connie has trundled a load of books onto the sales floor and is waiting with monolithic patience to be noticed. When Jill turns to her, having finished with the phone, Connie unfolds a fist towards the trolley. "I found this in the lift. Are you already calling it a day?"
"Of course not. I was coming back for my books. I was only trying to have a little word with my daughter. I didn't manage, maybe you heard."
"I don't know what you think I can do about that."
She knows perfectly well, which is why she's saying the opposite. Nothing but anxiety for Bryony could force Jill to ask "You'll have Geoff's mobile number, will you? I would have but he's changed it recently."
"It's possible I've got it somewhere."
"Then could you let me have it?"
"I don't believe so."
Jill's appeal sounds as puerile as she finds Connie's behaviour. "Why not?"
"You should know why."
"Because you're enjoying keeping it from me."
"No, Jill," she says so stiffly that Jill is almost convinced she's telling the truth. "Because nobody's allowed to make personal calls except in an emergency, and it doesn't sound to me as if we've got one of those, not to mention how much it costs to call a mobile. I'm surprised you need telling, but you wouldn't expect me not to, would you? Just a few minutes ago you were wanting me to act like a manager."
"I wouldn't think you'd take what I want into account."
"That's right, it should be what the shop wants, and I hope that's what we all do."
Before Jill can think of a retort or withhold it so as to renew her plea in whatever way she has to that will reach Connie, Woody's voice descends on them. "Hey, let's see some smiles. No reason why we can't have fun tonight."
"Are you going to tell him different?" Connie says, exhibiting a smile Jill's sure is manufactured for the cameras. "Just put your daughter out of your mind for a while. As you said before, she's being looked after."
She inches the trolley at Jill and pushes herself away from it. Words crowd into Jill's mouth, but she's just able to restrain herself from shouting that perhaps one day Connie will know how it feels to have a child. Instead she trudges with the trolley to her shelves.
The books might as well be cartons full of nothing she can use, unless they're simply empty. That's how little they seem to mean, both while she's putting them in order and once she has stacked them in front of the appropriate shelves. How can she feel like this when she loves books and came to work at Texts because she did? Perhaps the Brodie Oates novel has turned her against reading, except that she doesn't seem to have done much of it since she started at the bookshop; in fact, she can't recall any of her colleagues reading much. Just now that's an oddity she hasn't time for, because she knows what's intervening between her and all the books: her misgivings about Bryony. As she returns from parking the trolley by the lift she sees the fog under the floodlights is heavy as rotten velvet, a giant discoloured greyish curtain that sways sluggishly back from the window at her approach. Suppose there were an emergency? How long would it take her to drive through the murk to wherever Bryony is? She has to believe that Bryony is safe, that she has no reason to think otherwise. She shelves books and moves books along shelves and from shelf to shelf to shelve more books with thuds that seem as dull and repetitive as her thoughts. Woody has unloaded a trolley in Wilf's section and is filing books with rapid terse precise flat impacts that she can't help taking as an apparently endless series of criticisms of her pace. Bryony must be home soon—at Geoff's, rather—and when they hear Jill's message, surely they'll call. Nevertheless when a car coasts out of the fog and halts outside the entrance she hopes it has brought them.
It isn't even a Golf. It's a Passat, and Jake climbs out of the passenger seat. The last of the staff are arriving: here comes Greg along the smeared window. Jill can't be sure if he's one reason why Jake leans down to give the man in the driver's seat a lingering kiss. Greg twists his entire torso away from the sight, only to be confronted through the glass by Jill's lack of disapproval. He marches as far as the security posts and stands by them as if he means to reinforce their vigilance. Jake hasn't reached them when Greg says "There's no excuse for behaviour some people might find offensive."
"Who are you calling people besides you, Greg?"
Frank the guard tramps scowling out of the Erotica section. "There's me for second."
Jill doesn't like seeing anyone outnumbered, in the schoolyard or anywhere else. "Nothing wrong with showing a bit of affection," she calls with a smile at the three of them even Woody might be proud of, except he's intent on his shelving.
"Maybe you'll both know what it feels like sometime," Jake says to Frank and Greg. "Maybe you'll show up at the Juicy Fruit some night, you protest that much."
That's more combative than Jill cares to be. She confines herself to smiling at him as he struts in the direction of the staffroom once he has blown a kiss and waved the car away. Greg and Frank shake their heads at each other in disgust before Greg strides after Jake. Jill doesn't imagine he realises how this looks in the context, but she has to smother a giggle. Seconds later her amusement leaves her alone with her multitude of books.
Is she starting a fever? Either the ones she picks up or her arms are growing heavier as she finds space for another book, another book, another book. Unbelievably and unbearably, Woody has finished his shelving and gone to find more. She's unable to judge if she's hot or cold or alternately both, which may be an effect of the fog that must be sneaking unseen through the open doorway. Can't she use her feelings as a pretext to leave? Is she really so worried that she would make for Geoff's flat and have to wait outside if nobody is there? What on earth is there to be nervous about beyond her own state of mind? All she knows is that when the phones shrill, the sound feels like a hook that has lodged deep in her brain. She dashes to snatch up the phone at Information before anyone else can reach one. "Hello?" she hopes aloud.
"Who's that?"
She wants to believe the blurred voice is Geoff's, but there's no point in deluding herself. "It's Jill," she says, and has time to add "Jill at Texts at Fenny Meadows."
"Hi, Jill." This is followed by a stifled yawn that means he hardly needs to say "It's Gavin."
"Where are you? You sound odd."
More specifically, his voice sounds in danger of being engulfed by static. Inde
ed, she thinks it has been overcome until he says "I don't know. That's why I'm phoning."
"You don't know where you are? Oh, Gavin." She has often suspected that he uses drugs, and now she feels fiercely maternal. "What have you done to yourself?"
"Nothing. It's the fog." His voice fades, so that she isn't certain that he says "It's worse than fog."
She still thinks drugs could be involved. "Gavin, you must be able to tell where you're phoning from."
"My mobile."
His resentfulness gives way to a yawn that must be sucking fog into his lungs. "But how have you got wherever you are?" she persists.
"Took the bus and came down the usual road, but I've been walking a lot longer than I ever do. Must have wandered off along a side road and never realised. I don't wonder in this."
"Would you like someone to drive and see if they can find you?"
"Not a good idea, not in this crap. Thanks, though. I'm turning back and I expect I'll find my way. I just don't know how late I'll be."
"Shall I tell Woody?"
"I wouldn't mind a word with him."
Jill has to remind herself which buttons to press to put Gavin on hold and move onto the public address. "Woody call twelve, please. Woody—"
The interruption leaps at her through the receiver. "Hey, I'm nearly as fast to the phone as you are, Jill. What's up?"
"Gavin's got lost somewhere and he doesn't know when he'll be here."
"We're surely finding out who can be relied on, aren't we. Didn't he dare to tell me himself?"
"He wants to. He's on the line."
"Okay, I'll take him."
Woody sounds capable of blaming Gavin not just for absence but for being the third absentee. Jill would come to his defence if she could think how, but before there's a word in her head the phone excludes her from the conversation. A clamour of books on shelves accompanies her back to hers. Practically everyone is shelving; the only other people in the shop are two resolutely bald men in armchairs, who are clutching picture books as if, like children, they're afraid their treasures will be snatched away from them, though neither seems to be in a reading mood. As Jill returns to her task she feels like part of a machine the size of the shop, a machine devoted to producing thud upon thud so dull they might be pounding out of the books any intelligence they contain. She must be depressed to think that way; certainly her mind feels grey and stagnant. Perhaps that's another sign of whatever is refusing to let her stay either hot or cold and weighing down her arms even in the tiny intervals when they're free of books. All the same, she isn't so hampered that she can't run to Information when the phones burst into a chorus. "Hello?" she gasps.
"It's me again."
"Oh, Gavin." She tries to conceal her frustration. "Do you want Woody?"
"Not this time. You'll do."
She would respond with amused resentment, or perhaps less than amused, if his voice didn't sound so distant, in danger of being engulfed by nothingness. "What for?"
"I've already tried to tell him. I just think someone ought to listen."
"I am, but where have you got to?"
"I still don't know. That's why I thought I'd better call while I can. The fog's not doing my battery any favours."
"Shouldn't you save it in case you need someone to find you?"
"I don't know what sort of person could find me in this." She thinks a swelling wave of static has carried off his voice until he says "What's that?"
Though she presumes he's asking himself, she blurts "What, Gavin?"
"I'm going to see. Listen, while I am I'll tell you—" He stifles a yawn, unless he sucks in a breath. "Hold on."
"That's what I am doing."
"I'm either nearly there or back at the bus shelter. There's a light, only it's odd."
"How odd?"
"It shouldn't be doing that. Anyway, when I got home this morning I started looking at—"
"Hello? Gavin? Hello?"
Only static responds. When Jill presses the receiver against her ear she seems to catch the faintest trace of his voice, but it's no longer talking to her. That's all she gathers from its tone before it sinks deep into the static, which she could imagine is surging up in triumph. Then the phone is a dead lump of plastic, which she's lowering when Woody uses it to ask "Was that a customer?"
"It was Gavin again."
"No wonder you weren't smiling. What's his problem this time?"
"He's still trying to find his way." Woody's watchfulness is making her nervous, but she won't be daunted from remarking "He said he was talking to you about something he saw this morning."
"That would be how I tidied up the store while I was waiting for you guys to arrive."
"Are you certain that's it? I had the impression it was urgent."
"What are you suggesting it was, then?"
"I've no idea. I thought you might have."
"I just told you mine. Maybe you should trust me on this, huh? Don't let me keep you away from your shelves if there's nothing else you want to run past me."
Jill imagines him watching her face as she gives up the phone. She imagines that he's smiling down at her, though in fact he must be smiling upwards; either way, the thought stiffens her mouth. She feels as if he's hovering invisibly over her while she retires to her section. As she slams books into place she's repeatedly drawn to glance out of the window, but it's never Gavin that she has glimpsed. The furtive approaches and withdrawals must be of patches of fog, not of figures peering slyly out of it. She can only assume Gavin saw the bus shelter ahead or, if the light was moving, headlamps on the road he started from. When the phones renew their summons, however, she feels she has an extra motive to dash to the nearest. "Jill," she pants into the receiver. "Jill at Fenny Meadows."
"It's me, mummy."
Of course Jill is relieved. She tries not to be even slightly disappointed that it isn't Gavin to reassure her he's safe and to answer the question she's eager to revive. "Are you at your father's, Bryony?" she asks instead.
"We just are now. We had a lovely dinner."
"I'm glad. What did you have?"
"Burgers. I had a giant one and daddy had to help me finish it."
"I hope it won't keep you awake. You ought to be in bed with school tomorrow."
"I'm going in a moment. I only wanted to say good night like you said. I'm sure I'll sleep."
"That's what I wanted to hear."
Jill smiles, and then her expression falls awry as she wonders if Woody is assuming he's responsible for it. "Are there lots of people there?" Bryony says.
"Just about everyone that should be."
"Daddy said there were. You'll be safe then with everyone together."
It's barely a query, if even that. Perhaps Jill feels it should be one because she doesn't want her ex-husband speaking for her. "I'm sure we all will," she says. "You have the best sleep ever and I will tomorrow."
"Good night, only it won't be for you, will it?"
"Because it'll be good morning, you mean. So long as it's that, and it will be, and you can wake me when you come home from school."
"I will very gently."
"I know."
They seem to have run out of reasons to continue talking. All at once Jill is wary of being asked if she wants to speak to Bryony's father, which she doesn't. "Good night then. Good night," she says, and cuts herself off before any further repetition makes her feel stupid. At once the phone demands "Was that our stray again?"
"It was my daughter checking up on me."
"She's through for the night, is she?"
"I believe so. She's off to bed."
"So long as she stays there. So long as everyone leaves us alone that hasn't any business here tonight."
Jill has no answer to that. She stifles the receiver with its stand and follows the habitual route back to her shelves. The books are waiting; her arms already feel burdened. At least she knows Bryony is safe. Surely that ought to lighten her mind—and yet for a moment,
until she succeeds in dismissing the unwelcome notion, she fancies that Bryony has robbed her of her last excuse to escape.
Woody
Who is he not seeing in his aquarium? That's how the staff look: like creatures behind glass and swimming through a greyish medium that the images on the monitor sometimes make adhere to them in streaks. Jake is the creature that gives a wriggle now and then, Greg is the deliberate one that moves only for a purpose. From up here Woody's able to observe the patterns they describe, Greg staying well clear of Jake while Angus avoids Agnes as though the similarities of their names are driving them apart, not that Woody can pretend he blames him. Ross is the creature that seems to need Woody to prod it into life; it's moving slower than the others and holding its head low. That may be partly to avoid any eye contact across the shop with Mad, who retreats limpet-like into her nearest alcove whenever he wades close. On the other hand, Jill raises herself as though she's capable of striking out to defend her territory if Connie floats anywhere near her. The staff are most themselves when they've forgotten that they're being watched; Woody wishes someone had thought to mount security cameras in the outer office and the other upstairs areas. He hears Ray or Nigel at a computer out of sight beyond the open door, and a muffled clank of books on a rack in the stockroom. In a moment, however, Ray appears out of the exit from the stairs to the staffroom and drifts about to encourage everyone who's shelving, ducking to dredge up lump after grey rectangular lump as if they're immersed in a ritual. Whoever is left can't be in both the office and the stockroom, and when Woody looks out of his door he finds all the computer screens blank as the walls, if greyer. The office is deserted. He's about to locate Nigel in the stockroom to confirm he has just shut down his computer when Jill puts on a big voice. "Woody call twelve, please. Woody call twelve."
Woody sprints back to his desk so as to observe her while they speak. She's behind the counter yet again and gazing not quite up at him as though she wonders where his eyes are. "You're fond of the phone today, Jill," he remarks.
"I thought it would be quicker than coming to find you."
The Overnight Page 20
