The Overnight

by Ramsey Campbell

  Connie

  "No need to call it quits down there," Woody hems her in by saying out of all the darkest corners of the sales floor. "No need to call it a day. You can see better than us."

  Connie doubts it in his case. She wouldn't want to be any of the people trapped upstairs with no windows and no light, but he can't lack that if his monitor is working. She hopes he concentrates on opening his door. She feels demoted enough by the way her badge wouldn't let her at the fuses, without having him watch her actions and direct her as if she's just another of a troupe of puppets. Though she wishes she weren't the solitary manager downstairs, she's more than capable of taking charge. She only has to accept the sight of the sales floor now that it has been overtaken by the glare from outside. As well as draining colour from the hordes of books, the greyish light appears to have brought in fog to settle over the shelves along the rear wall, where the shadows are thick as mud. She surveys the faces of the staff who have retreated towards the windows and the best, such as it is, of the light. All of them look flattened and diminished by the stark illumination. Greg has remained in his section and is doggedly lifting books off the floor to squint at them so hard it pulls his mouth into an unconscious grin each time he hunts for the right place on a shelf. "No point arguing, is there?" Connie tells everyone. "We're lucky to be where we are."

  She wouldn't mind more of a response to her attempt to raise their spirits out of the greyness than a bunch of shrugs and mutters. Even Greg seems too busy to agree, unless he thinks his display of commitment elevates him above the need to answer. "Don't ever be afraid to tell me I'm wrong," Connie says. "Hands up anyone who'd rather be upstairs."

  Jill straightens her lips while her eyes hint at the slim possibility of a smile, and Mad's fingers stir as if she might consider conceding the point, but nobody else goes even that far. "Well then," Connie is trying to enthuse when Ross mumbles somewhat too distinctly "Rather be in bed, though."

  "I'm sure, but none of us can be there just now, can we?"

  Connie doesn't immediately realise why she oughtn't to have said that while her eyes were meeting Mad's. She flashes Mad an apologetic smile, which seems not to help; she feels as if she has simply tried on the expression Woody hasn't urged on them for some time, thank God. "Let's see which shelves we can work on," she suggests to everyone, "till Ray gives us back some power."

  "I didn't think we had much of that to begin with," murmurs Jake.

  "That sort of comment won't improve anything," Greg objects. "No need for you to sound like Agnes while she isn't here."

  "There are worse people to sound like."

  "Why have you got to sound like a woman at all?"

  "Some of us might think there's nothing wrong with that," says Mad.

  She accompanies this with a look at Jill alone, and Connie tries to keep her resentment out of saying "We'll concentrate on the shelves by the window. I don't suppose you'll have a problem with that, Jill."

  "I'm just glad if someone's going to give me a hand with my section."

  "I could use a few of those occasionally," says Mad.

  Connie suspects Ross may take this as a cue for a response that Mad even more than the rest of them mightn't want to hear. "Can we all make an effort to get on?" she says. "Having to cope ought to bring us together."

  Jill has as many stubby aisles as there are staff downstairs, which means Greg has no excuse to stay in his. "Actually, Greg, I meant everyone should gather over here," Connie lets him know.

  As he holds up a book, the rudiments of a glistening face appear to rise to the surface of the cover before the light loses its hold and they sink back. "I'm trying to see where this goes," he says. "Never leave a job half done."

  She isn't about to feel rebuked. When she finds she has wasted time in searching for a comment that will demonstrate she's in charge she retreats into one of Jill's aisles. While she picks up discoloured books to shelve she watches Greg sidelong until he deigns to join his colleagues. She's so aware of him that she misses the beginning of an exchange between Jill and Mad. "I don't like it either," says Jill.

  Connie tries and fails to ignore them. "What don't you two like?"

  "The way it looks out there," says Mad.

  "It looks like it has been to me, and anyway we're in here."

  "Mad was saying it looks as if the shop's drawing the fog."

  It's Connie's fault that everyone hears this. Only Greg ostentatiously refrains from looking out of the window and makes certain he's heard shelving. As Connie wishes that the fog—its pallor, its hesitant stealthy progress that leaves a glistening track—didn't remind her of an enormous snail's belly that is lapping up from beneath the darker body of the unseen sky, a huge voice surges out of the greyness. "Someone will be with you any minute."

  Woody pauses just long enough for Connie to assume he means the staff downstairs before he names Agnes, though not the way she prefers to be named. He discusses the pronunciation at some length, not least how it falls short of being American, then reveals that she's trapped in the lift. His voice settles back into its nests in the corners without having earned an update on Ray's progress at the fuses, and Connie makes for the phone at Information. She's only lifting the receiver when it says "Yes, Connie. I'm right here."

  "Are we sure Nigel will be able to let her out?"

  "I guess we'll see."

  At least Connie understands why she heard the delivery doors open twice a few minutes ago: Nigel must have been letting in some light again, having neglected to prop them open to begin with. "How long has she been in there?"

  "Must be since the outage."

  That's far too long for Agnes to have been imprisoned with no light. However annoying she can be, under the circumstances Woody's remarks about her name were pretty well unpardonable. It takes some effort for Connie to say only "Do you think we should call the emergency services? I expect they're used to letting people out of lifts."

  "I hadn't thought of them. I'll do what ought to be done."

  "You'll have their number, will you? I don't need to tell you it isn't the same as in America."

  "Right, you don't."

  "So I'll leave it to you, shall I? Calling them, I mean."

  "You bet. Why don't you concentrate on pushing your team down there a bit harder. There's already going to be plenty of time to make up when we get the light back."

  Connie has scarcely put the receiver to bed when Ross says "Is he calling them?"

  "I understand so."

  "That's what he said."

  "He's calling them."

  "So long as he said that," Mad apparently feels obliged to comment. "Only he was just telling Anyes, wasn't he, how they don't always speak like us. She could have done without all that while she's stuck in the lift."

  "Woody's shut in too," says Greg. "Perhaps he thinks they'll just have to bear it for a while."

  "It's not the same at all," Jill says. "I'd a lot rather be where he is, in his position, I mean."

  "You'd like to be in which position with him with the lights out?" Instead of asking that, because she has no idea what put it into her head, Connie says "Can we at least make sure we're shelving if we feel we have to chat? We need to pep it up a bit."

  "That's everyone, is it?" enquires Jake.

  "Every single, absolutely."

  He lifts his chin and pokes his face over the shelves at Greg, who scowls and parts his lips, revealing clenched teeth. "I shouldn't leave your mouth open too long, Gregory," Jake is delighted to advise him. "You never know what someone might be tempted to slip in there."

  Connie feels as though the murky light is robbing everyone of more than colour—as though it and the interminable night are reducing them to some stark essence of themselves. "I think we've had enough conversation for a while," she says. "It isn't helping us work."

  Greg ducks furiously to grab a book. Jake smiles to himself before he stoops for one. Connie fears she may exacerbate matters if she says any more,
and tries to focus on shelving instead. She has to hold each unshelved book towards the window to catch the grudging light; she could imagine that each repetition of the gesture brings the fog edging closer. Greg is either determined to set an example or challenging anyone to match his speed; he's making so much noise with books that it virtually blots out a shortlived commotion from the lobby where the fuses are. It can't mean Ray has fixed them, since the lights stay dead. Connie is wondering if she ought to find out how he's coping when Woody proclaims that he and Nigel should let in Greg and Ross.

  "They could have done that by now," Greg complains, but that appears to be the sole response. Apart from the thudding of books on shelves there's no sound—no hint of activity beyond the doors. Connie is unable to judge how much of the time that feels inert as fog is used up before Woody declares "You two outside don't have to wait, you know. Maybe if you try to get in that'll do the trick."

  As Greg strides towards the door that leads to Ray, he glances back to urge Ross to the other. Connie can't help resenting how Greg fits his badge to the plaque as though it might be readier to acknowledge him than her. She really oughtn't to feel secretly gleeful that it fails to recognise him either. He and Ross start to compete at ramming their shoulders against the doors, and Ross is the first to give in. "I don't—" he gasps and takes a breath. "I don't think Nigel's there."

  "I thought he mightn't be," Greg says and deals his door the winning though pointless thump.

  Connie succeeds in restraining her irritation enough to ask "Why's that, Greg?"

  "I heard him go out before. I'm sure now that's what I heard. He'll have gone to fetch security. He must have seen they're needed at the lift."

  "Why wouldn't he phone them?"

  "He couldn't where he was, could he? He'd have had to go all the way back upstairs in the dark."

  Connie feels stupid for needing to be told that, especially since she must have known the answer. No doubt he's all the more convinced he would make a better manager, not least because she's a woman. As she struggles to think how he might be wrong about Nigel, Jake says "Explain Ray then, Greg."

  "I'm not aware of anything that wants explaining. He's a good manager."

  "Except he seems to be hiding from you."

  "I wouldn't be the one he'd have—" Greg's shadowy face produces its own darkness at his having let himself misunderstand. "If you're asking why he hasn't come to the door, he'll be too busy with the fuses. It'll be a hard enough job as it is without being left halfway."

  "You ought to be able to hear him," Ross says. "Did you?"

  "Not while we were both making so much noise."

  "How about now we aren't?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "Try shouting to him," Connie suggests, "or would you rather I did?"

  "I'm perfectly capable." Greg turns his back on everyone and leans towards the door, where his shadow shrinks into itself. "Ray?" he shouts as his shadow hands merge with the faceless silhouette of his head. "Ray," he yells between his hands. "Ray."

  "Sounds like three cheers for nobody," says Jake.

  Connie is about to hurry to the door Ray must surely be beyond when Woody's voice reappears overhead. "Angus, if you're doing what I'm hearing, try and think."

  "Can't imagine what Woody doesn't want him doing with himself in the dark, can you, Greg?" Jake calls.

  "Jake, do give it a rest for a while," says Jill.

  "Well, I'm sure I don't want to bother anyone."

  Connie's in no doubt that Greg feels a duty to respond. She's about to head off his retort when Woody interrupts. "Leave Nigel and Agnes and see if Ray wants help. If the fuses are fixed the elevator will be, obviously."

  Mad thuds a book onto a top shelf before protesting "It's not that obvious, is it? The lift mightn't be on the same fuses. The phones aren't."

  "Woody's bound to know what's what," says Greg.

  Woody doesn't know that Ray isn't answering or that Nigel has gone for help. Nigel seems to be taking his time, and meanwhile what is Agnes expected to do? Connie marches to the door outside which Greg is loitering and raps on it with her knuckles. "Ray, can you at least let us know you're there?"

  She doesn't shout. Being shouted at may have distracted him and made him too annoyed to answer. She presses her ear against the door in time to catch a restless shuffling that sounds impatient, and then a curt grunt. He must be too busy or concentrating too hard for words. "Success, Greg," she says. "Maybe some things need the female touch."

  "I didn't hear him."

  "I did." She's very close to losing her temper with his willingness to interfere. "And he doesn't want us disturbing him when he's fiddling about with no light."

  She gazes at Greg with a patience that makes her eyes feel like hot weights until he retreats to his shelving. She's amused to observe that he can't let himself appear reluctant to move, which might imply a lack of commitment to the task and to the shop. Then Woody's voice demands "Does anyone else find it hard to believe Angus is still calling and not going where he's told? You'd think he didn't want us to have light to work with."

  Is Angus another of the distractions that made Ray unresponsive? Connie returns to the aisle where she's shelving and picks up a book in each hand for extra speed, only to find that trying to read two covers by the stifled glow makes her feel retarded to half her pace. She reverts to her old method, hoping furiously that Greg didn't notice. She has shelved a few books with thunks that are meant to sound triumphant but that strike her as just dull when Mad says "Am I the only one that thinks we're assuming a lot?"

  Apparently she is, because Greg clunks two books home before Ross gives in to asking "What about?"

  "Obviously you heard Ray, Connie, and I understand why he's not saying much, but why are you so sure Nigel's gone for help, Greg?"

  "Perhaps you'll tell me where else he could have gone."

  "Suppose he just couldn't bear the dark any more? Maybe there's no light at all in there."

  "Please." In case she doesn't have the wit to grasp why he's outraged Greg adds "Management doesn't act like that."

  "I might."

  At once Connie wishes she hadn't admitted that, even to suggest Mad may have a point, because Greg emits a low brief hum she thinks is the most insulting noise she has ever heard. She's about to train her icy rage on him when Jill asks her "Even if you'd be leaving Agnes, Anyes in the lift?"

  "You're right, I can't see Nigel doing that, or me."

  "If he went for help," Mad persists, "why isn't he back? He's had time to stroll all round Fenny Meadows since we heard the door go."

  "Obviously," Greg says, only to leave his audience in suspense while he stoops for a book and lifts his smug grey face above the shelves, "they weren't in their hut and he's had to track them down."

  He glances through the window and then peers at the book. For an instant Connie thinks she glimpses activity in the fog, but the unstable shapes that she must have imagined were nowhere near as tall as Nigel or a guard. She expels the impression from her mind as Jake says "Am I allowed to speak yet?"

  "It sounds as if you've started," says Greg. "Try and make sure it's worth hearing."

  If anyone needed to give Jake permission it surely ought to have been Connie. She's on the brink of saying so when Jake turns ostentatiously away from Greg to ask "Was that Angus I heard?"

  "When?" says Mad.

  "When you were arguing about Nigel."

  "Nobody was arguing," Greg informs him. "We were establishing the situation. Some of us try not to make everything into a squabble like schoolgirls."

  Jake looks to see who's offended, which leaves Connie feeling as unsympathetic to him as she already was to Greg. "Whatever you call it," Jake insists, "you were making a row."

  His victory seems to terminate all conversation. With visible reluctance Jill asks "What did you think you heard?"

  "Angus calling out or trying to. He sounded a bit shrill."

  Greg's expression su
ggests that the shrillness is all Jake's. "Did anyone else hear anything like that?"

  While nobody appears to want to take Greg's side, everybody's silence does. "Well," Jake says, "if it wasn't Angus it must have been Ray."

  Greg utters a short laugh of pitying disbelief, but Connie wonders if Jake's persistence is making Greg as nervous as she's growing, or if he hasn't the intelligence. Before she can tell Jake to keep his fancies to himself, Jill says "Why aren't we hearing them?"

  "I'm surprised at you, Jill," Greg says, leaning on her pronoun. "Obviously because there wasn't anything of the sort to hear."

  "I don't mean that, Connie. Angus must be down by now, so shouldn't we be hearing them talk?"

  Connie tries not to resent having needed to be told as she stalks along an increasingly dark aisle towards the exit to the staffroom. The illumination at the exit isn't much better than no light at all. The door has begun to remind her how her bedroom looked once when she was little—when she wakened in the middle of the night to catch all the doors in the room skulking in the dimness and holding themselves motionless on behalf of whatever had taken up residence behind them. She almost pounds on the door to render it harmless and elicit a response. Instead she calls "Sorry to disturb you, but is Angus with you, Ray?"

  "Oh yes."

  It has to be Ray's muffled voice, unless it belongs to Angus. Whoever spoke must be preoccupied, since he barely forms the words. Though she won't pretend she's eager to hear it again, Connie asks "Are you both all right?"

  "Oh yes."

  At least they both answer, though the words are even less clear; she could fancy that their mouths are growing somehow looser. She has the grotesquely unnecessary notion that she's deluding herself she recognises them; she can't tell which is which. More to the point, she sees no reason why her questions should amuse them. Her impression that they're close to bursting into laughter goads her to demand "How are you getting on?"