The Overnight (18 page)

Angus is retreating in that direction when Woody adds "Let's get through this afternoon and then we'll be back to normal." As Angus flees along one of Lorraine's aisles he wonders what Woody regards as normal. He's almost sure that he hears Woody's parting murmur, which seems to freeze to the nape of his neck, unless that's a breath of the fog. "Smile," Angus fancies Woody is repeating to him or to himself, and feels as if something has stretched an arm at least the length of the shop and closed its reptilian grasp around his mouth.

He has taken the fog into account, of course. It used to be a leisurely twenty minutes' drive from Warrington to where the slip road for the retail park is now, but since his first visit to Texts, when he almost let himself down by arriving late for his interview, he has added seven—two more than five, to be safe. He brakes as soon as he sees fog basking in the afternoon sun on the motorway ahead. Some of the cars in front don't slow until the fog is almost thick enough to put their lights out, and none of them heads down to Fenny Meadows. He knows management couldn't have predicted how fog would settle in the area—it never did last winter when he used to drive past en route to work at the library in Manchester—but the world is changing to nobody's benefit. He'll keep that in mind if he's ever called upon to judge a location for a branch of Texts.

He's travelling at under thirty by the time he reaches the slip road. As he steers the Rover onto it a car on the motorway swings out to overtake, blurred both by speed and the murk. Greg braces himself to hear a screeching skid and an impact, and when neither penetrates the upholstered whitish air he nevertheless drops his speed to compensate. He coasts off the roundabout and cruises behind the unfinished buildings to Stack o'Steak, beside which a large grey dog or some wild creature about as tall is digging its face into a garbage bin. He would stop to focus on it and, more to the point, to suggest to whoever's in charge of the diner that they should make their rubbish secure from animals, but he has come to work early to release his colleagues for Lorraine's funeral. If they're going to insist on attending, it's only right that they should be punctual. It would be hypocritical of Greg to join them when Lorraine's attitude to the job couldn't have been more unlike his own. If he were a manager he might have felt required to put in an appearance, though he understands that Woody doesn't feel comfortable with leaving Greg's colleagues unsupervised in the shop. Greg did consider pointing out that he'll be there but doesn't want Woody to think him presumptuous.

Beyond Frugo he lets the fog dictate his pace, which gives him a chance to observe who's parked where. He doesn't recognise any of the very few cars in front of the shops as belonging to a workmate. He'd refrain from telling Woody if he did. Not only does Woody have enough to deal with, but Greg believes in giving people the opportunity to mend their ways; he always did when he was a school prefect, for minor offences at any rate. He drives behind Texts and parks alongside several vehicles beneath the name the fog has rendered invisible from the motorway. Briefcase in hand, he locks the steering wheel and then the Rover before marching around the shop.

Though the inside of the window is patched with grey, the patches aren't where he would like them to be. They don't obscure the three faces of Brodie Oates, three round smooth self-satisfied faces bunched like balloons on strings of bodies that aren't small enough, not when the one that isn't wearing a suit or a kilt is done up in a dress. All this isn't even Jake's doing, which might be understandable if certainly no more palatable. People like him can flaunt themselves all they want now, and nobody else is permitted to comment; it's the same sort of unfairness as Greg's father keeps objecting to—as he says, a fellow can't call a black fellow a black fellow any longer, but the black fellow can call a fellow any kind of fellow he likes. At least they aren't bound to have any on the staff at Texts, not like the library where Greg's parents work and he did. All it does is make people feel uncomfortable, robbed of words, because they no longer know what they're allowed to say. There again, what's to be said to Jill? Did she mean to shock people with her window or indulge in a sly joke? Greg wouldn't think anyone loyal to the shop would want to do either, and you ought to be as proud of your place of work as you were of your school. He is, and he means to keep it that way, even if that entails not always being liked by everyone. He got used to that at school.

As Greg passes between the security pillars the guard looks uncertain how to greet him. Was that a simper that's swallowed up by his flattened pugnacious face? "Good afternoon, Frank," Greg says to put him at his ease, and receives a grunt for his trouble. He strides under the false ceiling of music towards the staffroom and encounters Agnes pushing a trolley at no great speed into the Travel section. "Better put a smile on if you want to keep people happy," she tells him.

"None of us can do too much of that."

Her mouth takes on a shape like a smile reflected in stagnant water. "You sound just like him."

"If you're referring to Woody I'd call that a compliment."

The water Greg imagined seems to drag her mouth down further. "What are you doing here, anyway? You aren't due for nearly an hour."

"I thought I'd make sure you could do your duty by the funeral, those that are going. We don't want you being late when you're representing the shop."

"It isn't a duty, it's anything but. My God, she's only been dead a week." Agnes leaves her mouth open for a moment before adding "She was worth quite a few of some people here."

All she's achieving is to remind Greg how quarrelsome Lorraine was—indeed, Agnes is demonstrating how that has infected her—but he won't allow himself to be provoked. "Well," he says instead, "I think we'd both better be getting on with our work."

She seems ready to argue even about that, though he was careful to include himself. He almost fancies she has managed to incite the staffroom entrance to rebel; he has to show the plaque his badge twice to convince it he's authorised to enter. As the door clanks shut he runs upstairs to entrust his briefcase to his locker. He's sliding his staff card under the clock when Woody steps out of his office. "I thought someone was pretending to be you on the monitor," he says. "Why, you're nearly as early as me."

"I thought you might need me if we've got staff going off."

"That's the kind of guy we want," Woody tells Angus, who is crouching over the table and the remains of his lunch as though hoping not to be noticed. "Would you do anything for this place, Greg?"

"I'd like to think so."

"It isn't asking much, is it, Angus? Why don't you show him. You're top dog so far."

For a moment Angus seems worse than reluctant. Greg is wondering if he has caught the attitude Lorraine appears to have bequeathed to Agnes when Angus twists around to face him. The sides of his mouth strain upwards as if they've been pierced by invisible hooks. "Welcome to Texts," he mumbles.

His expression is more desperate than welcoming, and his voice falls short of both. "Hey, you did better before," Woody cries. "See how special you can make me feel, Greg."

Greg would do his best for him and Texts even if Woody's eyes didn't look raw with pressure. "Welcome to Texts," he says with his biggest smile and holds out his hand as well.

"You need to match that, Angus. We don't want anyone taking the lead, do we? You can show the others how it's done, Greg, and that's how you greet every customer that comes through the door. The hand too, I like that. Just one more thing—whenever you talk to a customer, recommend a book."

"Any in particular?" Greg asks, since Angus has found some lunch to duck towards.

"Whichever excites you. Everything's good or we wouldn't sell it. I shouldn't tell you what to like."

Greg thinks Woody might guide people to the heights more than the depths; surely as a manager he has to have taste. Perhaps Greg can bring that up next time they're alone—it isn't for any of the other staff to hear. He's wondering whether he should remind Angus that his lunchtime must be close to over when Woody says "Okay, Greg, so long as you're extra right now, will you be Lorraine?"

Angus clears his throat so loud that he silences everyone. Greg suspects it's only because that's drawn attention to him that Angus mutters "Nobody can. There's just one of everyone."

"You must know Woody's asking me to shelve her books."

"Glad at least one of you understands what I'm saying."

Greg hurries into the stockroom, not least to avoid watching Woody rub his eyeballs redder still. Nevertheless he would be tempted to fetch him if it weren't obvious that Woody has more than enough on his mind. Whoever sorts new stock onto the racks is supposed to deposit each person's share of Lorraine's books on their lowest shelf—Nigel wrote tags to help them—but not only has somebody dumped them in any space they could find in Greg's storage, they've given him books on sculpture that are Jake's responsibility, naked smooth male figures Greg is certain will delight him. Here's an armful of photography collections too, which are up to Wilf to file once he recovers from the headache he claimed Brodie Oates' novel gave him until it was time to go home, as if being made to feel sick by the affront the book represents were an excuse for anyone to fall behind in their work. Whoever dumped the stock on Greg's racks seems to have needed a wash; when he's finished wiping the books as he transfers them, his handkerchief looks grubby as a schoolboy's. The volumes that belong on his racks appear to be cleaner, but that doesn't mean he's in favour of all of them: what kind of customer would want an anthology of paintings called
Even Monsters Dream
that's wrapped in a picture of Hitler asleep? As Greg sorts the books onto a trolley he tries to find some he can recommend. Nudes could be embarrassing, abstract art means less than nothing to him, surrealism always strikes him as a symptom of a mental state that can be treated nowadays—a pity the painters couldn't apply their technique to a better end. He settles on a book of English landscape paintings. Landscapes never harmed anyone, he reflects as he rushes the trolley out of the stockroom.

The lift wastes time by crawling upwards and then murmuring about opening before it does. He commits the trolley to it and hurries downstairs to await it rather than risk tracking mud into the shop from the shapeless footprints someone was inconsiderate enough to leave in the lift, such a tangle of marks they suggest some kind of dance. Either the offender or someone more dependable must have wiped the lobby clean of the rest of the footprints. Greg hauls the trolley forth as soon as the lift sets it free. He's guiding it onto the sales floor when the phones begin to ring.

Nobody else seems eager to respond. Ross is behind the counter, but he's staring at the fog. The others are shelving—at least, Jill is, though she could be quicker. Gavin is busy stifling yet another of the yawns Greg thinks management should take up with him, and Agnes hasn't even finished putting the books on her trolley in order. Greg speeds his to the phone next to the Teenage alcove. "Welcome to Texts at Fenny Meadows," he says for his colleagues to hear as well. "Greg speaking. How may I help?"

"Is Annie there?"

For a moment Greg wonders if somebody has infiltrated the shop, and then he understands. "May I ask who's calling?"

"Her father."

"And could you tell me what it's concerning?"

"We just want to know she's safe."

"Perfectly. I'm looking at her."

"Only a friend of the family drove past there earlier and he says the fog's worse than ever."

"He ought to have paid us a visit and seen how much we have to offer. Don't worry, the fog hasn't prevented any of us from coming to work."

"Could I have a swift word with Annie?"

"Is it something I can deal with? I don't know whether she'll have told you personal calls aren't really on except in an emergency."

Greg should have thought to look away from her. As her father says "Forgive me. If you could tell her—" she deserts her trolley and stalks over. "Who's that? Is it for me?"

"Excuse me one moment," Greg says into the mouthpiece, which he covers with his palm. "It's your father. As you're aware, the shop doesn't like us to—"

"It can't like or dislike anything. It's just a place, you silly prat." While snarling this she grabs the phone. "Give it to me. Let go," she says even more harshly and digs her nails into the back of his hand.

Her violence does more than shock him; it makes him want to hurt her worse. If she can't behave like a lady she shouldn't expect to be treated like one. He's about to seize her fingers and twist them against one another until she cries, the way he used to deal with juniors he didn't take to the headmaster, when he realises Woody may be watching. "You'll regret that," he murmurs with a smile into her face before yielding the phone to her.

She's already pretending to be unaware of him. As he wheels the trolley into Lorraine's section, Agnes says "Yes, daddy, I'm here." Once she can't see what he's doing he presses the back of his hand against the end of the trolley. The wood is cold, but is it also moist or is that Greg? It doesn't squeeze much of the sting out of his hand. The recurring discomfort slows him down, which means he hasn't shelved nearly as many books as he would like by the time Agnes finishes whispering into the phone and comes for him. "Don't you ever do that again," she says as low.

"I rather think I'm the one who should be issuing a warning."

"If you interfere between me and my family ever again I'll do a whole lot worse. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Someone who believes the shop's entitled to expect the standard of behaviour it's paying us for."

"For once we're agreed about something. The amount they pay us, they needn't expect much."

"If management could hear you they'd think"—he glances away from shelving to underline his words with a look—"you're soliciting on behalf of a union."

"They wouldn't want one knowing about our pay and conditions, you mean? Maybe you wouldn't either."