The Overnight (2 page)

Ronnie drags his shadows past the stores and unoccupied properties towards the guards' hut next to Frugo as Woody resets the alarm. The floodlights sting his eyes until he climbs into the Honda, but he'll save feeling tired for when his head returns to the pillow. As he speeds onto the slip road, graffiti on the concrete pillars under the motorway meet the headlamp beams, short crude words in primitive letters as giant as the mind behind them is small, he suspects. That's one breed of customer Texts can manage without, and Woody hopes Ronnie and his colleagues will keep them clear until the store has its own guard. Otherwise he's sure his staff are up to any challenge, including the Christmas season, however much more experience they would have brought to it if the store had opened in September. He couldn't have brought that about; the builders overran their schedule. Now he can do everything that's required, though, and he needn't expect less of the staff. It doesn't matter where he lives until he's happy with the store. Maybe that's really why Gina decided against working there: she didn't like sharing his narrow bed, though it didn't stay cold for long. The possibility brings a wry smile to his lips as he drives onto the motorway and the fog sinks into the glow of the retail park.

Fifteen minutes take Jill's Nova out of Bury, where delivery vans have turned the narrow main street into an obstacle course, and onto the motorway past Manchester. A faster quarter of an hour brings her to Fenny Meadows Retail Park. Mist precedes her across the tarmac and trails across the wet green fields towards the distant Pennines, a darker jagged frieze cut out of the grey horizon. She parks behind Texts, whose final plastic letter towers like a giant worm over the car. She touches the photograph of her daughter that's perched above the windscreen mirror. "We can do this, Bryony," she declares.

The blank concrete alley between Texts and the Happy Holidays travel agency leads straight to the books she's responsible for, or at least to the sight of them through the display window. Fiction and Literature didn't sound too daunting, since Jake has Genre Fiction, but trying to invent shelf-end promotions kept her awake last night. Her seps are going septic, she can't help thinking now, and she still has to concoct a way to promote Brodie Oates, the bookshop's first visiting author. Her doubts must have escaped onto her face, because Wilf looks uncertain how to greet her across the counter. "Don't worry, Wilf," she says and wonders if he too has a reason as she makes for the staffroom.

The door to the featureless concrete stairway lets her in once she shows the plaque on the wall her staff badge. Beyond the toilets confronting each other across the passage at the top, the staffroom door isn't so particular about whom it admits. Though Jill is five minutes early, the rest of her shift is seated at the laminated table in the pale green windowless room. Jill takes her card from the Out rack and slides it along the slit beneath the clock and drops it in the In. Connie gives her a big pink-lipped smile bright enough for a toothpaste ad as Jill sits down. "Ouch," Connie says and twitches her small snub nose at the squeal of the chair on the linoleum. "No rush, Jill. You aren't really late."

Angus makes to hand Jill a copy of today's Woody's Wheedles sheet but snatches his hand back when Connie is faster. For a moment the August tan that's fading from his elongated face turns even blotchier. The weekend figures are the best yet for the branch, and now Woody wants to see the weekday sales increase. "Anybody with ideas, just pin them on the board," says Connie as she deals everyone printouts of the shift rota. "Gavin, that's a monster yawn, you're shelving. Ross, could you put security tags inside anything over twenty pounds? That's price, not weight, but it could be both. Anyes, you can be informative at Information. Jill, you're a till till eleven."

As Jill hurries downstairs she's hoping she'll have time to remind herself of the various routines the till demands, but Agnes is looking for help with a queue. Jill types her staff identification number at Till 2 and rubs her clammy hands together. "Who's next, please?"

A thin but pregnant girl in a floor-length raincoat wants to buy six romances with her Visa card. The codes on the books scan, the till accepts the card, and Jill remembers to lay each book on the pad that neutralises any security tag a manager may have hidden randomly in them. From the heap under the till she peels off a plastic Texts bag that squeaks against her nails and loads it with the books, not forgetting to smile and say "Enjoy them" as she hands the package to the customer. "Who's next, please?" brings her a large man in a small hat of the same prickly tweed as his suit. He presents Jill with his armful of a single book on fighter aircraft and then a cheque, which she has to feed into the till so that it prints the details of the transaction on the back. The till hums to itself while she pleads silently that it won't shred the cheque. At last the till sticks out its tongue, and she only has to compare signatures—they're not quite the same, but surely close enough—before she writes the guarantee card number under the print from the till. The largest bag only just accommodates the book, and she has hardly finished struggling with them when a young mother, who keeps hoisting a toddler with her left arm, dumps a handful of books on the counter, along with a Texts gift voucher for half their price and a Switch card. She delivers a running commentary on Jill's actions as the till buzzes to itself like an insect all the more dangerous for being half-awake—"Now look, the register's had its breakfast and the assistant has to give it Patricia's piece of paper that we call a voucher. Now see, the assistant has to type all mummy's big long number from her card"—and it hardly helps that she has to explain more than once that she isn't calling Jill a sister. "Enjoy your books and come back to see us soon," Jill says at last and takes the chance to tickle Patricia under the chin; at least, she tries, but the toddler draws back. "Thank you," the young woman says briskly and carries both her items out of the shop.

As Jill treats herself to a quiet but expressive sigh, Agnes sidles along the counter from the Information terminal. "Sorry I left you to serve all those people," she slightly more than whispers, stowing her black tresses behind an ear to reveal a thin pale bony cheek mottled by embarrassment. "The computer didn't seem to want to help me find a book."

"Don't worry, Anyes, we're all still learning," Jill says and is resting a look of encouragement on her when the ceiling speaks. "Jill call four, please. Jill call four."

She feels as if Connie has caught her loafing. At least she doesn't have to use the public address system to reply. She doesn't like listening to herself on the speakers, which show up her Mancunian accent as though the voice she hears in her head is a posh costume she can't quite affect, or perhaps one with holes she doesn't notice. When they're connected Connie says "Would you mind taking your lunch now? Wilf wants to shoot out at twelve and Ross does at one."

It's only eleven, and Jill is working until six. At least she'll be able to finish Brodie Oates' novel sooner, and surely then she'll have ideas. She hurries to clock off and open it while the microwave rotates her carton of last night's vegetable chili with a series of muffled metallic creaks. The cover of the book is blank except for the author's name and
Dressing Up, Dressing Down
lettered in various fabrics: no photograph, just "This is the author's first publication" on the back flap. She hasn't finished the opening paragraph of the final chapter when she glances around to discover who's peering at it over her shoulder, but of course the cold breath on the nape of her neck belongs to the air-conditioning, which also fumbled at a corner of the page. She feeds herself straight from the carton with a fork while she reads. How much of a joke is the ending supposed to be, and on whom? When the man alone in a room removes all his costumes he turns out to have been every character: the Victorian detective whose quarry, the jewel thief, proved to be himself in drag; the sergeant in the First World War who was revealed as his daughter; the mysterious Berlin nightclub singer, her child and a hermaphrodite; the sixties private eye who couldn't decide what sex he was and who discovered these were all his relatives by taking psychedelics and communing with his genes halfway through the book, which then started rewinding itself … Jill forks up the best mouthful, which she has saved until last, but it's a lump of foil disguised by sauce. She spits it into a sheet of kitchen roll and drops that in the pedal bin, then returns to staring at the book.

The meaning has drained out of the title by the time a mouth behind her licks its huge lips. Whoever was about to page must have decided against it, because the speaker falls silent. Surely the title has to suggest a promotion—the initials, even. "May sound like a DUDD, but it's not," or, if she's to be more honest, "Is this a DUDD? Judge for yourselves" … "Did B. O. write a DUDD? Buy it and find out" … A moment's thought exposes how bad any of these ideas would look, but now the syllable seems to be stuck in her head: not even a proper word, just a lump of less than language. It thumps in her skull like a drum or the start of a headache. Dudd, dudd, dudd, dudd … She's glad to have it interrupted by the sight of Wilf, except that he stands in the doorway as if he's waiting to be told what to do and assumes she knows. A beaky frown multiplies itself above his patient greyish eyes and long blunt nose before he rubs his broad not unattractively bony face. "So," he says, "er …"

"What can I do for you, Wilf?"

"Do you think I could slip away about now?"

Jill has to glance at her watch to convince herself what he means. How has she managed to spend an entire hour upstairs? She hasn't even had a coffee, which might have helped rouse her brain. "Sorry, of course, you head off," she gasps as she springs to her feet and makes for the stairs so fast she almost forgets to clock on. At least that means her mind is on the job, she tells herself. At least she's giving all of herself to the shop that she can. Surely that's as much as anyone could ask.

"Look at all these books. How many books does Dan think there are? Are there lots of books?"

"Lost"

"Not lost, Dan, lots. Dan isn't lost, is he? And these books aren't. Most of these books are on their shelves. These here are shelves. Shelves are where the shop keeps books. Does Dan have shelves at home?"

Shouldn't the boy's father know? He must think talking primers aren't supposed to. He's with his son in Tiny Texts and talking louder than the music even Mad knows is Handel on the speakers. She's in the next bay, Toddlers' Texts, where some of the books are indeed strays thin enough to be waifs and a Teenage Text is sprawling on top of a shelf of simplified fairy tales. Sometimes she thinks the only T to describe her section is Trouble. "Shells," Dan shouts and giggles just as loud.

"Shelves, Dan. Shall we find Dan a book now? Which book would Dan like?"

"These ones," Dan says, trotting out of the bay in a straightish line. "Nice."

Mad has to suppress a snorty laugh, because he's bound for Erotica. Ross catches her eye across the Psychology section but seems unsure whether to expect to share a grin, although they agreed to stay friends. When she responds with a wink he looks away quickly without finishing his grin. He's making for the little boy, who has pulled
Sensual Discipline
off a low shelf, until the father arrives and snatches the book. "Not nice," he says, slapping erotic portfolios on the top shelf with it, and stares at Ross followed by Mad. "Not nice at all."

She could fancy he has sensed some trace of their relationship, but they've nothing to regret. They aren't going to let any awkwardness develop at work. She's forgetting the solid silky feel of Ross inside her, and the shower gel his penis tasted of; she has already forgotten how his tanned square blond-topped face looked at no distance at all. She gives him a smile she doesn't mean to be too secret and returns to loading her trolley, which she hopes she's not off more than usual, with misplaced books. Dan's father chooses a book with small words in aloud and marches his son off in step with Handel, and Mad wheels the trolley into Tiny Texts, where she lets out an oh that's close to an ow. Half a dozen shelves are in a worse state than she found when she started tidying.

Ross parts his lips as he ventures over, and she remembers the trace of a flavour of minty toothpaste. "Sorry," he murmurs as he observes the disorder. "I didn't see him doing it. I wouldn't let a kid of mine do that."

"You never mentioned you had any."

"I've not. You know me, I'm cautious." A memory seems to discolour his tan while he adds "I meant if I had."

"I did know that, Ross." If they were still together he would have realised she was teasing, but now she wonders how much they need to be wary of saying. "I'd best get on," she says. "I've still got books to bring down."

She hopes hearing Dan's father hasn't turned her monosyllabic. Once Ross retreats to his territory she tidies the shelves yet again before clattering the books on the trolley into order and filing them where they ought to go. She's at full speed now, which is the way she likes to feel. When she badges herself into the concrete lobby where the shop takes deliveries, however, the lift stops her dead.

Is it the slowest object in the building? She has to jab the button twice to summon a descending rumble beyond the metal doors. They twitch as a muffled female voice that reminds Mad of a secretary says "Lift opening." Two trolleys have been going for a ride in the cage as grey as fog, but there's room for her and hers. She thumbs the Up button to be told "Lift closing."

"Go on then, there's a good lift."

She could imagine that it waits for her to finish speaking before it shivers its doors and drags them shut. As it shudders upwards the trolleys nudge one another with a sound like someone very young fumbling with a drum. "Lift opening," the voice says as the cage settles at the top of the shaft. The doors fidget, unless they appear to because Mad is staring hard at them. Frustration sends her through the gap the instant it parts wide enough; frustration makes her almost stamp as she and the trolley reach her stock racks. When she began her shift they held no more than an hour's worth of books, but now they're stuffed.