The Overnight (32 page)

What's the matter with them all? Do they behave like this whenever they've missed some sleep? It isn't even one in the morning yet, however much later it feels. God knows how they'll be acting by the time the sun comes up, if it can ever be said to do so round here. At least he has a reason to be edgy, having been up most of last night as well. Every time he cuddled the baby to sleep her teeth set her off like an alarm. He wanted to give Sandra a chance to rest because he knew she could be kept awake tonight, but then she started trying to take over and let him have some peace. By four o'clock they were arguing about that, and when Sheryl was quiet at last they had to kiss and make up, not something he fancies is likely to happen between anybody at Texts tonight. Now Sandra can't even get in touch for a chat if she's feeling isolated, because she knows the shop phones aren't for personal calls, and Agnes has disabled his. That wasn't an excuse for him to lose his temper with Greg, even if some people might think Greg was enough of one. All the staff have a right to expect managers to treat them fairly. Though Ray wouldn't call what he said exactly unfair, it has left an unpleasant stale taste in his mouth. He's wondering if he should find an opportunity to apologise to Greg when Woody's voice subdues the thunder of books on shelves. "Can a couple of you bring your muscles up here? Something's wrong with my door."

His lips must be against the mouthpiece, he's so blurred. As a book drops into place with a sound like the fall of a lid, Greg says "I'll be one."

It could pass as nothing worse than eagerness if he weren't frowning at Jake, either as a challenge or to warn him off. "Stay with your shelving, Greg," Ray begins to tell him, and then there's no reason not to finish. "Leave managing to management for once."

He's allowed Greg to provoke him again. It seems best to remove himself from the situation, and he's heading for the exit to the staffroom when Mad moves to cut him off. She's holding a picture book between one finger and thumb. "What's the trouble this time?" he has to ask.

"You can see for yourself."

"I'll follow you up, Nigel," Ray calls across the shop.

"I wasn't aware I was on my way."

"Woody wanted two of us."

Nigel stalks to the door and claps his badge against the plaque, actions that feel to Ray like an argument Nigel wants to have. "Wretched thing," he snarls, and is slapping the plaque again as Ray remarks "Looks like there's some damaged goods for you, Nigel."

Can Mad think Ray means her? Certainly she gives him a displeased blink. She has shaken the book open, and the discoloured pages droop like autumn leaves in a fog. The misshapen pictures on them remind him of the blots psychiatrists use as tests, though he wouldn't care to imagine what any of them resembles. "Good God," Nigel complains, "how did that happen?"

"It was like that on the shelf," Mad says more than defensively.

"No need for that tone, is there? Just bring the book up and I'll deal with it."

"It's all these. I think it may be the whole shelf."

"Why didn't you notice before?" Nigel picks at the books Mad has piled on the floor, and then he lifts the others off the shelf, breathing furiously through his nose and blowing air out of his mouth and clucking his tongue. Once he has exhausted his methods of expressing disgust and the shelf is empty, he runs his hand over it and the wall behind it. "There's no leak here," he declares.

"I didn't say there was," Mad points out.

"Then whatever's been happening must have taken a while, mustn't it? We might have expected you to notice when you're always so concerned about your section."

"It didn't show up till I put the books in tight."

"So you're admitting you're responsible."

Her face tautens, stretching her lips even straighter than they were. As she glances at Agnes, Ray asks "Are you sure it's just that shelf?"

Nigel scowls at him as though it has become Ray's fault. "Leave the others," he tells Mad. "You can come back to them if there's time, or perhaps that should wait till after the visit. No need to make the place look bad if nobody's going to see there's a problem."

Ray is about to suggest that it could be worse for her if the visitors discover anything she has been told to hide when Woody's voice escapes from upstairs with an amplified clatter of plastic. "I don't see anybody on the way yet. Who's the rescue party?"

Ray points at himself and jerks a thumb at Nigel. "Two solid guys," says Woody. "Okay, you should be up to it. How about right now?"

As Nigel gathers the spoiled books, Ray presses his badge to the plaque and can't help congratulating himself on a petty victory when the badge works first time. He holds the door open for Nigel, but doesn't mean him to sprint upstairs and beat Ray to the office. "Here's the calvary, the cavalry, I mean," Nigel shouts.

"What kept you?" Woody's muffled voice responds.

Nigel veers into the stockroom to dump the books. Ray glances at his watch as he heads for Woody's door but is unable to grasp how much time has elapsed since he last gave in to the temptation to check. "We came straight up, didn't we?" he calls.

"I'm asking what the problem is down there."

"We haven't pinned it down exactly. Water's got into some of the children's books somehow. Best if you take a look for yourself."

"You bet I will. What's the delay now? Give the goddamn door a push."

When Ray grips the handle it feels rough with grit or rust. He twists it as near as it will turn to vertical and shoves hard. Even when he throws his weight against the door, it stands its ground. He grabs his fist with his other hand and leans on the handle while he braces his feet wide apart and thumps the door with his shoulder to as little effect. "What's happened, do you know?" he feels foolish for asking.

"You tell me. When I tried to get out it was stuck."

Ray is bruising his fingers on the handle and his shoulder against the door when Nigel emerges from the stockroom. "Struggling?" he says. "Fear not, here comes the solution."

"Can't wait. Let's see how Scousers use their head."

Nigel ducks so violently that Ray wonders if he's thinking of using it on him. He'll find Ray's forehead waiting for his eyebrows if he does—Ray learned that trick at school. What is he imagining? Nigel's only trying to pretend he didn't hear the remark, and that makes him a weakling, not a fighter. Ray watches him drag the handle almost ninety degrees and incline his body away from it so as to slam himself against the door. When he has failed three times to stir it, he stops to wipe his brow hard enough to be backhanding it. "I already tried that," Ray tells him.

"It wasn't much use then, was it?" Nigel retorts and raises his voice. "Woody?"

"You know what, I haven't gone anywhere."

"The obstruction must be on your side. Can't you identify it?"

"Don't you think I'd have fixed it if I could?"

Ray is feeling amused that it was Nigel who attracted the surge of irritation when Woody adds "Are both of you trying at once? I didn't bring you up here for a contest."

Nigel keeps hold of the handle as if he's claiming ownership and performs another butt, this time in the direction of the door. "Whenever you're ready," he tells Ray.

"That's always," Ray assures him and runs at the door.

His shoulder assaults it and so does Ray's, not quite in unison. That's why it feels as though Ray has budged the door; it's quivering from Nigel's lesser effort. "Try again," says Nigel.

He seems to think it's Ray's fault at least as much as his. A wave of heat leaves Ray close to shivering. He steps back and launches himself at the door, but again Nigel's impact is a fraction later than his. "It isn't working, is it?" Nigel admits. "It must have warped, that's all I can suggest."

"Something's warped around here right enough."

Why did he say that? It must have promised to sound clever, but it's so meaningless as to be worse than stupid, which only makes Ray angrier for letting it into his head. "We aren't doing it right," he restrains himself to saying. "We need to be together."

Nigel gives him a look not unlike the ones Greg turns on Jake. "Together how?"

"How do you reckon? On second thoughts, keep it to yourself. Hit the bugger at the same time, that's what I'm saying."

"Nothing simpler. On three, then. One, two, three."

Ray is still running at the door when Nigel deals it what Ray would describe as a bump with his shoulder. Ray's throbs as he staggers back, and another rush of clammy heat draws a chill in its wake. He's glaring at the door and Nigel as Woody enquires "Everybody busy?"

"Can't you tell?" Ray bellows.

"That's for the team downstairs. Do I see someone that's finished shelving, Agnes?"

Ray feels stupider and more enraged than ever for not understanding that Woody's amplified voice was directed at the sales floor. Presumably Agnes responds in some fashion, since Woody says "Why don't you award yourself a trolleyful of Gavin's." A sigh that sounds thinned by his teeth finds its way into corners stained by dimness under the ceiling, and then he says "I don't hear anything out there. What's holding up the release team?"

Ray is infuriated that Woody's broadcasting the situation. "Some of us haven't worked out how to do it," he yells so loud he hopes the phone transmits it. He's almost sure he hears something like his voice imitating him more or less in chorus.

"Some? I guess that has to be both."

Ray swallows a sour harsh stale taste and waits for the latest clammy wave to finish with him, and then he faces Nigel. "Let's swap. I'll be the man with the handle."

"Of course, if it keeps you happy."

"Don't know about keeps. I'll count as well."

"I wouldn't want to be the chap who stops you."

As soon as Nigel moves aside Ray clutches the handle, which feels grubbier than ever. "Ready?" he barely asks.

"No less than you are."

"One," Ray announces, and an echo does. He thinks it's returning to him through the speakers until he realises Nigel is chanting just not low enough. "What are you playing at now?" Ray growls. "I said I'd count."

"You said as well. I thought you meant we'd what's the word, from clocks, it's Greek, at least it comes from there."

"No idea what you're on about."

"Synchronise," Nigel says more irritably still. "From time, isn't it, not clocks. I thought you meant we'd count and synchronise ourselves."

"Just me. It wasn't much help when you did, was it?"

"Fine, just me. Just you, I mean, that's what I'm saying. Just one of us. You've got your way, Ray."

Ray is sucking in a breath while he vows to utter nothing but the count when Woody asks the whole shop "Why aren't I seeing any movement here? Do you need reinforcements out there?"

"Someone else might be welcome," Nigel shouts.

The slam of a door sends footsteps hurrying upstairs and into the office. "I'll do, will I?" Agnes makes sure Woody hears.

"No offence, Agnes, but I believe we're talking men here."

She's clearly even less pleased by his transmitting this to the entire shop. "What do you two say?" she halves her volume to ask. "You ought to know more about it than him."

"I don't think I'd take issue with him," says Nigel.

"That isn't you though, is it, Ray? Don't say you never disagree with anything you're told."

He might admit to that if he didn't feel she's as determined to cause an argument as to justify her presence, although it's beyond him what would put her in such a mood. "Not this time," he says.

"Agnes isn't still with the rescue party, is she? Shouldn't be. Seems to me I sent her to fetch books from the stockroom."

Agnes confronts the enormous voice with a scowl she lowers to include Ray and Nigel. "Are you being managers or just men? You'd think there wasn't any difference round here."

"Oh, we have our differences all right," says Nigel, but perhaps she doesn't catch it as she stalks out of the office.

"Well, that took time and got us no place," Woody says, and even louder "Angus, why don't you join the team at my door. You look like you're closest to finished down there."

His call seems to render Agnes' footfalls yet more vigorously discontented as they stomp downstairs. The rumble of a trolley grows hollow as it's wheeled into the lift, at which point Nigel says "Do you want to have another bash while we're waiting?"

"I don't. You can if you like."

When Ray keeps hold of the handle Nigel steps back, only to stare at him as if that may compel him to let go. Ray turns to watch the doorway to the staffroom but feels the stare clinging like stagnant moisture to his face. By the time the downstairs door shuts with a clank, words he would like to spit out are growing stale in his mouth. He forces his gaze to stay fixed on the view of plates and mugs heaped in the sink on the far side of a length of table attended by a third of one chair and two-thirds of another. As an escalation of footsteps produces Angus, Woody demands "Is he there yet?"

Ray is disconcerted by a muffled echo of at least some of this. Of course he must be hearing Woody through the door as well as overhead, though the lower voice sounds oddly unlike Woody's and a shade belated. Before Ray can answer, Nigel calls "He is now."

"Gee, I wish I knew what's happening to time around here. He's what you need, right?"

"Should be."

Ray is less gratified to have beaten Nigel to that answer when he hears an outburst of angry clattering from the stockroom. Agnes is hurling books onto a trolley as a retort to what she has just overheard. He wonders if he ought to intervene on their behalf but decides that damaged books are Nigel's job as Woody says "Maybe I should solve your other problem too."

"Which one's that?"

Ray is about to add his question to Nigel's when Woody says "As long as you can't agree who's counting, why don't you leave it to me."

"Or I could if you like," Angus ventures to offer.

"We don't," at least three voices chorus.

A grin jerks at Ray's lips, but he tries to keep it down so that Angus won't feel any more rebuffed than he already looks. "Hey, that doesn't mean we don't need your body, am I right, guys?" Woody adds.