The Overnight Part 24

At once the icons sink out of view, and he's afraid the light will. It flickers and then steadies, but can he trust it? With a pair of knuckles he knocks twice as hard on the gla.s.s. He's reminded of tapping on an aquarium to rouse whatever creatures live within, which must explain why the greyish pallor that swells towards him looks more solid than a glow--almost solid enough for a head that's rising to the surface of the medium that has rotted it shapeless. It sends him back to the door with renewed eagerness to liberate Woody. As he leans on the far side of the ruler to bend it back into shape, it gives with hardly any resistance, flinging him past the door with a handful of metal that sc.r.a.pes over the wood.

The ruler hasn't even snapped in half. Less than a third is left protruding from the gap. As p.r.i.c.kles flood over Angus's skin, Woody calls "Sounds like you did something at last."

Once Angus has regained enough control to shout rather than scream he confesses "I've broken the ruler." "You've broken what?"

"The ruler I was trying to pry your door with." You're not the cracksman you wanted me to think you 298 were, then. I guess it's back to brute force. Want me to get you some company?"

He can't be referring to the noise behind Angus, so distant or m.u.f.fled it's practically inaudible. Angus glances back and tells himself he's dreaming on his feet from being up so late; no blotchy lumps can be nuzzling the insides of the computer screens. "Who?" he blurts.

"Let's try for a couple of the jocks down there." So immediately that Angus starts, dropping the fragment of ruler, Woody amplifies his voice to call "Ray, Nigel, one of you or both, why don't you stop what you're doing long enough to open a door so Greg and Ross can help Angus. Can't imagine why you didn't think of doing that already."

Nor can Angus as he wills them to respond. It's impossible that they could have failed to hear Woody, yet they aren't answering. Could the faint sound at Angus's back have some connection with them? Perhaps it's Agnes or Nigel thumping on the lift doors. He has distinguished nothing further when Woody's voice blots out the sound. "You two outside don't have to wait, you know. Maybe if you try to get in that'll do the trick."

Before long Angus hears a series of irregular thumps downstairs. They're louder than the other sounds, which nonetheless feel closer. He's becoming less able to look behind him as Woody says in his biggest voice "How about you, Angus? You hearing anything I'm not?"

Angus feels as if replying may draw attention to him, especially since all he finds to say is "What would I be?"

"Ray or Nigel or both, I'd hope."

Angus strains his ears but only grows uncertain how many sounds he's hearing and from where. "They haven't said anything yet."

"Greg and Ross, take a breather. Angus, give Ray and Nigel a shout."

Shouting fails to appeal to Angus. He sees his pallid shadow flattening itself against the dim wall and wishes he could be as anonymous and un.o.btrusive. It's only because 299 he realises Woody will hara.s.s him until he does that he yells "Ray? Nigel? Woody wants to know what's happening."

At first he seems to have invited silence, but it's followed by an outburst of surrept.i.tious thumps as though objects too soft for hands or heads are blundering against gla.s.s. Soon Woody renders them inaudible by demanding "Any message for me?"

"I didn't hear any, sorry."

"I won't tell you I'm surprised. Sounded like you were shouting at me, not them. Why don't you go find them and report back. You sure aren't achieving much here."

Angus would be grateful to escape him and the noises in the room if that didn't take him closer to the dark. He's unable to decide which is least welcome as he sidles out of the office. He very much prefers to avoid seeing the computers, but the alternative is to watch his shadow drag itself like a stricken faceless puppet along the wall. It makes him feel like a frightened child lying awake in the worst of the night, not even certain it's his own shadow or what it will do if the light goes out. Why couldn't he have learned to drive? It would have let him turn back from the fog tonight instead of being delivered to Texts by his father. As the shadow glides ahead of him it turns elongated and distorted as an amoeba trying to resemble a man before it loses its hold on the doorway to the staffroom and sprawls expansively into the dimness. Angus remains in the doorway and plants his hands around his mouth, though his fingertips block some of the view of the indistinct shapes in the staffroom. "Ray? Nigel?" he shouts. "Can you answer?"

He doesn't want to listen any harder than he absolutely has to, not when it makes him more aware of the soft insistent blundering behind him in the office. Surely it's Woody s.h.i.+fting impatiently against the door as a preamble to demanding "So who's said what?"

A sly blurred voice imitates his much larger one, and Angus has to tell himself it's on the speakers downstairs; that's why it's coming from the dark. "n.o.body has yet," he admits. 300 "Can't hear you."

"Nothing yet," Angus yells through the dimness into the dark, which appears to acknowledge him with a restless twitch.

"Still can't. Why don't you try just talking to me instead of the rest of the store."

Angus could retort that back at him, but turns barely far enough and long enough to call "They aren't answering."

"Well, that makes no sense. They can't have gone anywhere. They certainly aren't on the sales floor, am I right, Greg? I'm right. Listen, Angus, you aren't doing what I said yet. I told you to find them, not shout at us. Better not get the idea you don't have to do what I say just because I'm locked in for a while."

The choice of whether to stay in the unsteady dimness or venture beyond it feels like a nightmare from which Angus has no chance of awakening. Like a nightmare, it seems to cancel time, so that he can't tell how soon Woody demands "Did you go yet, Angus?"

"I'm going," Angus nearly shrieks and twists around to ensure Woody hears. What he thinks he glimpses sends him out of the room, even though he's leaving most of the light behind. He's already less certain, or trying to be, that grey lumps were flattening token faces against the insides of the computer screens, smearing the gla.s.s with wide loosely grinning mouths that looked both voracious and imbecilic. He's the imbecile, he makes himself think, if he lets his imagination paralyse him. All that's wrong is lack of sleep. He can still prove to Woody that the British don't let the side down.

Is Woody so concerned about being trapped in his room that he has forgotten Agnes is suffering worse? Angus dodges across the staffroom, which appears to be composed none too specifically of dim fog, and leans through the entrance to the stockroom. An unnecessary amount of darkness encloses both sides of his head. 301 "Agnes?" he shouts. "Nigel? What's the latest down there?"

He wants to believe he hears Agnes pounding on the lift doors, having exhausted most of her strength, but the sounds aren't ahead of him. There's only silence in that dark. Is she unable to hear him or too frightened to answer? If the latter is the case he's dismayed by how much he sympathises. Nigel must have locked himself out of the building; that would explain the second clank of the doors and his subsequent lack of response. Angus is about to try to rea.s.sure Agnes that she's no longer alone and himself that she can hear when Woody's giant voice intervenes. "Angus, if you're doing what I'm hearing, try and think."

That seems not to require an answer, which at least means Angus doesn't need to look towards the office, where the foggy glow is flickering as if things are moving in it. So long as it's in and not out of, Angus silently pleads as Woody adds "Leave Nigel and Agnes and see if Ray wants help. If the fuses are fixed the elevator will be, obviously."

If that's so obvious, why didn't he mention it earlier? Angus resents being made to sound foolish to the entire shop. "Agnes," he shouts between his hands. "I'm going to help with the fuses and then you'll be fine."

His resentment of Woody's comment drives him across the staffroom to show everyone he isn't useless. So little of the wakeful dimness follows him that he's barely able to see the door to the stairs is closed. Has it been rendering Ray's shouts inaudible? Angus hurries past the time clock, not least because its dial reminds him of a porthole against which a face might flounder, and pulls the door open. He's stepping forward to shout to Ray when he collides with an object crouching outside the door.

It's a chair. Ray must have blocked the door with it, only for the action of the metal arm to dislodge it. Angus shoulders the door wide and props the chair on two legs 302 against it before he takes another step. There's more than dark ahead of him. Are the stairs being flooded? If that's making Ray attempt to draw the longest breath he can, isn't he ever going to stop? Even if he's breathing through his mouth the inhalation sounds too large. It takes Angus far too long to understand he's hearing the muted roar of the hand dryer in the Gents between the staff lockers and the top of the stairs. The watery sound is in there as well. "Ray," Angus calls, "is that you?"

In a moment the dryer breathes its last. He waits until he's beyond wondering if that was a response, which at least gives him time to identify water splas.h.i.+ng in a sink. Someone has left a tap running. It will have to stay like that until there's light. "Ray, can't you say something?" he urges at the top of his voice.

He's nowhere near as loud as Woody, but then he doesn't have mouths all over the shop. "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."

Angus feels burdened with everyone's dislike, an extra and even more oppressive darkness. He's becoming convinced that Ray has taken refuge in the Gents, having panicked in the dark, and is too abashed to admit it; that would explain his silence. If he's hiding in there Angus won't disturb him further. He can open the door at the foot of the stairs and let in whatever light is present on the sales floor. Any that allows him to see the fuses or even to see is enough.

He paces out of the last trace of dimness, where the name-tagged doors of the lockers remind him quite unreasonably of memorials, and at once is immersed in the dark. He could fancy he's about to step over the edge of a bottomless well until he finds the right-hand banister to clutch. His doubts recede with the noise from the Gents as he hears the dryer recommence its exhalation. Doesn't Ray 303 understand this betrays his presence? Angus would rather not imagine what state of mind has brought him to playing with the machine in the lightless room. Maybe he's desperate to dry his nervous sweat, not an idea Angus welcomes. He'll be helping Ray and Agnes as well as showing Woody and whoever shares his contempt that Angus can succeed where quite a few others appear to have failed. He holds the clammy banister and steps off the edge.

A stair is waiting where his foot needs it to be, and another below that, all the way to the ground floor. He only has to trust them, because he can see his goal beyond the stairs, a horizontal glow as thin as the edge of a knife. Has Ray opened the tap further? The sound can't really be following Angus. Perhaps Ray is splas.h.i.+ng cold water on his face in the dark. He must have retreated to the Gents before Woody suggested he and Nigel should let in Greg and Ross. That's up to Angus now; the sc.r.a.p of light confirms it by jerking closer with each step he descends. Then a surface with no edge strikes his right foot. He's at the bottom of the stairs.

The floor glistens with faint light. He hangs onto the banister while he lowers his other foot, and then he strides across the lobby. His gaze is fixed on the light under the door, but there's nothing like enough to let him watch his step. He doesn't even glimpse the object that catches his feet and sends him sprawling headlong into the dark.

Is the blackness deeper than it ought to be, or is something vast rising out of it to meet him? When the floor slaps his palms they immediately start to throb, which seems rea.s.suring by comparison. Then the pain begins to dull, allowing him to wonder what tripped him. He raises himself gingerly away from it, but not before gaining an impression that the obstacle is a body. Someone is lying far too still on the floor in the dark.

Angus shrinks against the wall and then makes himself reach out. His fingers touch the soles of a pair of shoes, they feel thin and flimsy, and are splayed away from each 304 other in a position that puts him in mind of the gait of a clown. The right sole is marred by a cavity into which he flinches from inserting a fingertip. It's hardly information Ray would want him to have. He shuffles forward on his knees and locates one of Ray's hands, which is or has been clawing at the linoleum. Angus lifts it by the wrist to search for a pulse, not that he has ever done so before; he isn't even sure he'll be able to distinguish any from the pounding of his own bruised hand. Ray's fingers flop against the back of it. Their touch distresses Angus, not least because they are damaged somehow; they've been subjected to violence. He keeps hold of the wrist, but his bruises prevent him from being certain there's no pulse. He lays the hand down gently and sidles alongside Ray until he feels his trouser legs grow wet. He's kneeling in water.

The floor on the left side of the lobby--the side where the fuses are--is waterlogged. Now he understands why he sees it glistening and why he thought the sound of water was following him downstairs. If Ray was standing in water while he tried to fix the fuses, and with a hole in his shoe--Aren't modern fuses built to be safe even under such conditions? The unspoken question seems to rouse Ray. Angus hears movement to his right, and as he strains his eyes he glimpses the faintest outline of a raised head.

Instinctively he stretches out one bruised hand to support the back of Ray's neck. His fingers sink into the swollen ma.s.s all the way to their first knuckles. He gasps and chokes, and as he s.n.a.t.c.hes them away he feels the substance closing up like mud. He isn't quick enough to avoid a pair of thick cold flabby lips that mouth against his palm. Then the object that was squatting on Ray's chest flops off him with a sound like the fall of a sack loaded with jelly, and slithers heavily to take up a position between Angus and the door.

He can hear voices arguing beyond it. His colleagues aren't far away, but there's no use yelling for help; they weren't able to open the door from their side. He can't 305 from his. The prospect of touching or being touched by the squat soft object in the dark has robbed him of the ability to move or speak, until his panic sends him lurching to his feet to stagger back where he came from. He knows he's leaving Ray behind, but Ray is in no state to care; if he were he couldn't have borne having the object on his chest. Angus seizes the banister and attempts to retreat backwards, but he's so afraid of tripping up again that he swings around and hauls himself upwards, his face to the dark. Water spills past him on the other side of the stairs, and he does his best to ignore the sound so as to rea.s.sure himself that he can't hear anything creeping after him. He's well over halfway upstairs when he discerns a noise that isn't water. It's above him.

It has to be Woody. He's been able to release himself somehow. His footfalls are soft and deliberate, dropping on a stair and pausing before the next descent. n.o.body could blame him for being careful. Angus closes his fist around the banister, wondering why he can't sense that Woody is holding onto it too. "Woody?" he calls. "Go back. There's--was His voice has begun to falter as soon as he spoke Woody's name, because it provoked a response. It can't be described as a word, but it's unquestionably a denial, a thick loose grunt that suggests the source is indifferent to forming much of a mouth. For as long as the newcomer takes to plod two steps towards him he's unable to move, which enrages him so much he heaves himself up a stair. "I'm not afraid of you," he shouts or screams or tries to. But he is, and twists around sightlessly with nowhere to go. He feels as if even the stairs have had enough of him, because they sail out of reach of his feet as the banisters avoid his desperate clutch. For longer than he could have dreamed it would take there's only breathless blindness. Then the floor of the lobby cracks his skull open to let his brains out and the darkness in, and he just has time to sense whatever is rising eagerly beneath the dark to claim him. 306

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." 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 307 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 n.o.body 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 G.o.d. "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 308 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 309 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 a.s.sume he means the staff downstairs before he names Agnes, though not the way she prefers to be named. He discusses the p.r.o.nunciation 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 mere?"

"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 circ.u.mstances 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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?" 310 "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 repet.i.tion 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 311 short-lived 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--was 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." 312 "I'm not aware of anything that wants explaining. He's a good manager."