The Overnight Read online

  "More damage? Good God," Woody says, frowning at Jake while the boys' mother mutters "I'll bet she looked after them."

  "I'm sorry if there's been a misunderstanding." Agnes assumes Woody is about to defend her until he adds "If you'd like to take your children to the counter they can all have prizes. That includes anyone who was in this half of the quiz."

  As the mothers and their undeserving tribe head for the counter, he motions Jake over. "Maybe you could work on not being quite so obvious around children." he says low.

  "Unless you're straight, you mean."

  "That's kind of unreasonable, wouldn't you say? You know we're an equal opportunity employer."

  "I'll try and be surreptitious all the same, shall I?" As though he's indulging himself one last time, Jake says more loudly "Kids aren't my meat, by the way."

  Woody stares at him before following the parade to the counter, and Agnes grows aware of Jill's daughter. "Come with me, Bryony. You're still the winner. Let's make sure you get your prize."

  Jill is having some trouble with issuing vouchers while Woody observes. Perhaps she's distracted by the sight of her ex-husband and Connie at the end of Erotica. "Don't tell me, it'll come to me," Connie is saying to him. "Orient /Occident, that's where you work."

  "And you were one of the party in leather."

  "Keep some of my secrets," she murmurs, touching a finger to his lips and another to her own. "So can I help you with anything?"

  "I'm just here to pick up a little girl when she's collected her prize."

  "Lucky little girl."

  Agnes sees Jill swallow a retort and tries to distract her, but all she can bring to her suddenly sluggish mind is "Don't forget Bryony, Jill."

  "You'll have to wait your turn, Bryony. Other people are."

  "She was going to," Agnes feels bound to point out as she signs on at a till. She's placating one of the mothers with a voucher when the parent of the set of boys turns on Woody. "Are we going to have to come back?"

  "Not unless you care to, ma'am. We hope you will."

  "Your assistant doesn't seem to want to give them their prizes."

  Jill keeps her glare on the register. "There's something wrong with this."

  When Agnes glances along the counter she sees no recognisable symbols on Jill's screen, just fragments like a scattering of flimsy bones. Perhaps. that's the fault of the angle she's viewing it from, because Woody cancels the transaction and signs on and swiftly endorses the vouchers. "Can we get videos?" one boy begs.

  "Our vouchers are good for anything we sell, ma'am."

  "They don't read much," the mother confesses.

  "We wouldn't have known that, would we, mummy?" Bryony says not quite under her breath.

  Jill scarcely grins, but Woody's silence feels like a sudden fog. He passes Bryony's voucher to her as Connie heads upstairs, leaving Bryony's father to venture to the counter. "I'll take Bry to choose her prize, shall I?" he suggests to Jill.

  "I'm sure she's more than capable of choosing for herself."

  "I'll tag along anyway. Makes me feel wanted," he says, turning the depths of his brown eyes on Bryony, who takes his hand.

  As Jill watches them retreat to the opposite side of the shop, Woody says "If there's anything you need to be reminded of, let me know."

  "I can't think of anything."

  He takes a breath that sounds like a sigh played backwards. "Not discussing customers in public would be one. We were nearly sued over that in Florida."

  It strikes Agnes that he's discussing Jill in public. Presumably he realises, since his voice sinks as if it's being dragged down. "Counter routines," he barely utters out loud.

  "The till was playing up."

  "I guess we'll know if it happens again. Yes, Agnes, Anyes. Were you waiting for something?"

  "I thought you'd want to see this," she says, passing him the defaced book from the Returns shelf behind the counter.

  The first page he opens tugs his head down. When he speaks he seems to be casting his voice into some profundity of the book. "We need to be a whole lot more vigilant."

  "I wonder if whoever did it wrote in any others."

  "Madeleine can check for that while you finish your shelf end."

  She didn't intend to give Mad another task. Bryony and her father are returning to the counter, and she beckons them to save Jill from making any more trouble for herself. Bryony presents her with a book of poems from the Tennish section. "You were quick," Agnes remarks.

  "My dad's taking me for lunch in Chester and then we're going to the zoo."

  "Maybe you'll see some mating routines," says Jill. "It can make you laugh, what animals get up to when they meet."

  "I don't think it's the time of year," Bryony's father says.

  "Some of them seem to think they're hot all year round."

  Woody emits a sound like a grunt that has snagged on a cough, but only Bryony looks at him. The till Agnes is using feels sluggish, or time does. The machine lingers over regurgitating the spent voucher for her to slip in the drawer; the details gather on the screen with all the speed of objects floating up through mud. She's about to draw Woody's attention to this in Jill's defence when the till sticks out a receipt. As Agnes drops it in the Texts bag she hands Bryony, Jill is told "I'll have her back with you for Sunday dinner."

  "It'll be waiting for you, Bryony. Sleep well. Dream you're somewhere special," Jill says, and faces Woody as if challenging him to speak.

  Agnes is making for her shelf end when he follows her. "Anyes? Any call?"

  "For what?"

  She turns to find him gazing barely patiently at her. "Did your customer call back?"

  "Not yet"

  "So long as you've got something for them."

  "They won't be disappointed," she's anxious to persuade herself at least as much as him.

  Her entire conversation with her father is repeating itself in her head, leaving little room for thoughts. As she stands guidebooks on the brackets under her Winter Breaks notice while Woody helps Mad return the chairs to the staffroom, she realises how sunlit all the places in the books may be. Half her display invites people to visit countries she has never seen, but that's part of her job. When she's home she can reminisce about holidays with her parents. Outside the fog is edging closer to the shop, and sunlight is a memory—one that she decides it's unwise to indulge just now. Memories won't lighten the greyness that is Fenny Meadows. They make it seem eager to grow dark.

  Wilf

  "Mist dumber."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Mist dumber, wasn't it? A Mist Dumber Night's Dream by Speakshape."

  "Ah, is it a parody?"

  "About as much of one as you. Are you hauling on my chain or do you really not recognise me? That's too sad. You don't want to forget old times."

  "Forgive me, I—"

  "Slater. I expect you thought it looked like Staler. Fred Slater, and you're Lowell. Wilfred Lowell, only didn't you sign Wildfed Wellow or some such crap once?"

  By now Wilf has remembered him. Slater's face hasn't aged much in ten years, but it has ended up on the front of a lump of pallid mottled flesh wider than itself. He still lets his mouth droop until it tugs at the rest of his face while he waits for his victim to catch up with the joke, and Wilf wonders if he'll pinch or poke or punch to gain the reaction he wants, as he used to when their school desks were next to each other. "I must have been having a bit of fun," Wilf says.

  "You never seemed to be having much not being able to spell."

  "Well, I am now."

  "We'd all have had a good laugh if you'd said you wanted to work in a bookshop."

  He never read a paragraph more than he had to. It was Wilf who was so hungry to read he felt he was starving until the dyslexia tutor taught him how. "What about you?" says Wilf. "Have you made much of yourself?"

  "Maybe you'll hear from me some night soon."

  "Sorry, why would I do that?"

  "Don't you
like hearing from old friends?"

  Can he really believe he was ever one of Wilf's? Wilf's politeness is starting to feel like thin ice under entirely too heavy a burden. "If you'll excuse me, I ought to—"

  "Hang on. You're helping me, or you will be in a minute. I'm your customer."

  Nigel glances at Wilf along the counter from the till he has just arrived at, and Wilf daren't seem unworthy of working at the shop. "How may I help, then?" he makes himself ask.

  "Try listening." Slater treats him to a pause that isolates the dwarfish music in the air before he says "Hello there, Mr Lowell. I wonder if you realise how the changes in our climate may be affecting where you live?"

  "I really couldn't say. I shouldn't think—"

  "The winter's getting wetter every year. Can I ask when you last had your damp course checked?"

  "I haven't got one," Wilf says with some triumph. "I'm on the top floor."

  "Don't feel too safe. It can still reach you, what's happening. How am I doing so far?"

  "I'm afraid I don't think I'd be buying."

  "Where would you say I'm going wrong?" Slater says and lets his face droop like a bloodhound's. "What's your secret as a salesman?"

  "I don't know if I've got any." At once he's afraid Slater will betray it to Nigel—Wilf's old problem, even if he has solved it for good. He feels as if his teenage self is desperate to burrow out of reach inside him. "Just enjoy it," he suggests.

  "Oh, I am. So are you going to show me what I need?"

  "What do you think that is?"

  "Psychology." Slater lets him start to leave the counter and says "Psychology of cold calling."

  Wilf likes no aspect of the job more than leading customers to the books they want and placing their prize in their hands, but he can't go direct to this subject. It will be in either Psychology or Selling. He sets about typing it in the Search box on the Information screen. He hasn't finished when Slater leans across the counter and emits the kind of smothered snigger that used to multiply around Wilf whenever he was forced to read aloud in class. "That isn't how you spell it," Slater announces.

  "I know that."

  Wilf bruises the word and deletes it, and scrutinises his fingers on the keyboard as they type. P, s, y, c, h, o … When it's completed he looks up, to be faced by PYSCOLOGY "You've done it again," gleeful Slater almost shouts. "Sounds like somebody's taking the piss."

  Nigel hands a customer a bag and hurries along the counter. Just now the droll expression his ruddy rotund face tends to wear as if he's hoping for a joke looks rather too like Slater's. "Any trouble, Wilf?"

  "The computer's playing stupid games. Look what happens," Wilf says, and goes through the process once more. "That's how it's acting. There aren't even the same number of letters."

  "Let me have a crack," Nigel says and ducks his balding, shiny head over the keys. "Well, it seems to have righted itself. Was it just psychology?"

  Wilf stares at the word as Slater says "I wanted it for cold calls."

  "Try sales, Wilf," Nigel advises and makes way for him at the keyboard.

  Slater's. A. Loutish. Evil. Sod. Wilf isn't sure how long it takes him to think of the words, but he feels as if he can't type until he has. He raises his eyes at last and sees the second word in the search box: SLAES. "You saw what I put in," he protests.

  "I see it plain enough," Nigel says as he takes over at the keyboard. A moment's flurry of his fingers replaces the mistake with SALES. He scrolls through the titles the search words bring up and stops at Call and Sell. "Is this the sort of thing you had in mind?" he asks Slater.

  "Could be."

  "Unfortunately it's not in stock, but we'll be happy to order it for you," Nigel says and returns to the till to serve another customer.

  At least he's too busy to hear Wilf mutter "Are you certain you want this? If we order it for you we have to ask you to commit yourself to buying it."

  "Let's see you order it, then."

  All Wilf can do is perform the routine. "Have you ordered from us before?"

  "I didn't know you were here. Now I do you'll be seeing a lot more of me."

  Wilf opens the ordering window on the screen and watches while it copies the details of the book into itself. The computer appears to have finished malfunctioning until he enters Slater's name. However appropriate Slyter might be, it's wrong. He overtypes the vowel with a finger that's starting to feel grubby with nervousness. The screen offers him the particulars of another Slater who has ordered from the shop. He drives them away by typing an F, but Slater says "Better put in my whole name in case you get me mixed up. Make it Freddy while you're at it. That's who I am to my friends."

  Wilf can think of another word F is for. By now he's typing in the hope that the clatter of plastic will blot out Slater's leaden drone. He can only stare at the word that takes shape. "That's not me," Slater snorts.

  Just the same, Feary seems altogether too relevant. Wilf's damp hands feel prickly with grit as he inserts the correct letters. "Just need my address now, do you?" Slater says. "It's Knutsford Road in Grappenhall."

  As Wilf jabs at the keys, they sting his fingertips. He has the impression of trying to pin down language that is sinking out of reach. "Not Kuntsford," Slater sniggers. "That isn't where I live."

  It sounds right to Wilf, and he almost says so. He transposes the letters and types Road, and confronts the final hurdle. Git, Riff-raff, Arsehole, Ponce, Prick, Excrement … The words seem to fit the situation so well he has to concentrate on keeping them to himself, but has the struggle to hush them confused his fingers? What appears onscreen looks too primitive for words: GL-PARENPLAH. He deletes letters and types others while Slater's gaze sticks to him like clammy mud. At last the word is corrected, and Wilf is about to ask for the house number when Slater says "Maybe that's not the book I want."

  "I thought you did," Wilf protests and then remembers Slater's words.

  "Your shop's going to make me buy it even if it isn't right, so I'd better not risk it. Don't worry," he says as much to Nigel as to Wilf. "I'll have plenty to ask you for next time."

  Wilf clenches his fists under the counter and hopes Slater's back is aching with his stare. He's glaring at Slater's absence when Nigel joins him. "No sale?"

  "I don't think he ever meant to buy it. He was just amusing himself."

  Nigel lowers his voice. "Can we be professional?"

  Wilf's fists are still hidden, but he's afraid his secret isn't. "What are you …" he falters. "What did I …"

  "You know we mustn't discuss customers in public."

  Slater would be overjoyed to know he'd landed his victim in yet more trouble. While Wilf grits his teeth and bruises his tongue against the roof of his mouth to trap words that feel as if they're bulging his skull, Nigel says "Are you comfortable using the computer?"

  "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I am now."

  Each protestation seems to convince Nigel less. He lingers until Wilf could almost imagine he's averse to returning upstairs. At last he heads none too directly for the exit up to the staffroom, leaving Wilf alone at the counter. It's Wilf's opportunity to prove he can use the computer when he isn't being watched. Any subject will do—old times, since Slater raised them.

  He's typing the first letter when a dull glow appears to seep up from the depths of the screen. It must come from headlights, since it casts the silhouette of someone outside the window. The blurred grey body disappears as the head swells up at the bottom of the screen. The shape is so faceless Wilf has the unpleasant notion that the features have been squashed out of existence against the window. He swings around to see nobody outside the smeared glass, just a car leaving a bloody trail with its brake lights across the wet tarmac. Perhaps one of the trio of saplings in front of the backdrop of fog that reduces the tarmac by half managed to project the vague shadow a hundred yards or more onto the screen. That's deserted now except for Wilf's lonely O perched on the shelf of the search box.

  Only, let, determination,
tell, I, may, affect, spelling … That the sentence is clumsy doesn't matter; nobody can hear him muttering it under his breath. All he cares about are the letters on the screen, which are in the right order. Can he type them without putting words to them? He can, and again too. Relief makes him dab his forehead as Greg marches briskly to take up a post alongside him.

  Greg inspects the screen and crinkles his reddish beard with a finger and thumb. "Have you finished?" he seems to feel more than entitled to learn.

  "Just testing something. It's all yours."

  "It wasn't for a customer."

  "Not specifically."

  "It can be done without." Greg's eyes scarcely indicate this is a question before he deletes the phrase from the search box. "You'll be on your way then, will you?" he says even less uncertainly. "We don't want the next person to be made late for their break."

  He must want to be a manager—he sounds like one often enough. "I'm going to Frugo if anyone's looking for me," says Wilf.

  He was so eager to finish reading his second novel of the week before he left home that he forgot to grab a meal from the freezer. He hurries out of Texts, to discover that the fog has drifted closer. Fetching his coat will only waste time. He folds his arms hard and strides past Happy Holidays, and the fog backs into the afternoon, leaving a snail's track on the pavement Woody calls a sidewalk. Fat pale lights are wandering about in the murk—headlamps, of course, however quiet the cars are. Overhead the spotlights are elongated toadstools blurred by luminous mould. The fog loiters in the glow of the units that are occupied by shops and smudges their windows while it gathers like a huge breath on parked cars. Figures composed of painted bones lean against the fronts of the unoccupied units: they're graffiti surrounded by scrawls that are barely words, if even. Wilf hastens past them to take refuge in Frugo.

  The walls and ceiling of the supermarket are as colourless as the befogged spotlights. Unspecific muffled music hangs in the air while silent personnel unload cartons in the white aisles. Wilf takes a moss-green plastic basket to the rudimentary delicatessen section and bears a pack of sushi to the nearest till. The checkout girl, who wears an overall like a dentist's and has eyes weighed down by mascara, hardly glances at him even when she passes him the sushi in a bag so flimsy it's sibilant. The package thumps his ribs as he folds his arms to breast the automatic doors. For a moment it seems the glass won't move aside in time, and then the fog embraces him.