The Overnight Part 13

"They'll have to be tomorrow now."

"Could I take a couple home and bring them back tonight?"

"They've all been returned faulty, you know. That's why they're on my rack."

'There'll still be stuff on some of them, won't there? I just wanted to see if there's anything I'd like to buy a copy of."

"I shouldn't think our lord and master would object to that," Nigel says, having glanced at Woody's closed door. "Show me downstairs what you're taking."

Presumably he doesn't want to linger near the mute confrontation in the staffroom. As Gavin hurries through, 164 the rest of the s.h.i.+ft arrives and Connie and Agnes compete at greeting everyone. Gavin dodges into the stockroom to grab tapes of concerts by Cuddly Murderers and Pillar of Flesh. Nigel is down by Games and Puzzles, and favours the ca.s.settes with a nod before saying "I hope you'll be shutting your eyes as well."

Gavin resists explaining that he only means to watch them until the speed wears off. He's making his temporary escape from the shop when something insubstantial yet ominously vast swells out of the blind fog to meet him. His mind takes longer than he appreciates to grasp that it's a sound--an unyielding thunder that drags itself across the sky to sink into the shrill whisper of the motorway. When the airliner falls silent beyond the unseen horizon he feels as if the world has shrunk to the size of Fenny Meadows. He hopes he can leave that impression behind well in advance of reaching the bus stop.

As he pa.s.ses the splintered remains of the tree, a car crawls out of the fog behind Texts. He recognises Mad's ghinineen ghinineen Mazda before it cruises over to pace him and Mad lowers her window an inch. "Am I going your way, Gavin?" Mazda before it cruises over to pace him and Mad lowers her window an inch. "Am I going your way, Gavin?"

"I'm walking to the bus."

"That's miles. You're Cheetham Hill, aren't you? Not too far away from me at all," she says and halts the car. "I wouldn't mind company if I'm going to tell the truth."

He grows aware of the left-hand headlamp lens, which is splintered like a dragonfly's wing. It's hardly surprising if Mad doesn't want to be alone just now. He thought he might be able to walk off some of the speed, but he climbs in. She doesn't speak again until they're driving up the ramp to the motorway overlooked by a sky that's indistinguishable from the fog except for an ill-defined paler blob of sun, and then she says "What did you think about the funeral?"

"I thought it was sad. What was I going to think?"

"It was lots of kinds of sad all right," Mad says, poising the car on the starting line at the top of the ramp. "The priest trying to convince everyone she'd achieved so much 165 in her life and not being able to think of much, and if he was just trying to convince her parents that's worse. Do you know what he reminded me of?"

Gavin remembers how the priest droned through the eulogy and the prayers that followed as if there was no difference between them and kept singing "Aaah-men" on exactly the same two rising notes. "He reminded me of a priest."

"I was thinking more of one of those letters you get where a computer's filled your name in. I bet he says most of what he said whoever's funeral he's taking. Like a singing telegram except he goes on a lot longer and doesn't sing as much."

Gavin wonders if this is what she expected him to think, and also whether she is ever going to risk driving onto the motorway. She leans towards the side window, where her breath blooms in imitation of the fog before she sends the Mazda forward so abruptly that Gavin's seat thumps the back of his head. "The saddest part," she says, "the saddest part was how her parents kept insisting it wasn't my fault and I mustn't blame myself."

Gavin has begun to feel he may as well stay quiet, having been enlisted simply as a listener. The fog is retreating ahead of the car, but Mad's eyes are glistening as if they've blurred to compensate. "No, that wasn't the saddest," she says.

She has to blink at Gavin to prompt him to ask "What was, then?"

"Didn't you hear what her mother wanted the priest to tell them when he was trying to get away for the next funeral?"

"Saw him trying. Didn't hear."

"She was saying there had to be a reason for Lorraine to die, otherwise nothing makes sense."

"Did he say what he was supposed to?"

"That's just about exactly what he did. It had to be G.o.d's will, and we've got to accept it even if we don't understand it yet, that's what he said. He only made her wonder what kind of G.o.d would want that to happen to Lorraine." 166 166.

Gavin a.s.sumes Mad has left off the big G now. "You would."

"I wished I could have told her. That's when I went to find out how Wilf was."

"He seemed better than when he was here last."

"I know," Mad says impatiently and throws Gavin a look that shakes the car. "What would you have said to her?"

When he says "The same as she asked" she stares at him as if he's refusing to think. Ahead the fog has dissipated into mist in which the outskirts of Manchester are regaining their shape, churches and chain stores sparkling like images of a renewed clarity that falls short of his intellect. He's beginning to nod off or to lose seconds of his consciousness, maybe longer, so that the sight of a highpitched primary school cla.s.s spilling out of the gates of Granada Studios is followed at once by a tram pacing its reflection in a ca.n.a.l a mile later. Then the chimney of Strangeways Prison pokes over the towering wall, which means another mile has fallen through a gap in his mind. "Nearly there," he says at least as much for his own benefit as Mad's, and props one eye open with a finger and thumb until he can announce "Here's fine."

"Do you want me to pick you up tonight?"

"Thanks, but I'm not sure where I'll be. I'll see you at work."

More than likely he'll be starting off from home. He doesn't like to give up his options, that's all, which is one reason why girlfriends end up arguing with him and then leaving him to himself. As the Mazda chugs away towards Chadderton he turns along the side street under trees that lean out of the overgrown gardens to drip jewels on him.

He lets himself into his flat beyond the senile porch and drops the videotapes on his parents' old sofa on the way to tossing his coat on the bed across the room. He holds up the rickety toilet seat with one hand while he directs himself with the other, then leaves the bathroom for the even smaller kitchen to discover what he left himself for 167 breakfast. There aren't too many pimples in half a carton of milk, and it isn't so sour that he's unable to use it to wash down the cold remains of last night's second hamburger. He dumps the carton in the pedal bin and the plate in the sink, and shoves Cuddly Murderers into the video recorder before he lands on the quarter of the sofa that isn't occupied by clothes or compact discs or magazines or books.

Cuddly Murderers dance onto the stage like forks of lightning, and the forest of an audience starts to sway as though it has been caught by a wind. The band launches into screaming "My Sweet Uzi", but they're less than halfway through the song when the screen turns grey and swallows them. They're replaced by a film of two gangs of men in armour fighting, and then some more wearing another kind in combat with a group clad in none. Gavin speeds them up, only to have to watch a further mob dressed in nothing much clubbing one another to the earth. He wouldn't even call this a battle; it's a contest for who'll be left alive. Eventually a single hulking figure survives to be raised high on some kind of triumphal platform, though not for long while Gavin's pressing the fast-forward b.u.t.ton. Then a crowd of squat shapes hold one of their number down on a mound and slash at her with a knife or a sharp stone. What kind of film is this supposed to be? Was someone copying a video of death scenes and did they put the Cuddly Murderers tape in the machine by mistake? The victim swiftly twitches her last and vanishes into renewed greyness. Gavin keeps speeding the tape, but when five minutes' worth has shown him nothing more he lurches off the sofa to subst.i.tute Pillar of Flesh.

As the spotlight finds Pierre Peter onstage he begins to sing "Seeds Like A Pumpkin" while the audience finishes cheering and whistling. Another light settles on Riccardo d.i.c.k, but no sooner does he start his guitar riff than the image s.h.i.+vers, letting greyness in. The concert has been ousted by a blurred monochrome film or one so poorly copied it has turned black and white. Gavin is reaching for 168 the control, though he feels as if he's trying to move while struggling to awaken, when he sees what else is wrong. More accurately, it's the same thing: it's the same film.

He races through the battle footage before his grasp slackens on the control. Why would anybody want to copy this material over a second tape they'd bought? He opens the ca.s.sette boxes to peer at the name on the Return slips. He squeezes his eyes shut and stretches them wide and looks again. The tapes were bought by different customers, one from Liverpool, one from Manchester.

He feels incapable of understanding what this could imply until he has been to sleep. He might as well be dreaming the images on the screen; he can't judge whether the savages clubbing one another are bathed in gore or mud. Now that the tape isn't speeded up he sees that the victor is elevated by an object like a huge rudimentary limb. Having brandished him, it plunges him into the earth or the fog, whichever it sprouted from, perhaps both. The screen is overwhelmed by grey before it shows what happened next, or was it earlier? The stunted shapes dragging their victim to the mound that appears to form itself out of the mud look even more primitive than the combatants did, and the object they use to open her up is worse than crude, hardly even sharp. When at last she stops writhing and silently screaming, does Gavin really see the mound sink into the earth and bear her gaping corpse with it? Fog or blankness engulfs everything, and the featureless tape continues to run until he fumbles to switch it off. Perhaps he'll watch it again later, but just now he has no idea how much he may have only imagined he saw. Nevertheless as he pulls off his clothes and trips over his trouser cuffs as he flounders towards the bed, he tries to hold onto an impression that he has been given the answer to something he was recently asked. Once he has slept, perhaps he'll be able to remember both. 169

WILF.

He switches off the headlights and stares at the rear wall of Texts until his mind begins to grow as blank. That's no use. It may feel peaceful, but he isn't here for peace; he's here to work. He wants this job--he loves books and being able to take customers to exactly what they're looking for--and there's no reason he can't do it unless he lets himself believe there is. The shop is only like his flat with even more books, and if he can put them in order at home he has to be able here too. He climbs out of the Micra and slams the door, which echoes somewhere in the fog like a single giant heartbeat. Though the afternoon s.h.i.+ft doesn't start for ten minutes, he hurries round the corner so fast that he could imagine he's fleeing his own lonely footsteps or how isolated they make him feel.

A black Audi is parked across three s.p.a.ces in front of the shop. As Woody strides to meet him in the entrance, Wilf hears people leaving the car behind him. "Welcome to Texts," Woody smiles.

He isn't talking to Wilf. He's staring past him, lower than Wilf's eyes. Then his gaze flicks up to them, and he 170 170'oux00ab'

smiles harder still and hoists his eyebrows. What's wrong with him? Wilf swings around to see who's being greeted and to release himself from the disconcerting sight of Woody's distorted face.

Two people are standing behind Wilf. The man is half a head shorter than he is, and wearing a suit of some red and white checked material bright enough for a dress. Above his white s.h.i.+rt and black cravat his round smooth face is pursing thin lips so nearly invisible they look in need of lipstick. His young companion is taller than Wilf but slimmer than the dumpy man to compensate. She's dressed in a grey suit pinstriped with black. Both of them appear to think themselves significant; could they be Woody's bosses from America? Wilf risks another glance at him, which provokes a fiercer smile and a silent repet.i.tion of his greeting. This time Wilf understands, though not why Woody took it to be anything like obvious. He moves to stand by Woody and face the newcomers and raise an expression suggested by Woody's as a preamble to saying "Welcome to Texts."

"And what do you think we're recommending to customers today?" Woody cries. "Nothing but Dressing Up, Dressing Down!" Dressing Up, Dressing Down!"

"Two minds with just a thought between them, eh?" the man says in a Scottish accent thicker than Wilf is sure is genuine. "Whose was that, then?"

He's jabbing a stubby thumb at WilFs window display, which largely consists of a bunch of his face. "She's not here right now," Woody says without letting his smile down. "Can I give her a message?"

"Shall I bring the colour to her cheeks, Fiona?" says Brodie Oates. "Fiona's my personal girl from the publishers."

Wilf is glad Agnes isn't there, especially since Fiona is eyeing the author as a mother might regard a brilliant but wilful child she can't resist indulging. "You won't upset her like you did the lady in the shop in Norwich, will you?" she appeals to him. 171 "She shouldn't have let the wine run out." As Woody stiffens almost imperceptibly at that, Oates grants the display another glance. "Saw me as three persons, did she? I won't argue with that. Tell her, how do you Yanks put it? Tell her she done good."

Woody's smile widens like a split in a tree about to fall. Before he can respond aloud, if indeed the expression would allow it, Oates says "Is that supposed to do me?"

He's gazing across the shop at a table piled with copies of his novel. "Your publishers didn't tell us you needed anything else," Woody apologises for them or the shop.

"Bad Fiona. What do you deserve?" Oates watches her blush while he says to Woody "You'll be keeping the akohoi behind the scenes, then."

"I just have to scoot over to the supermarket for it."

"They'll have stuff worth drinking there, will they? Chateauneuf will pa.s.s at a pinch." Oates stares at the s.p.a.ce in front of the table of books. "Don't be stingy with my audience either," he says. "Nothing beats a few gla.s.ses to put them in a buying mood."

Wilf can only imagine why Woody's smile is stretching even wider. "I'll take you up to the VIP lounge till they arrive," Woody says, covering the plaque on the wall with his badge. "Sesame. Sesame," he mutters, shoving at the door.

He leads the way, leaving Wilf to trail after Fiona behind Oates. Wilf is on the lowest stair when the author says "So what did you make of my wee tale?"

"I'm looking forward to reading a signed copy," Woody says at once.

"Just so you'll be paying for it."

"Sure I am. The store's ent.i.tled to expect it and so are your publishers. I don't believe in taking any gravy. I'm just a member of the team. The guy below you, now, he's read your book."

"Aye?" Oates says and turns to Wilf. "What's the verdict, then?"

Everyone has halted. Even Fiona is gazing at Wilf. In 172 books people often wish the ground would swallow them, but he has always thought that was an exaggeration until now. "Truthfully ...8 he instantly wishes he hadn't said.

"That's what we're waiting for fine right. Nothing less."

"It gave me a migraine."

Woody emits a startled laugh that doesn't quite go with his smile. "Och, the poor bairn's brain," wails Oates.

Wilf tells himself that Oates isn't like Freddy Slater, however mocking he sounds. It had to have been Slater's fault that Wilf couldn't read the ending of the novel when he was under so much pressure to finish it, just as Slater gave him problems with War War and and Peace, Peace, which he was subsequently able to read with no trouble at home. Perhaps Slater has found someone else to torment or grown bored with it; Wilf hasn't seen him since. "Will you tell us what gave you the head?" says Oates. which he was subsequently able to read with no trouble at home. Perhaps Slater has found someone else to torment or grown bored with it; Wilf hasn't seen him since. "Will you tell us what gave you the head?" says Oates.

Woody looks so taken aback he almost drops his smile. Perhaps the question has a different significance for Americans. "The ending," Wilf admits.

"Which was that?"

Perhaps Oates isn't so unlike Slater as Wilf wanted to believe. Certainly he's making Wilf feel the way the final pages of the book did: incapable of reading or of understanding what he'd struggled to read. Wilf is grateful to Woody for saying "Shall we continue upstairs? Our events manager is anxious to meet you."

Once he has held the staffroom door wide for Oates and Fiona he darts to call into the office "Connie, here's your celebrity."

As she hurries out to offer her hand and spread her pink lips, Oates says "Is it you that's responsible for my show in the window?"

"Would you like it to be?" When he bows over her hand and kisses it she says "Then I'm happy to be."

"Jill made the window up, didn't she?" Wilf can't help blurting.

"You don't know what Jill and I say to each other." 173 Connie has forgotten to smile, but Woody turns his up. "Are you with us yet, Wilf?"

Presumably he's asking if Wilf's working. Since it will rea.s.sure him that he can and remove him from present company, Wilf doesn't mind. "May as well be," he says, running his card along the slot beneath the clock.

"Okay, take some chairs down and set them up. Connie, I'm just driving over to Frugo so we can be hospitable."

Wilf props the staffroom door open with a chair and stacks five more on it and lumbers downstairs with them. He's halfway when the door shuts behind Woody and six chairs. "Something wrong with the elevator?" Woody says with no smile in his voice. "I thought this would be quicker." "So long as you're thinking of the store. Can we take it you're fully recovered?"

"From the migraine, you mean." "Is anything else wrong with you?" He's descending faster than Wilf, who mumbles "Nothing to speak of." "First time you've suffered?"

"I've never been that bad before," Wilf says, which at least is true enough.

"So make sure you see Ray and fill in a sick form. Are we waiting for something?"

The top chair jerks nervously close to Wilf's eyes at each step down, but he reaches the exit to the sales floor without dropping the chairs or tripping over them. As soon as Wilf hauls the door open Woody darts past, leaving him to struggle through the dwindling gap, beyond which he almost collides with the chairs Woody has abandoned. "Okay, you set these up," Woody says rapidly. "That's one thing I need to order in for occasions like this, more chairs. If anyone needs to stand this time they'll have to not mind."

Wilf wonders how determined Woody is to hope. Just now the shop has fewer customers than chairs. "As long as 174 we've got all night tonight," Woody murmurs, "why don't you stick around when you've finished setting up. It'll be good for him to know there's someone here from the store who's read his work. You can fill in with questions if you need to."

Wilf can think of hardly anything he needs less; the situation brings an unidentifiable stale taste into his mouth. He takes his time over unstacking the chairs, as though this may somehow postpone the author's appearance. He has finished arranging them in rows of four in front of the table when two men with pates sc.r.a.ped almost bald, who have been sitting as still as their armchairs, drag those over to swell the back row. They resume their seats and revert to staring at the covers of the picture books each has propped on his lap. He's wondering whether they'll feel patronised if he tells them what the other chairs are for when the voice he would least like to hear accosts him from behind. "Have they promoted you already?"

Wilf turns as slowly as he can, though it's childish to a.s.sume that will make Slater vanish. More than ever Slater's face resembles a moist translucent mask stuck on a wider lump of ruddy flesh. His mouth droops open as if encouraging Wilf to catch the joke or miming how cloddish he thinks Wilf is to miss it. "What do you mean?" Wilf almost manages not to ask.

"Looks like they've made you chairman." He follows this with several times the mirth the joke deserves while he stands so close Wilf feels the laughter is being thrust in his face. He can't breathe until Slater has finished, by which point Wilf's mouth tastes clogged with fog. "Want to look something up for me?" Slater says then. "You'll have to ask at Information. I'm busy here." Slater lets his mouth fall open in such contemptuous disbelief that Wilf sets about rearranging the books on the table to prove him wrong. "That looks like the job for you all right," says Slater. "Shouldn't think even you could get those out of order." 175 "I thought you wanted information. This is where people are coming to hear an author talk."

"That's why I'm here. I was sure you'd be pleased I'm supporting your shop." Once he has left his mouth open for a while Slater adds "Your boss ought to be."

Wilf's hands have begun to tingle and draw into fists as his mouth turns sourer. He fumbles with the books, but his fingers are so unwieldy that one copy sprawls off the table onto the floor. When he retrieves it, the open pages are smeared with mud. It will have to go to Nigel as a damaged copy. Wilf is staring at Slater to place the blame when people start to converge on the chairs.

He would be grateful for the distraction if they weren't the writers' group he had to abandon. Before he can move away from Slater their spokeswoman, chosen or otherwise, marches over to him. Her grey hair is piled snakelike on top of her head, and she's wearing more colours than ever. "Have you made any sense of it?" she enquires.

"What can't he make sense out of now?" Slater is avid to hear.

"He has problems with the ending like the rest of us."

She has taken an instinctive dislike to Slater, who turns his retort on Wilf. "Got the rest of it though, did you?"

"I'd have said so."

"What's it all about, then?"

For once Wilf feels as if Slater's handing him punch lines. "You'll have to read it and decide for yourself." Wilf hesitates, but not long enough to resist saying "If you can."

"Don't you be giving anybody the idea I'm the one that can't read, Wiffle."

"You aren't suggesting this gentleman can't," the woman in the rainbow garb objects. "He wouldn't be working here."

Slater is only starting to dangle his lower jaw when she presents him with her considerable back. Wilf doesn't know what Slater might be capable of calling after her about him or telling him for everyone to hear if there 176 weren't an interruption. Woody has returned quicker than Wilf could have expected the fog to allow anyone to be. "Buying that? Good for you," he says of the book in Wilf's hand.

Wilf is suddenly afraid that Slater will accuse him of damaging it, but Woody gives n.o.body a chance to speak. "Welcome to our first Fenny Meadows author appearance," he smiles as he clears a s.p.a.ce on the table for six bottles of wine and a pillar of plastic cups. "Our famous guest will be with you momentarily," he says more jubilantly still, uncorking a red and a white. "Please have a drink on the store. That's everybody except staff."

He keeps his smile towards the gathering until he's well on his way to the staffroom, but Wilf wonders if he's concealing disappointment at the size of the audience. Two more people--a man in a creaky yellow oilskin jacket and a woman in denim, even her feet--join it, perhaps attracted by the wine. Most of the writers approach the table for Wilf to serve them too. Slater grabs the red and fills a cup almost to the brim for himself, then sits on the front row as Connie ushers Oates and his publicist onto the sales floor. The author halts at once and jabs an upturned hand at the audience as though testing for rain. "Are they it?"

"I think we may have to blame the fog," says Connie.

"Fog's fault, is it?" he says and stares at Fiona. "Not the publicity by any chance."