The Overnight Part 27

"Don't tell us," Greg mutters just audibly. "You'd like to take the bottom road."

"I'd like to help, that's right. Agnes has been shut up long enough. But I haven't got a car."

"I'd rather not go out by myself if I'm going," says Mad.

"I don't see why you should." Connie waits for agreement to begin spreading over Greg's face before she says "Go out by yourself, that is."

As Greg shelves the book with a thump like a fist on a table she returns to the counter. She's only reaching for the phone when Woody's voice falls on her. "Let me guess. The cavalry's here at last."

"Not exactly. Well, not really at all. We think something may have happened to Ross or he'd be back by now and there'd be help."

"All the news is bad, huh? That's why you all look like you're stuck in mud. Okay, let's see if I can get you 341 moving," Woody booms like an uncle talking at a child, and begins to sing. "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy ...8 "We're just deciding what to do." Connie raises her voice to give it some authority or counter his. "Actually, we've decided. There's more than one place we could phone for help from, so we think it'll be best if we make a concerted effort."

"Talk English, Connie. I don't get why you Brits have to dress things up fancy."

Jake feels like shouting that they invented the language, but he would only be extending the argument that seems to be gathering around them, embedding them in the stagnant twilight. He has the notion that Connie intends to free herself of it by saying "I want to send people out to both of them."

"And how about the reason we're all here?"

"Getting the shop ready for tomorrow, well, today, you mean."

"Tell me another if you know one."

"We're never going to be able to finish in time now. I'm certain your New Yorkers will understand."

"Yeah? I don't. See if you can make me."

"The light's too bad. The further you go from the window the worse it gets. We don't want people ruining their eyes for nothing and having to go home, do we? I wouldn't be surprised if we all end up in bed with colds as well."

"You think that's too much to ask of the team when they promised to fix up the store."

"We've already been through that. There won't be time. Don't worry, you won't be on your own. I'll stay."

"You won't be the only one," Greg declares.

"Greg's saying he will too, and there's Angus and Ray even if they haven't had any luck with the fuses."

'That right? You two still there? I'm talking to Ray and Angus."

They grunt beyond the door in the darkest corner of the 342 shop, so nearly in unison that they might be speaking in a single m.u.f.fled voice. 'They said yes," Connie transmits.

"So they're still working on the fuses, right?"

"Yes," the double voice responds.

'Tell me, Connie."

"They say they are."

"So let's give them a while longer. Could be they're almost there."

"Don't you think Agnes has been brave long enough? If I were her I'd be making a lot more fuss by now." With a movement that suggests an attempt to wriggle free of the r.e.t.a.r.ded discussion Connie turns, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. "Anyone who's going, go. I'll take the responsibility. The door isn't locked."

Jake lingers to replace on the pile the book he's holding rather than simply dropping it. He and Mad and Jill are abreast of the counter when Woody says "I don't believe what I'm seeing. Looks like the dogs are out of their gates."

"They're all trying to leave," Greg shouts. "It doesn't need them all, does it? I don't think they'll come back."

"Try it shriller and maybe he'll hear you," Jake says before he realises Woody can through the receiver Connie is no longer soundproofing.

"I guess maybe I don't either. Okay, everyone back to the shelves."

"I said go," Connie insists, jabbing the receiver towards the exit.

"You wouldn't say that if he wasn't out of action," says Greg.

Jake's eager to watch her squas.h.i.+ng him but is even more anxious to leave. As he hurries past the counter with Mad and Jill in his wake, Woody says in a voice like a huge false smile "Hey, am I not getting through any more? I can hear myself fine."

"You are," Greg shouts and nods hard at the ceiling. "Everyone can hear."

Jake closes his fist around the metal handle, which feels 343 as cold and wet as a stick pulled out of mud. He has to blame his handful of sweat, which must also explain why the metal gives the impression of crawling with rust He tugs at the handle, and the gla.s.s door vibrates against its twin with a faint low gong note, but that's all. "Connie," he says higher than he means to. "It's not unlocked."

"It shouldn't be, either," Greg remarks.

"It is, Jake. That's how I left it. Just push, pull, I should say."

Jake does both, vigorously. The gla.s.s clanks like a large loose pane in a storm while the fog beyond it stirs as though it's either mocking the movement he's desperate to produce or gathering itself to confront him. He shakes the door until it jangles, and then says as calmly as he's able "If it isn't locked I don't know what it is."

Connie plants the receiver firmly on its stand and strides to give both doors an interrogative shake. "I don't understand, but it's all right," she says and types numbers on the keypad before triumphantly flinging the doors wide. At least, that's clearly her intention, but the result is no more than a paralysed gla.s.sy clank.

"Forgotten the code again?" Woody enquires, audibly smiling. "Don't ask me."

"That was right. I know it was," Connie a.s.sures everyone but him, and keys it in a second time, then hauls at the doors until they creak. Jake almost cries out, afraid that they'll shatter, leaving her clutching the handles and riddled with fragments of gla.s.s. At last she lets go, panting "It's got to be something to do with the power."

Jake is about to break the silence, which feels like the imminence of thunder, when Jill says what he's thinking. "We'll have to break our way out, then."

"I don't know if I want to be responsible for that," says Connie.

"Just don't be responsible for stopping us," Jake blurts. "They'll be broken sooner or later," Mad says. How else are the emergency people going to get in?" 344 Connie fingers her lips as if she's feeling for her own expression before saying "What would you use? We can't have anybody hurt."

None of them has noticed that Greg has dodged behind the counter to the phone until Woody says overhead "Something you think I should know, Greg?"

"They're saying they'll smash the door down."

"They won't be doing anything like that. Tell them so n.o.body can say they didn't hear."

"Woody forbids it," Greg says and, as if to please him further, doesn't entirely resist smiling.

"Pa.s.s me the phone, please." By the time she finishes speaking Connie is opposite Greg at the counter and thrusting out a hand. "Give it to me," she practically spits.

"Woody, do you want me to--was "Do as you're told." She grabs the phone away from his face, and the earpiece clubs him on the ear. "That was your fault," she informs him, turning away from him. "If we don't open it somehow, Woody, what's going to happen to Agnes?"

"Nothing that hasn't already. Maybe nothing I'm not putting up with myself."

How can anyone side with him after that? It seems to Jake that Woody has ensured Connie won't oppose any means of escape, and at once he knows what to do. He dashes to the trolley he has unloaded and drives it towards the exit. Mad and Jill look shocked as they catch up with his plan, but they move to either side of the trolley to help ram the door. He's backing off to take a longer run at it when Greg darts from behind the counter, rubbing his ear to make certain everybody knows it's injured, to position himself in front of the door, arms and legs stretched wide. "You've been told," he shouts.

"You're my man, Greg," Woody bellows. "They shall not pa.s.s."

"Better get out of the way," Jake warns Greg, nudging 345 the trolley in his direction. "Stay like that and you'll get this up your a.r.s.e."

"Yes, move, Greg," Mad urges.

"We're going to do this," Jill says. "You'll have to move."

Connie slams the phone down and folds her arms. "You've made your point, Greg, and now will you please step aside. I'm in charge down here, and I don't want anyone coming to harm."

"Woody can see everything, so you can't be in charge."

Jake feels as if the women's frustration with Greg has been added to his own loathing. Perhaps they're experiencing that emotion too, because it has grown so oppressive that he needs to discharge it somehow or he'll suffocate. As the trolley thunders forward he visualises how it will burst Greg's crotch unless he dodges. At almost the last moment he veers the trolley at the gla.s.s, but Greg sidles rapidly as a crab to block it. Jake exhorts himself not to falter, but the trolley shudders to a halt inches short of Greg. "Move," Jake nearly screams.

"Who's going to make me? I don't see any men to."

Jake shoves the trolley backwards and flies at him. A contemptuous smile is parting Greg's lips before he realises he has brought Mad and Jill on himself as well. They grab his arms and strive to budge him while Jake manages to refrain from seizing him by the throat and digs his nails between Greg's ribs instead. Greg attempts to laugh, but it isn't amus.e.m.e.nt that bares his teeth. In a few seconds he loses enough balance for his attackers to hurl him aside so violently he staggers behind the counter.

Jake runs to the far end of the trolley while Mad and Jill grab the sides. It has barely started to trundle forward when Greg lurches into its path. As he makes to arrest it Jake rams it into his stomach. He gasps and flounders backwards, and Jake wonders with no apprehension at all whether Greg will be the object that shatters the gla.s.s. But 346 Greg surges red-faced at the trolley, and Jake darts around it to keep him off.

He has to rob Greg of more balance than last time. He tells himself he's being rational, but it also feels insanely satisfying to kick Greg on the s.h.i.+n with all the force he can draw from his hatred. As Greg recoils hopping, fighting to grin away his tears, Jake chases him and hooks a foot behind his ankle. A shove at his pudgy chest overbalances him to thump the floor behind the counter with his shoulders or, for all Jake cares, his head. "Do it now," Jake shouts at Mad and Jill.

He's advancing to stand over Greg when Connie cries "Jake."

Doesn't he only intend to keep Greg where he is? He's about to tell her as much, even though he grudges any rea.s.surance that may offer Greg, when the thunder of the trolley culminates in a shrill peal. For a moment the righthand door stands its ground, and then it collapses outwards, strewing the pavement with hundreds of fragments as though an immense jewel box has spilled its contents. Mad and Jill flinch back, and Jill wheels the trolley away from the hole as though she's rescuing it from a sudden swell of fog. The two women are stepping forward almost hand in hand when Woody speaks, so loud and all-encompa.s.sing that Jake could imagine the voice is in the fog as well as in the corners of the shop. "Anyone that leaves the store now, don't bother coming back."

Mad and Jill hesitate in front of the threshold composed of shattered gla.s.s. Connie stares at Greg's left hand, with which he's gripping the edge of the counter to haul himself into a crouch. Jake thinks she's about to hammer on Greg's fingers with her fists or otherwise disable him. He's disappointed when she takes Greg's robustness as an excuse to head for the exit. "That can include me, then," she says. "I've had enough."

As Jake follows her towards the gap the alarm begins to squeal. Greg wobbles to his feet and shows Jake his teeth 347 as if he believes the shop is accusing the deserters. Jake is enraged by growing nervous that the noise may alert someone, presumably a guard, for who else could it call out of the fog? It falls silent for as little reason as it made itself heard, and he's waiting for the women to finish picking their way over the debris when Greg stumbles towards him. His face is heavy with determination not to let Jake escape. Jake treads on gla.s.s and twists around to wait for him, stooping for a handful he can grind into Greg's eyes. Then Connie says "That's as far as you go, Greg. Remember what Woody just said about leaving the shop."

The frustration that narrows his eyes and mouth is feeble compared to Jake's. This is so intense it feels vast, as if a presence the size of the fog is experiencing it too. He could almost think the huge voice belongs to such a presence. "Let them go, Greg. You're all we need."

Greg doesn't look entirely comfortable with this as he takes a reluctant pace backwards. Jake resists the temptation to kick gla.s.s at him. He's following the women past the window full of books that seem drained not just of colour but of any meaning when Woody booms "You can hear me out there, right? I guess you're hoping I'll change my mind and let you in."

Connie increases her pace, and the other women trot to stay beside her. Before Jake catches up with them they dodge around the corner of the shop, leaving him alone with Woody's giant m.u.f.fled voice. "I know you're listening. Let's see your faces. How many of you are there? Let's see them all."

Jake has the disturbing notion that the words are aimed at the fog. Otherwise there's silence apart from his panicky footsteps; there's no sound from the alley into which the women disappeared. A succession of s.h.i.+vers, not only because of the clinging fog, overtakes him as he dashes to the corner. The women are close to the far end of the alley, which looks walled off by mud. As he hastens to join them he sees that it's a thick mixture of fog and darkness. 348 "What's happened to the lights behind the shops?" Connie seems to think someone ought to know.

"Will it be the power?" Mad suggests.

"Whatever it is I don't like it. Can one of you start her car?"

"What's wrong with yours?" says Jill.

"It's further round than someone else's. If they start theirs we'll be able to see."

A s.h.i.+ver tries to propel Jake into the dark. "We can all go together, can't we?" he says in case that's rea.s.suring.

"Mine's nearest," Mad says impatiently and tramps into the murk.

Jake has time to feel pitifully grateful that all the women are wearing trousers with pockets for their keys as he leaves behind the last of the suffocated glow along the alley. Past the side of Texts he's just able to distinguish Mad lowering herself into a block of darkness. As it shuts her in he hears a huge voice muttering, but not its words. The Mazda emits a rasping cough that adds to the fog, and then the engine roars and the headlights slap a luminous patch on the concrete wall. "Shall I drive over to yours, Connie?" Mad rolls her window down to ask.

"I hope I'm not quite that incapable just yet. There are only a few years between us, you know. I can still walk."

"I meant I could bring you more light," says Mad, but only Jake hears. Connie is already at her Rapier. Jill hurries past it to her Nova, which is less certain of its shape and colour. As Jake waits for someone to offer him a lift he feels as though the frustration he experienced on sparing Greg has accompanied them under cover of the fog. The way Mad's car keeps flaring its lights while it roars like an infuriated beast aggravates the impression, even when she explains "I'm seeing it doesn't die of cold."

Connie's engine acknowledges its key with no more than a click. A second try produces even less of a response, a third no sound from the engine at all. Connie 349 opens her door and leans out, looking diminished. "I don't know the first thing about this. Can anyone help?"

"Not as capable as you thought, hey?" Mad lets her hear.

The oppressive imminence seems to close around them, and Jake fears they'll act it out somehow. "Sean doesn't like to get his hands dirty, so I'm the mechanic," he says with more confidence than he feels. "Can you open your bonnet, Connie?"

She stares at him as though she wonders if he's suggesting she's unable to perform the task, and then she reaches under the dashboard. A different kind of click indicates she has released the bonnet as Jill thinks better of entering the Nova, instead peering past it. "Isn't that Ross's car?"

Jake sees it is but has no idea what to say. He's hooking his fingers under the metal edge when Mad climbs out of her car and joins Jill behind the vehicles. "There aren't many ways he could have walked," Mad rea.s.sures everyone. "One of us should find him if we keep our eyes open."

The hood flies up and Jake leans over the engine, sc.r.a.ping his shoulder against the wall of the bookshop. The light is dim, and the metal innards are further obscured by his shadow, so that all he can immediately distinguish is that the engine appears to be clogged by a greyish ma.s.s. He stretches one hand along the rim above the radiator grille and stoops closer. Just as he begins to see what he's ducking towards, Mad's engine cuts out, and so do her headlamps.

"Sorry," she calls, and runs to the Mazda. Jake's eyes have adjusted enough to let him separate outlines from the dark, but he isn't sure if he's seeing or remembering or, his entire being pleads, imagining that although the humped ma.s.s is sufficiently fluid to have oozed over the whole of the engine, it's well on the way to having a face. At least, low down on a rounded lump that's no longer flattened by the bonnet, a gap like a slit in jelly is widening in an unmistakable if mindless grin. Such a violent shudder 350 overwhelms him that he's terrified his arm will yield, thrusting his face against the gleeful swelling. As he flings himself backwards, skinning his elbow on the concrete wall, his hand slips. He doesn't know if anything reaches out to detain it, but he feels as if he has stroked a slug. He stays within range barely long enough to slam the bonnet as Mad revives her engine and her lights.

At first he thinks all the women are gazing at him because they know what he glimpsed, but of course it's worse than that: they want him to tell them. He can only cling to his first impression and wish it were the case. "It's frozen. Burst, I mean," he babbles. "It burst because it froze and now it's frozen again."

Connie waits until she's certain this is over and says "So are you just going to leave it?"

"Have to. n.o.body can do anything."

Both Mad and Jill look inclined to disagree, and he's terrified they'll go further than arguing. Can he hear a bulk slithering about under the bonnet in antic.i.p.ation that someone will insist on seeing? "Honestly, it needs a proper mechanic," he hears himself pleading rather than simply maintaining. "We'll just have to go two in a car."

The idea is received with so little apparent enthusiasm that he wonders if it could be unwise, but what alternative is there? He s.h.i.+vers with silently urging Connie to put some distance between her and the Rapier. At last she emerges from it, saying almost as reluctantly "I'll ride with Jill if you'll have me. You're the closest to me. Where you live is."

Mad's lights flare again, staining the murk faintly red and encouraging it to grow more solid. "So who's heading which way?" she calls.

"You take the motorway," Connie says. "Don't forget you're looking for Ross as well as a phone."

Mad plainly resents the implication that she needs reminding. Jake is suddenly afraid Jill's car won't start, 351 which is yet another reason why he shudders uncontrollably as he asks "And then what?"

"Go home and wait to hear. I'll ring the shop later if n.o.body's rung me. Don't worry, I'll be defending everyone the best I can. Greg as well."

That sounds like the germ of another argument that could keep them trapped in the fog. Jake suppresses a retort as he watches Connie open the pa.s.senger door of the Nova. He must be loitering out of some sense of protectiveness, since he's alone in knowing what has invaded Connie's car. Jill's engine utters a choking sound and dies. He's about to urge them both to travel with Mad when the engine of the Nova splutters and revs up. He and his ill-defined shadow that looks half absorbed by the fog dash to the Mazda. "All right," he gasps as he slams himself in.

"I should think we must be now. No rush, is there, when it's like this?"

"Maybe not," he says with far too many syllables, "but what are we waiting for?"