The Overnight (38 page)

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 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 splashing 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 scrap 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 reassuring 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 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 mass all the way to their first knuckles. He gasps and chokes, and as he snatches 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 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 reassure 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. Nobody 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—"

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.

"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."

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 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 nobody 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 God. "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 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 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 assume he means the staff downstairs before he names Agnes, though not the way she prefers to be named. He discusses the pronunciation 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 there?"

"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 circumstances 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 pushing 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?"

"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.