The School of Night: A Novel by Alan Wall

journeying between two Pagett’s General Stores, one day dropped down dead. I asked Dan how.
    ‘Exploded, I think. He just blew up.’
    Dan’s eyes looked as though wasps had recently made nests in them.
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
    ‘Mother says I’ll have to help her sort out the business. Postpone Oxford for another year.’
    ‘You’ll never come,’ I said, thinking briefly of Indigo from Paris, Jaguars, detached millstone-grit houses.
    ‘I’ll never come,’ Dan said wearily. And he didn’t.
    *   *   *
     
    By the time Dominique and I drove up north to attend Dan and Sally’s wedding, he had already been acting head of Pagett’s for two years. I say Dominique and I drove; Dominique drove – it’s a competence I’ve never wished to acquire. My work has obliged me to move more slowly over the revolving surface.
    Dan had asked me to be his best man.
    ‘How do you feel about that?’ Dominique said as we sped up the motorway. I shrugged. ‘But he stole her from you.’
    ‘She was a pretty willing theft. Anyway, if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here with you.’
    ‘Being driven.’
    Dan had said we could stay at the house if necessary, but suggested a small hotel down the road might be better, all things considered. Within half an hour of our arrival, he asked me to join him on his last, prenuptial trip to the distribution centre.
    ‘Maybe Dominique would like to come,’ I said uneasily.
    ‘It’s only a two-seater,’ Dan said, already making for the door.
    ‘I won’t be long,’ I told her. Her face in return told me nothing. I became confidential. ‘Maybe Dan needs to talk about a few things before the ceremony.’
    The two-seater was a Morgan. British racing green. I remarked upon it.
    ‘Traded up from the Anglia, I see. I should think this one performs even more creditably in the rallies.’
    ‘I’ll take you for a drive over the moors. We’ll go the long way round.’
    ‘Not too long, Dan. I don’t want to leave Dominique by herself.’
    ‘She’s not by herself,’ he said, already throttling away enthusiastically. ‘She’s with Mother.’
    And so he drove me, with his customary brio , across the moors. It was a sunny day and the hood was down and after a few minutes I started to enjoy it too. After all, my memories criss-crossed those moors with the frequency of drystone walling.
    ‘What’s the distribution centre, Dan? Don’t remember hearing anything about that before.’
    ‘No. Dad was setting it all up when he died, so I’ve carried on. If you want to control the profits in this game, you’ve got to bring transport into it. Otherwise there’s too many people ripping you off, dictating who gets what and when, not to mention the question of condition on arrival. Perishability, remember. So now, instead of having other people collecting and delivering to us, we’re collecting and delivering to them.’
    ‘Sounds interesting.’ My voice probably lacked conviction.
    ‘You don’t find it interesting in the slightest, Sean, so don’t lie about it, to be polite. You’re with Dan, remember, your old mucker. Just because you went to Oxford and I didn’t is no reason to patronise me. I don’t find it all that interesting either, as a matter of fact.’
    The moorland sped by until we came to a large ugly building at the edge of town. A metal sign said Pagett Distribution.
    ‘Open up for me, will you, Sean?’ I climbed out of the car and pushed the enormous, ramshackle iron gate so that Dan could drive his gleaming new motor off the pock-marked and dilapidated road outside. Then he unfastened the locks and led me into his fruiterer’s cathedral. I stopped and looked about me at the central area, filled with lorries. All around its edges, on two floors, were rooms with metal and mesh doors, where an endless variety of fruit and vegetables were kept. The air was sharp with a citrus bite.
    ‘It’s very impressive, Dan.’
    ‘Only the beginning. What are you doing