Early Riser

by Jasper Fforde

  Shamanic Bob walked over and sat down opposite me.

  ‘What are you doing back so soon?’

  ‘I’ve not been away.’

  ‘Undercover?’ he said in a conspiratorial tone.

  ‘Under the covers,’ I said, ‘over at the Siddons. I overslept.’

  ‘I shouldn’t spread that around,’ he said with a smile, ‘but the first Winter up can sure be a dog. So tell me about Aurora: have you known her long?’

  Gossip is thin on the ground during Slumbertime. To souls bored by the tedium of the Winter it can become a commodity of value, fourth only to protein, warmth and loyalty. But it struck me that an association with Aurora might actually help me, given that most people seemed to be frightened of her.

  ‘Four weeks,’ I said, truthfully enough.

  ‘O-kay,’ said ShamBob slowly, ‘and what – if I might be so bold – does Chief Toccata say about it?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’ I asked.

  ShamBob’s mouth actually dropped open. I wasn’t sure why but he was either shocked, or impressed, or outraged, or a mixture of all three.

  I was going to leave, but then I remembered about the last time we’d met. He’d said something about Morphenox being a fluke, and I asked him what he meant by that.

  He smiled. Winsomniacs liked conspiracy theories almost as much as they liked undersleeping on someone else’s dollar.

  ‘Morphenox was originally plain old “F-652”,’ he began, ‘developed as a powerful Dreamblocker, devised so there could be a non-dreaming control group during trials of a cancelled project named Dreamspace, where Don Hector was trying to make us dream not less, but better. But then someone noticed the dreamless group were losing significantly less weight during hibernation, and that was the turning point: up until that point, no one realised just how much energy dreams were burning. Block them and go to sleep lighter. It’s that simple.’

  This took a moment to sink in.

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘A revolution in Hibernetics,’ I said slowly, ‘wealth, power, influence and the current geopolitical landscape, based on the unexpected results of a control group?’

  He grinned.

  ‘Quite something, eh? Trouble is, they can never seem to manufacture enough of it to go around. If I was a cynical man, I’d think there was a degree of social control regarding its limited distribution.’

  Maisie Rogers had said the same thing. The lines were fairly clear – along wealth and class, mostly. The global hibernating village, equal in sleep, equal in dignity, was a myth.

  ‘And,’ he continued, ‘any news of an improved Morphenox with full distribution benefits should be met with caution. HiberTech cares more for dosh than dozing.’

  ‘We’re not having this conversation,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Project Dreamspace. What do you mean: “wanting to make us dream not less, but better”?’

  But I might have been talking to myself. Shamanic Bob, exhausted by the efforts of conversation, had fallen fast asleep on the table and was snoring loudly.

  The Consulate

  ‘ . . . “Lucky” Ned Farnesworth and his gang were the poster children of Villains everywhere. So reviled, in fact, that the thump-target dummies at the Academy were shaped like Ned himself. Farnesworth had been a stockbroker, mammoth farmer, stamp dealer and professional gambler. Highly intelligent but utterly ruthless, he commanded huge loyalty among his followers – and fear from the Consul Service . . . ’

  – ‘Winter Villains’ Top Trump card circa 1994

  The three nightwalkers tethered to the back of the command vehicle were rocking gently back and forth as a precursor to Torpor, but Aurora herself was nowhere to be seen. I released Birgitta and fed her two flapjacks.

  ‘I love you, Charlie,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t,’ I replied in a quiet voice, ‘it really doesn’t help.’

  ‘Kiki needs the cylinder,’ she added.

  ‘And neither does that. Which Kiki? RealSleep’s Kiki or another one?’

  She didn’t answer, and we walked back to the Siddons in relative silence, my mind coming to terms with the fact that my dream had been moulded retrospectively. I tried to see if there were elements in the Birgitta dream that might refute this hypothesis, but there was nothing. Everything that had occurred in the dream was my narcosis- befuddled mind filling in my memory cracks like so much builder’s plaster. I trudged quietly through the snow-packed streets holding Birgitta’s hand, something that, while purely one-sided, did feel oddly comforting.

  Jonesy was already waiting for me outside the Siddons, next to a red-and-white Consulate Sno-Trac, the engine almost completely silenced, the only sound the faint rattle of the rain-trap on top of the exhaust stack. It was parked next to a telephone box that was half buried in a snowdrift, and Jonesy was reading an ancient copy of Wonder Woman & the Wintervolk Kid, and chuckling occasionally. Next to her was a tartan travel rug folded neatly atop a picnic set. She was taking the ‘long-partnered’ game seriously.

  ‘Caught one already?’ she asked as soon as she saw us. ‘Quick work. Goodness, isn’t that Birgitta?’

  ‘Legally-speaking, it’s just something she used to walk around in.’

  ‘We sang together in the choir,’ said Jonesy. ‘Did a very passable Pirate Queen in last year’s Pirates of Penzance. Nice enough girl, if a little prickly. She turned down a five-figure two-child deal from a team scouting for Wackford & Co.’

  ‘She’d have had very beautiful children.’

  ‘Hence the five-figure deal. She could have bought herself out of the Douzey on the Wackford deal and moved to somewhere less lugubrious – no one figured out why she didn’t.’

  I think I knew the reason. She told me she’d married, but the whole thing seemed secretive. Possibly a union de l’amour – committed personally to one another, but not recognised in law.

  ‘Does Baggy do any tricks?’ she asked.

  ‘She used to be into cannibalism and now she’s into Snickers, mumbling and shortbread.’

  ‘More of a reason for immediate retirement than a trick, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I suppose, yes.’

  Jonesy looked at her watch.

  ‘Toccata isn’t back yet, but we need to be ready to move when she is. Do you want me to retire her for you?’

  I looked across at Birgitta, who seemed utterly unconcerned by everything. I weighed the matter carefully. Disposing of Birgitta – even if she herself was long gone – just didn’t feel right. And not just because I had liked her, but for the simple fact that I was, in some small way, responsible for her current status. I had given her the Morphenox, after all.

  ‘It’s possible she might do tricks,’ I said with some reticence, ‘perhaps we should—’

  ‘Did you ever wonder how I did this?’ asked Jonesy, holding up the withered remnant. She had only a finger and thumb remaining on her right hand.

  I hadn’t given it a second thought. Consuls often left body parts littered around the Winter, and indeed, anyone who hadn’t lost a bit of themselves by their fifth season were clearly risk-averse. But if Jonesy mentioned it, it was probably for a reason.

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ I replied obligingly.

  ‘I was jumped by nightwalkers,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘gone hive-mind over in Builth Wells. Rare but not unheard of. They took chunks out of any exposed flesh. I’d be nightwalker shit if it wasn’t for Toccata wading in. I’ll do any of them now. I’ve even,’ she added, with an excited gleam in her eye, ‘whacked a celebrity nightwalker. Guess which one.’

  ‘Was it Carmen Miranda?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed that her dubious claim to fame had been scooped, ‘you heard about that.’

  She nodded towards Birgitta.

  ‘But anyway: I don
’t mind retiring them. In fact, I’m trying to set a new Regional Retiring Record. I’ve got sixty-one so far. So let me do it. Please?’

  I thanked her but said that I should be the one to do it.

  * * *

  * * *

  I returned a half-hour later. Jonesy was already in the Sno-Trac listening to a weather report on the shortwave, and I opened the rear door and picked my way through the cabin to join her. A Sno-Trac would usually take eight people plus driver, but this one was configured for freight. It was practical but not fast and, most importantly, had an efficient heater and a modern H4S radar set.

  But it wasn’t the TechSpecs of the Sno-Trac that were forefront in my mind.

  I’d wrapped Birgitta’s left thumb in a pocket handkerchief and I laid it on the coaming. It had been probably the least pleasant moment of my life so far, and I could still feel myself shaking. But I had done what had to be done.

  ‘You all right, Wonky?’ asked Jonesy, sensing my agitation.

  ‘No, not really – and I’d be a whole lot happier if you didn’t call me Wonky.’

  ‘We’re way beyond that now.’

  She indicated Birgitta’s thumb.

  ‘First one?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The first is always the hardest, but believe me, the feelings of nausea will pass. Toccata’s returned and you’re driving.’

  The ride to the Winter Consulate would have been simple, but Jonesy insisted we went around the one-way system, which took an extra fifteen minutes at the excruciatingly slow 55 dB sound limit. She pointed out the theatre as we rumbled past.

  ‘André Preview drops in two weeks from now and a week after that there’ll be something from the Wolfitt Players. Last season we had the Reduced Shakespeare Company doing “Highlights of the Mostly Complete History of Condensing Stuff (abridged)”.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Quick – even for them. Listen, have you thought up any more good reminiscences for us to talk about?’

  ‘I . . . haven’t really given it much thought.’

  ‘I’m working on a really good one about going to the Hotbox in Swindon like years ago and listening to the last performance of Holroyd Wilson. We kissed for the first time outside, but I was horribly drunk and then vomited on your feet.’

  ‘I still have those shoes,’ I said.

  ‘You kept them?’ said Jonesy. ‘You’re one sick sentimental puppy, Wonky.’

  ‘It wasn’t sentiment,’ I said, ‘it was economics. They were expensive. What does Toccata want to say to me?’

  ‘She’ll want to know about Logan, I imagine, then she needs to decide what to do with you. It’s possible you’ll join us. We’re short-handed as we lost two Deputies recently; one to an ice storm and the other to stupidity – it was my ex-partner, Cotton. Found Dead in Sleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Tried to kip au Jeffries in an outhouse under skins and branches. Quite lovely but not too bright. We bundled once or twice, but only recreationally, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, now used to open talk about such matters. ‘So with those two missing, how many Consuls do you have?’

  She counted them out on her fingers.

  ‘There’s the Chief, me, Fodder – we served together in the Ottoman. Despite a gruff exterior he’s quite the sweetheart. We’ve never bundled, but it’s a possibility what with Cotton dead. I always think it best to bundle with only one co-Winterer at a time, don’t you?’

  ‘That might be considered sound advice, yes.’

  ‘Also on the list is Danny Pockets, a freelancer from Swansea who was called in to assist with Pantry Defence. He’s on a Daily Rate, which isn’t really fair on the rest of us. Laura Strowger helps out but is civilian, so doesn’t count, really, and the last is the bondsman Jim Treacle, who is a hopeless twerp without a shred of charm, winterskills or decency. He thinks I’m going to marry him.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I’d sooner marry Agent Hooke, but it’s complicated: my mum borrowed lavishly from Treacle to bag a rich widower from Sector Fifteen. That didn’t work out, so Treacle transferred the loan to my hand in marriage. Not sure how that happened. Anyway, we’re trying to spin out the Hard No for as long as possible, otherwise it’s a loan default and he can take my mum’s house. If you can get Treacle to write off the Debt and head elsewhere, there’s five hundred euros in it for you. Park anywhere.’

  I pulled in and checked the compressed air reservoir was full before shutting down.

  ‘A tip about Chief Consul Toccata,’ said Jonesy. ‘Honesty is the only policy and don’t speak unless spoken to. She’s not so bad; just runs hot and cold. But don’t fret. If she respects you as a person, everything will be fine.’

  ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is it true Toccata eats nightwalkers garnished with mint?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘No, I heard she feeds them peppermint for several weeks beforehand – to make them more flavoursome.’

  ‘She keeps them alive until needed?’

  ‘Needs must in the Winter, Wonky. Believe me, if you were starving you’d eat your dead mother’s partly-decomposed foot. What do you think the Consular staff ate in Sector Eight North during the Winter of ’76? Snow?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘C’mon,’ she added, smiling to try and dilute some of the less palatable truths about the Winter, ‘and if I were you, don’t mention eating nightwalkers to Toccata. It’s a touchy subject.’

  Aurora’s four-wheel drive was still parked outside the Consulate, unchanged from when I’d seen it last. Eddie Tangiers and Glitzy Tiara were still tied to the back and had dropped into unmoving Rigor torpis as a defence against the cold.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Jonesy, ‘two more for the Sector Twelve retirement plan.’

  ‘They’re Aurora’s,’ I said, probably a mite too defensively. ‘She was planning to take them up to HiberTech.’

  ‘Must have run out of time. Treacle will be on the front desk. I’ll catch you up.’

  She patted me on the shoulder and climbed into Aurora’s four-wheel drive.

  I was buzzed in through the shock-gates, where little had changed. On the counter was a tear-off calendar telling me there were ninety- one days until Springrise, and at the rear I could see Laura, doing some filing. She looked at me curiously and gave a cheery wave, which I returned. Beyond the desks was a frosted-glass partition to an inner office with a half-glazed door, upon which were painted the words:

  Ms A. Toccata Chief Winter Consul Sector 12

  Through the frosted glass I could see Toccata as a shadowy figure who appeared to be having an animated conversation on the telephone. I say ‘conversation’, but it really seemed to be a one-sided rant. The glass was soundproofed so her voice was muffled and indistinct, but it seemed she was yelling about the incompetence of the other party, and sporadically peppering her speech with a colourful array of expletives. I felt myself tense. I wasn’t going to enjoy this.

  Standing behind the counter and speaking on the telephone in more measured tones was Jim Treacle. He looked fatter than when I’d last seen him; only bondsmen could afford to gain weight in the Winter. He looked up, smiled and placed a finger in the air to indicate he’d not be long.

  ‘We’ve currently got fifty-four extra winsomniacs, which is way in excess of our official allocation,’ he said on the phone, ‘so if we don’t get at least two hundred person-days of food by the end of the week, then the Chief Consul will come over and explain her displeasure to you in person with a steel spike.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, those were her precise words and I think she will almost certainly make good on her threat. Good day, sir.’

  He put the phone down, coughed his
deep racking cough and then turned to face me.

  ‘So, Worthing,’ he said with a grin, ‘Jonesy said you overslept big time.’

  ‘I had an alarm clock issue.’

  ‘Sure you did.’

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Did Jonesy mention me at all?’

  ‘No,’ I lied, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m up to be married to her with a siring-in rider, but I think she’s getting cold feet. What do you think?’

  Jonesy didn’t tell me Treacle had contracted for genetic rights within the marriage. It was kind of a big deal and controversial. Women needed more genetic options than partner choice alone might provide, and there was talk about enshrining that right in law. I lowered my voice too.

  ‘It’s a big decision.’

  ‘I know; there was this Deputy with whom she was bundling, but now Cotton’s dead I’m hoping she’ll retire from recreational oopla and transfer her permanent affections to me.’

  ‘That’s . . . one of many uniquely plausible scenarios,’ I said.

  ‘I agree,’ said Treacle, ‘but you’re here and you’re young and even though a bit squiffy looking, no offence—’

  ‘Little taken.’

  ‘—I’m still worried your most attractive feature might bump you up her list.’

  ‘And what is my most attractive feature?’ I asked, curious to know.

  ‘You’re not me. Promise me you’ll turn her down if she makes a play? And just so we’re clear, “making a play” is defined as anything beyond typical co-worker stuff: dinner, walking hand in hand through the snow, playing Cluedo or inventing past histories. Especially inventing past histories. You agree?’

  ‘O-kay.’

  ‘Good. Toccata will be out as soon as she’s finished ranting. The coffee is over there. If you have any easy questions, just holler.’

  Treacle moved off to deal with some paperwork and I went to pour myself what Treacle had generously described as coffee. I sniffed it gingerly. It smelled of rotting mushrooms mixed in with lamp oil, and tasted about the same.