Early Riser

by Jasper Fforde

  I found Birgitta stuck fast in Rigor torpis when I let myself into her room. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, mid-sketch, pen poised.

  Her overnight drawing efforts numbered eight. Four of them were the interior of her room and another of her and her husband on the beach with the parasol but seen from behind them. There was one of the interior of the basement car park depicting her first encounter with the other nightwalkers, and two others were general scenes of the town: the main square in Summer with the Wincarnis in the background and another of the bridge over the river, water running freely, but still with an articulated lorry stuck fast – only a different one, not the lorry stuck there now. It must be a regular feature of the town.

  I placed the pictures on top of the wardrobe with the others and then, once Birgitta had risen out of torpis, fed her the taramasalata and toothpaste sandwich, and when that wasn’t quite enough, a large bowl of muesli.

  Once I’d finished feeding her breakfast, I made sure she had access to pens and paper before leaving and locking the door behind me.

  I had inventoried all my remaining food and figured I would probably run out tomorrow evening. I would be the first item on the menu when she got hungry, and if she couldn’t eat me, she’d either starve or try to escape – and that would be one more whole heap of trouble to deal with.

  I headed off towards the elevator but stopped at the door to the apartment next to mine, room 902. It would be unoccupied, turned upside-down if the occupants were dead but still in residence, and removed completely once the corpse was removed. This room, I knew, was vacant. And since most ninth-floorers seemed to have blue-Buicked in some form or another – Moody, Roscoe, Suzy Watson, Birgitta, Porter Lloyd – it seemed prudent to have a look inside. Unaccountably, I suddenly felt a nervous knot that sat low in my stomach. A portent, if you like. The same thing I’d felt when going to repo Mrs Tiffen.

  My Omnikey turned easily in the lock and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. But it wasn’t unoccupied, it was abandoned: the blinds were down, the mattress rolled up and tied with a cord. There was no furniture, blankets, food or carpets. The only thing in the room was a large steamer trunk pushed against our shared wall, the sort of thing roving hibernators used when travelling away to Longsleep. Unusually, the lock was pre-Omnilock, which dated the trunk from before 1931. Not illegal to own, as it was pre-legislation, but unlawful to lock and unlock – a legal peculiarity.

  I walked into the bathroom and looked around but there was nothing here, either, just a single toilet roll and two empty coffee mugs. I was just about to leave when something caught my eye. Folded on the edge of the sink was a face flannel. I pressed a finger against the material, and instead of being hard and dry as I expected, it was soft, yielding and damp. The room had been visited recently.

  The strip-lights in the bathroom flickered and the Charles I’d been in the dream remembered something new: I was in a lab somewhere, the smell of ozone in the air, blue light flickering from cathode tubes, myriads of flickering lights, the hum of machinery. To my left was a large inverted copper cone, similar to the one that I’d seen through the window of the lab at HiberTech, when Goodnight warned me about curiosity and what it did to the cat. I felt the sharp tip of the cone against my temple, a searing pain, and then the image was gone and I was once more alone in the bathroom.

  I sighed, then washed my face in the basin using the flannel, and once I had, a thought struck me: just what, precisely, had Aurora been doing in the Siddons this morning? I didn’t suppose it was solely to see me – and it also occurred to me that when we led the three nightwalkers out of the basement the previous morning there had been fresh snow on Aurora’s command car, yet the morning had been clear and bright. She’d been at the Siddons at least part of the night on both occasions. And since she didn’t sleep, she must have been here on business. HiberTech business.

  Aurora was right: life in Sector Twelve is rarely what it seems.

  A remote farm in Lincolnshire

  ‘ . . . Despite a conducive sleep environment, inadvertent Risers below a certain Body Mass Index would often not go back to sleep, which caused a headache for porters and placed an increased burden on pantry. There were no fines, but the negative feedback in SleepAdvisor could impact upon the following year’s popularity – and rates. A visit by a drowsy could be an effective and economic alternative . . . ’

  – Handbook of Winterology, 4th edition, Hodder & Stoughton

  It was just getting light when I went downstairs. Reception was empty, and a glance at the lobby thermometer revealed that the building was three and a half degrees up on the previous evening. It was usual to add heat prior to a cold snap, but adding too much too early could trigger an awakening, a false dawn. Heat management was considered more an art than a science. I hoped Lloyd knew what he was doing.

  I walked into the dining room. Of the thirty or so tables, only four had been laid, each in a separate corner of the room.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Lloyd, who had a waiter’s apron tied around his waist. ‘Kip tight?’

  ‘Like a dormule. Tell me, Mr Lloyd, who is in room 902?’

  A flicker of consternation crossed his features but it was soon gone.

  ‘It’s currently empty. We’re not at full capacity, so much the pity.’

  ‘Has it been used recently?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But I have many duties, and nearly all of them take me away from the front desk.’

  ‘May I ask you something you can’t repeat?’ I asked, suddenly having an idea.

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘I need extra food over and above Daily Requirements to bulk myself up. Would you know someone who might be able to assist, but with no questions asked?’

  The porter nodded his head slowly.

  ‘Canned or powdered?’

  ‘Canned. Fruit, rice pudding, beans – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Risk and rarity quadruple the price tag,’ he said after a pause. ‘You’re not the only person hungry. Forty euros a can, ten per cent discount for twenty or more.’

  It was ten times the Summer price, but I wasn’t in a position to dictate terms. I swiftly ordered a hundred cans, mixed contents. Thirty-six-hundred euros.

  ‘It may take a few days to arrange a wire,’ I said, pretending that I had the funds somewhere. I didn’t, of course. I barely had five hundred in cash. But it was a plan. Or rather, it was the start of a plan.

  ‘Listen,’ said Lloyd, ‘if you want to earn some food from me, I’ll pay four cans of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for every new guest you can recruit.’

  ‘Even winsomniacs?’

  ‘Especially winsomniacs. I can bill their stay to the Winter Asylum Office. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  He smiled and we shook on it.

  ‘While we’re speaking privately,’ continued the porter, lowering his voice and shifting his weight uneasily, ‘I know about her.’

  My heart missed a beat. Porters could always be bought – it was part of their job, pretty much – but continually keeping the information about Birgitta quiet would cost several busloads more than I could ever afford.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I asked.

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘You’ve been up to the ninth?’

  ‘No, she came down here.’

  ‘She did?’ I said, looking around. ‘Where is she now? Did you put her in the basement?’

  ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business,’ he said, ‘but can I offer you some advice of a fatherly nature?’

  I swallowed nervously, visions of a declaration of disgust followed by an impossibly large bribe looming in my mind.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘You seem a sensible person, but you must be out of your tiny mind to be bundling with Aurora, especially when you said you wouldn’t. What will
the Chief say when she finds out?’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Birgitta was, for the moment at least, safe.

  ‘From yesterday?’ I said, thinking he was referring to my lie. ‘This is old news.’

  ‘No, just now. I’ve been portering a while and I can recognise a jaunty step when I see one. She also told me to give you a double breakfast on her account and wasn’t being subtle, so I’m not sure she’s intending it to be a secret for long.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ I said, ‘she just dropped round to see how I was.’

  ‘The head of HiberTech Security? Dropping round to see if a new Deputy is okay? C’mon, Charlie. It doesn’t sound very plausible.’

  He was right – it didn’t. Aurora was playing me off against Toccata; perhaps forcing me to come and work for her – and pissing off her other self in the process.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Lloyd, laying a friendly hand on my shoulder. ‘If this gets out – and it will, mark my words – it’s not through me.’

  I sighed. Sister Zygotia had once told me that lies begat lies: ‘You start off by one small lie, then have to tell a larger one to cover that and before you know it, your whole life falls apart and there is nowhere to go but a downward spiral of self-loathing, despondency and despair.’

  I told her that was wise counsel, and she responded by saying it was actually the format of the TV comedy Fawlty Dormitorium with Sybil and Basil and Polly and so forth – ‘don’t mention the Ottoman’ – but a sound life-lesson nonetheless.

  Lloyd picked up a tea and a coffee pot and I followed him as he threaded his way between the tables. Fodder was already seated, reading an ancient copy of Hollywood Stars with a photo of Richard Burton on the cover. He nodded to me as I sat down, and I nodded in return, feeling oddly satisfied that he’d acknowledged me. At the third table sat Zsazsa, quite alone, a paperback copy of Silver Dollar Amber Heart propped against the milk jug in front of her.

  I looked around. The cutlery shone brightly and smelled faintly of metal polish while a freshly-pressed white cloth was spread neatly across the table. Lloyd was making sure that table standards were scrupulously maintained, even if the food itself might be somewhat lacking in quality.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Which is better?’

  ‘One’s mostly chicory and the other scavenged tea bags blended with hay. Adding sugar, molasses, curry powder or peanut butter helps. Actually, adding anything helps.’

  ‘Are either of them toxic?’

  The porter had to think for a moment.

  ‘In that regard the coffee is probably the wiser choice.’

  ‘Coffee, then.’

  The porter poured out a cup. It was dark and tarry and seemed to come out in lumps. He placed down the coffee jug and handed me a battered menu.

  ‘Everything but the scrambled eggs is off.’

  I stared at the menu anyway, a sumptuous array of culinary alternatives. While having no basis in reality, it was still an enjoyable read. If circumstance hadn’t made choice redundant, I probably would have gone for the eggs Benedict, devilled mushrooms or kedgeree with mango chutney.

  ‘I’ll have the scrambled eggs,’ I said, handing the menu back.

  ‘A wise choice,’ said Lloyd, and walked briskly away.

  I looked outside. The sky was a sheet of drab off-white, the colour of boiled string, and the dull tone merged into the snow heaped upon the roofs so perfectly it was difficult to see where the roofline ended and the sky began. I could see a nightwalker wandering across the road about a hundred yards away, walking in an uncertain manner with a stick, yet wearing an impressive ballgown – with a distinctive fruit hat perched upon their head. If it was Carmen Miranda, Jonesy couldn’t have thumped her hard enough.

  ‘It’s Charlie Worthing, isn’t it?’ came a familiar-sounding voice. I turned and found myself looking at Zsazsa. It was odd seeing her here and real and old, when I’d just seen her in my dream, younger, and as one of the classic Mrs Nesbits. I got to my feet as politeness dictates and before I could speak she’d pulled me into a Winter embrace. She smelled of inexpensive perfume and tolerably clean laundry – with just a hint of lemon marmalade.

  She released me, smiled and sat down opposite without being asked. Her complexion was clear, her skin soft, but her conker- coloured eyes were dark-rimmed with lack of sleep and bore within them a sense of deep melancholy.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ I said. ‘It’s a little lumpy and not really coffee at all, but it’s warm and dark coloured, and probably non-toxic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing an empty cup forward.

  We fell silent for a moment or two.

  ‘I’ve never met a Mrs Nesbit in the flesh before,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve never met a drowsy before.’

  It seemed a stupid thing to say, but it was better than sitting there, struck dumb by awkwardness.

  ‘Despite the stories, our honeyed words, extensive inventory of memorised poems and inspired lute-playing more often see to slumber than the intimate approach. Did you hear that the Cambrensis went cold?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The majority of residents were bed-swapped en sommeil, but eighteen needed to be eased back down into the abyss. Most of them responded well to lullabies, but a few needed more intimate means. Men, women, other – in the fog of wake it doesn’t really matter. You’d have to do it, if we didn’t.’

  I must have looked shocked, for she added:

  ‘The Consul recruitment office doesn’t shout about that part of the work; it puts people off, although given the horrors of the Winter, it’s the least of one’s worries. I like to see our Winter Easement work as an invaluable aid to the well-being of the Wintering community. And just so you know,’ she continued, ‘“drowsy” is not really an appropriate term. It demeans the noble profession. Sleepmaiden or Sleepmaster is better, or if you’re into your French, Dormiselle and Dormonsieur. Actually, even Sleepworker is more acceptable. Is it true you killed Lucky Ned?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Lloyd.’

  Perhaps telling him all about it might not have been such a good idea.

  ‘I think the Winter took Ned,’ I said.

  She put her head on one side and stared at me for a few moments.

  ‘The Winter takes a lot from everyone, and only ever returns meltwater and bodies.’

  I mused on what she had said.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘The first is free, the second on account – the third, you pay cash.’

  ‘You’re living in the Siddons,’ I said. ‘Are you having any recurring dreams?’

  She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but then stopped and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You mean the blue Buick dream that’s blowing around the ninth floor like an unwelcome fart?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘precisely that sort of dream.’

  She leaned forward.

  ‘I live on the nineteenth floor – half of it, actually, sort of a penthouse – so I haven’t had the dream, but I’ve heard all the details. And I know precisely how Mrs Nesbit got to be in it. I can sell you that information.’

  ‘She’s there because dreamers were told she’s in it,’ I said. ‘The blue Buick, oak trees, hands, boulders, Mrs Nesbit. The dream was seeded by incautious gossip.’

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  ‘Shimmery, was she? Looked as though she didn’t belong there? Words and lip movements out of sync?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, now used to the reverse nature of my dream memory, ‘I’m a touch narced and my memory is rebuilding retrospectively. All that stuff is in the dream because you said it just then.’

  She frowned at me.

  ‘I’ve never heard of that happening.’

  ‘It�
��s like being in a permanent state of déjà vu.’

  Zsazsa looked around to make sure we were alone. Fodder was on the other side of the room and Lloyd nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

  I nodded and laid them on the table.

  ‘The Mrs Nesbit in the dream, she said something, as she did to all the others. A sentence, a test line, a quote. We’re both going to write it down. Okay?’

  I agreed as there was nothing to lose, and wrote: ‘We know of a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs Buckley lives.’

  When we had both written, we swapped them over. Hers was the same as mine. Word for word. I stared at her, then at the sentence she’d written down.

  ‘Trust in your memory, Charlie, trust in yourself. Now, here’s the deal: I can tell you how Mrs Nesbit got to be in those dreams. But information has a price.’

  I was still staring at her note. I felt hot and sweaty, and once more the image of the blue Buick started to bleed into the space around me. Soft and indistinct to begin with and then with the pile of rocks, more solid, more defined. The oak tree started to appear, too, as the dappled light began to play on the tables in the dining room. As the illusion unfolded I had the bewildering fear that the encroaching vision wouldn’t stop, that it would wash over me and I would stay locked in the Dreamstate for ever. I gazed at what few scraps of reality remained – the table, the coffee pot, Zsazsa – and concentrated on them lest I lose them, too.

  But to no avail.

  Within a few seconds they had vanished and Mrs Nesbit had arrived, wanting to know where the cylinder was. She was shouting now, demanding, coercing. Louder and louder until I was about to draw my Bambi and attack her, when someone else appeared.

  ‘Birgitta?’

  She was right there in front of me, eternally unchanged, dressed in her dungarees and the man’s shirt, holding the brushes, hair carelessly tied up. She smiled, told me she loved me, and I, in return, told her I loved her too. There was a pause, the waves crashed on the beach, and there was a gurgle of a child’s laugh as the beach ball bounced past.