Early Riser

by Jasper Fforde

  Jonesy popped her head back outside the door.

  ‘Come and help me search,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing unusual in here that I can see.’

  ‘There isn’t?’ I asked, quickly adding, in a less surprised voice: ‘I mean, there isn’t?’

  ‘No. Why, what were you expecting me to find?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied, wondering if Birgitta had escaped, been taken by Lloyd or – outside chance – had simply been a hallucination, part of the narcosis. Intrigued, I followed her into Birgitta’s apartment.

  ‘Oh, hang on a mo,’ said Jonesy, ‘I lied when I said there was nothing unusual in here. There’s Birgitta. And she’s alive, missing a thumb. Care to explain?’

  There was a sudden, nasty, hollow silence. Birgitta was sitting on the bed, staring blankly around, her food finished, several sketches lying on the bed. I couldn’t see what they were at this distance. Perhaps more of my – our – dream. Don’t know. Didn’t matter. Not any more.

  ‘Good Lord,’ I said with inexpertly wrought mock-surprise. ‘That’s . . . incredible. She must have – I don’t know – escaped from the pit behind the Siddons.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Jonesy. ‘Can’t you see the game’s up? You’re making things worse, if that’s possible – which it isn’t.’

  ‘It happened once down at the Pool,’ I said, still in some sort of continuous denial feedback loop. ‘Sister Oesterious. They didn’t hit her hard enough. Covered in fish heads when she came back, she was – and the same with Carmen Miranda, of course.’

  It was an off-the-cuff remark as I didn’t have a strategy, I was just flanneling wildly in the vague hope that providence would deliver me from my current dilemma.

  Which it kind of did.

  ‘Carmen Miranda?’ said Jonesy, suddenly looking concerned.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, seizing on the initiative. ‘You said you’d thumped her, but I saw her wandering down the road. She had a fruit hat on and a gown and everything.’

  ‘Always a star,’ mused Jonesy, ‘when did you see her?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, looking out of the window, where there was little to see but a wall of whirling snowflakes, ‘perhaps her homing instincts will have kicked in. Now: I want your badge and your Bambi.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, handing them over, ‘if we’re talking due process: yes, I thought I’d retired Birgitta, but if Miranda’s still alive then this sort of thing happens. Besides, what evidence do you have that I am anything but an innocent party in all this?’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Jonesy. ‘First, you’re an exceptionally bad liar. I mean exceptionally. Transparent, almost. Second, you— no, we’ll skip reasons two to seven, because reason eight is quite enough all on its own: Birgitta drew this of you.’

  She held up one of Birgitta’s sketches. It was me, with her, here in the bathroom of her apartment. She had drawn it from memory, but it might easily have been from life. The picture was of me washing her hair while she sat naked in the tub, just before I’d given up her long black tresses as a lost cause and cut them off. In the picture, Birgitta didn’t look vacant, she looked frustrated. Perhaps that’s what her inner emotion was right now.

  I felt my eyes well up as the true and utter uselessness of the position became clear, and how poorly I had fared in my efforts to keep her safe. I’d protected her for the grand total of nineteen hours and seventeen minutes.

  Not even a single day.

  ‘Can you explain this?’ said Jonesy, showing me the sketch again.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know what it looks like to me?’ she said. ‘It looks like someone tending to someone else’s needs. Someone who can’t look after themselves. It looks a lot like empathy, Wonky. What say you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Empathy. Big on empathy, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, surprised by her understanding, ‘that’s exactly what it is. Empathy.’

  ‘I love you, Charlie,’ said Birgitta.

  ‘She’s not dead,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I couldn’t kill her because she’s still in there. It’s not a neural collapse brought on by Morphenox – which, yes, I did supply her with – it’s a state of displaced consciousness. She can process memories.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Jonesy, staring at the sketches, ‘and it’s not the first I’ve seen.’

  ‘I love you, Charlie.’

  ‘I have to answer or she repeats herself,’ I said. ‘I love you, Birgitta.’

  Birgitta relaxed, and began to sketch again. Jonesy looked at me, then at Birgitta.

  ‘How long were you thinking of keeping her?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. Until Springrise, I guess. I didn’t really have a plan, more an objective. Events move fast in the Winter,’ I added, remembering what Logan had told me, ‘and you need flexibility to ensure the plan doesn’t get in the way of the goal. Am I under arrest?’

  ‘You are,’ she said, ‘in order to remain under our protection.’

  ‘It’s that important?’

  ‘It’s crucial. I don’t know of a single Tricksy nightwalker who can do what Birgitta can do. The Notable Goodnight will be especially interested.’

  ‘So that’s why we’re taking her to HiberTech?’

  ‘No, that’s why we’re not taking her to HiberTech.’

  ‘You’re going to thump her?’

  ‘No, we don’t do that.’

  ‘What about your sixty-three nightwalker retirements? What about Glitzy Tiara and Eddie Tangiers?’

  ‘Smoke and mirrors, Wonk. Nothing is what it seems in the Douzey. Does Lloyd know about Baggy? Put it this way: has he tried to blackmail you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we’ll assume not. Anyone else know about her?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘We keep it that way. Feed her these so she stays quiet, and say and do nothing while I have a look around.’

  She handed me two Tunnock’s Tea Cakes from her jacket pocket and I fed Birgitta while Jonesy searched the room. She took a half-hour to do so, and was beyond thorough. If Birgitta was smart, she wouldn’t have left any evidence connecting her to Webster. She was smart, but like Charles, she couldn’t bring herself to dispose of the only picture of them together. Jonesy found it inside the hem of a curtain, the stitching unpicked and replaced by Velcro.

  ‘Bingo,’ she said, and showed it to me. It was the Polaroid, the same as the one from my dream, the one the photographer had taken all those years ago, the one that Birgitta had admonished Charles for keeping, the one she’d said she’d destroy. I stared at the picture stupidly, trying once again to reconcile the real with the imagined.

  ‘It’s Rhosilli beach on the Gower,’ I said, swallowing down a sense of rising confusion. ‘The picture was taken when Birgitta and Charles spent a weekend together, cocooned in the flat above the garage at her mother’s in Oxwich. They fed heartily upon the love they felt for one another, and on the way home they stopped for cockles and laver bread at Mumbles Pier, the wireless playing “Groove Me” as a lifeboat was retrieved. They said they loved one another, and they meant it: A tightening in the chest; a sense of euphoric oneness.’

  ‘How can you know all that?’ asked Jonesy.

  I held my head as the frustration welled up inside me.

  ‘I don’t know how I know it,’ I said, ‘don’t know if I dreamt the Polaroid, or if I’m placing it in my memory now, or . . . dreaming about something I couldn’t know about. Look over there.’

  I pointed to Birgitta’s painting on the wall, the one of the beach in the Gower, with the wreck, and the orange-and-red parasol of spectacular size and splendour, below which were the two figures.

 
‘I dreamt I was there as Charles, with Birgitta, just as you see in that painting. But then details in the dream come true, and I can’t tell if I can see stuff that happened to other people or if I’m patching holes in my memories with whatever is to hand.’

  I could feel myself shaking and wanted all this to be over – in whatever fashion it could. Roscoe Smalls had taken the Cold Way Out when the blue Buick came calling. He hadn’t been supremely brave or a miserable coward. He’d just wanted out of it, in any way he could.

  She asked me to outline the dreams, which I did as quickly as I could.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘You met Don Hector in the blue Buick dream?’

  ‘I was him in the blue Buick. He had a rattle in his chest, his vision felt faded, and there was a sense of a numbness down his left-hand side. He spoke French more naturally than he spoke English, and he found solace in a place he used to go with the Buick: an oak tree with the trunk piled high with stones. When they came to take him he told them they’d get nothing even if they tried to get into his dreams. He’d relinquish only the blue Buick moment and said he’d leave a night terror – hundreds of disembodied hands – to put anyone off trying to read him.’

  ‘Nasty. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes – Don Hector gave the cylinder to Webster.’

  ‘The cylinder? Webster was given the cylinder?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And you know this because—?’

  ‘Of my dream, yes.’

  ‘Daughter of a dog,’ she said, leaning against the door frame, ‘we thought the Buick was just another Sub-beta recurring night terror. Not actually active. And you said that there was a Mrs Nesbit dream-avatar with The Notable Goodnight’s voice demanding you find the cylinder?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘what does it mean?’

  ‘It means,’ she murmured, ‘they don’t yet have it.’

  She looked at me and thought for a second or two. ‘What room you in?’

  I pointed to the other side of the Dormitorium. ‘901.’

  ‘Who lives next door to you?’

  ‘On one side, Moody – until he got thumped. The other side is unused.’

  ‘It won’t be. There’ll be a large box, a flight case or a—’

  ‘—steamer trunk?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘a steamer trunk would do it. This is what we’re doing: you’re telling no one what you just told me, no one except Toccata. Understand?’

  ‘I don’t understand at all, but yes, I agree.’

  ‘Good.’

  She pocketed the Polaroid of Birgitta and Charles, then picked up the phone, speed-dialled the Consulate and asked to be put through to the Chief.

  ‘It’s Jonesy,’ she said after a pause. ‘The Buick dream was active, Wonky has been third-person Don Hector and get this: Webster was given the cylinder – and the nasties over at HiberTech don’t have it yet.’

  She listened for a moment, then stared at me.

  ‘Because Wonky dreamt it – and much else besides.’

  There was a pause. Jonesy said we’d be back in half an hour, put the phone down and then turned to me with some urgency.

  ‘We’re leaving now.’

  ‘And Birgitta?’

  ‘I know a safe place she can go; we’ll drop her off on the way. Congratulations: you’ve just been promoted from liability to asset.’

  ‘Because I harboured Birgitta?’

  ‘Because you’re dreaming the right dream. Because you’ve been in the Dreamspace, because Aurora thinks she owns you, because you’re going to continue to make her think that. But you’re not, because you’re on our side now.’

  ‘Which side is that?’

  ‘The right side. Once we get back to the office, we’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘You’ll tell me why I’ve been having these dreams?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Thumped

  ‘ . . . Winter Consuls never really felt comfortable with the Summer. It wasn’t the warmth, thronging masses, or the general sense of euphoria that went with the knowledge that they had cheated the Winter. It was more the sense that come Autumn, when they headed back to their allotted Consulate, they would be facing the darkness, loneliness and the cold and doing it all over again. They loved it . . . ’

  – from Seventeen Winters, by Winter Consul Lance Jones

  We came down by way of the stairs, a circular descending journey that ran around the interior wall of the central heat-well like a helix. Lloyd was in the lobby with two of the winsomniacs, still standing by with blankets and hot drinks in case another of their compatriots made it through – an act of kindness liberally laced with deluded hope. I’d seen the blizzard, and doubted anyone could navigate the three changes on the fixed line to get here, even if it was less than two miles. Others would have either sought refuge in other Kipshops en route, got lost, or just given up. Winsomniacs had few energy reserves. Even blinking was an effort.

  ‘What in—’ began Lloyd when he saw me leading Birgitta by the hand.

  ‘Harbouring,’ said Jonesy. ‘Worthing is so under arrest right now.’

  The front door opened. But it wasn’t a confused and very cold yet navigationally astute winsomniac, it was someone considerably less welcome – Mr Hooke. He was accompanied by Lucy Knapp, wrapped up tight in a duvet jacket and large woolly hat. She smiled when she saw me, but looked nervous, too.

  ‘Safe Haven?’ asked Hooke, the traditional request for unconditional shelter in the Winter. ‘Staff transfer between facilities and we got lost.’

  ‘Safe Haven,’ said Lloyd, acknowledging the request.

  ‘My first blizzard,’ said Lucy to me, pulling off her parka. ‘A little more excitement than I’d bargained for.’

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, with a sense of relief.

  ‘And you,’ she said, and we tapped fists.

  ‘Good afternoon, Deputy Jones,’ said Hooke.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Jonesy, without breaking her pace to the coat rack and now almost pushing Birgitta in front of her.

  ‘It would be safer to stay inside,’ said Hooke. ‘Going out in this is foolhardy at best, and irresponsible at worst.’

  ‘And yet you are yourself a new arrival,’ retorted Jonesy, pulling on her boots and then rummaging for a spare parka for Birgitta.

  ‘Safe Havening,’ he replied, ‘as you heard. We expect to be here until it eases – what’s your reason for you venturing out? Something pretty important, I should imagine?’

  He looked from me to Jonesy as he spoke.

  ‘Consulate business,’ said Jonesy, handing me my coat, ‘and of an urgent and pressing nature.’

  ‘With a nightwalker and a Novice?’

  ‘Consulate business,’ she repeated, smiling but without humour.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Hooke, taking a step closer, ‘but my orders are to ensure Worthing remains free to join us at HiberTech.’

  And then, with the pretext of moving his arm to straighten his tie, Hooke pushed his coat back to allow easier access to the Bambi on his hip. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Jonesy. He wasn’t there to Safe Haven, he’d been likely ordered to interrupt his journey to come over here and stop us from leaving. HiberTech had been tipped off – by Lloyd, most probably.

  ‘We take recruitment seriously,’ continued Hooke, ‘and the Chief has made a personal investment that she doesn’t want to see bruised.’

  ‘Charlie’s a Consul, not a piece of overripe fruit, and right now, under arrest – our prisoner, our jurisdiction.’

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Jonesy pressed her fingers on my mouth to keep me silent.

  ‘You’ve charged Worthing with harbouring?’ asked Hooke.

  ‘Yes.’

  Hooke looked
at Birgitta, who was still staring blankly around the lobby and freaking out the winsomniacs, who were studiously avoiding her blank gaze.

  ‘Worthing was looking after this nightwalker at our request,’ said Hooke. ‘We’ll swear to that in an affidavit. There has been no crime. Now, release the prisoner from your custody and this can end without recrimination.’

  ‘Irrespective, Charlie is still a Consul,’ said Jonesy.

  ‘Deputy Worthing could resign,’ said Hooke, ‘here and now.’

  Jonesy stared at him coldly.

  ‘Charlie’s not resigning. Wonky, you’re not resigning.’

  ‘Only Charlie can make that decision.’

  It was Lucy Knapp who’d spoken. She looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Charlie, listen to me. The Consul Service are not your friends. I’ve seen stuff and know stuff and at HiberTech we’re on the cusp of introducing something quite new and wonderful to the world. For purely personal reasons and an intense dislike of Aurora, Toccata is trying to throw a spanner in the works. But we need to move forward without let or hindrance: it’s a game changer.’

  ‘Project Lazarus?’

  ‘Ten years in the preparation. It’s a winner, any way you want to look at it. And HiberTech needs your help to ensure the most satisfactory outcome is enjoyed by the majority.’

  ‘What’s on the cylinder?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hooke doesn’t know, and I’m willing to bet Miss Jones doesn’t know.’

  I looked at Jonesy, who didn’t deny it.

  ‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘What’s so special about me that only I can help?’

  ‘Aurora sees something special in you,’ she said, ‘a gift that can be nurtured until it becomes a skill that will set you head and shoulders above any potential career with the Consuls. Working for HiberTech will be the best decision you’ll ever make.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ said Jonesy, ‘whoever she is – sorry, we weren’t introduced.’

  ‘Lucy Knapp,’ said Lucy, holding out a hand, which Jonesy shook.

  ‘Miss Knapp’s lying,’ continued Jonesy, slowly moving her hand to where her Bambi was holstered. ‘HiberTech look out only for themselves. They’ll take what they want from you and the next thing you know you’ll be driving a golf cart around the facility. Only you won’t know that, because you won’t be able to.’