Early Riser_The new standalone novel from the Number One bestselling author

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘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 shorthanded 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.

  ‘I don’t drink coffee yet,’ came a voice behind me, ‘and from what I’ve smelled and seen, I probably won’t start.’

  It was Laura Strowger, who had wandered over to say hello. She’d heard that I’d overslept and been forgotten, and her attitude was sympathetic, rather than mocking, which made a change. I hoped Toccata would be the same.

  ‘Has the Gronk made an appearance?’ I asked.

  ‘Not so far,’ she said, ‘but we still have ninety-one days to go. I’ve been laying out unfolded clothes at strategic places around the locality and will be watching them closely. What do you make of this?’

  She dug a Polaroid from her shoulder bag and showed it to me. All I could see was a lump in the snow next to a gas lamp. I stared at the photo for a moment.

  ‘Did it move much?’

  ‘Hardly at all,’ she replied, delighted that I was showing any interest. ‘Frostgoblins are known to wait for long hours in one place before they pounce.’

  ‘Pounce to do what, exactly?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ she said, eyes wide open, ‘hence my research.’

  I handed back the photo.

  ‘It’s a fire hydrant, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, staring at the Polaroid in a crestfallen manner, ‘almost certainly. Treacle agreed that photographic evidence would be allowable,’ she went on. ‘Do you have a camera?’

  I said that I didn’t, so she fetched me a Consul-issue Kodak Instamatic fitted with a fresh flashcube, and two spares in a box. A crude device, but without batteries of any sort, they were more reliable in subzero than anything else on the market.

  ‘Take as many snaps as you want and then get the camera back to me; but wind it on with care; the cold makes the film brittle.’

  ‘Can the Gronk be photographed?’ I asked, shoving the camera in my bag.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied. ‘I’m beginning to think that Wintervolk might be something akin to an escalating night terror that gives physicality to the fears within the mind. It makes it a much harder sell to Treacle. Firstly whether an existential fear has the equivalency of a tangible one, and if it does and can kill you, does that count as proven existence?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re only sixteen?’ I asked. ‘You seem kind of … smart.’

  ‘That was really patronising,’ she said, ‘but I forgive you. I have a genetic disorder of the hypothalamus that prevents me hibernating. I sleep about eight hours in the twenty-four all year round. While my peers have been unproductively pumping out the zeds, I’ve been adding to my knowledge base and maturity. My mental age is closer to twenty-two. It doesn’t make me a sage, but I’m certainly not a teenager.’

  ‘Is this a rare condition? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s rare,’ she sighed, ‘hence the wager.’

  ‘I know this is none of my business,’ I said, ‘but why agree to wager your firstborn on something as nebulous as the Gronk? It seems almost insanely reckless, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  She stared at me for a moment.

  ‘It’s not for my firstborn,’ she said slowly, ‘it’s for my secondborn.’

  ‘How does that make it any better?’

  ‘Here’s how: when I was two my parents sold the option on my firstborn to Partwood Associates to pay off their gambling debts. The option was resold several times before being packaged with other subprime child options and eventually on to Jim Treacle as part of a collateralised child obligation. My genetic sleep disorder means I possess a genome in which HiberTech have a great deal of interest. I’ve chosen not to license my genetic rights, and my unborn should have that right, too. I don’t want them to go to HiberTech to be some kind of – I don’t know – lab rat.’

  ‘How much is the firstborn child option worth?’

  ‘Treacle has told HiberTech he wants two million euros at my eighteenth.’

  ‘You’ll get half. That’s the deal.’

  ‘It’s not about the money, and they can’t force me to have children – but I think I want to, and if I do, well, I want them to be born unencumbered by legalities.’

  ‘Okay, but you’ve got a buy-back clause. Legally, there’s always a buy-back clause.’

  ‘Precisely, but it was pegged at fifty thousand by the courts and I barely have a grand.’

  ‘So if you lose the wager,’ I said slowly, ‘you lose the genetic rights to two children, Treacle and you make a fortune – but HiberTech obtain legal access to a couple of kids with a potentially valuable genome?’

  ‘Pretty much. But if I win the wager,’ she added, ‘I get no money but retain my children’s rights.’

  ‘You’re very brave.’

  ‘Nope,’ she said sadly, ‘I’m just a girl who’s all out of options – and who had rubbish parents.’

  ‘It could have been worse,’ I said, ‘they could have harvested and then sold all your eggs the day after your sixteenth birthday to pay for a, I don’t know – a new roof, kitchen extension and a minibus.’

  ‘I guess. But this is the only wager Treacle would take. The Gronk is out there. I just have to get some evidence. Keep that camera handy, won’t you?’

  She jumped down from the counter where she’d been sitting, gave me a cheery smile and returned to her work. She was technically a winsomniac, but was earning her tuck. There was a world of difference between the deserving and undeserving awake.

  My attention wandered back to the wall that was covered with the pictures of the missing. A sea of faces, all absent. Most ages, every gender, no pattern. As I scanned the posters a particular set of eyes caught my attention, sunk deep in the overlapping mass of lost souls. They were the same eyes I’d seen staring back at me from the Polaroid in my dream, the one that had been taken of me and Birgitta by the photographer on the Gower. Charles. Birgitta’s Charles. I reached out and plucked the picture from the boa
rd.

  The missing man used to work at HiberTech as an orderly, and his name, I read, was Charles Webster. He went missing three years before, just after starting a Winter season – pretty much as Birgitta had described her missing husband.

  And that wasn’t possible.

  I couldn’t have recognised him because I didn’t know what he looked like. Reality first, then dream. I felt myself grow woozy again, and oak-dappled sunlight began to filter through to the office floor. I steadied myself against a table and took long, slow breaths. Treacle hadn’t noticed my attack of the narcs, Laura was busy filing and Toccata was still ranting behind the glass partition. I calmed myself, and repeated Birgitta Birgitta Birgitta Birgitta to quell the sense of rising panic. It worked, and now calmer, I ran over the likely scenario: I’d clothed my dream with Charles Webster’s name and face retrospectively. That he had the same first name as mine was coincidence, nothing more.

  ‘What you got there?’

  I jumped, but it was only Treacle.

  ‘Some guy named Webster,’ I mumbled, passing him the flyer, ‘went missing three years ago.’

  Treacle stared at the picture and nodded.

  ‘First season I was here. We never found him. Actually,’ he added, ‘we never looked. HiberTech staff are HiberTech problems. Why the interest?’

  I had to think quickly.

  ‘We were at the same Pool, though ten years apart. I think he was popular with the sisterhood and they’d always wanted to know what happened to him.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Treacle, ‘keep it if you want.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and folded up the flyer and put it in my pocket.

  ‘Hullo, Treacle,’ said Jonesy, entering through the shock-gate and sitting down to pull off her boots. ‘Enter these in the Vermin Control book and tally up my record, will you?’

  She tossed an evidence bag containing two freshly severed thumbs on the desk.

  ‘Will do,’ said Treacle cheerily. ‘That must be sixty-two, yes?’