Early Riser_The new standalone novel from the Number One bestselling author

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘What do they call this?’ she said, tapping the work surface.

  ‘A peninsula, I think.’

  I was no expert on kitchen furniture and was still confused over Aurora and Toccata’s insistence that they were two people.

  ‘Free-standing, it would be an island.’

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I have one that connects from one side of the kitchen to the other,’ she said. ‘Would that be a kitchen isthmus?’

  ‘I’d say a counter.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Isthmus would be more logical, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose, yes. Milk?’

  ‘You have some?’

  ‘Only powdered,’ I said, staring into the empty fridge.

  ‘That’ll do. Hey, listen: I heard you told the Chief we’d bundled.’

  She said it as if it were possibly the funniest – and unlikeliest – thing she’d ever heard.

  ‘I had to say something,’ I replied. ‘She knew we’d met in the Wincarnis when I said we hadn’t, so I needed a good reason for lying.’

  ‘Did she believe you? I mean, did she think that the whole you and I scenario was plausible?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, deep in thought, ‘that says a lot about how she views me. But you kept your oath to me?’

  ‘I did. She had a message for you: Queen’s rook takes bishop’s pawn two – check.’

  I didn’t think I’d repeat the rest of the missive.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Aurora, and she reached into the folds of her jacket to produce a travelling chess set. She opened it, placed it on the counter and moved the pieces.

  ‘Damn and blast that woman to hell,’ she said. ‘Foiled. I think I may have to concede.’ She showed me the game. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m not very good at chess.’

  ‘Nor me, it appears,’ she said, and snapped the set closed. She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. She could tell something was troubling me.

  ‘What’s up, Charlie?’

  ‘Did you engineer the meeting with me in the basement yesterday morning?’

  ‘What possible reason could I have for doing that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Also: the lines were down to Cardiff so the stationmaster must have heard from someone on the train that I’d delayed it. Was that you?’

  ‘Is Toccata messing with your head?’ she asked. ‘Because she does that. Divide, cast doubt, dissemble. No, I didn’t tell the stationmaster anything. And strictly off the record, I understand that Toccata and Logan’s association went beyond intimacy – and into illegal activities. Farming, the unlicensed sale of body parts. We think that was the true purpose of his visit; nothing to do with viral dreams. We don’t trust Jonesy either. I’ll tell you why: do you know what happened to nightwalkers Tangiers and Glitzy Tiara? I left them tied to the back of my truck, and now they’ve gone.’

  ‘Jonesy retired them.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. But if so, then where did she dump them? There’s nothing in the night pit or the morgue. We checked. We’re not sure where they’ve gone – or why.’

  ‘Farming?’ I asked, knowing that Foulnap was up here too – and that Toccata knew he was. Glitzy Tiara certainly looked of childbearing age, and Tangiers, well, if they wanted to flog healthy offspring by post, they could farm him too.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility,’ said Aurora, ‘although we have no proof, as yet. Life in Sector Twelve is never what it seems, Charlie. Keep an eye out for me, would you?’

  I told her I would, the kettle boiled and I poured the water onto the coffee granules.

  ‘So,’ she said in more friendly tone, ‘is the retrospective memory theory helping with the narcosis?’

  I explained that it was, bizarrely.

  ‘I can feel a lot more relaxed knowing there’s a twisted logic behind what’s going on,’ I added, ‘but being narced and not knowing it is strange. The hectoring Mrs Nesbit no longer seems as fearful as she once did.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘A wax cylinder – y’know, of the recording sort.’

  ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘According to my seriously overdramatic imagination, something that could seriously damage HiberTech – and I think I dreamed where it was … That’s what Mrs Nesbit wants. Only Mrs Nesbit doesn’t sound like Mrs Nesbit – she sounds like The Notable Goodnight.’

  ‘That sounds quite trippy.’

  ‘The dream is like that. Complex, confusing and as real as real gets – sometimes, more so.’

  She took the coffee I’d made for her, and I tasted mine. Musty walnuts.

  ‘Okay, then,’ said Aurora after she’d taken a sip, grimaced, then tipped the remainder down the sink, ‘just remind yourself that dreams are nonsense, an overactive cortex attempting to connect the random meanderings of the mind. The cylinder seems to be highly central, though. Where did you say it was? In your dream, I mean?’

  ‘If dreams are nonsense,’ I said, ‘how could it matter that I saw where it was hidden?’

  Aurora stared at me for a moment.

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all. I was just thinking that talking it out might help.’

  ‘They’re just dreams,’ I said, ‘as you stated – nonsense and random meanderings.’

  She stared at me, cocked her head on one side and narrowed her eye.

  ‘Do you want to come and work for me at HiberTech?’

  This was unexpected, and I asked in what capacity.

  ‘General duties,’ she said. ‘You seem like a bright kid and it would be good to have you around. Standard WinterPay Level III, but a five-thousand-euro handshake, unlimited pudding and a weekly Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut allocation. HiberTech Security have their own residential block inside the facility; very nice – faces the quad. The rooms are twice as big as these and you have your own redeployed valet. There’s real coffee and sushi on Fridays. We don’t like to slum it. Just resign when you see the Chief; I can have the paperwork completed in a jiffy – so long as you’re not working for RealSleep or any of their affiliates?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Is there anything embarrassing we might find in a background check? And we will do one, so no holding back.’

  ‘I did six weeks’ community service for Incitement to Deprive,’ I said. ‘Sleepy phone tennis that went wrong.’

  ‘Small beer, Charlie.’

  ‘… and bit off Gary Findlay’s ear.’

  ‘Biting off ears and stuff totally counts in your favour at HiberTech. You’ll take the job?’

  I thought about Birgitta and her need for food.

  ‘Is the five grand in cash?’

  ‘Yes, if you want it, sure.’

  ‘I’m kind of settled here in the Siddons. Can I think about it?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, surprised, I think, that I didn’t leap at the offer, ‘but don’t shilly-shally. There are others in the frame.’

  She looked at her watch, then at me again.

  ‘That’s me done here,’ she said. ‘Agent Hooke was covering for me last night, and I need to unravel any problems he’s stirred up. His anger management issues actually have their own anger management issues.’

  I waited for ten minutes after she’d left, then washed and dressed and made some sandwiches of whatever was left in the picnic basket. Taramasalata and toothpaste weren’t my first choice for a snack, but Birgitta wouldn’t complain and it was food, first and foremost.

  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.’