Jasper Fforde: Early Riser

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘did you hear that Ed Dweezle danced the Night Fandango?’ [5] Slang for ‘became a nightwalker’. Usual terms were Husks, cabbages, Vacants or deadheads. Revenant was the most polite term, but technically speaking they were in a ‘ Pseudosentient Mobile Vegetative State ’ .

‘Yeah,’ said Lucy, ‘I heard.’

Dweezle always had trouble keeping weight on. We used to sneak him part of our food to help him out. I don’t know how he’d lasted three Winters on his own once out of St Granata’s, but it must have been expensive. Despite being dosed up to the gills on Morphenox he’d entered his fourth Hib way too light and run out of reserves three weeks short of Springrise. He’d nightwalked and been redeployed as a street-sweeper somewhere up north, then parted out eight months later.

‘Useful until death and beyond,’ said Lucy, ‘as the company likes to promote itself in slogans.’

The company to which she referred was HiberTech, who made Morphenox, redeployed any nightwalkers that were suitable and then supervised the transplant potential of each. Their nightwalker policy was neatly – some said perfectly – vertically integrated. There was another slogan:

Everything of use but the yawn. ™

I walked with Lucy from the lobby to the Great Hall.

‘I’m always uneasy about Pool reunions,’ she said. ‘On the whole the experience was good, but I didn’t like everyone.’

‘Rough with the smooth,’ I said.

‘Shits with the saints.’

We mingled in the crowd and shook hands, hugged or nodded to the other poolers, strictly according to a sliding scale of respect and affection. Williams, Walter, Keilly, Neal, other Walter, other Williams and McMullen were all there and I greeted them warmly. I thought I should say something to Gary Findlay but he turned away on the pretext of more beer from the cooler as soon as he saw me. He and I hadn’t exchanged a word since we were twelve, the day his bullying stopped, the day I bit off his ear. [6] It tasted salty if you’re interested, and detached surprisingly easily.

Older ex-residents whom I didn’t recognise were mingling freely with the rest of us, as the current residents did with us. Anyone who spent time at the Pool shared a bond, kind of like family. Actually, given the circumstances at the Sisterhood, many of us actually were family.

Lucy walked over to pay her respects to the Senior Sisters, who were all sitting on the stage like seven duchesses, holding court. They were giggling foolishly at some small joke, their usual austerity tempered by the triple jollities of occasion, food and, for those not with child, the cheapest sherry that money can buy.

‘Our very own Lucy Knapp,’ said Sister Placentia as we approached, embracing Lucy but ignoring me as one would a stick of familiar furniture. ‘Tell me your news.’

Lucy politely explained to them about her induction into HiberTech’s Fast Track Management Scheme whilst I stood to one side. Despite the often erratic levels of care, most of the sisters were generally okay. Without them, I’d have been nothing – infants with lesser conditions than mine were routinely left underweight heading into their first Winter. There were worse Pools than this one.

‘ Fascinating , dear,’ said Sister Placentia once Lucy had concluded a potted history of what she’d been up to, ‘and what chance you could wangle us an Edward to assist in the kitchens?’

‘Next year’s model might be an improvement,’ said Lucy in a guarded tone. ‘I’ll see what I can do then.’

Edward or Jane were the default names given to redeployed nightwalkers. With their cannibalistic tendencies reduced by timely snacks and the tattered remnants of their minds ingeniously rewired, they could do simple chores. Too simple, some said, to be useful domestically. The St Granata’s over in Port Talbot had an Edward that could wash up, [7] But only plates, saucers, pots, pans and cutlery. Cups, jugs and tankards were a complication too far. but mostly they were used for strictly repetitive tasks like opening doors, pumping water and digging fields.

‘How’s it going, Wonk?’ came a voice in my ear so suddenly I jumped. It was Sister Zygotia, a particular favourite of mine, despite – or perhaps because of – her eccentricity. She had a fondness for peanut butter and anchovies, used to nail her bedroom door shut during the Winter ‘to guard against prowling Wintervolk’, then insist that puddings at St Granata’s be randomly laced with curry powder to ‘better prepare us for life’s inevitable disappointments’.

‘So-so,’ I said. ‘The budget for next year is a little tight but we should be all right, so long as the offset payments aren’t reduced and we eat meat only once a week.’

‘Good, good,’ she said in a distracted fashion, then put her hand on my shoulder and steered me to a corner of the hall.

‘Look, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news and all,’ she said, ‘but I am. You should know that Mother Fallopia got wind of your application to the Prudential and, well, she had words with their induction officer. Your application was… rescinded.’

I had to admit I wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t feel good. Frustration has a smell of its own, like hot toffee mixed with sun-dried mud. I looked at Sister Zygotia, who said she was sorry, and I told her it was fine, really, and I was then relieved to be called away in order to help deal with Sister Contractia, who was taking her door bouncer duties a little more enthusiastically than anyone thought necessary. Sister Contractia liked a good brawl so it took ten minutes to calm her down, sweep up the broken teeth, placate the six people she’d just taken on and clean out the cut above her eye. When I got back, Lucy Knapp was telling everyone about her first overwintering gig at HiberTech, and how she’d actually seen a Winter solstice. She showed us the single brass star pinned to her blouse to prove it.

‘Did you get sleep-deprivation narcosis?’ I asked, parking my frustration in the back of my mind, where it sat with good and ancient company.

‘Once you’ve shifted your sleep cycle to the late Summer it isn’t so bad,’ said Lucy, ‘but the first season up can be cruel. The only upside was that while you’re freezing to death, getting eaten or being press-ganged into domestic service, you could be hallucinating that you were on the Gower Peninsula, sipping mock-banana daiquiris [8] One spoonful of banana Nesquik, equal parts rum and Robinson’s lemon barley water. while watching the sun go down from the Worm’s Head Bar & Grill.’

Lucy wasn’t the only one to overwinter from the Pool, just the most recent. Another Poolmate named Billy DeFroid had been inducted into the Winter Consul Service three years before, and everyone was full of praise up until the moment he was eaten by nightwalkers who had gone pack in Llandeilo. He’d fared better than most. The average life expectancy for a Novice on their first Winter ‘boots in snow’ was barely six weeks. The Winter wasn’t a forgiving place; little wonder newbies spent their first Winter doing paperwork safely indoors.

‘So, Lucy,’ I said, ‘tell us about the narcosis.’

‘Quite… challenging to begin with,’ she said. ‘I thought my legs were made of chocolate. The colder it got, the more brittle they became. I was worried that if any nightwalkers turned up I wouldn’t be able to get away.’

‘I’ve had dreams like that,’ said Maisie Rogers who had wandered over, ‘running but not being able to escape.’

Dreams. No one who was anyone had dreams . Those of us with access to Morphenox happily traded our subconscious hibernational activity for a dramatic drop in stored energy requirements. Morphenox removed the ability to dream, but in exchange gave us increased survivability. For the first time in human history, an individual could realistically expect to live through the Winter. ‘Morphenox’, another advertising slogan went, ‘brings you the Spring’. An addendum might read: ‘but only if you have the luck, cash or social position to be granted its use’.