Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

Flashes of light, incoherence, a shout, then darkness. But an unusual form of darkness. Not darkness as in nothing being there, or hibernatory darkness, thick, unyielding and timeless, but darkness as a heavy velvet curtain. I could hear and smell what was behind the curtain, but it had not yet lifted. There were whisperings of words unrecognised, then the rustle of trees and the sweet scent of a childhood Summer: freshly-turned hay, hot mud while dibbling with a stick in drying puddles, harvest, meadows.

Then, the darkness turned… glossy . A cascade of disjointed images. Jack Logan embedded in the wall, partially plastered over. Moody, Mrs Tiffen, the Siddons and Porter Lloyd humming ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ . And then, with a sudden short blast of static, I was sitting on Rhosilli beach beneath the shade of an orange-and-red parasol of spectacular size and splendour. Dominating the view was the wreck of the Argentinian Queen , the passenger liner now rusted and half-collapsed with gaping holes in her hull, nibbled by decades of surf.

I looked around and saw that I was not alone: sitting on the beach towel next to me was the artist I’d seen back in the Siddons . She was wearing a perfectly-fitting one-piece swimsuit the colour of Spring-fresh leaves and her large and inquisitive eyes were staring intently into mine, her jet-black hair moving in a breeze that carried with it the scent-memories of Summer holidays: sun lotion, ice cream and drying seaweed. Her name I now knew was Birgitta, and she gave me a captivating smile, then pushed some loose hair behind her ear. I could sense the intoxicating feeling of indivisible oneness, something that I had yet to feel in life – to know someone loves you, and to know you love them back equally; that you belong only with each other; that you are each other.

‘I love you, Charlie.’

‘I love you, Birgitta.’

The breakers boomed and a little girl chased a beach ball towards shore’s edge with a gurgle of laughter.

And then, I knew: for the first time since childhood, I was dreaming . I’d remembered them as being vague and hazy, but this dream felt more real than reality itself – I could feel the gritty texture in the sand, see the foam flecking on the waves, smell the salt in the sea air.

I looked down and noticed that I too was dressed for the beach; a one-piece swimsuit in black with contrasting white pumps. They weren’t my shoes, they weren’t my feet. It wasn’t even my body. Different, taut and excitingly different. It felt like Birgitta’s missing husband’s body.

I corrected myself. I wasn’t like Birgitta’s missing husband. I was Birgitta’s missing husband. In love with her, and loved by her. Together, as one.

‘Is this really me?’ I asked, somewhat stupidly.

Birgitta blinked at me with a look of mild amusement.

‘You’re Charlie now, my Charlie,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Try not to think about the facility and HiberTech Security. Just today and tomorrow, forty-eight hours. You and me. What Dreams May Come.’

‘What Dreams May Come,’ I replied, looking around. ‘Where is this place?’

She laughed again. She didn’t need to tell me; I already knew. We were on the Gower Peninsula. I’d been there many times as a child; the view of Worm’s Head and the rusting passenger liner was stuck to the inside of my head like glue.

She looked at me again and smiled.

‘No matter what, there will always be the Gower.’

We both laughed at the comment, which was cheesy and utterly true, all in one.

‘I love you, Charlie.’

‘I love you, Birgitta.’

The waves boomed and the seagulls cackled, a beach ball bounced past and the same child with the same gurgle of laughter chased after it. I knew then exactly where and when I was. I had found the high point in Birgitta and Charles’ relationship, the precise moment when everything was beautiful and wonderful and pristine and right , before the shadows drew on and the Winter closed in. The holidays I’d spent there had been high points for me, too, small oases of joy in an otherwise dismal, Pool-trapped existence.

‘Happy snap?’ said a photographer holding a Polaroid. ‘Proper tidy you’ll look and as reasonably priced as—’

—I was suddenly awake, drenched in sweat, my heart thumping so rapidly in my chest that I felt it might burst. I sat up and flicked the light switch but there was nothing; the only glow was from the emergency lights, which had automatically switched on. Hydro Twelve, recently on the fritz, looked as though it had failed.

Something in the room struck me as odd and out of place, but it took me a moment or two to figure out what it was: Clytemnestra was missing . I froze, not wanting to make a single noise, lest she knew where I was. The ornate frame was still there, the background still there – painted curtains, painted marble steps, even the drops of painted blood on the painted floor. But of Queen Clytemnestra, there was nothing. It looked as though she had simply stepped out of the frame.

I pulled my Bambi from under the pillow, then the flashlight from the bedside table, and padded softly to the living room, which was also empty. I checked the bathroom then anywhere narrow where she might have concealed herself, such as behind the wardrobe or under the kitchen units, but without any success. I went to the door, which was still locked, and for a brief moment was confused, until I noticed there was a slender gap under the door, and I figured she’d probably got out that way.

I opened the door to a corridor still illuminated by the flickering fair dreaming candles, but this too was empty, so I trod noiselessly to the stairway that spiralled up the heat-well in the centre of the building, then stopped as I heard the soft tread of shoes against the stone. I tried to remember if Clytemnestra had been wearing sandals but could not, so waited until the footsteps were opposite my door, and then stepped out, flashlight in hand.

It was Charles, as Birgitta had painted him. Completely naked but with no features. Oddly, he was carrying a mug of hot chocolate. He jumped, and spilt some on the steps.

‘Why are you out of your painting?’ I asked.

‘Out of my what?’ asked Charles, which was impossible because he had no mouth. But then I realised it wasn’t Charles at all but Porter Lloyd and with all the features traditionally associated with a face. He wasn’t naked, either. I lowered the Bambi.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I thought you were a thin layer of oil paint.’

‘A thin layer of what ? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Can I help you?’

‘I was looking for Clytemnestra. Sort of queenly, tall, topless, fine wintercoat – oh, and carrying a bloody dagger.’

Lloyd smiled.

‘No, I haven’t seen her about.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I think I would have remembered that.’

‘She might be difficult to see,’ I persisted, ‘because if you viewed her edge on, she’d only be the thickness of a sheet of paper and wouldn’t be that obvious.’

‘I see,’ said Lloyd, with a look of understanding – and about time too, to be honest. ‘Now don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said, ‘but you may have a touch of narcosis.’