Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

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?’