Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

‘ Open interviews? No preselection?’

‘Seems like it. He lost his Novice and needs a new one.’

I thought for a moment. Or rather, I didn’t think for a moment. I just told Williams to budge up and then sat down on the bench, heart thumping, and for good reason: joining the Winter Service Industry was risky – little more than suicide, some said – but it did give one access to Morphenox. [13] They used it not during the Winter, obviously, but when they slept – through the late Summer.

‘So when did you first consider a Winter career?’ asked Williams, who seemed chatty.

‘Oh, eight seconds ago,’ I replied.

For the 99.99 per cent of the population who slept through, the Winter was an abstract concept. Go to sleep and wake up – hopefully – four months later.

Other than those who worked in the Transplant industry and had to brave the Winter, few people opted to face the cold, the vermin, the Villains, the loneliness, the Wintervolk. But with my utterly unrewarding house manager career, limited prospects and the rarity of untrained jobs with Morphenox rights attached, overwintering had suddenly become hugely attractive.

‘How about being a Winter Consul?’ asked Williams. ‘How long you wanted to be one of those?’

‘Oh, years and years.’

In truth, given the risks and the usually over-rigorous selection process, never . I sat on the bench, trying to keep calm and wondering what I should say. Each interview took about ten minutes and to every applicant that emerged long-faced there was a torrent of questions from the remaining queue. All questions were met with a shrug, the news they’d been rejected, and no clue as to what Logan was actually looking for.

After Williams went in with enthusiasm and emerged looking crushed, it was my turn.

Mother Fallopia was with Logan in her study, a small, austere chamber that smelled of furniture polish, coffee and photocopier toner. The room had a large wooden desk in the centre, but otherwise comprised mostly filing cabinets and pictures of infants on the walls. It was always unnerving being in here, and not just because of Mother Fallopia and her piercing ‘what-have-you-done-to-deserve-existence’ look: all the pictures were of the nameless children that didn’t make it past their first Winter, and the ones with names who didn’t make it past any subsequent. We couldn’t ever figure out if the images were for remembrance, an invitation for the sisters to breed better, or because Mother Fallopia just liked pictures of kids and didn’t care one way or another.

‘You have a message?’ asked Mother Fallopia.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I heard the Winter Consul interviews were open to all.’

‘You already have a job,’ said Mother in a voice like galvanised pipes, ‘you don’t need another, and believe me, you wouldn’t last ten minutes as a Consul.’

I have to admit that I felt an overwhelming desire to apologise profusely and then sneak out, but to my credit, didn’t.

‘Charlie Worthing,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I’d like to be considered for the post.’

‘Let’s move on,’ said Mother, ‘we’re wasting time here.’

‘No, Prudence,’ said Logan, the first time I’d ever heard Mother Fallopia contradicted or someone use her first name, ‘we’ll see anyone who wants to be seen.’

He turned to me.

‘The usual selection process is exhaustive,’ he explained, ‘but not perfect. I like to find the hidden gems the preselection process has missed. I’ve seen you about, Worthing, you one of mine?’

‘No, sir. I’m a… surrogacy that turned out wrong.’

‘On account of your head?’

‘Yes, on account of my head. [14] More about my head later. I was transferred to St Granata’s with half of the insurance payout. The rest went to my bios as compensation.’

‘Worthing is an insurance write-off,’ said Mother Fallopia, ‘and one that is still paying off our kindness.’

‘I disagree,’ said Logan. ‘You were a write-off. Right now you’re a candidate for the Winter Consulship. Each on their merits.’

I liked Logan instantly, and all of a sudden would do anything to work with him, Morphenox or not. He asked me if I saw myself being a career House Manager here at St Granata’s.

‘No, sir,’ I said, now sitting more upright in my chair and ignoring Fallopia’s hot gaze, ‘I recently applied to join the Winter Prudential.’

‘And?’

‘Rejected.’

‘Reason?’

‘Interference… by a third party.’

I looked at Mother Fallopia as I said it, and she looked away. Logan followed my gaze, and probably guessed what had happened.

‘Not necessarily an issue,’ he said. ‘Qualifications?’

‘I can read and write to level 4A,’ I said, ‘first aid trained, one hundred yards in 14.2, drive, swim and play the tuba.’

‘Tell Jack about your D minus in General Skills, Worthing,’ said Mother Fallopia, who had not yet given up on her efforts to torpedo my interview.

‘It was a D plus , actually,’ I said, then added: ‘Not that it makes much difference.’

‘I don’t rely so much on exam results,’ said Logan before I could go on. ‘I was bottom of the class myself. I’m actually after someone with a good memory.’

This was more interesting.

‘I came second in the Swansea Town Memory Bee with six hundred and forty-eight random words memorised after only two readings,’ I said with a certain degree of pride. It was a record that was still the third highest in the town. Sister Zygotia wanted me to go to the South Wales regionals, but I’m not really that fond of people staring at me.

‘Did you know this?’ asked Logan, looking pointedly at Mother Fallopia.

‘It must have slipped my mind,’ she said, ‘and I never expected Worthing to be so utterly ungrateful as to apply.’

Logan nodded and looked back at me.

‘I need a new Novice with a good memory to train up. Good career path. Exciting too. Lots of challenges. Bit of cash, extra pudding. Medium to high risk of death.’

‘What was the last bit again?’

‘Extra pudding.’

‘And after that?’

‘Coffee and mints?’

‘I meant on your list.’

‘Oh – medium to high risk of death.’

‘I see,’ I said, ‘and how’s your last Novice doing?’

‘She’s doing pretty good.’

‘She’s not,’ said Mother Fallopia, arms folded, ‘she’s currently in an asylum, shouting at the walls.’

‘About what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Logan. ‘Ants or Lloyd-George or buttons or something.’

‘And the one before that?’

It was Mother Fallopia who answered.

‘They returned her body but without the head.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Logan reflectively, ‘a little mean-spirited, I thought.’

‘Nightwalkers?’

‘Villains.’

Villains generally lived out on the edge of the ice-fields and often raided nearby towns for pantry and domestic servants. They traded in mammoths as beasts of burden, and dabbled in the stock market, with moderate success. They had their own code of conduct based around ice and honour and good manners and afternoon tea, and would happily kill someone if they disagreed with them – but would often write an apologetic note to the next of kin afterwards. ‘Manners,’ they were known to say, ‘cost nothing.’