Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

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.’

The porter poured out a cup. It was dark and tarry and seemed to come out in lumps. He placed down the coffee jug and handed me a battered menu.

‘Everything but the scrambled eggs is off.’

I stared at the menu anyway, a sumptuous array of culinary alternatives. While having no basis in reality, it was still an enjoyable read. If circumstance hadn’t made choice redundant, I probably would have gone for the eggs Benedict, devilled mushrooms or kedgeree with mango chutney.

‘I’ll have the scrambled eggs,’ I said, handing the menu back.

‘A wise choice,’ said Lloyd, and walked briskly away.

I looked outside. The sky was a sheet of drab off-white, the colour of boiled string, and the dull tone merged into the snow heaped upon the roofs so perfectly it was difficult to see where the roofline ended and the sky began. I could see a nightwalker wandering across the road about a hundred yards away, walking in an uncertain manner with a stick, yet wearing an impressive ballgown – with a distinctive fruit hat perched upon their head. If it was Carmen Miranda, Jonesy couldn’t have thumped her hard enough.

‘It’s Charlie Worthing, isn’t it?’ came a familiar-sounding voice. I turned and found myself looking at Zsazsa. It was odd seeing her here and real and old, when I’d just seen her in my dream, younger, and as one of the classic Mrs Nesbits. I got to my feet as politeness dictates and before I could speak she’d pulled me into a Winter embrace. She smelled of inexpensive perfume and tolerably clean laundry – with just a hint of lemon marmalade.

She released me, smiled and sat down opposite without being asked. Her complexion was clear, her skin soft, but her conker-coloured eyes were dark-rimmed with lack of sleep and bore within them a sense of deep melancholy.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ I said. ‘It’s a little lumpy and not really coffee at all, but it’s warm and dark coloured, and probably non-toxic.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing an empty cup forward.

We fell silent for a moment or two.

‘I’ve never met a Mrs Nesbit in the flesh before,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve never met a drowsy before.’

It seemed a stupid thing to say, but it was better than sitting there, struck dumb by awkwardness.

‘Despite the stories, our honeyed words, extensive inventory of memorised poems and inspired lute-playing more often see to slumber than the intimate approach. Did you hear that the Cambrensis went cold?’

I nodded.

‘The majority of residents were bed-swapped en sommeil , but eighteen needed to be eased back down into the abyss. Most of them responded well to lullabies, but a few needed more intimate means. Men, women, other – in the fog of wake it doesn’t really matter. You’d have to do it, if we didn’t.’

I must have looked shocked, for she added:

‘The Consul recruitment office doesn’t shout about that part of the work; it puts people off, although given the horrors of the Winter, it’s the least of one’s worries. I like to see our Winter Easement work as an invaluable aid to the well-being of the Wintering community. And just so you know,’ she continued, ‘“drowsy” is not really an appropriate term. It demeans the noble profession. Sleepmaiden or Sleepmaster is better, or if you’re into your French, Dormiselle and Dormonsieur . Actually, even Sleepworker is more acceptable. Is it true you killed Lucky Ned?’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Lloyd.’

Perhaps telling him all about it might not have been such a good idea.

‘I think the Winter took Ned,’ I said.

She put her head on one side and stared at me for a few moments.

‘The Winter takes a lot from everyone, and only ever returns meltwater and bodies.’

I mused on what she had said.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘The first is free, the second on account – the third, you pay cash.’

‘You’re living in the Siddons ,’ I said. ‘Are you having any recurring dreams?’

She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but then stopped and raised an eyebrow.

‘You mean the blue Buick dream that’s blowing around the ninth floor like an unwelcome fart?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘ precisely that sort of dream.’

She leaned forward.

‘I live on the nineteenth floor – half of it, actually, sort of a penthouse – so I haven’t had the dream, but I’ve heard all the details. And I know precisely how Mrs Nesbit got to be in it. I can sell you that information.’

‘She’s there because dreamers were told she’s in it,’ I said. ‘The blue Buick, oak trees, hands, boulders, Mrs Nesbit. The dream was seeded by incautious gossip.’

She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

‘Shimmery, was she? Looked as though she didn’t belong there? Words and lip movements out of sync?’

‘Look,’ I said, now used to the reverse nature of my dream memory, ‘I’m a touch narced and my memory is rebuilding retrospectively. All that stuff is in the dream because you said it just then.’

She frowned at me.

‘I’ve never heard of that happening.’

‘It’s like being in a permanent state of déjà vu.’

Zsazsa looked around to make sure we were alone. Fodder was on the other side of the room and Lloyd nowhere to be seen.

‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

I nodded and laid them on the table.

‘The Mrs Nesbit in the dream, she said something, as she did to all the others. A sentence, a test line, a quote. We’re both going to write it down. Okay?’

I agreed as there was nothing to lose, and wrote: ‘We know of a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs Buckley lives.’

When we had both written, we swapped them over. Hers was the same as mine. Word for word. I stared at her, then at the sentence she’d written down.

‘Trust in your memory, Charlie, trust in yourself. Now, here’s the deal: I can tell you how Mrs Nesbit got to be in those dreams. But information has a price.’

I was still staring at her note. I felt hot and sweaty, and once more the image of the blue Buick started to bleed into the space around me. Soft and indistinct to begin with and then with the pile of rocks, more solid, more defined . The oak tree started to appear, too, as the dappled light began to play on the tables in the dining room. As the illusion unfolded I had the bewildering fear that the encroaching vision wouldn’t stop, that it would wash over me and I would stay locked in the Dreamstate for ever. I gazed at what few scraps of reality remained – the table, the coffee pot, Zsazsa – and concentrated on them lest I lose them, too.