Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

‘I know I shouldn’t ask this,’ I said, ‘but why did they return her without her head?’

He shrugged.

‘Do you know, I’m not altogether sure. We could have asked them once we’d tracked them down, but I wasn’t in the talking mood, and, well, it probably wouldn’t have affected the outcome. You shouldn’t let these small details put you off. Still want in?’

I looked at Mother Fallopia.

‘Surprisingly, yes .’

‘Okay, then. There’s a test and it starts right now.’

There was a pause.

‘I don’t know what you want me to do.’

‘That’s the test.’

I sat there for perhaps thirty seconds, trying to figure out what he wanted and getting nowhere.

‘I told you it was a waste of time,’ said Mother Fallopia in a triumphant manner.

‘Well, thank you for coming in,’ said Logan after a minute had ticked by. ‘How many more to be seen?’

‘I was the last.’

He shut his notebook.

‘Then we’re done.’

I felt the despondency rise within me once more, and studiously avoided Fallopia’s gaze as I got to my feet, thanked Logan and made for the door. I grasped the handle, stopped, had a sudden idea and turned around.

‘To escort a likely lad,’ I said slowly, ‘from lower Llanboidy with collies and… brollies from Flitwick to Chiswick while… Krugers with Lugers take potshots at hotshots is enough to—’

I stopped for thought. I’d only heard it once, and wasn’t really concentrating. But it had rhymed, and that made it easier. Logan looked at me with interest.

‘Go on.’

‘—make mammoths with a gram’s worth of… hammocks feel down with a clown from Manchester Town.’

Logan nodded.

‘That’s very good.’

‘It was a piece of crap,’ said Mother Fallopia crossly. ‘Worthing added “from Flitwick” in the middle.’

‘I know that,’ I said, ‘it scans better.’

Logan smiled.

‘It does indeed. When can you start?’

‘I can start right now. May I ask a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Why do you need my memory?’

He stared at me for a moment.

‘Because mine’s not good enough for what I might need to do.’

He then got to his feet, took my hand in his and pulled me into a Winter embrace. Now I was closer I could smell a mixture of aftershave, dinner and cognac.

‘Welcome aboard. Stay close, do what I say and make as many mistakes as you want – just never the same one twice. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He released me, looked at his watch and said that he had to leave. Shockingly, he and Mother Fallopia – Prudence – kissed full on the lips. They embraced tightly, said their goodbyes and he made for the door.

‘Walk with me,’ he said, and I turned to Mother.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me,’ I said, trying to be sincere but actually sounding deeply sarcastic. She glared at me in return.

‘You’ll be back by Springrise,’ she said, ‘either with tail between legs or in a zinc coffin. But there’ll be no point. Your job will not be open upon your return. Good luck. You’re going to need it.’

We said nothing more, and I followed Logan out.

‘Prudence isn’t as bad as she makes out,’ he said as we walked towards the exit by way of the back hall. ‘What did you do to piss her off?’

‘I wasn’t expected to last my second Winter,’ I said, ‘and my adoption prospects were low, which kind of made me poor value for money. I’m not sure the insurance payout was actually that large.’

‘The Pool can be cruel,’ said Logan, ‘but they still do an important job. What’s the longest you’ve stayed up?’

‘One hundred and eight hours and twenty-six minutes playing sleepy phone tennis.’

‘How did that work out?’

‘Not well.’

I explained that I’d played with the now-dead Billy DeFroid and Sian Morgan and heard their jeering phone messages once I’d stirred to wakefulness sixteen weeks later. Billy won the bout at one hundred and forty-two hours, but his victory was tainted: Sian was found Dead In Sleep owing to complications arising from inadequately prepared entry to the Hib, and Billy and myself were – unfairly, we thought – found guilty of Incitement to Deprive. I took the six-week community order, but Billy’s adoptive father paid the fine.

‘Not the first time that’s happened,’ said Logan with a chuckle as we pushed open the door and stepped out of the building, ‘and certainly not the last. Do you know what kills most people during the Winter?’

‘Villains?’

‘Guess again.’

‘Nightwalkers?’

‘Nope.’

‘The cold?’

‘It’s the loneliness . In the Summer it simply makes you glum, but in the Winter it can be fatal. I’ve seen strong people collapse inside. And not metaphorically, I mean literally . Like their soul evaporated. It’s in the eyes. They glaze over all dead, like a nightwalker, like there’s nothing there at all.’

He wasn’t really selling the Winter to me, but I said nothing. He went on:

‘The enemy aren’t the Villains, womads, scavengers, insomniacs, Ice-Hermits, Megafauna, nightwalkers, hiburnal rodents or flesh-eating cold slime – it’s the Winter. To survive, you need to respect her first. What do you need to do?’

‘Respect the Winter.’ I paused. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s flesh-eating cold slime?’

‘It’s probably best not to think about that.’

We stopped at the kerb, where an orange Cosmo was parked. He unlocked it and climbed in, then wound down the window.

‘We’re done for now. I’m hitting the sack for six weeks, and will see you again at two weeks before Slumberdown. Report to the Cardiff Consulate; we’re based right next door to the Melody Black Dormitorium – you can get an apartment there. Before that, have a couple of days off. Go to the Gower, see a movie. You might want to finish any long books you’ve started, wrap up prolonged games of postal chess and deal with any outstanding issues that you think you might regret leaving open.’

‘Is it that likely I won’t survive?’

‘Simply a precautionary measure,’ said Logan. ‘Where possible, I try to ensure I never lose a Novice in the first season. Cheerio.’

The statement didn’t totally fill me with confidence, but at least I was away from St Granata’s, Morphenox rights intact. I watched as he pulled off into the traffic and was lost to view down the road.

I turned around and looked at the old building that had been my home for the past twenty-two years. I thought of wandering in, telling everyone my news and then going out for an extended gorge-crawl at all the local eateries on the seafront – kebab, fish and chips, burger, tofu, kebab – then collapsing, belly distended, armpits bulging, groaning with indigestion at three in the morning, happy and penniless.

But that was no longer an option. My entrance into this Winter would be as something I’d never been before: light.

‘Wow,’ said Lucy Knapp when we met over coffee and buns six weeks later. The buns were Chelsea and quite good, the coffee tasted of gritty mud. I’d invited her into the Cardiff Sector House, more to impress her than anything else. She looked around the open-plan offices, identical in layout to every other Consulate in the land, part of the SkillZero protocols. The twin portraits of Don Hector and Princess Gwendolyn XXXVIII looked down upon us in the large entrance vestibule, while the barographs [15] A device used to record barometric pressure. A trace is usually recorded on a piece of paper. hummed quietly to themselves, the traces indicating that the weather was, despite appearances, actually improving.