Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

‘I see the problem.’

‘Right,’ said Shamanic Bob, ‘because when you merge the real and the fantasy, you can never quite define the boundaries. Dreamspace was a wonderful concept, but owing to the quirky nature of a sleeping mind prone to tangential invention, doomed to failure.’

He sighed wistfully, as though this was the greatest disappointment he could imagine. A world of permanent dreaming, navigating your own way through fantastic worlds of your own creation.

‘Dreams are the one true freedom,’ continued Shamanic Bob, ‘the place where you can be yourself; do anything, be anything. The mind set free.’

‘So long as it’s Active Control,’ I said, ‘or you’re just a passenger, right?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ said Shamanic Bob with a sad smile, ‘and that’s the Night Grail we seek: a dream indistinguishable from real life. A dream where you can lose yourself, a dream where you can be anyone you want, and do anything you wish, at your own choosing.’

‘Could you dream yourself a principled and confident leading member of the Campaign for Real Sleep?’ I asked. ‘Deep undercover on a dangerous mission with the girl of your dreams?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if that’s your thing. Me, I want to fly. But not like a pilot – like a bird. High on the wing above the hushed nation, chasing the spirit of freedom. Or maybe a saxophonist,’ he added, ‘playing for Holroyd Wilson, there at his last gig, before the Winter took him. Or maybe I could dream myself popular,’ he said, ‘or even respected. Or normal . That would be nice.’

Shamanic Bob came over all dreamy and his eyelids began to droop. I wasn’t sure if it was hushed reverence because we were talking about dreams, or simply because he had dozed off. Winsomniacs doze off a lot.

‘Ever dream of the blue Buick?’ I asked.

Shamanic Bob was suddenly wide awake, and a second later his bony fingers had grasped my jacket and pulled me close.

‘ That’s why so many of us are scabbing [58] I think it meant ‘scrounging food in the Winter’ but I never did find out for sure. in the Twelve, friend . We heard there was this dream that was more real than real, so vivid you were there, shielding your eyes against the sun, smelling the Summer, tasting the dust on your lips. Active Control, the Night Grail we seek. Where is it? Somewhere close? Which Dormitorium?’

I had to think about this for a few moments before speaking again.

‘I’ve one last question,’ I said. ‘Can the memory of dreams ever unfold in your head retrospectively, influenced by later experiences?’

‘I’ve not experienced such a thing myself ,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘nor heard of anyone who has – but narcosis can throw up an interesting-shaped bone from time to time. Are you sure you don’t want to get all dream-faced with us?’

‘I’m sure.’

I walked to the door, then turned. Our conversation had been followed by every winsomniac in the room. They were all watching me, dark-rimmed, wide eyes, blinking like owls.

‘Understand this,’ I said to the room in general, ‘there is no blue Buick dream, it’s definitely not Active Control, and it’s certainly not at the Sarah Siddons .’

The winsomniacs all smiled faintly and nodded their heads in a languid manner. Lloyd had said I could have four tins of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for each winsomniac I got into the Siddons . For every one that arrived, Birgitta was four hours closer to Springrise, and four hours farther from cannibalism. Ambrosia Creamed Rice, good at the best of times, had never seemed more attractive.

The sky had lowered while I’d been in the Wincarnis, and a stiff breeze was now stirring the snow into a cloud of flakes that swirled randomly in the air without settling. The visibility was still at least fair, although I don’t think anyone expected it to stay that way for long: Jonesy had attached a fixed line from her Sno-Trac to the large brass ring fixed to the outside of the Consulate, so she could find either if things got bad.

As I entered, there seemed to be a sense of unhurried languor inside, as though everyone were getting ready for a damp Sunday indoors. Treacle was typing out a form on a large typewriter in an unhurried manner, and Jonesy was reading a report while leaning on the desk. Fodder was standing next to the coffee machine, lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the middle distance. Probably thinking about babies. Or maybe some military defeat he’d been involved in. Or a love lost. Or steak pie with peas and chips. Actually, I had no idea. The way he looked, impossible to tell.

I heard Toccata swearing at someone down the telephone from the comfort of her office, but now that I’d become accustomed to the idiosyncratic ways of Sector Twelve, the whole Aurora/Toccata issue hardly seemed unusual at all, and I could see why none of the crew saw any of it as particularly weird.

‘The Chief said she wants to see you,’ said Jonesy, looking up.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. She saw you come in, so it’s too late to sneak away. Good luck.’

I walked slowly up to Toccata’s office door, straightened my jacket and knocked politely. She bade me enter and I pushed open the door.

She was standing behind her desk, leaning on the chair-back.

‘Close the door,’ she said, and I did so.

‘Sit down.’

I did that, too.

‘You acquitted yourself well yesterday,’ she said. ‘Killing Ned Farnesworth was a foolish and impetuous move, but luckily, owing to Fodder’s considerable negotiating skills, the truce is holding.’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

She nodded quietly to herself and then held up a gold-edged gift certificate with a lot of zeros on it.

‘Then you won’t want the ten-thousand-euro reward?’

I felt, all of a sudden, conflicted. It would pay for Birgitta to see Springrise, but it somehow didn’t seem right taking it. I had an idea.

‘Can we assign it to Fodder? I think he wants to take a couple of years’ sabbatical and doesn’t have a lot of cash.’

Toccata stared at me for a while.

‘It wasn’t Debts and Nesquik that carried the truce, was it?’

‘No, ma’am.’

She pushed the certificate across the desk.

‘Sign it on the back.’

I did so and my obligation to Fodder, I felt, was at least partly resolved.

‘Now,’ said Toccata, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m being so nice to you?’

To be honest, I hadn’t actually noticed.

‘It’s because you don’t work for us any more. I’m only hideously offensive to my own.’

I thought this might be about Aurora having completed my job application without my say-so, but it wasn’t.

‘Here,’ she said, passing me a fax. ‘Looks like your Acting Sector Chief has requested me to return you to Cardiff. They’re short staffed there, too. Unpaid leave can commence immediately; you can sit out this storm in the safety of the Siddons and once the weather breaks Jonesy will run you into Hereford and you can ride the Railplane home.’

I read the fax. It was from Vice-Consul Pryce and made reference to Logan’s death ‘at Aurora’s hands in the defence of Novice Worthing’, so at least I wasn’t being held to account for that.