Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

She pulled open a filing cabinet, rummaged for a moment and then drew out a file. She flicked through the contents, eventually showing me a family photograph. It was of Rhosilli beach in the Gower, the Argentinian Queen behind, recently wrecked. A man, thin and weaselly and with a sour, cruel face, a woman, bluff and optimistic. And Gretl, the daughter, holding a beach ball. I felt a cold chill run up my back. Yesterday – even this morning – I would have dismissed it all as a retrospective memory remapping, but now I wasn’t so sure. It was the same child as the one in the Birgitta dream, the child with the gurgle of laughter. The same gurgle of laughter I’d heard before Lucky Ned was taken.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Laura. ‘You look kind of… ill.’

‘The Gronk’s real,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Laura, ‘that’s why I gave you the camera. To take a picture of her. The wager was always sound; it was only the evidence that was going to be a problem.’

‘I think she’s in my mind,’ I said quietly. ‘I saw her in the Dreamstate.’

‘That could mean she’s either protecting or stalking you,’ said Laura. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but there are plenty more unworthy than you. She’ll pluck the ripest fruit first. You may want to whistle “Some Enchanted Evening” [59] Track 4, Side 1, South Pacific original cast recording. when she makes landfall, just to be safe.’

‘Good tip. Thanks,’ I said sarcastically.

‘You’re welcome.’

Laura tidied away the picture and made to leave as Fodder had said he’d take her around to look at some of the folded linen traps she’d set up. She gave me a cheery wave, told me to keep the Instamatic camera close by at all times, and departed.

I sat for a long time considering the Gronk, then went and made a cup of tea, sat with it until it grew cold, and searched the Sector Twelve Residents filing cabinet until I found Birgitta’s personnel file. Attached were her Spring & Autumn identity mug shots and the usual guff about hibernational intentions, National Insurance records and employment status – in her case ‘freelance’. Aside from a hefty fine for failing to properly register with OffPop and an ongoing investigation for potential childbearing evasion, there was little of note. And there was no mention of marriage, nor any link to Webster.

I replaced the file, had a thought, then pulled Webster’s file and stared at the contents curiously. Jonesy had pointed out that he and five others had either vanished or been made into nightwalkers, potentially because one of them was conducting some form of industrial espionage. And that got me to thinking that if one of them was claiming to be someone they weren’t, then their file – the one used to conduct background checks – would be fraudulent.

Webster’s name would have come back clean, but if he was an impostor, his likeness might very well show up a different result.

I unclipped the photograph from his file, attached it to a sheet of paper, wrote a request that purported to be from Toccata using a signature on another document I’d found, and sent it via fax to Central Records in Aber. I watched as the paper was slowly drawn into the machine. Sixty miles and a short time lag away it would be doing the same thing, only coming out.

As soon as it had vanished, a cold panic seized me. What was I doing? There was nothing to link Webster to, well, anything . A traitorous Don Hector mixed up with deep-cover Campaign for Real Sleep operatives battling to retrieve a missing wax cylinder existed only in my imagination. They were dreams. Fancies. Nonsense. Narcosis .

And even more stupidly, I’d just forged the Chief’s signature on an information request. A felony during the Summer, potential Frigicution in the Winter. I stared at the dormant fax machine forlornly, wondering how I could have been so stupid. I considered sending another fax countermanding the first, but thought that would probably make it worse.

But, I told myself optimistically, it was entirely possible Central Records were busy, and checking photographs could take days.

It took all of eight minutes. And I only knew that because I got a personal visit from Toccata, who arrived with Jonesy into the filing room. Toccata didn’t look very happy, but then she never looked very happy.

‘Well, Gronk’s dung in a piss-pot,’ said Toccata as soon as she saw me moving in a guilty fashion away from the fax machine, ‘I should have known it was you.’

I defaulted to stout denial, as Sister Placentia had done when eighteen empty gin bottles were found under her bed.

‘I have no idea at all what you’re talking about.’

Toccata raised an eyebrow. Oddly, over her non-seeing eye.

‘Then let me enlighten you: I just got a call from Central Records, thanking me for the very interesting picture I sent to be identified. I was surprised about the call, Wonky. Do you know why I was surprised?’

‘I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me.’

‘Because I never sent any picture ID request, and that must be me having a serious memory lapse, because it had my signature on it.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘really?’

‘Yes, really. Then they asked me who the man in the picture identified himself as, because they’ve been after him for twelve years and he’s on their Campaign for Real Sleep watch list. And you know what?’

‘What?’

‘I couldn’t answer that question, either. Because I hadn’t sent it and didn’t know what they were talking about. Isn’t that totally weird?’

‘Very weird – but I still have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Jonesy picked up the actual fax that I had carelessly left on my desk and showed it to Toccata, then to me.

‘You are so busted,’ said Jonesy with a smile. ‘I think you’d better tell us everything.’

‘So before I even start getting to work on you,’ said Toccata, ‘whose details are about to come back via the fax?’

There didn’t seem much point in lying – they’d find out soon enough.

‘You’ll know him as Charles Webster.’

‘Webster the orderly at HiberTech?’

I nodded, and Jonesy and Toccata looked at one another. They were surprised, or perhaps shocked, or perhaps both. I could feel my eye start to puff up where Toccata had hit me earlier, but resisted the urge to touch it.

The fax machine began to hum and we waited without speaking until the message had fed out of the printer. Jonesy picked it up before I could see and showed it to Toccata.

‘How did those idiots at HiberTech Security miss this?’ said Toccata. ‘They let a known RealSleep agent right into the heart of their organisation.’

‘That’s actually quite amusing,’ said Jonesy.

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Toccata, and they both stared at me for some time in silence.

‘Can you feel that empty pause, Wonky?’ said Toccata. ‘It’s where you tell us why you were investigating Charles Webster. How you knew he wasn’t who he said he was. Let’s hear it.’

It felt like I was in front of Mother Fallopia, being harangued about some dumb prank we’d played back at the Pool. I knew one thing, though: I couldn’t tell them I’d seen it all in a dream.