Early Riser

Talgarth and HiberTech

I roused Mrs Tiffen from her Torporific state with a lump of marzipan under her nose, fed her two slices of Fruity Malt Loaf and a Walker’s Shortbread Finger, then guided her out the carriage door. The air was sharper than in Cardiff; our feet trod the snow with more of a squeak than a crunch. It was by now quite dark, and the town was illuminated not by electric light, but gas: the flickering orange light from the lamp-heads added a sense of ethereal gloom to the town, as though it were caught in a time warp.

The signboard on the platform announced the station as Talgarth, the small town that played host to the HiberTech complex. I told the stationmaster I was dropping my charge and would be returning on the same train, and she replied that I had at least two hours, so plenty of time.

While Moody supervised the unloading, I took Mrs Tiffen towards the station exit, where Aurora had already been met by a man who was tall, thin, and had a complexion like that of a freshly oiled rugby ball. I was put in mind of an ancient corpse that had been preserved in a peat bog.

‘Deputy Worthing,’[35] said Aurora as Mrs Tiffen and I approached, ‘allow me to introduce the Deputy Head of HiberTech Security, Agent Lionel Hooke. He looks after stuff when I’m not around. Highly trustworthy. Was a captain in the army until he joined us.’

‘You were… Captain Hooke?’

‘Yes,’ he said, one eyelid twitching, ‘and if you make any comments about crocodiles, alarm clocks or missing a hand, I will pluck out one of your eyeballs and make you swallow it.’

‘I was thinking of no such thing,’ I replied somewhat untruthfully, as every single one of those things had gone through my head.

‘Hooke was joking about the eyeball,’ said Aurora, before turning to the Deputy Head and asking in a more quizzical tone: ‘You were joking?’

‘Of course,’ said Hooke after a pause, ‘my little absurdity. To break the ice, you understand.’

And he gave me a smile that looked as though it had come from a hastily-read handbook on cultivating personal charm. Even more worrying, he moved in to give me a Winter embrace. He smelled of chewing tobacco, battery acid and recently dead horse. He also took the opportunity to whisper in my ear.

‘Step out of line and I’ll destroy you.’

‘Good to meet you, too,’ I stammered, realising that the introduction was simply so he knew who I was, not the other way round.

‘Want a lift?’ asked Aurora. I said I needed the exercise, so she wished me well, then departed with Agent Hooke in a four-wheel-drive command car that looked as though it was the unfortunate union of a truck and a family saloon.

Mrs Tiffen and I threaded our way through the empty town, following the signs towards the HiberTech facility. I noticed that fixed safety lines were very much in evidence – a 6mm steel cable running through eyelets bolted to walls and lamp-posts. Although we had provision for these in Cardiff and Swansea, they were used only in emergencies. Here, they looked not just used, but used a lot. If visibility dropped to zero, the fixed line would ensure you’d not get lost – so long as you clipped on with a lanyard.

I approached HiberTech with, I think, trepidation. It was hard to downplay the importance of Morphenox. Living through the Winter was now expected rather than a welcome bonus. Skill retention, lowered food consumption and the redeployment and transplant benefits were already reaping dividends in our post-gorge economic environment. The naturally slumbering Southern Alliance, once the equals of the Northern Fed, were now lagging behind in every single societal and fiscal measure you cared to mention. Any which way you looked at it, Morphenox was a winner – so long as you could earn the right to its use. If you could, all well and good. And if you couldn’t, well, heck: at least you had something to which you could aspire.

The HiberTech facility was dark and quiet with no sign of anyone about. If it hadn’t been for the parade of gas lights illuminating the road up and out of the town, one might have thought it long abandoned. The sixty-acre complex, I knew, was surrounded on all sides by intentionally open and featureless countryside, and four watchtowers on the corners of the twenty-metre-high wall gave the lookouts a good view in all directions. The large double doors were of banded steel construction, with narrow loopholes to either side. There was a telephone bolted to one side of the entrance, and I picked up the handset, shook off the snow, pressed the ‘call’ button and introduced myself.

‘Deputy Consul Worthing, C, BDA26355F,’ I said, ‘delivering a nightwalker. Tiffen, L, HAB21417F.’

‘Hmm,’ came the voice, ‘we were expecting Logan, J, JHK889521M.’

I told him that Logan had died and that under Continuity of Command Protocol SX-70 I was continuing his duties. There were more questions after this and eventually, seemingly satisfied, a guard unlocked the outer door and let us in. After the surrender of my Bambi we entered a large and expensively decorated reception lobby, with a domed ceiling, a grand staircase behind and several double-width corridors heading off into the complex. Facing the desk was a large stained-glass window of considerable opulence that told the story of HiberTech Industries, and on the wall was a large HiberTech logo that dwarfed the twin portraits of Gwendolyn XXXVIII and Don Hector. Also of note were two golf carts parked up with a nightwalker in each, staring blankly at the floor. This was surprising; driving a golf cart was well beyond the skill level of any redeployed that I’d seen. Incongruously, they had been given name badges. Some wag had named them Chas and Dave.

‘Welcome to HiberTech,’ said the security guard in a cheery manner. His name, I noted from his badge, was Josh. He wore a black uniform with the HiberTech logo stitched on the top pocket, and behind him there were framed certificates of the ‘HiberTech Reception Desk Employee of the Week’, which were all him. Either he was the only one, or he was the only one any good at it.

‘Always happy to have visitors,’ he continued. ‘I’m something of a visitor myself, being from Canada. You should visit. We have one hundred and forty-eight mountain ranges, but somehow we’re mostly known for our trees. Most of the country is trees, actually.’

‘I’d like to go,’ I said, ‘but isn’t it all a little, well, frozen?’

‘Only in a glaciated permanent snow ice-field and tundra-y sort of way. Oh, and let’s get any confusion sorted out: lacrosse, our true national game, is intentionally violent, whereas hockey is incidentally violent, and unless you’ve got time to spare, don’t ask me about counterfeit maple syrup. Goodness, is that a bouzouki?’

‘It is,’ I said, and Mrs Tiffen dutifully began to play ‘Delilah’. Josh handed me back my documents.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘Infiltrators from RealSleep are never far away. Ever met one?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘or at least, not that I know of: what do they look like?’

‘They look like everyone else. That’s the whole problem.’

He stared at me for a moment, with his right eyebrow arched just higher than his left.

‘You look as though you’ve recently taken some bad karma.’

‘You could say that.’

‘I simply abhor Weltschmerz. What can I do to cheer you up?’

I thought about Logan.

‘How are you at erasing poor life-changing decisions in a time-travelly sort of way?’

‘I can’t do anything about that, but perhaps I can ameliorate the pain it causes. Stop off on the way out and I’ll fix you one of my creations.’

‘Creations?’

‘Trust me.’

Josh scribbled me out a visitor’s pass, then had me sign a form on a clipboard as I looked about curiously. There were a few people moving around the corridors, but they walked in an unhurried manner, and no one was talking. Although busy, the facility was eerily silent.

‘Is it usually this quiet?’ I asked.

‘Management think that idle chitter-chatter distracts the mind from creative thought,’ he said, while selecting the best lemon out of a dozen he had below the counter and fetching a food mixer from a cupboard. ‘Do you play Scrabble?’

‘I once laid “Bezique” on the triple for two hundred and twenty-eight points.’

I’d stopped playing soon after. You’d have to, really. Every rack I’d pulled from then on was loaded with crushing disappointment.

‘Wow,’ said Josh, ‘you will so take the pants off us. We meet in the Wincarnis most mornings, between ten and midday. Join us.’

I told him I was leaving on the next train.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Well, another time. You can wait in that room over there, and holler if you need anything. Don’t forget to stop by on the way out.’

The waiting room was painted in light hospital green, and contained only unbreakable chairs and faded posters on the wall. The largest was published by OffPop and depicted the twelfth Mrs Nesbit, looking winsome and mumsy and proclaiming that there were ‘cash bonuses for baby production beyond lawful allocation’. More welcoming were a couple of Welsh Tourist Board posters. One was advertising the local area with the now-universal slogan ‘Visit Wales – Not Always Raining’ and the second of Rhosilli beach, the wreck of the Argentinian Queen stranded high on the shore, with the inviting and unassailably true slogan:

There was also the smell of hospitals about the place, a mix of paint, bleach and fresh laundry. I fed Mrs Tiffen two gherkins and a packet of stringy cheese and she began playing ‘Delilah’ again, but more quietly, as though the gravity of the surroundings called for it.

About ten minutes later a woman walked around the corner, deeply absorbed in a report. She had short hair and small, pointed features. Very like Lucy Knapp, which was hardly surprising, as it was Lucy Knapp.

‘Lucy—?’

‘Hey, Charlie,’ she said with a grin, ‘heard you were heading our way.’

I got up and gave her a hug.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I’m on placement to the Advanced Redeployment Unit as part of the HiberTech Fast Track Management Scheme. Amazing work they’re doing.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Chief Consul Logan?’

‘He died. Well, sort of killed, actually – by Aurora.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘He was going to kill me.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’

‘It’s a long story, and not one I’m proud of.’

‘Tell me when you’re ready. Is that her trick?’ she asked, pointing to Mrs Tiffen, who was still playing ‘Delilah’.

‘Pretty much.’

‘Impressive. Your Bouzouki Girl will be useful R&D; Project Lazarus involves the enhanced redeployment of nightwalkers to serve the community in far better ways than they do already.’

‘So there is a Project Lazarus,’ I said. ‘What about Morphenox-B?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny,’ she said with a smile, ‘and just in case you missed it, the paperwork you signed at reception was a Non-Disclosure Agreement. If you whisper a word about anything you see in here, then Mr Hooke – did you meet Mr Hooke?’

I nodded.

‘…is tasked to enforce compliance, and I’ve a feeling that’s not something anyone might cherish. There’s a story going round that he once took on a starving Arctic badger – and won.’

‘That’s not so impressive.’

Arctic badgers were notoriously bad tempered, but still no larger than a medium-sized dog. I’d not like to tackle one, but suitably armed, I’d probably be okay, give or take a missing finger or eye.

‘When he was four,’ said Lucy. ‘He’s womad stock; Oldivician, I think. Part of his midwinter freezerthon.’[36]

‘Okay, that is very impressive.’

‘So the story goes. C’mon, let’s get you both over to “B” Wing.’

She beckoned me out of the waiting room and clapped her hands twice. Both golf-cart drivers looked up with the languid heavy-headed motion typical of a nightwalker, and she pointed at the one who’d been named Dave, who drove slowly up to us and stopped. He then simply sat there, waiting, staring at the wall above and to the right of us.

Lucy gestured for me to get myself and Mrs Tiffen on board, then sat herself.

‘We’re trying to extend the redeployed nightwalker skill set beyond sorting spuds and opening doors,’ she said, ‘but it’s all very much in the Beta-testing stage at the moment – which is why we don’t let them off-facility. It’s company policy to always have a jam sandwich and a box of almond slices when you’re in a golf cart with them. Despite their skills, they do still get a little bitey when hungry.’

Lucy told the driver where we were headed and we were off with a screech of tyres. There followed a singularly hair-raising trip of narrowly missed obstacles and recklessly negotiated blind corners with only the beeping of the warning siren to assist any pedestrians out of our path. Dave seemed to have only a cursory interest in his task, and throughout much of the journey stared at my arm as a dog might stare at a bone.

Lucy told me I would be meeting The Notable Goodnight, so to mind my manners.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

My surprise was easily explained: The Notable Charlotte Goodnight was the only surviving member of ‘The HiberTech Five’, the close-knit team that had been with Don Hector during the development of Morphenox. Goodnight had been a sixteen-year-old chemistry prodigy when she joined the team, and had personally perfected Juvenox for the under-twelves. When Don Hector died, she was the logical choice to lead the company.

‘What did Mother Fallopia say when you told her you were leaving?’ asked Lucy as we hurtled along.

‘She said that I was an ungrateful little shit, I’d be dead less than a week into the Winter, and if I had a known grave, she’d come and dance on it.’

‘She said that?’

‘Words to that effect.’

‘You still did the right thing.’

We drove through a self-opening door which led into another long corridor, but this one open to the elements on one side. I’d seen aerial pictures of the facility and knew it was constructed much like a college around a quadrangle, but here the quad was a twelve-acre area of trees, shrubs and even a stream that, were it not frozen solid, would have risen in one corner, tumbled through rocks and gullies and cascaded down a waterfall before it vanished with a gurgle at the opposite corner.

‘The entire facility was originally designed as a four-thousand-bed sanatorium for those suffering Hibernatory Narcosis,’ said Lucy, following my gaze, ‘but it was handed over to Don Hector and his team as his research bore more and more fruit. By the time they had developed a workable version of Morphenox, the whole site had been given over to hibernatory research: how more citizens might hope to survive it, how we might need less of it, and how to better handle the mental and physical issues surrounding early rising.’

‘It’s very impressive,’ I said.

‘It should be,’ replied Lucy. ‘HiberTech’s mission statement is to forever rid humans of the debilitating social and economic effects of hibernation.’

‘It’s a bold promise.’

‘HiberTech always think big. We’re here.’

The golf cart screeched to a halt outside a door marked ‘Project Lazarus’.

‘Have-a-nice-day-enjoy-your-stay-at-HiberTech,’ said Dave, repeating the words as though he’d learned them phonetically.

Lucy unlocked the door by way of a keypad and after several rights and lefts and another pair of swing doors, we found ourselves in a circular room with desks, chairs and filing cabinets. Radiating out from this circular chamber were eight corridors, and off these were secure cells, perhaps twenty or so to each corridor. I could hear noises – murmurings and bangings – along with the distinctively unpleasant odour of unwashed nightwalker. A little way down the corridor a male nurse with a rubber apron was hosing down a cell, the soiled water running into a central drain.

I stood there, looking around, one hand on Mrs Tiffen’s elbow. To my right was a door with a glass panel, and, curiosity getting the better of me, I moved closer and peered in. A nightwalker dressed in a pale green jumpsuit was strapped to what looked like a barber’s chair. Directly above him was a curious copper device the shape of a traffic cone but six times larger, the pointy end about an inch from the subject’s forehead. Behind the operating table a pair of technicians were working on several large machines that were covered in gauges, buttons, dials and four large screens. The technicians were saying something, but it was muffled by the thick glass set into the door.

‘You know what curiosity did to the cat?’

I turned. It was The Notable Goodnight.

She was older than she looked in the publicity pictures, but to my guess on the cusp of her seventh decade. A well-exercised mid-season weight, she had unblinking blue eyes and was dressed in a starched white uniform that seemed to exude no-nonsense efficiency. She stared at me with thinly disguised disdain.

‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed at being caught snooping, ‘sorry.’

‘Well, do you?’ she asked.

‘Do I what?’

‘Do you know what curiosity did to the cat?’

‘It killed it, I guess.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.’

‘Killed it,’ I said in a louder voice.

‘Exactly. The meaning is quite clear, of course—’

She stopped, thought for a moment, then turned to Lucy.

‘Lucy, dear, why did curiosity kill the cat?’

Lucy had been reading Mrs Tiffen’s file but looked up abruptly as her name was spoken.

‘Oh – er, the context of the saying remains obscure, ma’am, but the idiomatic meaning is quite clear.’

‘Exactly,’ said Goodnight, ‘couldn’t have put it better myself. An idiom. Our work here is unpalatable but necessary for the greater good. In idiomatic terms… Lucy?’

‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs?’

‘Close enough.’

‘Isn’t that… proverbial rather than idiomatic?’ I asked.

They both stared at me for a moment.

‘Lost interest and moving on,’ said Goodnight. ‘Where’s Chief Logan?’

‘Aurora killed him.’

‘For kicks and giggles?’

‘Does she kill people for kicks and giggles?’

‘You don’t get to ask questions, Consul. Does Toccata know Logan is dead?’

‘I’m guessing probably not yet,’ said Lucy.

‘Who’s going to tell her?’ I asked.

‘Not me,’ said Lucy.

‘Nor me,’ said The Notable Goodnight, still staring at me. ‘What’s the deal with your head?’

I was taken aback by her directness, and put out a hand to touch the right side of my face, which bowed inwards and had a left-handed twist to it, which caused my right eye to sit lower than my left by about the width of an eyeball-and-a-half. To me and my friends and the sisters it was just me and unworthy of comment – indeed, not even noticed – but from the general public’s reactions I could gauge the societal view was somewhere between intriguing and what the physiotypical term ‘unsightly’.

‘It’s a congenital skull deformity,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ she said dismissively, making me think her interest was entirely from a medical curiosity point of view. ‘Not calcitic, then?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Bad luck on you,’ she said. ‘We’ve been working on reducing and even reversing the effects of calcium migration.’

‘I don’t see this as bad luck,’ I said.

‘Do you know what?’ she said. ‘I’m really not interested.’

And without warning she stuck an open safety pin into Mrs Tiffen’s forearm. A spot of crimson welled up. I was the only one that flinched; the dead woman didn’t even blink.

‘The sight of blood upset you, Consul?’ asked Goodnight. ‘Misplaced empathy will get you killed.’

‘With the greatest respect, ma’am, I thought that was curiosity.’

‘Maybe that’s what killed the cat,’ said Goodnight after a moment’s thought. ‘Curiosity… about empathy.’

She looked at Lucy, hoping for semantic assistance, but Lucy just shrugged.

‘Okay, then,’ said The Notable Goodnight, passing me her clipboard. ‘Sign on the dotted line.’

‘Do you get many?’ I asked, taking the clipboard. ‘Vacants that do really good tricks, I mean?’

The Notable Goodnight looked at me suspiciously.

‘We don’t give out stats,’ said Lucy.

‘Long-time company policy,’ said The Notable Goodnight as I signed the custody form. ‘RealSleep like to use our own stats to hang us, so we don’t release them – facts can really confuse people. But in answer to your question, we had a Tricksy once named Dorothy who could translate anything you said into Morse code. We renamed her “Dot the dash”. We redeployed her as a switchboard operator and in tests she could work seven-day, sixteen-hour shifts with only one break for toilet and dinner of thirty minutes. Now that’s productivity for you – don’t you agree?’

In truth, I found it all a little creepy.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘remarkable.’

‘Remarkable?’ she echoed disdainfully. ‘Beetles, trapeze artists, Rodin, hydrofoils and anything by Brunel are remarkable. What we do here is beyond remarkable.’

‘Inspiring?’ I suggested.

‘Unprecedented,’ said Goodnight, then took the clipboard, signed her name below mine, and my responsibility for Mrs Tiffen was over.

‘Here’s your bounty,’ said Lucy, passing me a five-hundred-euro voucher redeemable at Mrs Nesbit’s.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I know it’s usually cash, but HiberTech have got some sort of promotion going.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Goodnight, turning back to us, ‘were there any changes?’

‘Changes in what?’

‘In her,’ snapped Goodnight, pointing towards the dead woman. ‘Changes in behaviour. Her playing, her demeanour. Got worse, got better, more fractious, less fractious, what?’

‘She used to only play “Help Yourself” but now she only plays “Delilah”. Is that normal?’

‘It’s not unusual. And we’re done. HiberTech thanks you.’

And so saying, Goodnight took the dead woman by the arm and steered her off down one of the corridors towards the cells. Tellingly and chillingly, without the bouzouki. At the same time, Lucy led me back towards the exit, and once aboard the golf cart, we were off again in as reckless a manner as before. We tore along the edge of the quad, the gardens within so wild and tall and overgrown that it was difficult to see the facility on the other side.

‘Used to be carefully manicured when Don Hector first arrived here,’ said Lucy, following my gaze, ‘miles of gravel paths among a variety of trees and manicured borders, it’s said. A restful place for patients to wander. There’s a waterfall known as the Witches’ Pool, hothouses – even a grotto, a bandstand and a temple to Morpheus. All overgrown now.’

We passed back into the warmth through the double doors, the tyres squealing on the polished linoleum flooring.

‘Don’t you find all that redeployed stuff a little creepy?’ I asked.

‘It’s challenging,’ she confessed, ‘but the possibility of actually having a usable workforce with a potential eight-and-a-half-million work-hours of productivity shouldn’t be sniffed at. Imagine having the redeployed skilled enough to work in factories – the price of goods would fall dramatically.’

‘And Morphenox-B?’ I asked.

‘For roll-out next Summer, and for everyone. It’ll be a game changer – but you didn’t hear that from me.’

She smiled, raised her eyebrows and commanded the golf-cart driver to stop.

He stopped obediently, and Lucy climbed out at the pharmaceutical manufacturing department.

‘Are you heading straight back?’ she asked. ‘From what I’ve heard, you really don’t want to get mixed up with the Consuls in Sector Twelve.’

‘Straight home once I’ve seen someone.’

I climbed out of the cart so we could hug.

‘May the Spring embrace you,’ I said.

‘And embrace you, too. See you next Fat Thursday. I’ll save you a burger.’

I climbed back on board, Lucy shouted ‘Reception’ to the driver, and we lurched off once more. Pretty soon Lucy’s form was lost from sight behind a corner and we carried on in the direction of reception in as dangerous a fashion as before.

My mind, however, was no longer worrying about death or fatal injury from golf-cart accidents, but Project Lazarus. Statistics about nightwalkers were always patchy but from what Lucy and The Notable Goodnight were saying, nightwalkers could be entering a new phase of usefulness. More annoyingly, my decision to take on an insanely dangerous overwintering gig simply to guarantee Morphenox rights might be rendered pointless if they were giving it away to all and sundry.

My thought trail petered out as we had quite suddenly slowed to a halt. I looked across at the driver. He was leaning forward and motionless, staring at the floor ahead. I put out a hand to touch him but as I did so he suddenly turned and fixed me with a confused stare.

‘Will you tell her I’m sorry?’ he said in a clear, lucid tone.

I was taken aback – it was as though he had suddenly forgotten he was a nightwalker.

‘Tell who?’

‘It was a huge mistake,’ he added with a look of bewilderment, as though he didn’t know what he was saying or quite why he was saying it, ‘and not a week goes by without me thinking about her.’

A frown crossed his brow as though he were attempting to pick up a lost thread. He looked confused, then lost, and his lower lip began to tremble. And then tears – of frustration, I think – welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

I laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Dave?’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’

But he said nothing and we were off again with a squeal of tyres. A minute or two later and we were back at reception.

‘Thank-you-for-travelling-with-HiberTech,’ said Dave mechanically, ‘have-a-pleasant-onward-journey.’

I walked over to the reception desk to return my visitor’s badge.

‘Charlie!’ said Josh. ‘Check out what I’ve made for you to lift your spirits, so to speak. I call it the “Full Spectrum Swizzle” and it features blackberry, mint, cola and lemon syrups. I’ve juiced seven lemons and an entire watermelon to make it using a new, efficient and incredibly unsafe technique that I’m calling hand-in-a-blender. If you find a hard chewy bit, it might be the tip of my little finger.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. In the forefront of culinary innovation,’ he added cheerfully, ‘there are always casualties.’

He held up a bandaged finger as if to demonstrate the fact, and I stared at the drink.

‘You could have sieved it to get the finger out,’ I said.

‘Then you’d lose all the fruity bits. It’s only the tip, mind, hardly anything at all.’

I tasted the drink, which was a cross between a smoothie and a mint latte. It was actually very good, and I told him so.

‘Glad,’ he said, ‘very glad.’

I drank the rest, picked out the tip of the finger before I swallowed it and found that it was indeed quite small, and laid the empty glass on the counter.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I should report that my driver said that he wanted to apologise to a woman he once knew.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t imagine it?’

‘No.’

‘Well,’ he said, face falling, ‘how about that? I’ll make a note.’

He opened Dave’s trip ledger and made a note. Only it wasn’t a note, it was a black cross. Once this was done, he hastily shut the book and drew in a deep breath.

‘An artefact from a previous life,’ he muttered, ‘a lost memory bubbling to the surface. But a memory without a functioning mind to give it relevance and context is no more than random words on a scrap of paper. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s really important to agree, you know.’

He looked at me with a pained expression on his face.

‘I agree.’

‘Excellent,’ he said with a palpable sense of relief. ‘You can retrieve your weapon on the way out. Drop in again to see us real soon, and don’t forget about the Scrabble. Wincarnis, most mornings.’

I thanked him and made my way to the exit. I looked behind me and noticed that he was removing his picture from the ‘Employee of the Week’ panel. I was only really happy once I was safely out of the complex.