Early Riser

A remote farm in Lincolnshire

It was just getting light when I went downstairs. Reception was empty, and a glance at the lobby thermometer revealed that the building was three and a half degrees up on the previous evening. It was usual to add heat prior to a cold snap, but adding too much too early could trigger an awakening, a false dawn. Heat management was considered more an art than a science. I hoped Lloyd knew what he was doing.

I walked into the dining room. Of the thirty or so tables, only four had been laid, each in a separate corner of the room.

‘Good morning,’ said Lloyd, who had a waiter’s apron tied around his waist. ‘Kip tight?’

‘Like a dormule. Tell me, Mr Lloyd, who is in room 902?’

A flicker of consternation crossed his features but it was soon gone.

‘It’s currently empty. We’re not at full capacity, so much the pity.’

‘Has it been used recently?’

‘Not to my knowledge. But I have many duties, and nearly all of them take me away from the front desk.’

‘May I ask you something you can’t repeat?’ I asked, suddenly having an idea.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘I need extra food over and above Daily Requirements to bulk myself up. Would you know someone who might be able to assist, but with no questions asked?’

The porter nodded his head slowly.

‘Canned or powdered?’

‘Canned. Fruit, rice pudding, beans – that sort of thing.’

‘Risk and rarity quadruple the price tag,’ he said after a pause. ‘You’re not the only person hungry. Forty euros a can, ten per cent discount for twenty or more.’

It was ten times the Summer price, but I wasn’t in a position to dictate terms. I swiftly ordered a hundred cans, mixed contents. Thirty-six-hundred euros.

‘It may take a few days to arrange a wire,’ I said, pretending that I had the funds somewhere. I didn’t, of course. I barely had five hundred in cash. But it was a plan. Or rather, it was the start of a plan.

‘Listen,’ said Lloyd, ‘if you want to earn some food from me, I’ll pay four cans of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for every new guest you can recruit.’

‘Even winsomniacs?’

‘Especially winsomniacs. I can bill their stay to the Winter Asylum Office. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

He smiled and we shook on it.

‘While we’re speaking privately,’ continued the porter, lowering his voice and shifting his weight uneasily, ‘I know about her.’

My heart missed a beat. Porters could always be bought – it was part of their job, pretty much – but continually keeping the information about Birgitta quiet would cost several busloads more than I could ever afford.

‘How long have you known?’ I asked.

‘About half an hour.’

‘You’ve been up to the ninth?’

‘No, she came down here.’

‘She did?’ I said, looking around. ‘Where is she now? Did you put her in the basement?’

‘Look, I know it’s none of my business,’ he said, ‘but can I offer you some advice of a fatherly nature?’

I swallowed nervously, visions of a declaration of disgust followed by an impossibly large bribe looming in my mind.

‘Go on, then.’

‘You seem a sensible person, but you must be out of your tiny mind to be bundling with Aurora, especially when you said you wouldn’t. What will the Chief say when she finds out?’

I breathed a sigh of relief. Birgitta was, for the moment at least, safe.

‘From yesterday?’ I said, thinking he was referring to my lie. ‘This is old news.’

‘No, just now. I’ve been portering a while and I can recognise a jaunty step when I see one. She also told me to give you a double breakfast on her account and wasn’t being subtle, so I’m not sure she’s intending it to be a secret for long.’

‘Nothing happened,’ I said, ‘she just dropped round to see how I was.’

‘The head of HiberTech Security? Dropping round to see if a new Deputy is okay? C’mon, Charlie. It doesn’t sound very plausible.’

He was right – it didn’t. Aurora was playing me off against Toccata; perhaps forcing me to come and work for her – and pissing off her other self in the process.

‘It’s okay,’ said Lloyd, laying a friendly hand on my shoulder. ‘If this gets out – and it will, mark my words – it’s not through me.’

I sighed. Sister Zygotia had once told me that lies begat lies: ‘You start off by one small lie, then have to tell a larger one to cover that and before you know it, your whole life falls apart and there is nowhere to go but a downward spiral of self-loathing, despondency and despair.’

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.

But to no avail.

Within a few seconds they had vanished and Mrs Nesbit had arrived, wanting to know where the cylinder was. She was shouting now, demanding, coercing. Louder and louder until I was about to draw my Bambi and attack her, when someone else appeared.

‘Birgitta?’

She was right there in front of me, eternally unchanged, dressed in her dungarees and the man’s shirt, holding the brushes, hair carelessly tied up. She smiled, told me she loved me, and I, in return, told her I loved her too. There was a pause, the waves crashed on the beach, and there was a gurgle of a child’s laugh as the beach ball bounced past.

‘Charlie? Are you okay?’

I looked at Birgitta and she suddenly appeared older, more careworn, and in an instant she wasn’t Birgitta at all but Zsazsa, and I was back in the dining room with the Dormiselle staring at me. My hand was still gripped around the butt of the Bambi, my thumb on the safety but thankfully I hadn’t drawn the weapon – or worse. I had been seconds away from attacking an entirely imaginary foe. I carefully released my hold on the Bambi, palms damp with sweat.

‘Shit,’ I said, now knowing precisely what had taken Moody and Suzy. The blue Buick dream had swept over them, too, in a suffocating alternative reality, and they’d tried to kill the hectoring Mrs Nesbit, and been killed themselves. But I had a secret weapon: Birgitta. She’d just saved my life, and quite possibly Zsazsa’s as well.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Zsazsa again.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, the return from the event almost as rapid as the descent.

I took a drink of water and stared at Zsazsa.

‘So how did you know about Mrs Buckley and the remote farm in Lincolnshire?’

She cocked her head on one side and stared at me.

‘Information has a price, my young friend. Two thousand euros.’

We haggled for almost five minutes, and settled on eight hundred euros, a dozen Snickers, three Cornettos and a Favour. We shook hands on it, and she began.

‘It was when I was still a Mrs Nesbit, over thirty years ago. You’re too young to remember.’

‘True,’ I said, ‘but you’re still familiar.’

‘I’m glad of that. NesCorp Holdings gave a lot of funding to HiberTech in those days, so I often travelled over here for press junkets, announcing some new discovery or other. I was the face of Morphenox during its initial roll-out, and I was always treated very well.’

She looked around and lowered her voice.

‘On one of these trips Don Hector took me aside and asked if I would assist with some high-level research work. I said I would – you don’t turn down someone like Don Hector – so I signed reams and reams of non-disclosure contracts and they had me stand in a room. Lots of light, the air kind of alive with static – then they had me recite some of the usual Mrs Nesbit bullshit: products to buy, tips for the busy homemaker, how to balance your chores in the kitchen with wanting to be down the pub, advice on weight gain, that sort of stuff.’

‘So?’

‘Before we did all this, I’d been asked to do a sound check and I used the “remote farm in Lincolnshire” line as I always do. Ripple-dissolve thirty years on and Suzy Watson, Roscoe Smalls and Moody all had their dream with Mrs Nesbit saying the same thing – before the hectoring started in a voice that wasn’t mine.’

She stopped talking. I’d had exactly the same thing.

‘Did this high-level research project have a name?’

‘It was part of something called Dreamspace.’

Shamanic Bob had mentioned something by that name, but hadn’t gone into any detail.

‘What was Dreamspace meant to do?’

‘I’ve no idea, but the technician said I was going to be their first “Dream Avatar”, whatever that is. And that’s my lot. I’ll expect payment as soon as you have it.’

She stood up as Lloyd approached the table, thanked me for the coffee and moved back to her table.

The porter placed my scrambled eggs in front of me and then left. I tried the eggs. The low points were colour, taste and consistency, with warmth the only redeeming feature. True to Aurora’s demand, it was a double portion, which given the low quality of the food was not quite as good a deal as I’d hoped. But my mind, as usual, was on other matters. I reread the piece of paper Zsazsa had given me.

This was, I realised, the first piece of true evidence that there was a viral dream. But quite why it was featuring a line of dialogue from a decades-old sound test, I had no idea. I was still as much in the dark now as I was when I arrived – in fact, I was probably more confused.

‘Hey,’ came a voice close behind.