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  Once we had stuffed ourselves quite stupid and mopped up the oil and juices with bread rolls, we sat down to get ready for an equal volume of pudding in an hour or two, followed by biscuits and candy floss two hours after that. Anyone who hadn’t consumed at least five times their usual calorific intake might be deemed not taking the whole ‘bulk up’ issue seriously.

  We talked some more, catching up on news. What ex-poolers were up to, who had died, then a long procession of do-you-remember-whens that seemed to have become less shocking and more amusing with the passage of time: about Donna Trinket’s accident – always a perennial favourite – or when Betty Simcox was nearly buried alive during a prank that went wrong, or when Joplin set fire to herself in a prank that went about as well as anyone had expected – and then, as always, how Dai Powell vanished on his sixteenth birthday and returned on his twentieth, and no one knew where he’d been.

  ‘He still has no idea,’ said Lucy. ‘I asked him again only last week.’

  ‘Kidnapped into domestic service by Villains is my guess,’ said Megan, ‘but too ashamed to admit it.’

  After the jam roly-poly, apple crumble and bread-and-butter pudding had been consumed with about two gallons of custard,* Mother Fallopia gave a speech. It was the same old Fat Thursday stuff that we’d heard before, many times: about how we must all embrace the virtues of gluttony and sloth as we headed towards the Winter, and to remember those who had not survived hibernation last year through not being diligent about their weight, and to consider a career with the Sisterhood if female, and if male then to do one’s utmost to be a productive member of society and to honour the Princess Gwendolyn daily and remain loyal to Wales and the Northern Federation – and so on and so forth. She then announced her retirement due to a slackening of fertility, and proclaimed she would be putting the reins of St Granata’s firmly in Sister Placentia’s hands, which was met by half-hearted applause and, somewhere at the back, a groan.

  Sector Chief Winter Consul Logan then made a speech, about how the Sisterhood were more than doing their part to head off the spectre of Winter wastage, thanked Mother Fallopia for her numerous confinements and wise and committed leadership of St Granata’s, welcomed Sister Placentia to her new-found position of authority, then repeated much of what Mother Fallopia had said. Right at the end he related a short ditty that seemed, at the time, entirely random:

  To escort a likely lad from lower Llanboidy with collies and brollies from Chiswick while Krugers with Lugers take potshots at hotshots is enough to make mammoths with a gram’s worth of hammocks feel down with a clown from Manchester Town.

  We all looked at one another and shrugged, then dutifully applauded as Logan presented Mother Fallopia with her Silver Stork. That done, we returned to the table and the roofing-tile-sized after-dinner mints, cheeseboard, any leftovers on other people’s plates and finally the serving bowls themselves. Traditionally, Fat Thursday never resulted in any washing-up.

  Several other ex-poolers joined us and we settled down to talk, or at least, they talked, I listened, my mind still distracted. A cop who worked in Forensics told us about her job analysing splatter patterns of messy eating following illegal pantry incursion and food theft.

  ‘It’s always out of hunger so they eat on the spot,’ she told us, ‘and hunger eating is never tidy eating.’

  She told us about a Pantry Heist over at the Cary Grant Dormitorium. It was unguarded at the time, having been boarded up after a reactor shutdown, but stealing pantry was then, and still is now, an offence carrying the punishment of Frigicution. Most were blaming Villains, but the authorities decided it was the Campaign for Real Sleep wanting to retain enough pantry to mount an overwintering campaign.* No one with any sense believed them, and Kiki – RealSleep’s nominal head – denied the report as ‘utterly ludicrous’.

  ‘Some said it was the cops nicking stuff themselves in order to flush out Kiki into denying it,’ said someone, I forget who.

  ‘Who is Kiki anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘The head of RealSleep,’ said Megan.

  ‘I know that. Not the what, the who.’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ said Lucy with a shrug. ‘It’s not a person, it’s a position. Remove a Kiki and the Vice-Kiki takes over.’

  This was undoubtedly true, as much was run on the Hydra principle, from Royal Families to Winter Consuls to the military to staff at Mrs Nesbit Tearooms. Remove one and another would be waiting just behind. Irrespective, RealSleep had been quiet recently, but like the active-yet-currently-dormant volcano on Skye, no one was sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  I left them to their conversation and started to corral the children into tidying up and fetching out the board games and the hookahs as the gathering dusk brought darkness to the hall. Sister Placentia loved a raspberry hubble-bubble when playing Scrabble while Sister Fertizilia tended towards her non-aggressive version of chess where you couldn’t take any pieces. Zygotia liked nothing more than a noisy game of Hungry Hippos. Each to their own. But as I was passing Mother Fallopia’s office on an errand for Sister Placentia, I noticed a row of people sitting on the bench outside. I asked what was going on and Williams blinked owlishly at me and said that Logan was conducting open interviews for the Winter Consuls.

  ‘Open interviews? No preselection?’

  ‘Seems like it. He lost his Novice and needs a new one.’

  I thought for a moment. Or rather, I didn’t think for a moment. I just told Williams to budge up and then sat down on the bench, heart thumping, and for good reason: joining the Winter Service Industry was risky – little more than suicide, some said – but it did give one access to Morphenox.*

  ‘So when did you first consider a Winter career?’ asked Williams, who seemed chatty.

  ‘Oh, eight seconds ago,’ I replied.

  For the 99.99 per cent of the population who slept through, the Winter was an abstract concept. Go to sleep and wake up – hopefully – four months later.

  There in the Autumn, gone by the Spring.

  It’s a pain in the arse, this hibernation thing.

  Eat like a horse, sleep like a bear,

  Maybe live, maybe die – best not to care.

  Other than those who worked in the Transplant industry and had to brave the Winter, few people opted to face the cold, the vermin, the Villains, the loneliness, the Wintervolk. But with my utterly unrewarding house manager career, limited prospects and the rarity of untrained jobs with Morphenox rights attached, overwintering had suddenly become hugely attractive.

  ‘How about being a Winter Consul?’ asked Williams. ‘How long you wanted to be one of those?’

  ‘Oh, years and years.’

  In truth, given the risks and the usually over-rigorous selection process, never. I sat on the bench, trying to keep calm and wondering what I should say. Each interview took about ten minutes and to every applicant that emerged long-faced there was a torrent of questions from the remaining queue. All questions were met with a shrug, the news they’d been rejected, and no clue as to what Logan was actually looking for.

  After Williams went in with enthusiasm and emerged looking crushed, it was my turn.

  Testing time

  ‘ . . . Hibernational Insomnia or Winsomnia has many causes: some through an abnormality or trauma in the hypothalamus that denies part or full hibernation, others because of Hypnophobia or an inherited disposition towards calcification or muscle wastage. Most choose to be usefully employed during the Winter, but some, the so-called “undeserving awake”, prefer to coast through the Winter on the toil and pantry of others . . . ’

  – Gray’s Guide to the Physiology of Hibernation, XXIInd edition

  Mother Fallopia was with Logan in her study, a small, austere chamber that smelled of furniture polish, coffee and photocopier toner. The room had a large wooden desk in the centre, but otherwise comprised mostly
filing cabinets and pictures of infants on the walls. It was always unnerving being in here, and not just because of Mother Fallopia and her piercing ‘what-have-you-done-to-deserve-existence’ look: all the pictures were of the nameless children that didn’t make it past their first Winter, and the ones with names who didn’t make it past any subsequent. We couldn’t ever figure out if the images were for remembrance, an invitation for the sisters to breed better, or because Mother Fallopia just liked pictures of kids and didn’t care one way or another.

  ‘You have a message?’ asked Mother Fallopia.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I heard the Winter Consul interviews were open to all.’

  ‘You already have a job,’ said Mother in a voice like galvanised pipes, ‘you don’t need another, and believe me, you wouldn’t last ten minutes as a Consul.’

  I have to admit that I felt an overwhelming desire to apologise profusely and then sneak out, but to my credit, didn’t.

  ‘Charlie Worthing,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I’d like to be considered for the post.’

  ‘Let’s move on,’ said Mother, ‘we’re wasting time here.’

  ‘No, Prudence,’ said Logan, the first time I’d ever heard Mother Fallopia contradicted or someone use her first name, ‘we’ll see anyone who wants to be seen.’

  He turned to me.

  ‘The usual selection process is exhaustive,’ he explained, ‘but not perfect. I like to find the hidden gems the preselection process has missed. I’ve seen you about, Worthing, you one of mine?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m a . . . surrogacy that turned out wrong.’

  ‘On account of your head?’

  ‘Yes, on account of my head.* I was transferred to St Granata’s with half of the insurance payout. The rest went to my bios as compensation.’

  ‘Worthing is an insurance write-off,’ said Mother Fallopia, ‘and one that is still paying off our kindness.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Logan. ‘You were a write-off. Right now you’re a candidate for the Winter Consulship. Each on their merits.’

  I liked Logan instantly, and all of a sudden would do anything to work with him, Morphenox or not. He asked me if I saw myself being a career House Manager here at St Granata’s.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said, now sitting more upright in my chair and ignoring Fallopia’s hot gaze, ‘I recently applied to join the Winter Prudential.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Rejected.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘Interference . . . by a third party.’

  I looked at Mother Fallopia as I said it, and she looked away. Logan followed my gaze, and probably guessed what had happened.

  ‘Not necessarily an issue,’ he said. ‘Qualifications?’

  ‘I can read and write to level 4A,’ I said, ‘first aid trained, one hundred yards in 14.2, drive, swim and play the tuba.’

  ‘Tell Jack about your D minus in General Skills, Worthing,’ said Mother Fallopia, who had not yet given up on her efforts to torpedo my interview.

  ‘It was a D plus, actually,’ I said, then added: ‘Not that it makes much difference.’

  ‘I don’t rely so much on exam results,’ said Logan before I could go on. ‘I was bottom of the class myself. I’m actually after someone with a good memory.’

  This was more interesting.

  ‘I came second in the Swansea Town Memory Bee with six hundred and forty-eight random words memorised after only two readings,’ I said with a certain degree of pride. It was a record that was still the third highest in the town. Sister Zygotia wanted me to go to the South Wales regionals, but I’m not really that fond of people staring at me.

  ‘Did you know this?’ asked Logan, looking pointedly at Mother Fallopia.

  ‘It must have slipped my mind,’ she said, ‘and I never expected Worthing to be so utterly ungrateful as to apply.’

  Logan nodded and looked back at me.

  ‘I need a new Novice with a good memory to train up. Good career path. Exciting too. Lots of challenges. Bit of cash, extra pudding. Medium to high risk of death.’

  ‘What was the last bit again?’

  ‘Extra pudding.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Coffee and mints?’

  ‘I meant on your list.’

  ‘Oh – medium to high risk of death.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, ‘and how’s your last Novice doing?’

  ‘She’s doing pretty good.’

  ‘She’s not,’ said Mother Fallopia, arms folded, ‘she’s currently in an asylum, shouting at the walls.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Logan. ‘Ants or Lloyd-George or buttons or something.’

  ‘And the one before that?’

  It was Mother Fallopia who answered.

  ‘They returned her body but without the head.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Logan reflectively, ‘a little mean-spirited, I thought.’

  ‘Nightwalkers?’

  ‘Villains.’

  Villains generally lived out on the edge of the ice-fields and often raided nearby towns for pantry and domestic servants. They traded in mammoths as beasts of burden, and dabbled in the stock market, with moderate success. They had their own code of conduct based around ice and honour and good manners and afternoon tea, and would happily kill someone if they disagreed with them – but would often write an apologetic note to the next of kin afterwards. ‘Manners,’ they were known to say, ‘cost nothing.’

  ‘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.