I reversed out of the parking lot and drove down into the town square, past Howell Harris and the lorry still stuck fast on the bridge. Toccata stared at me the whole time, then reached out a hand and tweaked my bony forearm.

‘You’re very skinny,’ she said. ‘Did you do any dreaming on your four-week sojourn to the dark side?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘The one thing I loathe more than winsomniacs is dreamers. Feet on the ground, head out of the clouds. Agree?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I don’t like subordinates always agreeing,’ she said. ‘Sycophants have no place in my department. You’re to speak your mind when the opportunity calls for it.’

‘How will I know when that is?’

‘I shall inform you. Park over there.’

We’d arrived at the HiberTech facility, which looked a little cheerier in the daylight, but not by much.

We were buzzed in as before and Josh was still at the receptionist desk, only with four more ‘Employee of the Week’ pictures behind him. The golf-cart driver, Dave, I noted, had been replaced by another rewired nightwalker, this time a woman. Her hair had been given the buzzcut usually associated with any nightwalker who had been redeployed, and she blinked occasionally while she stared at the floor, but was otherwise utterly vacant.

Josh nodded a nervous greeting to us both and Toccata said she wanted to see Aurora.

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, now.’

‘I don’t think she’s in.’

‘Why don’t you check?’

‘Okay.’

Toccata went and sat on one of the benches while Josh picked up the phone.

‘Dave the driver deployed elsewhere?’ I said to Josh.

‘Simpler duties,’ he replied, ‘currently employed as a thermostat in F-Block. Recognise his replacement?’

It was only when Josh mentioned it I realised it was Mrs Tiffen. I took a step forward to greet her, but then stopped myself. She wouldn’t know who I was, and from the look of her, she had lost the ability to play the bouzouki, too. I think I preferred her when she could, no matter how annoying that might have been. I turned back to Josh, who was looking at me with a concerned expression on his face.

‘I don’t like it here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘What’s happening, what’s going to happen. With Project Lazarus, I mean.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Walls have ears,’ he said nervously. ‘But look, just supposing I knew someone who wanted to get in touch with RealSleep, would you be able to make contact?’

‘No,’ I said, wondering if this request was genuine, or part of a HiberTech plot to check me out, ‘and I’m not sure you should be asking.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, ‘but here’s something: if you can get out of Sector Twelve in any way, shape or form, then do it.’

‘That’s not particularly original advice.’