‘One moment I was curling up for sleep at Port Talbot,’ explained one, ‘and the next I’m wandering around the icy wastes of Sector Twelve, wrapped in gold Dralon curtains.’ One woke up on a slab about to be parted out, and another said that she had been, as far as she was aware, ‘asleep for five years, and in that time was looked after by my husband until he was drowned in a HotPot overheat. I knew nothing of this,’ she added, ‘until I came to be seated in a golf cart at HiberTech.’

There were many physical marks of their time walking: myriad scratches, frostbite, missing fingers and in some cases malnutrition or even wrongnutrition: a nightwalker who didn’t want to be named had two pounds of carpet underlay removed from their stomach, along with parts of a car tyre, seventeen buttons – all blue – and the partially digested skulls of three cats. But of psychological after-effects, there seemed to be mercifully few: almost all of the awakees described the experience as akin to hibernation, which is technically what it was, but with vague, half-forgotten dreams of what they might have been doing, and a lingering affection for raw tripe and undercooked pork.

The most notable awakee was the singing and dancing star Carmen Miranda who despite her advanced years, would go on to spearhead the campaign for a government inquiry into the potentially dangerous side effects of Morphenox.

‘Despite considerable research, we’ve absolutely no idea how and why this occurred,’ said The Notable Goodnight in a rare television appearance four weeks after the Awakening, ‘and although we may theorise that historically other nightwalkers may also have been potentially recoverable, we have no evidence one way or the other. Obviously, we are delighted by this unprecedented event, are currently conducting considerable research into the issue, will be cooperating fully with the inquiry and have withdrawn Morphenox from the marketplace.’

It was pretty much as expected, really.

The numbers were too great for HiberTech to hide what had happened. As it was, well-engineered corporate surprise, orchestrated bafflement, faux delight, suitable soul-searching and feigned contrition won the day. The story dominated the headlines at Springrise for almost a month before they moved on to more pressing matters, such as updated wastage targets, chilling new evidence for a planet-wide runaway climatic ‘snowball’ effect and, of course, the Albion’s Got Talent odds-on favourite: a pug dressed as a clown who can bark ‘The Lambeth Waltz’.

*   *   *

I met up with Toccata at the Wincarnis three days after Aurora was taken by the Gronk. She’d already tendered her resignation as both head of the Consul Service and HiberTech Security.

‘I can’t pretend to be two people for ever,’ she said, ‘and it’s impossible to hide the fact that I do now actually need to sleep.’

‘What’s that like?’ I asked.

‘It’s  . . . glorious.’