CHAPTER ONE

Michael starred up into the sky and blinked. It was going to be a really hot day. He was tempted to walk to Central Park and just sunbathe. Maybe see if he could find a book. Perhaps the News Stand would have a new paper.

He'd been here for eleven days now and he was settling into a reassuring morning routine.

1. Get up, do some sit ups and press ups, shower and dress.

2. Leave the hotel and walk a few blocks in any direction.

3. Find a diner or a cafe and have breakfast.

4. Let breakfast settle and plan the day in his notebook.

5. Find the News Stand and check for the latest Mockhattan Messenger.

The rest of the day was still a bewildering mess of exploration and curiosity, but at least the unease of the first few days had died away. He was beginning to develop a preference for Margarete's on West 51st between 9th and 10th. The trees lining the sidewalk made it more picturesque than the neighbouring streets. Margarete was a plump, fussy French woman with a broad grin and a rich accent. She'd split her time between the customers, doing her best to lift their spirits whilst her cook Claudette kept the food coming.

On Michael's second visit to their little cafe, he commented on the urban orchard outside much to the delight of the two women. Claudette served him his poached eggs, then wiped her hands on the tea towel tucked into the apron around her lean waist. "We close at 2pm, then we spend many afternoons tending to the trees!" she proclaimed in her loud Louisiana accent. "I'm glad someone else appreciates them."

By this point Michael was the last customer in the establishment, so the three of them sat down together and swapped stories of how they came to be here.

Margarete went first. Michael was still trying to work out the dynamic between her and Claudette. Both were forthright individuals, but Claudette always seemed happy to defer the French woman. It was more than just employer and employee chain of command. Claudette was genuinely happy to follow Margarete's lead. She leaned back in her chair, holding a glass of cold water to her temple and grinning as she listened to a tale she'd probably heard many, many times.

"I got here four summers ago." the owner began. She'd woken up in the New Yorker over on 8th. In the bathtub. The night before Margarette had gotten home from locking up the bar she managed, near the port at La Rochelle. She'd fallen asleep in the bath with a glass of Shiraz and a copy of Justine by the Marquis de Sade. Cold, wet and naked, she had stormed out of the room and demanded to speak to the manager.

"Poor Bobby, he was quite taken aback," she laughed. Her orientation papers had mentioned her previous employment, but Margarette had no desire to return to the late nights of bar work, so the Mayor's staff had found her this little cafe that she now adored. "I have swapped late nights for very early mornings, but I love it! After a few weeks of being here, the Mayor sent me Claudette and then we really started cooking with gas!" She winked at her cook. Claudette simply chuckled to herself, then both women look enquiringly at Michael.

"I'm relatively new," he began, then launched into a short concise explanation. They looked a little disappointed. "Sorry ladies, nothing exceptional here," he offered by way of an apology. Claudette pursed her lips, then broke the brief silence. "Then I guess it's my turn. I'm a River Person."

Michael had only heard of the River People the day before. Most people who found themselves in Mockhattan woke up in one of the four Grand Hotels. No one had ever found a way to leave again. A seemingly endless wall of fog surrounded the strange island city, less than a mile out into the bay. Any attempts to sail into it had been fruitless. The boat simply returned in the water on the opposite side of the city, drifting out of the mist with all of its occupants fast asleep.

Then, every once in a while, a new boat would appear carrying a new arrival or two, also unconscious. Claudette was one such individual. She had arrived in the last days of the same summer as Margarete. River People were relatively rare and a few of Mockhattan's religions and cults revered them. The black cook shook her head at Michael's gentle enquiries on such matters. "It's nonsense. Hotel or not, I still disappeared from my home and woke up here." Although she had to admit, she couldn't remember what had happened to her on her Last Night. Michael already knew this was common among the River People.

"I had orientation papers, same as everyone else, and I wound up here, cooking eggs for the good folk that pass by. I love my trees and I love my life here. Ain't nothing else I need." Claudette finished her glass of water, then picked up Michael's now picked clean plate and pottered back in the kitchen. For a moment he worried that he'd said the wrong thing. "And don't you be worrying that you've spoken out of turn," Claudette called over her shoulder. "'Cos you didn't. I've just got things to do."

Margarette grinned. "That's the longest she's spoken to anyone who isn't me in weeks. She likes you. You must pop in again soon, OK?" Before Michael could thank her, two more customers came in and Margarette set about fussing around them, getting them settled. Time to get on with his day. He left some money on the table, then set off to look for that paper.