Chris Patterson - Going Postal

‘Magnificent,' he breathed, all terrors fled. ‘Clean as a new pin! I have a place ready and waiting for this in my pin folder, sir!'

‘Yes, I thought you might.'

His head was all over the wall...

Somewhere there was a locked door, and Moist didn't have the key. Four of his predecessors had predeceased in this very building. And there was no escape . Being Postmaster General was a job for life - one way or the other. That was why Vetinari had put him here. He needed a man who couldn't walk away, and who was incidentally completely expendable. It didn't matter if Moist von Lipwig died. He was already dead.

And then he tried not to think about Mr Pump.

How many other golems had worked their way to freedom in the service of the city? Had there been a Mr Saw, fresh from a hundred years in a pit of sawdust? Or Mr Shovel? Mr Axe, maybe?

And had there been one here when the last poor guy had found the key to the locked door, or a good lockpick, and was about to open it when behind him someone called maybe Mr Hammer, yes, oh gods, yes , raised his fist for one sudden, terminal blow?

No one had been near him? But they weren't people, were they... they were tools. It'd be an industrial accident.

His head was all over the wall...

I'm going to find out about this. I have to, otherwise it'll lie in wait for me. And everyone will tell me lies. But I am the fibbermeister.

‘Hmm?' he said, aware that he'd missed something.

‘I said, could I go and put this in my collection, Postmaster?' said Stanley.

‘What? Oh. Yes. Fine. Yes. Give it a really good polish, too.'

As the boy gangled off to his end of the locker room, and he did gangle, Moist caught Groat looking at him shrewdly.

‘Well done, Mr Lipwig,' he said. ‘Well done.'

‘Thank you, Mr Groat.'

‘Good eyesight you've got there,' the old man went on.

‘Well, the light was shining off it—'

‘Nah, I meant to see cobbles in Market Street, it being all brick-paving up there.'

Moist returned his blank stare with one even blanker. ‘Bricks, cobbles, who cares?' he said.

‘Yeah, right. Not important, really,' said Groat.

‘And now,' said Moist, feeling the need for some fresh air, ‘there's a little errand I have to run. I'd like you to come with me, Mr Groat. Can you find a crowbar anywhere? Bring it, please. And I'll need you, too, Mr Pump.'

Werewolves and golems, golems and werewolves, Moist thought. I'm stuck here. I might as well take it seriously.

I will show them a sign.

‘There's a little habit I have,' said Moist, as he led the way through the streets. ‘It's to do with signs.'

‘Signs, sir?' said Groat, trying to keep close to the walls.

‘Yes, Junior Postman Groat, signs,' said Moist, noticing the way the man winced at ‘Junior'. ‘Particularly signs with missing letters. When I see one, I automatically read what the missing letters say.'

‘And how can you do that, sir, when they're missing?' said Groat.

Ah, so there's a clue as to why you're still sitting in a run-down old building making tea from rocks and weeds all day, Moist thought. Aloud he said: ‘It's a knack. Now, I could be wrong, of course, but— Ah, we turn left here...'

This was quite a busy street, and the shop was in front of them. It was everything that Moist had hoped.

‘Voila,' he said and, remembering his audience, he added: ‘That is to say, there we have it.'

‘It's a barber's shop,' said Groat uncertainly. ‘For ladies.'

‘Ah, you're a man of the world, Tolliver, there's no fooling you,' said Moist. And the name over the window, in those large, blue-green letters, is... ?'

‘Hugos,' said Groat. ‘And?'

‘Yes, Hugo's,' said Moist. ‘No apostrophe present in fact, and the reason for this is... you could work with me a little here, perhaps... ?'

‘Er...' Groat stared frantically at the letters, defying them to reveal their meaning.

‘Close enough,' said Moist. ‘There is no apostrophe there because there was and is no apostrophe in the uplifting slogan that adorns our beloved Post Office, Mr Groat.' He waited for light to dawn. ‘Those big metal letters were stolen from our facade, Mr Groat. I mean, the front of the building. They're the reason for Glom of Nit, Mr Groat.'

It took a little time for Mr Groat's mental sunrise to take place, but Moist was ready when it did.

‘No, no, no!' he said, grabbing the old man's greasy collar as he lurched forward, and almost pulling Groat off his feet. ‘That's not how we deal with this, is it?'

‘That's Post Office property! That's worse'n stealing, that is! That's treason!' Groat yelled.

‘Quite so,' said Moist. ‘Mr Pump, if you would just hold on to our friend here, I will go and... discuss the matter.' Moist handed over the furious Junior Postman and brushed himself off. He looked a bit rumpled but it would have to do.

‘What are you going to do, then?' said Groat.

Moist smiled his sunshine smile. ‘Something I'm good at, Mr Groat. I'm going to talk to people.'

He crossed the road and opened the shop door. The bell jangled.

Inside the hairdresser's shop was an array of little booths, and the air smelled sweet and cloying and, somehow, pink; right by the door was a little desk with a big open diary. There were lots of flowers around, and the young woman at the desk gave him a haughty look that was going to cost her employer a lot of money.

She waited for Moist to speak.

Moist put on a grave expression, leaned down and said in a voice that had all the characteristics of a whisper but also seemed to be able to carry quite a long way, ‘Can I see Mr Hugo, please? It is very important.'

‘On what business would that be?'

‘Well... it's a little delicate...' said Moist. He could see the tops of permed heads turning. ‘But you can tell him it's good news.'

‘Well, if it's good news...'

‘Tell him I think I can persuade Lord Vetinari that this can be settled without charges being brought. Probably,' said Moist, lowering his voice just enough to increase the curiosity of the customers while not so much as to be inaudible.

The woman stared at him in horror.

‘You can? Er...' She groped for an ornate speaking tube, but Moist took it gently from her hand, whistled expertly down it, lifted it to his ear and flashed her a smile.

‘Thank you,' he said. For what did not matter; smile, say the right kinds of words in the right kind of voice, and always, always radiate confidence like a supernova.

A voice in his ear, faint as a spider trapped in a matchbox, said: ‘ Scitich wabble nabnab ?'

‘Hugo?' said Moist. ‘It's good of you to make time for me. It's Moist, Moist von Lipwig. Postmaster General.' He glanced at the speaking tube. It disappeared into the ceiling. ‘So kind of you to assist us, Hugo. It's these missing letters. Five missing letters, to be exact.'

‘ Scrik? Shabadatwik? Scritch vit bottofix !'

‘Don't really carry that kind of thing, Hugo, but if you'd care to look out of your window you'll see my personal assistant, Mr Pump. He's standing on the other side of the street.'

And he's eight feet tall and carrying a huge crowbar, Moist added mentally. He winked at the lady sitting at the desk, who was watching him in a kind of awe. You had to keep people skills polished at all times.

He heard the muffled expletive through the floor. Via the speaking tube it became ‘ Vugrs nickbibble !'

‘Yes,' said Moist. ‘Perhaps I should come up and speak to you directly...'

Ten minutes later Moist crossed the road with care and smiled at his staff. ‘Mr Pump, if you would be so good as to step over there and pry out our letters, please?' he said. ‘Try not to damage anything. Mr Hugo has been very co-operative. And Tolliver, you've lived here a long time, haven't you? You'll know where to hire men with ropes, steeplejacks, that sort of thing? I want those letters back on our building by midday, okay?'