Chris Patterson - Going Postal

Moist looked at the remains of the letters. The flood had washed the black slurry of their ashes into every corner.

All they wanted to do was be delivered, he thought. At a time like this, sitting on the sea bed for nine thousand years seemed quite attractive.

‘He was going to wait until the universe comes round again. Did you know that?'

‘You told me, yes,' said Moist.

There's no stink more sorrowful than the stink of wet, burnt paper, Moist thought. It means: the end.

‘Vetinari won't rebuild this place, you know,' Miss Dearheart went on. ‘Gilt will get people to make a fuss if he tries it. Waste of city funds. He's got friends. People who owe him money and favours. He's good at that sort of people.'

‘It was Gilt who had this place torched,' said Moist. ‘He was shocked to see me back in the restaurant. He thought I'd be here.'

‘You'll never be able to prove it.'

Probably not, Moist agreed, in the sour, smoke-addled hollow of his head. The Watch had turned up with more speed than Moist had found usual amongst city policemen. They had a werewolf with them. Oh, probably most people would have thought it was just a handsome dog, but grow up in Uberwald with a grandfather who bred dogs and you learned to spot the signs. This one had a collar, and snuffled around while the embers were still smoking, and found something extra to scent in the pall of steaming ashes.

They'd dug down, and there had been an awkward interview. Moist had handled it as well as he could manage, in the circumstances. The key point was never to tell the truth. Coppers never believed what people told them in any case, so there was no point in giving them extra work.

‘A winged skeleton?' Moist had said, with what surely sounded like genuine surprise.

‘Yes, sir. About the size of a man, but very... damaged. I could even say mangled. I wonder if you know anything about it?' This watchman was a captain. Moist hadn't been able to make him out. His face gave nothing away that he didn't want to let go of. Something about him suggested that he already knew the answers but was asking the questions for the look of the thing.

‘Perhaps it was an extra large pigeon? They're real pests in this building,' Moist had said.

‘I doubt it, sir. We believe it to have been a banshee, Mr Lipwig,' said the captain patiently. ‘They're very rare.'

‘I thought they just screamed on the rooftops of people who are going to die,' said Moist.

‘The civilized ones do, sir. The wild ones cut out the middle man. Your young man said he hit something?'

‘Stanley did say something about, oh, something flying around,' said Moist. ‘But I thought it was simply—'

‘—an extra large pigeon. I see. And you've no idea how the fire started? I know you use safety lamps in here.'

‘Probably spontaneous combustion in the letter piles, I'm afraid,' said Moist, who'd had time to think about this one.

‘No one has been behaving oddly?'

‘In the Post Office, captain, it's very hard to tell. Believe me.'

‘No threats made, sir? By anyone you may have upset, perhaps?'

‘None at all.'

The captain had sighed and put away his notebook.

‘I'll have a couple of men watching the building overnight, nevertheless,' he'd said. ‘Well done for saving the cat, sir. That was a big cheer you got when you came out. Just one thing, though, sir...'

‘Yes, captain?'

‘Why would a banshee - or possibly a giant pigeon - attack Mr Groat?'

And Moist thought: the hat...

‘I have no idea,' he said.

‘Yes, sir. I'm sure you haven't,' said the captain. ‘I'm sure you haven't. I'm Captain Ironfoundersson, sir, although most people call me Captain Carrot. Don't hesitate to contact me, sir, if anything occurs to you. We are here for your protection.'

And what would you have done against a banshee? Moist had thought. You suspect Gilt. Well done. But people like Gilt don't bother with the law. They never break it, they just use people who do. And you'll never find anything written down, anywhere.

Just before the captain had turned to go Moist was sure that the werewolf had winked at him.

Now, with the rain drifting in and hissing where the stones were still warm, Moist looked around at the fires. There were still plenty of them, where the golems had dumped the rubble. This being Ankh-Morpork, people of the night had risen like the mists and gathered around them for warmth.

This place would need a fortune spent on it. Well? He knew where to lay his hands on plenty of money, didn't he? He didn't have much use for it. It had only ever been a way of keeping score. But then this would all end, because it had belonged to Albert Spangler and the rest of them, not to an innocent postmaster.

He took off his golden hat and looked at it. An avatar, Pelc had said. The human embodiment of a god. But he wasn't a god, he was just a conman in a golden suit, and the con was over. Where was the angel now? Where were the gods when you needed them?

The gods could help.

The hat glinted in the firelight, and parts of Moist's brain sparkled. He didn't breathe as the thought emerged, in case it took fright, but it was so simple . And something that no honest man would ever have thought of...

‘What we need,' he said, ‘is...'

‘Is what?' said Miss Dearheart.

‘Is music!' declared Moist. He stood up and cupped his hands. ‘Hey, you people! Any banjo players out there? A fiddle, maybe? I'll give a one-dollar stamp, highly collectable, to anyone who can pick out a waltz tune. You know, one-two-three, one-two-three?'

‘Have you gone completely mad?' said Miss Dearheart. ‘You're clearly—'

She stopped, because a shabbily dressed man had tapped Moist on the shoulder.

‘I can play the banjo,' he said, ‘and my friend Humphrey here can blow the harmonica something cruel. The fee will be a dollar, sir. Coin, please, if it's all the same to you, on account of how I can't write and don't know anyone who can read.'

‘My lovely Miss Dearheart,' said Moist, smiling madly at her. ‘Do you have any other name? Some pet name or nickname, some delightful little diminutive you don't mind being called?'

‘Are you drunk?' she demanded.

‘Unfortunately, no,' said Moist. ‘But I'd like to be. Well, Miss Dearheart? I even rescued my best suit!'

She was taken aback, but an answer escaped before natural cynicism could bar the door. ‘My brother used to call me... er...'

‘Yes?'

‘Killer,' said Miss Dearheart. ‘But he meant it in a nice way. Don't you even think about using it.'

‘How about Spike?'

‘ Spike ? We-ell, I could live with Spike,' said Miss Dearheart. ‘So you will, too. But this is not the time for dancing—'

‘On the contrary, Spike,' said Moist, beaming in the firelight, ‘this is just the time. We'll dance, and then we'll get things cleaned up ready for opening time, get the mail delivery working again, order the rebuilding of the building and have everything back the way it was. Just watch me.'

‘You know, perhaps it is true that working for the Post Office drives people mad,' said Miss Dearheart. ‘Just where will you get the money to have this place rebuilt?'

‘The gods will provide,' said Moist. ‘Trust me on this.'

She peered at him. ‘You're serious?'

‘Deadly,' said Moist.

‘You're going to pray for money?'

‘Not exactly, Spike. They get thousands of prayers every day. I have other plans. We'll bring the Post Office back, Miss Dearheart. I don't have to think like a policeman, or a postman, or a clerk. I just have to do things my way. And then I'll bankrupt Reacher Gilt by the end of the week.'

Her mouth became a perfect O.