Terry Pratchett - Jingo

“Why'n't we going home, Dad?” said his son. “You said this place gives you the willies.”

“All right, but they're Ankh-Morpork willies, see? And no foreigner's going to get his hands on them.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, lad?”

“Who was Mr Hong?”

“How should I know?”

“Only, when we was all heading back for the boats one of the other men said, ‘We all know what happened to Mr Hong when he opened the Three Jolly Luck Take-Away Fish Bar on the site of the old fish-god temple in Dagon Street on the night of the full moon, don't we…?’ Well, I don't know.”

“Ah…” Solid Jackson hesitated. Still, Les was a big lad now…

“He… closed up and left in a bit of a hurry, lad. So quick he had to leave some things behind.”

“Like what?”

“If you must know… half an earhole and one kidney.”

“Cool!”

The boat rocked, and wood splintered. Jackson jerked the cover up. Spray washed over him. Somewhere close in the wet darkness a voice shouted: “Why you not carrying lights, you second cousin of a jackal?”

Jackson pulled out the lantern and held it up.

“What're you doing in Ankh-Morpork territorial waters, you camel-eating devil?”

“These waters belong to us!”

“We were here first!”

“Yeah? We were here first!”

“We were here first first !”

“You damaged my boat! That's piracy , that is!”

There were other shouts around them. In the darkness the two flotillas had collided. Bowsprits tore away rigging. Hulls boomed. The controlled panic that is normal sailing became the frantic panic composed of darkness, spray and too much rigging coming unrigged.

At times like this the ancient traditions of the sea that unite all mariners should come to the fore and see them combine in the face of their common foe, the hungry and relentless ocean.

However, at this point Mr Arif hit Mr Jackson over the head with an oar.

“Huh? Wuh?”

Vimes opened the only eye that appeared to respond. A horrible sight met it.

… I read him his rites, whereupon, he said up, yours copper. Sgnt Detritus then, cautioned him, upon which he said, ouch …

There may be a lot of things I'm not good at, thought Vimes, but at least I don't treat tile punctuation of a sentence like a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey…

He rolled his head away from Carrot's fractured grammar. The pile of paper shifted under him.

Vimes's desk was becoming famous. Once there were piles, but they had slipped as piles do, forming this dense compacted layer that was now turning into something like peat. It was said there were plates and unfinished meals somewhere down there. No one wanted to check. Some people said they'd heard movement.

There was a genteel cough. Vimes rolled his head again and looked up into the big pink face of Willikins, Lady Sybil's butler. His butler too, technically, although Vimes hated to think of him like that.

“I think we had better proceed with alacrity, Sir Samuel. I have brought your dress uniform, and your shaving things are by the basin.”

“What? What?”

“You are due at the University in half an hour. Lady Sybil has vouchsafed to me that if you are not there she will utilize your intestines for hosiery accessories, sir.”

“Was she smiling?” said Vimes, staggering to his feet and making his way to the steaming basin on the wash stand.

“Only slightly, sir.”

“Oh gods…”

“ Yes , sir.”

Vimes made an attempt at shaving while, behind him, Willikins brushed and polished. Outside, the city's clocks began to strike ten.

It must've been almost four when I sat down Vimes thought. I know I heard the shift change at eight, and then I had to sort out Nobby's expenses, that's advanced mathematics if ever there was some…

He tried to yawn and shave at the same time, which is never a good idea.

“Damn!”

“I shall fetch some tissue paper directly, sir,” said Willikins, without looking round. As Vimes dabbed at his chin, the butler went on: “I should like to take this opportunity to raise a matter of some import, sir…”

“Yes?” Vimes shared blearily at the red tights that seemed to be a major item of his dress uniform.

“Regretfully, I am afraid I must ask leave to give in my notice, sir. I wish to join the Colours.”

“Which colours are these, Willikins?” said Vimes, holding up a shirt with puffed sleeves. Then his brain caught up with his ears. “You want to become a soldier ?”

“They say Klatch needs to be taught a sharp lesson, sir. A Willikins has never been found wanting when his country calls. I thought that Lord Venturi's Heavy Infantry would do for me. They have a particularly attractive uniform of red and white, sir. With gold frogging.”

Vimes pulled his boots on. “You've had military experience, have you?”

“Oh, no, sir. But I am a quick learner, sir, and I believe I have some prowess with the carving knife.” The butler's face showed a patriotic alertness.

“Yes, sir,” said Willikins, buffing up the ceremonial helmet.

“And you're off to fight the screaming hordes in Klatch, are you?”

“If it should come to that, sir,” said Willikins. “I think this is adequately polished now, sir.”

“A very sandy place, so they say.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Willikins, adjusting the helmet under Vimes's chin.

“And rocky. Very rocky. Lots of rocks. Dusty, too.”

“Very parched in parts, sir, I believe you are correct.”

“And so into this land of sand-coloured dust and sand-coloured rocks and sand-coloured sand you, Willikins, will march with your expertise in cutlery and your red and white uniform?”

“With the gold frogging, sir.” Willikins thrust out his jaw. “Yes, sir. If the need arises.”

“You don't see anything wrong with this picture?”

“Sir?”

“Oh, never mind.” Vimes yawned. “Well, we shall miss you, Willikins.” Others may not, he thought. Especially if they have time for a second shot.

“Oh, Lord Venturi says it'll all be over by Hogswatch, sir.” {24} 24 “It'll all be over by Christmas” was said of the First World War by armchair strategists, in August 1914. Ironically, the phrase has become a popular reassurance: more recently, President Clinton promised the American public in 1996 that US troops in Bosnia would be “home for Christmas”.

“Really? I didn't know it had started.”

Vimes ran down the stairs and into a smell of curry.

“We saved you some, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “You was asleep when the lad brought it round.”

“It was Goriff's kid,” said Nobby, chasing a bit of rice around his tin plate. “Enough for half the shift.”

“The rewards of duty,” said Vimes, hurrying towards the door.

“Bread and mango pickle and everything,” said Colon happily. “I've always said old Goriff isn't that bad for a rag'ead.”

A pool of sizzling oil … Vimes stopped at the door. The family, huddling together … He took out his watch. It was twenty past ten. If he ran—

“Fred, could you just step up to my office?” he said. “It won't take a moment.”

“Right, sir.”

Vimes ushered the sergeant up the stairs and closed the door.

Nobby and the other watchmen strained to listen, but there was no sound except for a low murmuring which went on for some time.

The door opened again. Vimes came down the stairs.

“Nobby, come up to the University in five minutes, will you? I want to stay in touch and I'm damned if I'm taking a pigeon with this uniform on.”

“Right, sir.”