Page 88 of Going Postal (Discworld 33)

'No.'

'And why are you telling me?'

'Because, in this city, right now, you are the only person who would possibly believe I don't have a plan!' said Moist. 'I told Mr Groat and he just tapped the side of his nose, which is something you wouldn't want to watch, by the way, and said, “Of course you haven't, sir. Not you! Hohoho!”'

'And you just hoped something would turn up? What made you think it would?'

'It always has. The only way to get something to turn up when you need it is to need it to turn up.'

'And I'm supposed to help you how?'

'Your father built the Trunk!'

'Yes, but I didn't,' said the woman. 'I've never been up in the towers. I don't know any big secrets, except that it's always on the point of breaking down. And everyone knows that.'

'People who can't afford to lose are betting money on me! And the more I tell them they shouldn't, the more they bet!'

'Don't you think that's a bit silly of them?' said Miss Dearheart sweetly. Moist drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. 'All right,' he said, 'I can think of another good reason why you might help me. It's a little complicated, so I can only tell you if you promise to sit still and not make any sudden movements.'

'Why, do you believe I will?'

'Yes. I think that in a few seconds you'll try to kill me. I'd like you to promise not to.' She shrugged. 'This should be interesting.'

'Promise?' said Moist. 'All right. I hope it's going to be exciting.' Miss Dearheart flicked some ash off her cigarette. 'Go on.' Moist took a couple of calm breaths. This was it. The End. If you kept changing the way people saw the world, you ended up changing the way you saw yourself. 'I am the man who lost you that job at the bank. I forged those bills.' Miss Dearheart's expression didn't change, apart from a certain narrowing of the eyes. Then she

blew out a stream of smoke. 'I did promise, did I?' she said. 'Yes. Sorry.'

'Did I have my fingers crossed?'

'No. I was watching.'

'Hmm.' She stared reflectively at the glowing end of her cigarette. 'All right. You'd better tell me the rest of it.' He told her the rest of it. All of it. She quite liked the bit where he was hanged, and made him repeat it. Around them, the city happened. Between them, the ashtray filled up with ash. When he'd finished she stared at him for some time, through the smoke. 'I don't understand the bit where you give all your stolen money to the Post Office. Why did you do that?'

'I'm a bit hazy on that myself.'

'I mean, you're clearly a self-centred bastard, with the moral fibre of a, a—'

'—rat,' Moist suggested. '—a rat, thank you . . . but suddenly you're the darling of the big religions, the saviour of the Post Office, official snook-cocker to the rich and powerful, heroic horseman, all-round wonderful human being and, of course, you rescued a cat from a burning building. Two humans, too, but everyone knows the cat's the most important bit. Who are you trying to fool, Mr Lipwig?'

'Me, I think. I've fallen into good ways. I keep thinking I can give it up any time I like, but I don't. But I know if I couldn't give it up any time I liked, I wouldn't go on doing it. Er . . . there is another reason, too.'

'And that is—?'

'I'm not Reacher Gilt. That's sort of important. Some people might say there's not a lot of difference, but I can see it from where I stand and it's there. It's like a golem not being a hammer. Please? How can I beat the Grand Trunk?' Miss Dearheart stared through him until he felt very uncomfortable. Then she said, in a faraway voice: 'How well do you know the Post Office, Mr Lipwig? The building, I mean.'

'I saw most of it before it burned down.'

'But you never went on to the roof?'

'No. I couldn't find a way up. The upper floors were stuffed with letters when . . . I . . . tried . . .' Moist's voice trailed off. Miss Dearheart stubbed out her cigarette. 'Go up there tonight, Mr Lipwig. Get yourself a little bit closer to heaven. And then get down on your knees and pray. You know how to pray, don't you? You just put your hands together - and hope.' Moist got through the rest of the day somehow. There were postmastery things to do - Mr Spools to speak to, builders to shout at, the everlasting clearing up to oversee and new staff to hire. In the case of the staff, though, it was more ratifying the decisions of Mr Groat and Miss Maccalariat, but they seemed to know what they were doing. He just had to be there to make the occasional judgement, like: 'Do we embrace divertingly?' said Miss Maccalariat, appearing in front of his desk. There was a pregnant pause. It gave birth to a lot of little pauses, each one more deeply embarrassing than its parent. 'Not as far as I know,' was the best Moist could manage. 'Why do you ask?'

'A young lady wants to know. She said that's what they do at the Grand Trunk.'

'Ah. I suspect she means embrace diversity,' said Moist, recalling Gilt's speech to the Times. 'But we don't do that here because we don't know what it means. We'll employ anyone who can read and write and reach a letter box, Miss Maccalariat. I'll hire vampires if they're a member of the League of Temperance, trolls if they wipe their feet, and if there're any werewolves out there I'd love to hire postmen who can bite back. Anyone who can do the job, Miss Maccalariat. Our job is moving the mail. Morning, noon and night, we deliver. Was there anything else?' Now there was a glint in her eye. 'I don't have any difficulties with anyone who speaks up about what they are, Mr Lipwig, but I must protest about dwarfs. Mr Groat is hiring them.'

'Fine workers, Miss Maccalariat. Keen on the written word. Hardworking, too,' said Moist briskly. 'But they do not tell you what their— what they— which— if they're ladies or gentlemen dwarfs, Mr Lipwig.'

'Ah. This is going to be about the privies again?' said Moist, his heart sinking. 'I feel I am responsible for the moral welfare of the young people in my charge,' said Miss Maccalariat sternly. 'You are smiling, Postmaster, but I will not be funned with.'

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