Going Postal полностью

‘Mrs Cake?’ Moist mumbled, and then thought: was it rain or snow? Or sleet? He heard movement and hunched over the heavy bag as the water drenched him and an over-enthusiastic bucket bounced off his head.

Rain, then. He straightened up just in time to feel biting coldness slither down the back of the neck, and nearly screamed.

‘That was ice cubes,’ Groat whispered. ‘Got ‘em from the mortuary but don’t you worry, sir, they was hardly used… best we can do for snow, this time of year. Sorry! Don’t you worry about a thing, sir!’

‘Let the Mail be tested!’ bellowed the all-commanding voice.

Groat’s hand plunged into the bag while Moist staggered in a circle, and he raised a letter triumphantly.

‘I, probationary Senior— Oh, excuse me just a tick, Worshipful Master… ’ Moist felt his head being pulled down to the level of Groat’s mouth, and the old man whispered: ‘Was that probationary or full Senior Postman, sir?’

‘What? Oh, full, yes, full!’ said Moist, as iced water filled his shoes. ‘Definitely!’

‘I, Senior Postman Groat, do declare the mail to be as dry as a bone, Worshipful Master!’ shouted Groat triumphantly.

This time the cracked voice of authority held a hint of gleeful menace.

‘Then let him… deliver it !

In the stifling gloom of the hood, Moist’s sense of danger barred the door and hid in the cellar. This was where the unseen chanters leaned forward. This was where it stopped being a game.

‘I haven’t actually written anything down, mark you,’ he began, swaying.

‘Careful now, careful,’ hissed Groat, ignoring him. ‘Nearly there! There’s a door right in front of you, there’s a letter box— Could he take a breather, Worshipful Master? He caught his head a nasty crack—’

‘A breather, Brother Groat? So’s you can give him another hint or two, maybe?’ said the presiding voice, with scorn.

‘Worshipful Master, the rituals says that the Unfranked Man is allowed a—’ Groat protested.

‘This Unfranked Man walketh alone! On his tod, Tolliver Groat! He doesn’t want to be a Junior Postman, oh no, nor even a Senior Postman, not him! He wants to achieve the rank of Postmaster all in one go! We’re not playing Postman’s Knock here, Junior Postman Groat! You talked us into this! We are not mucking about! He’s got to show he’s worth it!’

‘That’s Senior Postman Groat, thank you so very much!’ Groat yelled.

‘You ain’t a proper Senior Postman, Tolliver Groat, not if he fails the test!’

‘Yeah? And who says you’re Worshipful Master, George Aggy? You’re only Worshipful Master ‘cos you got first crack at the robes!’

The Worshipful Master’s voice become a little less commanding. ‘You’re a decent bloke, Tolliver, I’ll give you that, but all this stuff you spout about a real postmaster turning up one day and making it all better is just… silly! Look at this place, will you? It’s had its day. We all have. But if you’re going to be pig-headed, we’ll do it according to the book of rules!’

‘Right, then!’ said Groat.

‘Right, then!’ echoed the Worshipful Master.

A secret society of postmen , Moist thought. I mean, why ?

Groat sighed, and leaned closer. ‘There’s going to be a bloody row after we’re finished,’ he hissed to Moist. ‘Sorry about this, sir. Just post the letter. I believe in you, sir!’

He stepped back.

In the dark night of the hood, stunned and bleeding, Moist shuffled forward, arms outstretched. His hands found the door, and ran across it in a vain search for the slot. Eventually they found it a foot above the ground.

Okay, okay, ram a damn letter in there and get this stupid pantomime over with.

But it wasn’t a game. This wasn’t one of those events where everyone knew that old Harry just had to mouth the right words to be the latest member of the Loyal Order of Chair Stuffers. There were people out there taking it seriously .

Well, he just had to post a letter through a slot, didn’t he? How hard could that b— Hold on, hold on… wasn’t one of the men who’d led him down here missing the tips of his fingers on one hand?

Suddenly, Moist was angry. It even sheared through the pain from his chin. He didn’t have to do this! At least, he didn’t have to do it like this. It would be a poor lookout if he wasn’t a better player of les buggeures risibles than this bunch of old fools!

He straightened up, stifling a groan, and pulled off the hood. There was still darkness all around him, but it was punctuated by the glow from the doors of a dozen or so dark lanterns.

‘ ‘ere, ‘e’s taken the hood off!’ someone shouted.

‘The Unfranked Man may choose to remain in darkness,’ said Moist. ‘But the Postman loves the Light.’

He pitched the voice right. It was the key to a thousand frauds. You had to sound right, sound like you knew what you were doing, sound like you were in charge. And, while he’d spoken gibberish, it was authentic gibberish.

The door of a lantern opened a little wider and a plaintive voice said, ‘ ‘ere, I can’t find that in the book. Where’s he supposed to say that?’