Going Postal полностью

‘Well done, well done,’ said Moist. ‘Now, stick right behind me, okay?’

‘What about Mr Tiddles, Mr Lipwig?’ said Stanley, suddenly looking worried. Somewhere outside in the hall there was a crash, and the crackle of the fire grew distinctly louder.

‘Who? Mr Tidd— the cat? To hell with—’ Moist stopped, and readjusted his mouth. ‘He’ll be outside, you can bet on it, eating a toasted rat and grinning. Come on, will you?’

‘But he’s the Post Office cat!’ said Stanley. ‘He’s never been outside!’

I’ll bet he has now, thought Moist. But there was that edge in the boy’s voice again.

‘Let’s get Mr Groat out of here, okay,’ he said, easing his way through the door with the old man in his arms, ‘and then I’ll come back for Tidd—’

A burning beam dropped on to the floor halfway across the hall, and sent sparks and burning envelopes spiralling upwards into the main blaze. It roared, a wall of flame, a fiery waterfall in reverse, up through the other floors and out through the roof. It thundered. It was fire let loose and making the most of it.

Part of Moist von Lipwig was happy to let it happen. But a new and troublesome part was thinking: I was making it work. It was all moving forward. The stamps were really working. It was as good as being a criminal without the crime. It had been fun .

‘Come on , Stanley!’ Moist snapped, turning away from the horrible sight and the fascinating thought. The boy followed, reluctantly, calling for the damn cat all the way to the door.

The air outside struck like a knife, but there was a round of applause from the crowd and then a flash of light that Moist had come to associate with eventual trouble.

‘Good eefning, Mr Lipvig!’ said the cheery voice of Otto Chriek. ‘My vord, if ve vant news, all ve have to do is follow you!’

Moist ignored him and shouldered his way to Miss Dearheart who, he noticed, was not beside herself with worry.

‘Is there a hospice in this city?’ he said. ‘A decent doctor, even?’

‘There’s the Lady Sybil Free Hospital,’ said Miss Dearheart.

‘Is it any good?’

‘Some people don’t die.’

‘That good, eh? Get him there right now! I’ve got to go back in for the cat!’

‘You are going to go back in there for a cat ?’

‘It’s Mr Tiddles,’ said Stanley primly. ‘He was born in the Post Office.’

‘Best not to argue,’ said Moist, turning to go. ‘See to Mr Groat, will you?’

Miss Dearheart looked down at the old man’s bloodstained shirt. ‘But it looks as though some creature tried to—’ she began.

‘Something fell on him ,’ said Moist shortly.

‘That couldn’t cause—’

‘Something fell on him’, said Moist. ‘That’s what happened.’

She looked at his face. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Something fell on him. Something with big claws.’

‘No, a joist with lots of nails in it, something like that. Anyone can see that.’

‘That’s what happened, was it?’ said Miss Dearheart.

‘That’s exactly what happened,’ said Moist, and strode away before there were any more questions.

No point in getting the Watch involved in this, he thought, hurrying towards the doors. They’ll clump around and there won’t be any answers for them and in my experience watchmen always like to arrest somebody . What makes you think it was Reacher Gilt, Mr… Lipwig, wasn’t it? Oh, you could tell , could you? That’s a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. You’ve got a very familiar face, Mr Lipwig. Where are you from?

No, there was no point in getting friendly with the Watch. They might get in the way.

An upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; Moist ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. As for Tiddles… well, he had to find the damn cat. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fun any more. If he didn’t risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn’t be able to carry on being him.

Had he just thought that?

Oh, gods. He’d lost it . He’d never been sure how he’d got it, but it had gone. That’s what happened if you took wages. And hadn’t his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadn’t, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have done.

The vision of Mr Groat’s chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. It looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. But that didn’t sound like a vampire. They weren’t messy like that. It was a waste of good food. Nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. It had splintered nicely. And the good thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires.

More ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. The main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared.