Going Postal полностью

He couldn’t hear the letters any more. Sorry, he thought. I did my best. It wasn’t my fault…

What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. He didn’t want that to burn. Some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace.

The office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. He had to take it, didn’t he? Something like that couldn’t be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit… the suit was necessary . There was no sign of Tiddles. He must have got out, yes? Didn’t cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldn’t the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn’t the time to hang around. He’d looked everywhere sensible; there was no sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head.

It was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. It was watching him with interest.

‘Tiddles!’ bellowed Moist. He wished he hadn’t. It was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building.

The cat looked at him, and trotted away. Cursing, Moist hurried after it, and saw it disappear down into the cellars.

Cats were bright, weren’t they? There was probably another way out… bound to be…

Moist didn’t even look up when he heard the creaking of wood overhead, but ran forward and went down the steps five at a time. By the sound of it, a large amount of the entire building smashed on to the floor just behind him, and sparks roared down the cellar passage, burning his neck.

Well, there was no going back, at least. But cellars, now, they had trapdoors and coal shutes and things, didn’t they? And they were cool and safe and—

—just the place where you’d go to lick your wounds after being smashed in the mouth with a sackful of pins, right?

An imagination is a terrible thing to bring along.

A vampire, she’d said. And Stanley had hit ‘a big bird’ with a sackful of pins. Stanley the Vampire Slayer, with a bag of pins. You wouldn’t believe it, unless you’d seen him in one of what Mr Groat called his ‘little moments’.

You probably couldn’t kill a vampire with pins…

And after a thought like that is when you realize that however hard you try to look behind you, there’s a behind you, behind you, where you aren’t looking. Moist flung his back to the cold stone wall, and slithered along it until he ran out of wall and acquired a doorframe.

The faint blue glow of the Sorting Engine was just visible.

As Moist peered into the machine’s room, Tiddles was visible too. He was crouched under the engine.

‘That’s a very cat thing you’re doing there, Tiddles,’ said Moist, staring at the shadows. ‘Come to Uncle Moist. Please?’

He sighed, and hung the suit on an old letter rack, and crouched down. How were you supposed to pick up a cat? He’d never done it. Cats never figured in grandfather’s Lipwigzer kennels, except as an impromptu snack.

As his hand drew near Tiddles, the cat flattened its ears and hissed.

‘Do you want to cook down here?’ said Moist. ‘No claws, please.’

The cat began to growl, and Moist realized that it wasn’t looking directly at him.

‘Good Tiddles,’ he said, feeling the terror begin to rise. It was one of the prime rules of exploring in a hostile environment: do not bother about the cat. And, suddenly, the environment was a lot more hostile.

Another important rule was: don’t turn round slowly to look. It’s there all right. Not the cat. Damn the cat. It’s something else.

He stood upright and took a two-handed grip on the wooden stake. It’s right behind me, yes? he thought. Bloody well bloody right bloody behind me! Of course it is! How could things be otherwise?

The feeling of fear was almost the same as the feeling he got when, say, a mark was examining a glass diamond. Time slowed a little, every sense was heightened, and there was a taste of copper in his mouth.

Don’t turn round slowly. Turn round fast.

He spun, screamed and thrust. The stake met resistance, which yielded only slightly.

A long pale face grinned at him in the blue light. It showed rows of pointy teeth.

‘Missed both my hearts,’ said Mr Gryle, spitting blood.

Moist jumped back as a thin clawed hand sliced through the air, but kept the stake in front of him, jabbing with it, holding the thing off…

Banshee, he thought. Oh, hell…

Only when he moved did Gryle’s leathery black cape swing aside briefly to show the skeletal figure beneath; it helped if you knew that the black leather was wing. It helped if you thought of banshees as the only humanoid race that had evolved the ability to fly, in some lush jungle somewhere where they’d hunted flying squirrels. It didn’t help, much, if you knew why the story had grown up that hearing the scream of the banshee meant that you were going to die.

It meant that the banshee was tracking you. No good looking behind you. It was overhead.