Going Postal, Page 8

Page 8

 

  I noticed that one, said Moist. It has lots of pictures of young women in leather.

  Yes, sir. But, to be fair, theyre generally holding pins. So, then . . . its still Total Pins for you, is it? he added, as if giving a fool one last chance to repent of his folly. Yes, said Moist. Whats wrong with it?

  Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Dave scratched his stomach thoughtfully. Its just that the editor is a bit . . . a bit . . .

  A bit what? said Moist. Well, we think hes a bit weird about pins, to tell you the truth. Moist looked around the shop. Really? he said.

  Moist went to a nearby cafe and leafed through the magazine. One of the skills of his previous life had been an ability to pick up just enough about anything to sound like an expert, at least to nonexperts. Then he returned to the shop. Everyone had their levers. Often it was greed. Greed was a reliable old standby. Sometimes it was pride. That was Groats lever. He desperately wanted promotion; you could see it in his eyes. Find the lever, and then it was plain sailing. Stanley, now, Stanley . . . would be easy. Big Dave was examining a pin under a microscope when Moist returned to the shop. The rush hour for pin buying must have been nearly over, because there were only a few laggards ogling the pins under glass, or thumbing through the racks. Moist sidled over to the counter and coughed. Yes, sir? said Big Dave, looking up from his work. Back again, eh? They get to you, dont they? Seen anything you like?

  A packet of pre-perforated pin papers and a tenpenny lucky dip bag, please, said Moist loudly. The other customers looked up for a moment as Dave pulled the packets off their rack, and then looked down again. Moist leaned over the counter. I was wondering, he whispered hoarsely, if youd got anything a bit . . . you know . . . sharper? The big man gave him a carefully blank look. How dyou mean, sharper? he said. You know, said Moist. He cleared his throat. More . . . pointed. The doorbell jangled as the last of the customers, sated on pins for one day, stepped out. Dave watched them go and then turned his attention back to Moist. A bit of a connoisseur, are we, sir? he said, winking. A serious student, said Moist. Most of the stuff here, well . . .

  I dont touch nails, said Dave sharply. Wont have em in the shop! Ive got a reputation to think about! Little kids come in here, you know!

  Oh no! Strictly pins, thats me! said Moist hastily. Good, said Dave, relaxing. As it happens, I might have one or two items for the genuine collector. He nodded towards a beaded curtain at the back of the shop. Cant put everything on display, not with youngsters around, you know how it is . . . Moist followed him through the clashing curtain and into the crowded little room behind, where Dave, after looking around con-spiratorially, pulled a small black box off a shelf and flipped it open under Moists nose. Not something you find every day, eh? said Dave. Gosh, its a pin, thought Moist, but said Wow! in a tone of well-crafted genuine surprise. A few minutes later he stepped out of the shop, fighting an impulse to turn his collar up. That was the problem with certain kinds of insanity. They could strike at any time. After all, hed just spent AM$70 on a damn pin! He stared at the little packets in his hand and sighed. As he carefully put them in his jacket pocket, his hand touched something papery. Oh, yes. The S. W. A. L. K. letter. He was about to shove it back when his eye caught sight of the ancient street sign opposite: Lobbin Clout. And as his gaze moved down it also saw, over the first shop in the narrow street: NO. 1 A. PARKER & SONS GREENGROCERS

  HIGH CLASS FRUIT AND VEGETABLES Well, why not deliver it? Hah! He was the postmaster, wasnt he? What harm could it do? He slipped into the shop. A middle-aged man was introducing fresh carrots, or possibly carrots, into the life of a bulky woman with a big shopping bag and hairy warts. Mr Antimony Parker? said Moist urgently. Be with you in just one moment, sir, Im just— the man began. I just need to know if you are Mr Antimony Parker, thats all, said Moist. The woman turned to glare at the intruder, and Moist gave her a smile so winning that she blushed and wished just for a moment shed worn make-up today. Thats father, said the greengrocer. Hes out the back, tackling a difficult cabbage—

  This is his, said Moist. Postal delivery He put the envelope on the counter and walked quickly out of the shop. Shopkeeper and customer stared down at the pink envelope. S. W. A. L. K? said Mr Parker. Ooh, that takes me back, Mr Parker, said the woman. In my day we used to put that on our letters when we were courting. Didnt you? Sealed With A Loving Kiss. There was S. W. A. L. K. , and L. A. N. C. R. E. and . . . she lowered her voice and giggled, K. L. A. T. C. H. , of course. Remember?

  All that passed me by, Mrs Goodbody, said the greengrocer stiffly. And if it means young men are sending our dad pink envelopes with swalk on them, Im thankful for that. Modern times, eh? He turned and raised his voice. Father! Well, that was a good deed for the day, Moist thought. Or a deed, in any case. It looked as though Mr Parker had managed to acquire some sons, one way or another. Still, it was . . . odd to think of all those letters heaped in that old building. You could imagine them as little packets of history. Deliver them, and history went one way. But if you dropped them in the gap between the floorboards, it went the other. Ha. He shook his head. As if one tiny choice by someone unimportant could make that much difference! History had to be a bit tougher than that. It all sprang back eventually, didnt it? He was sure hed read something, somewhere. If it wasnt like that, no one would ever dare do anything. He stood in the little square where eight roads met, and chose to go home via Market Street. It was as good a way as any other. When he was sure that both Stanley and the golem were busy on the mail mountains, Mr Groat crept away through the labyrinth of corridors. Bundles of letters were stacked so high and tightly that it was all he could do to squeeze through, but at last he reached the shaft of the old hydraulic elevator, long disused. The shaft had been filled up with letters. However, the engineers ladder was still clear, and that at least went up to the roof. Of course, there was the fire escape outside, but that was outside, and Groat was not over-keen on going outside at the best of times. He inhabited the Post Office like a very small snail in a very large shell. He was used to gloom. Now, slowly and painfully, his legs shaking, he climbed up through the floors of mail and forced open the trapdoor at the top. He blinked and shuddered in the unfamiliar sunlight, and hauled himself out on to the flat roof. Hed never really liked doing this, but what else could he have done? Stanley ate like a bird and Groat mostly got by on tea and biscuits, but it all cost money, even if you went round the markets

  just as they closed up, and somewhere in the past, decades ago, the pay had stopped arriving. Groat had been too frightened to go up to the palace to find out why. He was afraid that if he asked for money hed be sacked. So hed taken to renting out the old pigeon loft. Where was the harm in that? All the pigeons had joined their feral brethren years ago, and a decent shed was not to be sneezed at in this city, even if it did whiff a bit. There was an outside fire escape and everything. It was a little palace compared to most lodgings. Besides, these lads didnt mind the smell, they said. They were pigeon fanciers. Groat wasnt sure what that entailed, except that they had to use a little clacks tower to fancy them properly. But they paid up, that was the important thing. He skirted the big rainwater tank for the defunct lift and sidled around the rooftops to the shed, where he knocked politely. Its me, lads. Just come about the rent, he said. The door was opened and he heard a snatch of conversation: . . . the linkages wont stand it for more than thirty seconds . . .

  Oh, Mr Groat, come on in, said the man who had opened the door. This was Mr Carlton, the one with the beard a dwarf would be proud of, no, two dwarfs would be proud of. He seemed more sensible than the other two, although this was not hard. Groat removed his hat. Come about the rent, sir, he repeated, peering around the man. Got a bit o news, too. Just thought Id better mention, lads, weve got a new postmaster. If you could be a bit careful for a while? A nods as good as a wink, eh?

  How longs this one going to last, then? said a man who was sitting on the floor, working on a big metal drum full of what, to
Mr Groat, appeared to be very complicated clockwork. Youll push him off the roof by Saturday, right?

  Now, now, Mr Winton, theres no call to make fun of me like that, said Groat nervously. Once hes been here a few weeks and got settled in Ill kind of . . . hint that youre here, all right? Pigeons getting on okay, are they? He peered around the loft. Only one pigeon was visible, hunched up high in a corner. Theyre out for exercise right now, said Winton. Ah, right, thatd be it, then, said Groat. Anyway, were a bit more interested in woodpeckers at the moment, said Winton, pulling a bent metal bar out of the drum. See, Alex? I told you, its bent. And two gears are stripped bare . . . “Woodpeckers? said Groat. There was a certain lowering of the temperature, as if hed said the wrong thing. Thats right, woodpeckers, said a third voice. Woodpeckers, Mr Emery? The third pigeon fancier always made Groat nervous. It was the way his eyes were always on the move, as if he was trying to see everything at once. And he was always holding a tube with smoke coming out of it, or another piece of machinery. They all seemed very interested in tubes and cogwheels, if it came to that. Oddly enough, Groat had never seen them holding a pigeon. He didnt know how pigeons were fancied, but hed assumed that it had to be close up. Yes, woodpeckers, said the man, while the tube in his hand changed colour from red to blue. Because . . . and here he appeared to stop and think for a moment, were seeing if they can be taught to . . . oh, yes, tap out the message when they get there, see? Much better than messenger pigeons.

  Why? said Groat. Mr Emery stared at the whole world for a moment. Because . . . they can deliver messages in the dark? he said.

  Well done, murmured the man dismantling the drum. Ah, could be a lifesaver, I can see that, said Groat. Cant see it beating the clacks, though!

  Thats what we want to find out, said Winton. But wed be very grateful if you didnt tell anyone about this, said Carlton quickly. Heres your three dollars, Mr Groat. We wouldnt want other people stealing our idea, you see.

  Lips are sealed, lads, said Groat. Dont you worry about it. You can rely on Groat. Carlton was holding the door open. We know we can. Goodbye, Mr Groat. Groat heard the door shut behind him as he walked back across the roof. Inside the shed, there seemed to be an argument starting; he heard someone say, What did you have to go and tell him that for? That was a bit hurtful, someone thinking that he couldnt be trusted. And, as he eased his way down the long ladder, Groat wondered if he ought to have pointed out that woodpeckers wouldnt fly in the dark. It was amazing that bright lads like them hadnt spotted this flaw. They were, he thought, a bit gullible. A hundred feet down and a quarter of a mile away as the woodpecker flies during daylight, Moist followed the path of destiny. Currently, it was leading him through a neighbourhood that was on the downside of whatever curve you hoped youd bought your property on the upside of. Graffiti and rubbish were everywhere here. They were everywhere in the city, if it came to that, but elsewhere the garbage was better quality rubbish and the graffiti were close to being correctly spelled. The whole area was waiting for something to happen, like a really bad fire. And then he saw it. It was one of those hopeless little shop fronts that house enterprises with a lifetime measured in days, like Giant Clearance Sale!!! of socks with two heels each, tights with three legs and shirts with one sleeve, four feet long. The window was boarded over, but just visible behind the graffiti above it were the words: The Golem Trust. Moist pushed open the door. Glass crunched under his feet. A voice said, Hands where I can see them, mister! He raised his hands cautiously, while peering into the gloom. There was definitely a crossbow being wielded by a dim figure. Such light as had managed to get round the boards glinted off the tip of the bolt. Oh, said the voice in the dark, as if mildly annoyed that there was no excuse to shoot anybody. All right, then. We had visitors last night.