Jingo - Terry Pratchett [60]
All that arrived now were memories. He winced. Another memory turned up. He groaned. The sound of his badge bouncing on the table replayed itself. He swore.
He swung his legs off the covers and groped for the bedside table.
“Bingeley-bingeley beep!”
“Oh, no…All right, what’s the time?”
“One o’clock pee em! Hello, Insert Name Here!”
Vimes looked blearily at the Dis-organizer. One day, he knew, he really would have to try to understand the manual for the damn thing. Either that or drop it off a cliff.*
“What—” he began, and then groaned again. The twanging sound made by the unwound turban as it took his weight had just come back to haunt him.
“Sam?” The bedroom door was pushed open and Sybil came in carrying a cup.
“Yes, dear?”
“How do you feel?”
“I’ve got bruises on my brui—” Another memory crawled up from the pit of guilt. “Oh, good grief, did I really call him a long streak of—?”
“Yes,” said his wife. “Fred Colon came round this morning and told me all about it. And a very good description, I’d say. I went out with Ronnie Rust once. Bit of a cold fish.”
Another recollection burst like a ball of marsh gas in Vimes’s head.
“Did Fred tell you where he said Rust could put his badge?”
“Yes. Three times. It seems to be weighing on his mind. Anyway, knowing Ronnie, he’d have to use a hammer.”
Vimes had long ago got used to the fact that the aristocracy all seemed to know one another by their first name.
“And did Fred tell you anything else?” he said timidly.
“Yes. About the shop and the fire and everything. I’m proud of you.” She gave him a kiss.
“What do I do now?” he said.
“Drink your tea and have a wash and a shave.”
“I ought to go down to the Watch House and—”
“A shave! There’s hot water in the jug.”
When she had left he hauled himself upright and tottered into his bathroom. There was, indeed, a jug of hot water on the marble washstand.
He looked at the face in the mirror. Unfortunately, it was his. Perhaps if he shaved it first…? And then he could wash the bits that were left.
Fragments of the night before kept on respectfully drawing themselves to his attention. It was a shame about that guard, but sometimes you just couldn’t stand and argue—
He shouldn’t have done that with his badge. It wasn’t like the old days. He had responsibilities. He should’ve stayed on and made things just a little less—
No. That never worked.
He managed to get the lather on his face. The Riot Act! Good grief…He stropped his razor thoughtfully. Rust’s milky eyes stared out of his memory. Bastard! Men like that thought, they really thought, that the Watch was a kind of sheepdog, to nip at the heels of the flock, bark when spoken to and never, ever, bite the shepherd…
Oh yes. Vimes knew in his bones who the enemy was.
Except—
No badge, no Watch, no job…
Another memory arrived, late.
Lather still dripping down his shirt, he pulled Vetinari’s sealed letter out of his pocket and slit it open with the razor.
There was a blank sheet of paper inside. He turned it over, and there was nothing on the other side either. Mystified, he glanced at the envelope.
Sir Samuel Vimes, Knight.
Nice of him to be so precise about it, Vimes thought. What was the point of a message with no message? Some people might absentmindedly have slipped the wrong piece of paper in an envelope, but Vetinari wouldn’t. What was the point of sending him a note telling him he was a knight, for gods’ sake, he knew that embarrassing fact well enough—
Another little memory burst open as silently as a mouse passing wind in a hurricane.
Who’d said it? Any gentleman—
Vimes stared. Well, he was a gentleman, wasn’t he? It was official.
And then he didn’t shout, and he didn’t run out of the room. He finished shaving, had a wash and put on a change of underwear, very calmly.
Downstairs, Sybil had cooked him a meal. She wasn’t a very good cook. This was fine by Vimes, because he wasn’t a very good eater. After a lifetime of street meals his stomach wasn’t set up right. What it