Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [36]
The nature of the night changed, but the nature of The Beast remained the same.
He reached into the ragged pocket and touched the badge again.
In the darkness where lamps were few and far between, Vimes knocked on a door. A light was burning in one of the lower windows, so Lawn was presumably still awake.
After a while, a very small panel slid back, and he heard a voice say: “Oh…it’s you.”
There was a pause, followed by the sound of bolts being released.
The doctor opened the door. In one hand he held a very long syringe. Vimes found his gaze inexorably drawn to it. A bead of something purple dripped off the end and splashed onto the floor.
“What would you have done, inject me to death?” he said.
“This?” Lawn looked at the instrument as if unaware that he’d been holding it. “Oh…just sorting out a little problem for someone. Patients turn up at all hours.”
“I’ll bet they do. Er…Rosie said you had a spare room,” said Vimes. “I can pay,” he added quickly. “I’ve got a job. Five dollars a month? I won’t be needing it for long.”
“Upstairs on the left,” said Lawn, nodding. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
“I’m not a criminal madman,” said Vimes. He wondered why he said it, and then wondered who he was trying to reassure.
“Never mind, you’ll soon fit in,” said Lawn. There was a whimper from the door leading to the surgery.
“The bed’s not aired but I doubt that you’ll care,” he said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me…”
It wasn’t aired, and Vimes didn’t care. He didn’t even remember getting into it.
He woke up once, in darkness and panic, and heard the sound of the big black wagon rattling down the street. And then it just, quite seamlessly, became part of the nightmare.
At ten o’clock in the morning Vimes found a cold cup of tea by his bed, and a pile of clothes and armor on the floor outside the door. He drank the tea while he inspected the pile.
He’d read Snouty right. The man survived because he was a weathercock and kept an eye on which way the wind was blowing, and right now the wind was blowing due Vimes. He’d even included fresh socks and drawers, which hadn’t been in the specifications. It was a thoughtful touch. They probably hadn’t been paid for, of course. They had been “obtained.” This was the old Night Watch.
But, glory be, the breathy little crawler had scrounged something else, too. The three stripes for a sergeant had a little gold crown above them. Vimes instinctively disliked crowns, but this was one he was prepared to treasure.
He went downstairs, doing up his belt, and bumped into Lawn coming out of his surgery, wiping his hands on a cloth. The doctor smiled absently, then focused on the uniform. The smile did not so much fade as drain.
“Shocked?” said Vimes.
“Surprised,” said the doctor. “Rosie won’t be, I expect. I don’t do anything illegal, you know.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to fear,” said Vimes.
“Really? That proves you’re not from round here,” said Lawn. “Want some breakfast? There’s kidneys.” This time it was Vimes’s smile that drained. “Lamb,” the doctor added.
In the tiny kitchen he prized the lid off a tall stone jar and pulled out a can. Vapor poured off it.
“Ice,” he said. “Get it from over the road. Keeps food fresh.”
Vimes’s brow wrinkled. “Over the road? You mean the mortuary?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not been used,” said Lawn, putting a pan on the stove. “Mr. Garnish drops off a lump a few times a week, in payment for being cured of a rather similar medical condition.”
“But mostly you work for the ladies of, shall we say, negotiable affection?” said Vimes. Lawn gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking, but Vimes’s expression hadn’t changed.
“Not just them,” he said. “There are others.”
“People who come in by the back door,” said Vimes, looking around the little room. “People who for one reason or another don’t want to go to the…better known doctors?”
“Or can’t afford them,