Thud! - Terry Pratchett [112]
“Serves you right for drinking…vine,” said Angua maliciously.
“Oh ha ha,” said the vampire, from the shadows. “I’m perfectly fine with sarcastic pause ‘vine,’ thank you! What I shouldn’t have drunk was sticky drinks with names made up by people with less sense of humor than, uh, excuse me…oh, noooo…”
“Are you all right?” said Cheery.
“I’ve just thrown up a small, hilarious, paper umbrella…”
“Oh dear.”
“And a sparkler…”
“Is that you, Sergeant Angua?” said a voice in the gloom. A lantern was opened, and lit the approaching face of Constable Visit. As he approached, she could just make out the thick wad of pamphlets under his other arm.
“Hello, Washpot,” she said. “What’s up?”
“…looks like a twist of lemon…” said a damp voice from the shadows.
“Mister Vimes sent me to search the dens of iniquity and low places of sin for you,” said Visit.
“And the literature?” said Angua. “By the way, the words ‘nothing personal’ could have so easily been added to that last sentence.”
“Since I was having to tour the temples of vice, Sergeant, I thought I could do Om’s holy work at the same time,” said Visit, whose indefatigable evangelical zeal triumphed over all adversity.* Sometimes whole bars full of people would lie down on the floor with the lights out when they heard he was coming down the street.
There were sounds of retching from the darkness.
“ ‘Woe unto those who abuseth the vine,’ ” said Constable Visit. He caught the expression on Angua’s face and added “no offense meant.”
“We’ve been through all that,” moaned Sally.
“What does he want, Washpot?” said Angua.
“It’s about Koom Valley again. He wants you back at the Yard.”
“But we were stood down!” Sally complained.
“Sorry,” said Visit cheerfully, “I reckon you’ve been stood up again.”
“The story of my life,” said Cheery.
“Oh, well, I suppose we’d better go,” said Angua, trying to disguise her relief.
“When I say ‘the story of my life,’ obviously I don’t mean the whole story,” mumbled Cheery, apparently to herself, as she trailed behind them into a world blessedly without fun.
The Ramkins never threw anything away. There was something worrying about their attics, and it wasn’t just that they had a faint aroma of long-dead pigeons.
The Ramkins labeled things. Vimes have been into the big attics in Scoone Avenue to fetch down the rocking horse and the cot and a whole box of elderly but much-loved soft toys smelling of mothballs. Nothing that might ever be useful again was thrown away. It was carefully labeled and put in the attic.
Brushing aside cobwebs with one hand and holding up a lantern with the other, Sybil led the way past boxes of MEN’S BOOTS, VARIOUS; RISIBLE PUPPETS, STRING & GLOVE; MODEL THE-ATER AND SCENERY. Maybe that was the reason for their wealth: they had bought things that were built to last, and now they seldom had to buy anything at all. Except food, of course, and even then Vimes would not have been surprised to see boxes labeled APPLE CORES, VARIOUS, or LEFTOVERS, NEED EATING UP.*
“Ah, here we are,” said Sybil, lifting aside a bundle of fencing foils and lacrosse sticks. She pulled a long, thick tube out into the light.
“I didn’t color it in, of course,” she said as it was manhandled back to the stairs. “That would have taken forever.”
Getting the heavy bundle down to the canteen took some effort and a certain amount of shoving, but eventually it was lifted onto the table and the crackling scroll removed.
While Sir Reynold unrolled the big ten-foot squares and enthused, Vimes pulled out the small-scale copy that Sybil had created. It was just small enough to fit on the table; he weighed down one end with a crusted mug and put a saltcellar on the other.
Methodia’s notes made sad reading. Difficult reading, too, because a lot of them were half-burned, and in any case Rascal’s handwriting was what might have been achieved by a spider on a trampoline during an earthquake.
The man was clearly as mad as a spoon, writing notes that he wanted to keep secret