Truth

by Pratchett, Terry

  It had developed to such a degree that it now led a semi-independent life of its own, and often went to the theatre by itself, or read small volumes of poetry. Ron was outclassed by his Smell.

  Foul Ole Ron’s hands were thrust deeply into his pockets, but from one pocket issued a length of string, or rather a great many lengths of string tied into one length. The other end was attached to a small dog of the greyish persuasion. It was possibly a terrier. It walked with a limp and also in a kind of oblique fashion, as though it was trying to insinuate its way through the world. It walked like a dog who has long ago learned that the world contains more thrown boots than meaty bones. It walked like a dog that was prepared, at any moment, to run.

  It looked up at William with crusted eyes and said: ‘Woof.’

  William felt that he ought to stand up for mankind. ‘Sorry about the smell,’ he said. Then he stared at the dog.

  ‘What’s this smell you keep on about?’ said Gunilla. The rivets on his helmet were beginning to tarnish.

  ‘It, er, belongs to Mr … er … Ron,’ said William, still giving the dog a suspicious look. ‘People say it’s glandular.’

  He was sure he’d seen the dog before. It was always in the corner of the picture, as it were – ambling through the streets, or just sitting on a corner, watching the world go by.

  ‘What does he want?’ said Gunilla. ‘D’you think he wants us to print something?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said William. ‘He’s a sort of beggar. Only they won’t let him in the Beggars’ Guild any more.’

  ‘He isn’t saying anything.’

  ‘Well, usually he just stands there until people give him something to go away. Er … you’ve heard of things like the Welcome Wagon, where various neighbours and traders greet newcomers to an area?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, this is the dark side.’

  Foul Ole Ron nodded and held out a hand. ‘’s’right, Mister Push. Don’t try the blarney gobble on me, juggins, I told ’em, I ain’t slanging the gentry, bugrit. Millennium hand and shrimp. Dang.’

  ‘Woof.’

  William glared at the dog again.

  ‘Growl,’ it said.

  Gunilla scratched somewhere in the recesses of his beard.

  ‘One thing I already noticed about this here town,’ he said, ‘is that people’ll buy practically anything off a man in the street.’

  He picked up a handful of the news sheets, still damp from the press.

  ‘Can you understand me, mister?’ he said.

  ‘Bugrit.’

  Gunilla nudged William in the ribs. ‘Does that mean yes or no, d’you think?’

  ‘Probably yes.’

  ‘Okay. Well, see here now, if you sell these things at, oh, twenty pence each, you can keep—’

  ‘Hey, you can’t sell it that cheap,’ said William.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why? Because … because … because, well, anyone will be able to read it, that’s why!’

  ‘Good, ’cos that means anyone’ll be able to pay twenty pence,’ said Gunilla calmly. ‘There’s lots more poor folk than rich folk and it’s easier to get money out of ’em.’ He grimaced at Foul Ole Ron. ‘This may seem a strange question,’ he said, ‘but have you got any friends?’

  ‘I told ’em! I told ’em! Bugrem!’

  ‘Probably yes,’ said William. ‘He hangs out with a bunch of … er … unfortunates who live under one of the bridges. Well, not exactly “hangs out”. More “droops”.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Gunilla, waving the copy of the Times at Ron, ‘you can tell them that if they can sell these to people for twenty pence each, I’ll let you keep one nice shiny penny.’

  ‘Yeah? And you can put yer nice shiny penny where the sun don’t shine,’ said Ron.

  ‘Oh, so you—’ Gunilla began.

  William laid a hand on his arm. ‘Sorry, just a minute— What was that you said, Ron?’ he said.

  ‘Bugrit,’ said Foul Ole Ron.

  It had sounded like Ron’s voice and it had seemed to come from the general area of Ron’s face, it was just that it had demonstrated a coherence you didn’t often get.

  ‘You want more than a penny?’ said William carefully.

  ‘Got to be worth five pence a time,’ said Ron. More or less.

  For some reason William’s gaze was dragged down to the small grey dog. It returned it amiably and said, ‘Woof?’

  He looked back up again. ‘Are you all right, Foul Ole Ron?’ he said.

  ‘Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer,’ said Ron mysteriously.

  ‘All right … two pence,’ said Gunilla.

  ‘Four,’ Ron seemed to say. ‘But let’s not mess about, okay? One dollar per thirty?’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Goodmountain, who spat on his hand and would have held it out to seal the contract if William hadn’t gripped it urgently.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  William sighed. ‘Have you got any horribly disfiguring diseases?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘Oh.’ Gunilla lowered his hand. ‘You tell your friends to get round here right now, okay?’ he said. He turned to William.

  ‘Trustworthy, are they?’

  ‘Well … sort of,’ said William. ‘It’s probably not a good idea to leave paint thinners around.’

  Outside, Foul Ole Ron and his dog ambled down the street. And the strange thing was that a conversation was going on, even though there was technically only one person there.

  ‘See? I told you. You just let me do the talkin’, all right?’

  ‘Bugrit.’

  ‘Right. You stick with me and you won’t go far wrong.’

  ‘Bugrit.’

  ‘Really? Well, I s’pose that’ll have to do. Bark, bark.’

  Twelve people lived under the Misbegot Bridge and in a life of luxury, although luxury is not hard to achieve when you define it as something to eat at least once a day and especially when you have such a broad definition of ‘something to eat’. Technically they were beggars, although they seldom had to beg. Possibly they were thieves, although they only took what had been thrown away, usually by people hurrying to be out of their presence.

  Outsiders considered that the leader of the group was Coffin Henry, who would have been the city’s champion expectorator if anyone else had wanted the title. But the group had the true democracy of the voteless. There was Arnold Sideways, whose lack of legs only served to give him an extra advantage in any pub fight, where a man with good teeth at groin height had it all his own way. And if it wasn’t for the duck whose presence on his head he consistently denied, the Duck Man would have been viewed as well-spoken and educated and as sane as the next man. Unfortunately, the next man was Foul Ole Ron.

  The other eight people were Altogether Andrews.

  Altogether Andrews was one man with considerably more than one mind. In a rest state, when he had no particular problem to confront, there was no sign of this except a sort of background twitch and flicker as his features passed randomly under the control of, variously, Jossi, Lady Hermione, Little Sidney, Mr Viddle, Curly, the Judge and Tinker; there was also Burke, but the crew had only ever seen Burke once and never wanted to again, so the other seven personalities kept him buried. Nobody in the body answered to the name of Andrews. In the opinion of the Duck Man, who was probably the best in the crew at thinking in a straight line, Andrews had probably been some innocent and hospitable person of a psychic disposition who had simply been overwhelmed by the colonizing souls.

  Only among the gentle crew under the bridge could a consensus person like Andrews find an accommodating niche. They’d welcomed him, or them, to the fraternity around the smoky fire. Someone who wasn’t the same person for more than five minutes at a time could fit right in.

  One other thing that united the crew – although probably nothing could unite Altogether Andrews – was a readiness to bel
ieve that a dog could talk. The group around the smouldering fire believed they had heard a lot of things talk, such as walls. A dog was easy by comparison. Besides, they respected the fact that Gaspode had the sharpest mind of the lot and never drank anything that corroded the container.

  ‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ he said. ‘If you sell thirty of the things, you’ll get a dollar. A whole dollar. Got that?’

  ‘Bugrit.’

  ‘Quack.’

  ‘Haaargghhh … gak!’

  ‘How much is that in old boots?’

  Gaspode sighed. ‘No, Arnold. You can use the money to buy as many old—’

  There was a rumble from Altogether Andrews, and the rest of the crew went very still. When Altogether Andrews was quiet for a while you never knew who he was going to be.

  There was always the possibility that it would be Burke.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ said Altogether Andrews, in a rather hoarse treble.

  The crew relaxed. That sounded like Lady Hermione. She wasn’t a problem.

  ‘Yes … your ladyship?’ said Gaspode.

  ‘This wouldn’t be … work, would it?’

  The mention of the word sent the rest of the crew into a fugue of stress and bewildered panic.

  ‘Haaaruk … gak!’

  ‘Bugrit!’

  ‘Quack!’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Gaspode hurriedly. ‘It’s hardly work, is it? Just handing out stuff and takin’ money? Doesn’t sound like work to me.’

  ‘I ain’t working!’ shouted Coffin Henry. ‘I am socially inadequate in the whole area of doin’ anything!’

  ‘We do not work,’ said Arnold Sideways. ‘We is gentlemen of les-u-are.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Lady Hermione.

  ‘Gentlemen and ladies of les-u-are,’ said Arnold gallantly.

  ‘This is a very nasty winter. Extra money would certainly come in handy,’ said the Duck Man.

  ‘What for?’ said Arnold.

  ‘We could live like kings on a dollar a day, Arnold.’

  ‘What, you mean someone’d chop our heads off?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Someone’d climb up inside the privy with a redhot poker and—’

  ‘No! I meant—’

  ‘Someone’d drown us in a butt of wine?’

  ‘No, that’s dying like kings, Arnold.’

  ‘I shouldn’t reckon there’s a butt of wine big enough that you couldn’t drink your way out of it,’ muttered Gaspode. ‘So, what about it, masters? Oh, and mistress, o’ course. Shall I— shall Ron tell that lad we’re up for it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Gawwwark … pt!’

  ‘Bugrit!’

  They looked at Altogether Andrews. His lips moved, his face flickered. Then he held up five democratic fingers.

  ‘The ayes have it,’ said Gaspode.

  Mr Pin lit a cigar. Smoking was his one vice. At least, it was his only vice that he thought of as a vice. All the others were just job skills.

  Mr Tulip’s vices were also limitless, but he owned up to cheap aftershave because a man has to drink something. The drugs didn’t count, if only because the only time he’d ever got real ones was when they’d robbed a horse doctor and he’d taken a couple of big pills that had made every vein in his body stand out like a purple hosepipe.

  The pair were not thugs. At least they did not see themselves as thugs. Nor were they thieves. At least they never thought of themselves as thieves. They did not think of themselves as assasins. Assassins were posh and had rules. Pin and Tulip – the New Firm, as Mr Pin liked to refer to themselves – did not have rules.

  They thought of themselves as facilitators. They were men who made things happen, men who were going places.

  It has to be added that when one says ‘they thought’ it means ‘Mr Pin thought’. Mr Tulip used his head all the time, from a distance of about eight inches, but he was not, except in one or two unexpected areas, a man given much to using his brain. On the whole, he left Mr Pin to do the polysyllabic cogitation.

  Mr Pin, on the other hand, was not very good at sustained, mindless violence, and admired the fact that Mr Tulip had an apparently bottomless supply. When they had first met, and had recognized in each other the qualities that would make their partnership greater than the sum of its parts, he’d seen that Mr Tulip was not, as he appeared to the rest of the world, just another nutjob. Some negative qualities can reach a pitch of perfection that changes their very nature, and Mr Tulip had turned anger into an art.

  It was not anger at anything. It was just pure, platonic anger from somewhere in the reptilian depths of the soul, a fountain of never-ending red-hot grudge; Mr Tulip lived his life on that thin line most people occupy just before they haul off and hit someone repeatedly with a spanner. For Mr Tulip, anger was the ground state of being. Pin had occasionally wondered what had happened to the man to make him as angry as that, but to Tulip the past was another country with very, very well-guarded borders. Sometimes Mr Pin heard him screaming at night.

  It was quite hard to hire Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. You had to know the right people. To be more accurate, you had to know the wrong people, and you got to know them by hanging around a certain kind of bar and surviving, which was kind of a first test. The wrong people, of course, would not know Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. But they would know a man. And that man would, in a general sense, express the guarded opinion that he might know how to get in touch with men of a Pin-like or Tulipolitic disposition. He could not exactly recall much more than that at the moment, due to memory loss brought on by lack of money. Once cured, he might indicate in a general kind of way another address where you would meet, in a dark corner, a man who would tell you emphatically that he had never heard of anyone called Tulip or Pin. He would also ask where you would be at, say, nine o’clock tonight.

  And then you would meet Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. They would know you had money, they would know you had something on your mind and, if you had been really stupid, they now knew your address.

  And it had therefore come as a surprise to the New Firm that their latest client had come straight to them. This was worrying. It was also worrying that he was dead. Generally the New Firm had no problem with corpses, but they didn’t like them to speak.

  Mr Slant coughed. Mr Pin noticed that this created a small cloud of dust. For Mr Slant was a zombie.

  ‘I must reiterate,’ said Mr Slant, ‘that I am a mere facilitator in this matter—’

  ‘Just like us,’ said Mr Tulip.

  Mr Slant indicated with a look that he would never in a thousand years be just like Mr Tulip, but he said: ‘Quite so. My clients wished me to find some … experts. I found you. I gave you some sealed instructions. You have accepted the contract. And I understand that as a result of this you have made certain … arrangements. I do not know what those arrangements are. I will continue not to know what those arrangements are. My relationship with you is, as they say, on the long finger. Do you understand me?’

  ‘What —ing finger is that?’ said Mr Tulip. He was getting jittery in the presence of the dead lawyer.

  ‘We see each other only when necessary, we say as little as possible.’

  ‘I hate —ing zombies,’ said Mr Tulip. That morning he’d tried something he’d found in a box under the sink. If it cleaned drains, he’d reasoned, that meant it was chemical. Now he was getting strange messages from his large intestine.

  ‘I am sure the feeling is mutual,’ said Mr Slant.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying,’ said Mr Pin. ‘You’re saying that if this goes bad you’ve never seen us in your life—’

  ‘Ahem …’ Mr Slant coughed.

  ‘Your afterlife,’ Mr Pin corrected himself. ‘Okay. What about the money?’

  ‘As requested, thirty thousand dollars for special expenses will be included in the sum already agreed.’

  ‘In gems. Not cash.’

  ‘Of course. And my clients wo
uld hardly write you a cheque. It will be delivered tonight. And perhaps I should mention one other matter.’ His dry fingers shuffled through the dry papers in his dry briefcase, and he handed Mr Pin a folder.

  Mr Pin read it. He turned a few pages quickly.

  ‘You may show it to your monkey,’ said Mr Slant.

  Mr Pin managed to grab Mr Tulip’s arm before it reached the zombie’s head. Mr Slant did not even flinch.

  ‘He’s got the story of our lives, Mr Tulip!’

  ‘So? I can still rip his —ing stitched-on head right off!’

  ‘No, you cannot,’ said Mr Slant. ‘Your colleague will tell you why.’

  ‘Because our legal friend here will have made a lot of copies, won’t you, Mr Slant? And probably lodged them in all kinds of places in case he di— in case—’

  ‘… of accidents,’ said Mr Slant smoothly. ‘Well done. You have had an interesting career so far, gentlemen. You are quite young. Your talents have taken you a long way in a short time and given you quite a reputation in your chosen profession. While of course I have no idea about the task you are undertaking – no idea whatsoever, I must stress – I have no doubt that you will impress us all.’

  ‘Does he know about the contract in Quirm?’ said Mr Tulip.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Pin.

  ‘That stuff with the wire netting and the crabs and that —ing banker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the thing with the puppies and that kid?’

  ‘He does now,’ said Mr Pin. ‘He knows nearly everything. Very clever. You believe you know where the bodies are buried, Mr Slant?’

  ‘I’ve talked to one or two of them,’ said Mr Slant. ‘But it would appear that you have never committed a crime within Ankh-Morpork, otherwise of course I could not talk to you.’

  ‘Who says we’ve never committed a —ing crime in Ankh-Morpork?’ Mr Tulip demanded in an offended tone.