Making Money

Then he noticed the discreet little silver ladle pinned to her bosom, and that her earrings were two tiny fish slices. The holy symbols of Anoia, yes. He’d just been reading about her in the religious pages. All the rage these days, thanks to the help of young Spangler. Started out way down the ladder as the Goddess of Things That Get Stuck In Drawers, but the talk in the religious pages was that she was being tipped for Goddess of Lost Causes, a very profitable area, very profitable indeed for a man with a flexible approach but, and he sighed inwardly, it was not such a good idea to do business when the god in question was active, in case Anoia got angry and found a new use for a fish slice. Besides, he’d soon be able to put all that behind him. What a clever lad young Spangler had turned out to be! Smarmy little devil! This wasn’t going to be over quick, oh no. This was going to be a pension for life. And it’d be a long, long life, or else—

‘Is there anything more I can get you, reverend?’ said the woman anxiously.

‘My cup runneth over, shister,’ said Cribbins.

The woman’s anxious expression intensified. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I hope it hasn’t gone on the—’

Cribbins carefully put his hand over the cup. ‘I meant that I am more than shatisfied,’ he said, and he was. It was a bloody miracle, that’s what it was. If Om was going to hand them out like this, he might even start believing in Him.

And it got better the more you thought about it, Cribbins told himself, as the woman hurried away. How’d the kid done it? There must have been cronies. The hangman, for one, a couple of jailers …

Reflectively, he removed his false teeth with a twang, swilled them gently in the tea, patted them dry with his handkerchief and wrestled them back into his mouth a few seconds before footsteps told him the woman was returning. She was positively vibrating with genteel courage.

‘Excuse me, reverend, but can I ask a favour?’ she said, going pink.

‘Og orsk … ugger! Usht arg ogent—’ Cribbins turned his back, and against a chorus of snaps and twoings dragged the wretched dentures around the right way. Damned things! Why he’d ever bothered to lever them out of the old man’s mouth he’d never know.

‘I do beg your pardon, shister, a little dental mishap there …’ he murmured, turning back and dabbing at his mouth. ‘Pray continue.’

‘It’s funny you should say that, reverend,’ said the woman, her eyes bright with nervousness, ‘because I belong to a small group of ladies who run, well, a god of the month club. Er … that is, we pick a god and believe in him … or her, obviously, or it, although we draw the line at the ones with teeth and too many legs, er, and then we pray to them for a month and then we sit down and discuss it. Well, there’s so many, aren’t there? Thousands! We’ve not really considered Om, though, but if you would care to give us a little talk next Tuesday I’m sure we’ll be happy to give him a jolly good try!’

Springs pinged as Cribbins gave her a huge smile. ‘What is your name, shister?’ he asked.

‘Berenice,’ she said. ‘Berenice, er, Houser.’

Ah, no longer using the bastard’s name, very wise, thought Cribbins. ‘What a wonderful idea, Berenice,’ he said. ‘I would consider it a pleshure!’

She beamed.

‘There wouldn’t be any biscuits, would there, Berenice?’ Cribbins added.

Ms Houser blushed. ‘I believe I have some chocolate ones somewhere,’ she volunteered, as if letting him into a big secret.

‘May Anoia rattle your drawers, shister,’ said Cribbins to her retreating back.

Wonderful, he thought, as she bustled off, blushing and happy. He tucked his notebook into his jacket and sat back and listened to the ticking of the clock on the wall and the gentle snores of the beggars, who were the normal habitués of this office on a hot afternoon. All was peaceful, settled, organized, just like life ought to be.

It was going to be the gravy boat for him from this day forward.

If he was very, very careful.

Moist ran down the lengths of the vaults towards the brilliant light at the far end. There was a tableau of peacefulness. Hubert was standing in front of the Glooper, occasionally tapping a pipe. Igor was blowing some curious glass creation over his little forge and Mr Clamp, formerly known as Owlswick Jenkins, was sitting at his desk with a faraway look on his face.

Moist sensed the doom ahead. Something was wrong. It might not be even a particular thing, it was just a sheer platonic wrongness — and he did not like Mr Clamp’s expression at all.

Nevertheless, the human brain which survives by hoping from one second to another will always endeavour to put off the moment of truth. Moist approached the desk, rubbing his hands together. ‘How’s it going then, Owl— I mean Mr Clamp,’ he said. ‘Finished it yet, have we?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Clamp, a strange, mirthless little smile on his face. ‘Here it is.’