Going Postal

were any more questions.
    No point in getting the Watch in this , he thought, hurrying toward the doors. They’ll clump around, and there won’t be any answers for them, and, in my experience, watchmen always like to arrest somebody. What makes you think it was Reacher Gilt, Mr.…Lipwig, wasn’t it? Oh, you could tell, could you? That’s a skill of yours, is it? Funny thing, we can tell sometimes, too. You’ve got a very familiar face, Mr. Lipwig. Where are you from?
    No, there was no point in getting friendly with the Watch. They might get in the way.
    An upper window exploded outwards, and flames licked along the edge of the roof; Moist ducked into the doorway as glass rained down. As for Tiddles…well…he had to find the damn cat. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be fun anymore. If he didn’t risk at least a tiny bit of life and a smidgen of limb, he just wouldn’t be able to carry on being him.
    Had he just thought that?
    Oh, gods. He’d lost it . He’d never been sure how he’d got it, but it was gone. That’s what happened if you took wages. And hadn’t his grandfather warned him to keep away from women as neurotic as a shaved monkey? Actually he hadn’t, his interest lying mainly with dogs and beer, but he should have.
    The vision of Mr. Groat’s chest kept bumping insistently against his imagination. It looked as though something with claws had taken a swipe at him, and only the thick uniform coat prevented him from being opened like a clam. But that didn’t sound like a vampire. They weren’t messy like that. It was a waste of good food.
    Nevertheless, he picked up a piece of smashed chair. It had splintered nicely. And the nice thing about a stake through the heart was that it also worked on non-vampires.
    More ceiling had come down in the hall, but he was able to dodge between the debris. The main staircase was at this end and completely untouched, although smoke lay on the floor like a carpet; at the other end of the hall, where the mountains of old mail had been, the blaze still roared.
    He couldn’t hear the letters anymore. Sorry , he thought. I did my best. It wasn’t my fault…
    What now? At least he could get his box out of his office. That couldn’t be allowed to burn. Some of those chemicals would be quite hard to replace.
    The office was full of smoke but he dragged the box out from under his desk and then spotted the golden suit on its hanger. He had to take it, didn’t he? Something like that couldn’t be allowed to burn. He could come back for the box, right? But the suit…the suit was necessary . There was no sign of Tiddles. He must have got out, yes? Didn’t cats leave sinking ships? Or was it rats? Wouldn’t the cats follow the rats? Anyway, smoke was coming up between the floorboards and drifting down from the upper floors, and this wasn’t the time to hang around. He’d looked everywhere sensible; there was no sense in being where a ton of burning paper could drop on your head.
    It was a good plan and it was only spoiled when he spotted the cat, down in the hall. It was watching him with interest.
    “Tiddles!” bellowed Moist. He wished he hadn’t. It was such a stupid name to shout in a burning building.
    The cat looked at him and trotted away. Cursing, Moist hurried after it and saw it disappear down into the cellars.
    Cats were bright, weren’t they? There was probably another way out…bound to be…
    Moist didn’t even look up when he heard the creaking of wood overhead, but ran forward and went down the steps five at a time. By the sound of it, a large amount of the entire building smashed into the floor just behind him, and sparks roared down the cellar passage, burning his neck.
    Well, there was no going back, at least. But cellars, now, they had trapdoors and coal shutes and things, didn’t they? And they were cool and safe and—
    —just the place where you’d go to lick your wounds after being smashed in the mouth with a sackful of pins, right?
    An imagination is a terrible thing to bring along.
    A vampire, she’d said. And Stanley had hit “a big bird” with a sackful of pins. Stanley the Vampire Slayer, with a bag of pins. You wouldn’t believe it unless you’d seen him in one of what Mr. Groat called his “Little Moments.”
    You probably couldn’t kill a vampire with pins…
    And after a thought like that is when you realize that however hard you try to look behind you, there’s a behind you, behind you, where you aren’t