Going Postal

and the mortar around it looked suspiciously strong and fresh.
    Just in front of it was a new spoon. It was shiny.
    As he studied it, he heard the clapping behind him. He turned his head, tendons twanging a little riff of agony, and saw several of the wardens watching him through the bars.
    “Well done , Mr. Spangler!” said one of them. “Ron here owes me five dollars! I told him you were a sticker! ‘He’s a sticker,’ I said!”
    “You set this up, did you, Mr. Wilkinson?” said Moist weakly, watching the glint of light on the spoon.
    “Oh, not us, sir. Lord Vetinari’s orders. He insists that all condemned prisoners should be offered the prospect of freedom.”
    “Freedom? But there’s a damn great stone through there!”
    “Yes, there is that, sir, yes, there is that,” said the warden. “It’s only the prospect , you see. Not actual free freedom as such. Hah, that’d be a bit daft, eh?”
    “I suppose so, yes,” said Moist. He didn’t say “you bastards.” The wardens had treated him quite civilly these past six weeks, and he made a point of getting on with people. He was very, very good at it. People skills were part of his stock-in-trade; they were nearly the whole of it.
    Besides, these people had big sticks. So, speaking carefully, he added: “Some people might consider this cruel, Mr. Wilkinson.”
    “Yes, sir, we asked him about that, sir, but he said no, it wasn’t. He said it provided”—his forehead wrinkled—“occ-you-pay-shun-all ther-rap-py, healthy exercise, prevented moping, and offered that greatest of all treasures, which is Hope, sir.”
    “Hope,” muttered Moist glumly.
    “Not upset, are you, sir?”
    “Upset? Why should I be upset, Mr. Wilkinson?”
    “Only the last bloke we had in this cell, he managed to get down that drain, sir. Very small man. Very agile.”
    Moist looked at the little grid in the floor. He’d dismissed it out of hand.
    “Does it lead to the river?” he said.
    The warden grinned. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? He was really upset when we fished him out. Nice to see you’ve entered into the spirit of the thing, sir. You’ve been an example to all of us, sir, the way you kept going. Stuffing all the dust in your mattress? Very clever, very tidy. Very neat . It’s really cheered us up, having you in here. By the way, Mrs. Wilkinson says thanks very much for the fruit basket. Very posh, it is. It’s got kumquats, even!”
    “Don’t mention it, Mr. Wilkinson.”
    “The warden was a bit green about the kumquats, ’cos he only got dates in his, but I told him, sir, that fruit baskets is like life—until you’ve got the pineapple off of the top you never know what’s underneath. He says thank you, too.”
    “Glad he liked it, Mr. Wilkinson,” said Moist absent-mindedly. Several of his former landladies had brought in presents for “the poor, confused boy,” and Moist always invested in generosity. A career like his was all about style, after all.
    “On that general subject, sir,” said Mr. Wilkinson, “me and the lads were wondering if you might like to unburden yourself, at this point in time, on the subject of the whereabouts of the place where the location of the spot is where, not to beat about the bush, you hid all that money you stole…?”
    The jail went silent. Even the cockroaches were listening.
    “No, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Wilkinson,” said Moist loudly, after a decent pause for dramatic effect. He tapped his jacket pocket, held up a finger, and winked.
    The warders grinned back.
    “We understand totally, sir. Now I’d get some rest if I was you, sir, ’cos we’re hanging you in half an hour,” said Mr. Wilkinson.
    “Hey, don’t I get breakfast?”
    “Breakfast isn’t until seven o’clock, sir,” said the warder reproachfully. “But, tell you what, I’ll do you a bacon sandwich. ’Cos it’s you , Mr. Spangler.”

    A ND NOW IT WAS A FEW MINUTES before dawn and it was him being led down the short corridor and out into the little room under the scaffold. Moist realized he was looking at himself from a distance, as if part of himself was floating outside his body like a child’s balloon, ready, as it were, for him to let go of the string.
    The room was lit by light coming through cracks in the scaffold floor above, and, significantly, from around the edges of the large trapdoor. The hinges of said door were being carefully oiled by a man in a hood.
    He stopped when he saw the party had