Night Watch

us a bit of time. Although for you , mister, we’ve got all night. Well done, Lance Constable. We’ll make a watchman of you yet.”
    “Yeah, well done,” said Vimes, staring at the young man with the bow. But the sergeant was already taking his run-up.

    It was later. Pain had happened.
    Vimes lay on the hard cell-bed and tried to make it go away. It hadn’t been as bad as it might be. That mob hadn’t even been able to organize a good seeing-to. They didn’t understand how a man could roll with the punches, and half the time they were getting in their own way.
    Was he enjoying this? Not the pain. He’d pass on the pain. In fact he’d passed out on the pain. But there was that small part of him he’d heard sometimes during strenuous arrests after long chases, the part that wanted to punch and punch long after punching had already achieved its effect. There was a joy to it. He called it The Beast. It stayed hidden until you needed it and then, when you needed it, out it came. Pain brought it out, and fear. He’d killed werewolves with his bare hands, mad with anger and terror and tasting, deep inside, the blood of The Beast…and it was sniffing the air.
    “’Ullo, Mister Vimes, haha. I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
    He sat up sharply. The cells were barred on the corridor side, but also between cells as well, on the basis that those caged ought to know they were in a cage. And in the next cell, lying with his hands behind his head, was Carcer.
    “Go on,” said Carcer cheerfully. “Make a grab for me through the bars, eh? Want to see how long it takes before the guards arrive?”
    “At least they got you, too,” said Vimes.
    “Not for long, not for long. I smell of roses, me, haha. Visitor to the city, got lost, very helpful to the Watch, so sorry to have bothered them, here’s a little something for their trouble…You shouldn’t of stopped the Watch taking bribes, Mister Vimes. It means an easier life all round, haha.”
    “Then I’ll nail you some other way, Carcer.”
    Carcer inserted a finger in his nose, wiggled it around, withdrew it, inspected its contents critically, and flicked them toward the ceiling.
    “Well, that’s where it all goes runny, Mister Vimes. You see, I wasn’t dragged in by four coppers. I didn’t go around assaulting watchmen or trying to break into the University…”
    “I was knocking on the door!”
    “I believe you, Mister Vimes. But you know what coppers are like. You look at ’em in a funny way, and the buggers’ll fit you up for every crime in the book. Terrible, what they can pin on an honest man, haha.”
    Vimes knew it.
    “So you got some money,” he said.
    “O’course, Mister Vimes. I’m a crook. And the best part is, it’s even easier to be a crook when no one knows you’re a crook, haha. But coppering depends on people believing you’re a copper. A turn up for the books, eh? You know we’re back in the good old days, haha?”
    “It seems that way,” Vimes admitted. He didn’t like talking to Carcer, but right now he seemed to be the only real person around.
    “Where did you land, if I may ask?”
    “In The Shades.”
    “Me too. Couple of blokes tried to mug me where I lay. Me! I ask you, Mister Vimes! Still, they had some money on them, so that worked out all right. Yes, I think I’m going to be very happy here. Ah, here comes one of our brave lads…”
    A watchman walked along the passage, swinging his keys. He was elderly, the kind of copper who gets given the jobs where swinging keys is more likely than swinging a truncheon, and his most distinguishing feature was a nose twice the width and half the length of the average nose. He stared at Vimes for a moment, and then passed on to Carcer’s cell. He unlocked the door.
    “You. Hop it,” he said.
    “Yessir. Thank you, sir,” said Carcer, hurrying out. He pointed to Vimes. “You wanna watch that one, sir. He’s a animal. Decent people shouldn’t be locked up in the same cells, sir.”
    “Hop it, I said.”
    “Hopping it, sir. Thank you, sir.” And Carcer, with a leery wink at Vimes, hopped it.
    The jailer turned to Vimes.
    “And what’s your name, hnah, mister?”
    “John Keel,” said Vimes.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah, and I’ve had my kicking. Fair’s fair. I’d like to go now.”
    “Oh, you’d like to go, would you? Hnah! You’d like me to hand over these keys, hnah, and give you five pence from the poor box for your, hnah, trouble, eh?”
    The man was