The Truth

We’re —ing trapped! ”
    Mr. Pin put his hand over his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath of air that was already getting very warm in the soft silver rain.
    He opened his eyes again. Mr. Tulip was watching him obediently. Mr. Pin was the thinker.
    “I’ve…got a plan,” he said.
    “Yeah, good. Right.”
    “My plans are pretty good, right?”
    “Yeah, you come up with some —ing wonders, I’ve always said. Like when you said we should twist the—”
    “And I’m always thinking about the good of the Firm, right?”
    “Yeah, sure, right.”
    “So…this plan…it’s not, like, a perfect plan, but…oh, the hell with it. Give me your potato.”
    “What?”
    Suddenly Mr. Pin’s arm was stretched out, his crossbow an inch from Mr. Tulip’s neck.
    “No time to argue! Gimme the damn potato right now! This is no time for you to think! ”
    Uncertain, but trusting as ever in Mr. Pin’s survival abilities in a tight corner, Mr. Tulip pulled the thong of the potato over his head and handed it over.
    “Right,” said Mr. Pin, one side of his face beginning to twitch. “The way I see it—”
    “You better hurry!” said Mr. Tulip. “It’s only a coupla inches away!”
    “— the way I see it, I’m a small man, Mr. Tulip. You couldn’t stand on me. I wouldn’t do. You’re a big man, Mr. Tulip. I wouldn’t want to see you suffer.”
    And he pulled the trigger. It was a good shot.
    “Sorry,” he whispered, as the lead splashed. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry. But I wasn’t born to fry…”

    Mr. Tulip opened his eyes.
    There was darkness around him, but with a suggestion of stars overhead behind an overcast sky. The air was still, but there was distant soughing, as of wind in dead trees.
    He waited a while to see if anything would happen, and then said: “Anyone —ing there?”
    J UST ME , M R . T ULIP .
    Some of the darkness opened its eyes, and two blue glows looked down at Mr. Tulip.
    “The —ing bastard stole my potato. Are you —ing Death?”
    J UST D EATH WILL SUFFICE , I THINK . W HO WERE YOU EXPECTING ?
    “Eh? For what?”
    T O CLAIM YOU AS ONE OF THEIRS.
    “Dunno, really. I never —ing thought…”
    Y OU NEVER SPECULATED?
    “All I know is, you got to have your potato, and then it will be all right.” Mr. Tulip parroted the sentence without thinking, but it was all coming back now in the total recall of the dead, from a vantage point of two feet off the ground and three years of age. Old men mumbling. Old women weeping. Shafts of light through holy windows. The sound of wind under the doors, and every ear straining to hear the soldiers. Ours or theirs didn’t matter, when a war had gone on this long…
    Death gave the shade of Mr. Tulip a long, cool stare.
    A ND THAT’S IT?
    “Right.”
    Y OU DON’T THINK THERE WERE ANY BITS YOU MIGHT HAVE MISSED?
    …the sound of wind under the doors, the smell of the oil lamps, the fresh acid smell of snow, blowing in through the…
    “And…if I’m sorry for everything…” he mumbled. He was lost in a world of darkness, without a potato to his name.
    …candlesticks…they’d been made of gold, hundreds of years ago…there were only ever potatoes to eat, grubbed up from under the snow, but the candlesticks were of gold…and some old woman, she’d said: “It’ll all turn out right if you’ve got a potato”…
    W AS ANY GOD OF SOME SORT MENTIONED TO YOU AT ANY POINT?
    “No…”
    D AMN . I WISH THEY DIDN’T LEAVE ME TO DEAL WITH THIS SORT OF THING , D EATH SIGHED . Y OU BELIEVE, BUT YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING.
    Mr. Tulip stood with his head bowed. More memories were trickling back now, like blood under a locked door. And the knob was rattling, and the lock had failed.
    Death nodded at him.
    A T LEAST YOU STILL HAVE YOUR POTATO, I SEE.
    Mr. Tulip’s hand flew to his neck. There was something wizened and hard there, on the end of a string. It had a ghostly shimmer to it.
    “I thought he got it!” he said, his face alight with hope.
    A H, WELL. Y OU NEVER KNOW WHEN A POTATO MAY TURN UP.
    “So it’s all going to be all right?”
    W HAT DO YOU THINIK?
    Mr. Tulip swallowed. Lies did not survive long out here. And more recent memories were squeezing under the door now, bloody and vengeful.
    “I think it’s gonna take more than a potato,” he said.
    A RE YOU SORRY FOR EVERYTHING?
    More unused bits of Mr. Tulip’s brain, which had shut down long ago or never even opened up, came into play.
    “How will I know?”