The Truth

fourth-story window, back against the wall, staring downwards with a frozen expression.
    Far below, the crowd were trying to be helpful. It was not in the robust Ankh-Morpork nature to dissuade anyone in this position. It was a free city, after all. So was the advice.
    “Much better to try the Thieves’ Guild!” a man yelled. “Six floors, and then you’re on good solid cobbles! Crack your skull first go!”
    “There’s proper flagstones around the Palace,” advised the man next to him.
    “Well, certainly,” said his immediate neighbor. “But the Patrician’ll kill him if he tries to jump from up there, am I right?”
    “Well?”
    “Well…it’s a question of style, isn’t it?”
    “Tower of Art’s good,” said a woman confidently. “Nine hundred feet, almost. And you get a good view.”
    “Granted, granted. But you also get a long time to think about things. On the way down, I mean. Not a good time for introspection, in my view.”
    “Look, I’ve got a load of prawns on my wagon and if I’m held up any longer they’re gonna be walking home,” moaned a carter. “Why doesn’t he just jump ?”
    “He’s thinking about it. It’s a big step, after all.”
    The man on the edge turned his head when he heard a shuffling noise. William was sidling along the ledge, trying hard not to look down.
    “Morning. Come to try and talk me out of it, ’ave yer?”
    “I…I…” William really tried not to look down. The ledge had looked a lot wider from below. He was regretting the whole thing. “I wouldn’t dream of it…”
    “I’m always open to being talked out of it.”
    “Yes, yes…er…would you care to give me your name and address?” said William. There was a hitherto unsuspected nasty breeze up here, gusting treacherously around the rooftops. It fluttered the pages of his notebook.
    “Why?”
    “Er…because from this height onto solid ground it’s often hard to find out that sort of thing afterwards,” said William, trying not to breathe out too much. “And if I’m going to put this in the paper, it’d look much better if I say who you were.”
    “What paper?”
    William pulled a copy of the Times out of his pocket. It rattled in the wind as he wordlessly handed it over.
    The man sat down and read it, his lips moving, his legs dangling over the drop.
    “So this is, like, things that happen?” he said. “Like a town crier, but written down?”
    “That’s right. So…what was your name?”
    “What do you mean, was ?”
    “Well, you know…obviously…” said William wretchedly. He waved his hand towards the void, and almost lost his balance. “If you…”
    “Arthur Crank.”
    “And where did you live, Arthur?”
    “Prattle Alley.”
    “And what was your job?”
    “There you go with the was again. The Watch usually give me a cup of tea, you know.”
    A warning bell went off in William’s head.
    “You…jump a lot, do you?”
    “Only the difficult bits.”
    “And they are…?”
    “The climbing-up bits. I don’t do the actual jumping, obviously. That’s not a skilled job. I’m more into the ‘cry for help’ aspect.”
    William tried to grip sheer wall.
    “And the help you want is…?”
    “Could you make it twenty dollars?”
    “Or you jump?”
    “Ah, well, not exactly jump, obviously. Not the whole jump. Not as per such. But I shall continue to threaten to jump, if you get my drift.”
    The building seemed a lot higher to William than it had when he climbed the stairs. The people below were a lot smaller. He could make out faces looking up. Foul Ole Ron was there, with his scabby dog and the rest of the crew, because they had an uncanny gravitational attraction to impromptu street theater. He could even make out Coffin Henry’s “Will Threaten for Food” sign. And he could see the queues of wagons, by now paralyzing half the city. He could feel his knees buckling…
    Arthur grabbed him.
    “Oi, this is my patch,” he said. “Find your own spot.”
    “You said the jumping off wasn’t a skilled job,” said William, trying to concentrate on his notes as the world spun gently around him. “What was your job, Mr. Crank?”
    “Steeplejack.”
    “Arthur Crank, you come down here right this minute!”
    Arthur looked down.
    “Oh gawds, they’ve gone and fetched the wife,” he said.
    “Constable Fiddyment here says you’re… ” the distant pink face of Mrs. Crank paused to listen again to the watchman standing next to her, “ interferin’