The Truth

paying, ” said Mr. Tulip, “we want to talk to the bloke that wrote that —ing warranty.”

    What William now had to think of as his office had changed quite a lot. The old laundry fixings, dismembered rocking horses, and other rubbish had been spirited away, and two desks stood back to back in the middle of the floor.
    They were ancient and battered and to stop them wobbling they needed, against all common sense, bits of folded cardboard under all four legs.
    “I got them from the secondhand shop along the road,” said Sacharissa, nervously. “They weren’t very expensive.”
    “Yes, I can see that. Er…Miss Cripslock…I’ve been thinking…your grandfather can engrave a picture, can he?”
    “Yes, of course. Why have you got mud all over you?”
    “And if we got an iconograph and learned how to use it to take pictures,” William went on, ignoring this, “could he engrave the picture that the imp paints?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “And do you know any good iconographers in the city?”
    “I could ask around. What happened to you?”
    “Oh, there was a threatened suicide in Welcome Soap.”
    “Any good?” Sacharissa looked startled at the sound of her own voice. “I mean, obviously I wouldn’t wish anyone to die, but, er, we’ve got quite a lot of space…”
    “I might be able to make something off it. He, er, saved the life of the man who climbed up to talk him down.”
    “How brave. Did you get the name of the man who climbed up after him?”
    “Um, no. Er…he was a Mystery Man,” said William.
    “Oh, well, that’s something. There’s some people waiting to see you outside,” said Sacharissa. She glanced at her notes. “There’s a man who’s lost his watch, a zombie who…well, I can’t make out what he wants, there’s a troll who wants a job, and there’s someone who’s got a complaint about the story of the fight at the Mended Drum and wants to behead you.”
    “Oh, dear. All right…one at a time…”
    The watch loser was easy.
    “It was one of the new clockwork ones my father gave to me,” said the man. “I’ve been looking for it all week!”
    “It’s not exactly—”
    “If you can put in the paper that I’ve lost it, maybe someone who has found it will turn it in?” said the man, with unwarranted hopefulness. “And I will give you sixpence for your trouble.”
    Sixpence was sixpence. William made a few notes.
    The zombie was more difficult. For a start he was gray, shading to green in places, and smelled very strongly of artificial hyacinth aftershave, some of the more recent zombies having realized that their chance of making friends in their new life would be greatly improved if they smelled of flowers rather than just smelled.
    “People like to know about people who are dead,” he said. His name was Mr. Bendy, and he pronounced it in a way that made it clear that the “Mr.” was very much a part of the name.
    “They do?”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Bendy, emphatically. “Dead people can be very interesting. I expect people would be very interested in reading about dead people.”
    “Do you mean obituaries?”
    “Well…yes, I suppose they would be. I could write them in an interesting way.”
    “All right. Twenty pence each, then.”
    Mr. Bendy nodded. It was clear that he would have done it for nothing. He handed William a wad of yellow, crackling paper. “Here’s an interesting one to start you off,” he said.
    “Oh? Whose is it?”
    “Mine. It is very interesting. Especially the bit where I died.”
    The next man to come in was in fact a troll. Unusually for trolls, who usually wore just enough to satisfy humanity’s mysterious demands for decency, this one actually wore a suit. At least, it was largely tubes of cloth that covered his body, and “suit” was about the only word.
    “’m Rocky,” he mumbled, looking down. “I’ll take any job, guv.”
    “What was your last job?” said William.
    “Boxer, guv. But I wasn’t happy wiv it. Kept getting knocked down.”
    “Can you write or take pictures?” said William, wincing.
    “No, guv. I can do heavy liftin’. ’n’ I can whistle tunes, guv.”
    “That’s…a good talent, but I don’t think we—”
    The door flew open and a thick-shouldered, leather-clad man burst in, flourishing an ax.
    “You got no right putting that about me in the paper!” he said, waving the blade under William’s nose.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Brezock the Barbarian, and I—”
    The brain