Unseen Academicals

investment and, on the way, that means protecting yours as well. Off you go, boy. You’re late for training. And me? I’m a soddin’ genius!’
    Trev noticed more watchmen around as he headed onwards. They could be absolute bastards if they felt like it, but Sam Vimes had no use for coppers that couldn’t read the streets. The Watch was jumpy.

    Carter used to live in his mum’s cellar until she rented it out to a family of dwarfs, and now he lived in the attic, which baked in the summer and froze in the winter. Carter survived because the walls were insulated with copies of Bows & Ammo, Back Street Pins, Stanley Howler’s Stamp Monthly, Giggles, Girls and Garters, Golem Spotter Weekly , and Fretwork Today . These were only the top layer. In self-defence against the elements, he glued old copies over the larger cracks and holes in the roof. As far as Trev knew, Carter had never persevered beyond a week with any of the hobbies indicated by his rather embarrassing library except, possibly, the one notoriously associated with the centrefolds of Giggles, Girls and Garters .
    Mrs Carter opened the door to him and indicated the stairs with all the hearty welcome and hospitality that mothers extend to their sons’ no-good street friends. ‘He’s been ill,’ she announced, as if it were a matter of interest rather than concern.
    This turned out to be an understatement. One of Carter’s eyes was a technicolor mess and there was a livid scar on his face. It took some time for Trev to find this out because Carter kept telling him to go away, but since the ramshackle door was held shut with a piece of string, the application of Trev’s shoulder had seen to that, at least.
    Trev stared at the boy, who shrank back into his unspeakably dreadful bed as if he was expecting to be hit. He didn’t like Carter. No one liked Carter. It was impossible. Even Mrs Carter, who in theory at least should entertain some lukewarm affability to her son, didn’t like Carter. He was fundamentally unlikeable. It was a sad thing to have to say, but Carter, farting or otherwise, was a wonderful example of charisntma. He could be fine for a day or two and then some utterly stupid comment or off-key joke or entirely inappropriate action would break the spell. But Trev put up with him, seeing in him, perhaps, what Trev might have been had he not been, in fact, Trev. Maybe there was a bit of Carter the Farter in every bloke at some time in his life he had thought, but with Carter it wasn’t just a bit, it was everything.
    ‘What ’appened?’ Trev said.
    ‘Nuffin’.’
    ‘This is Trev. I know about nothin’ ’appenin’. You need to get to the hospital with that.’
    ‘It’s worse than it looks,’ Carter moaned.
    Trev cracked. ‘Are you bloody stupid? That cut’s a quarter of an inch from your eye!’
    ‘It was my fault,’ Carter protested. ‘I upset Andy.’
    ‘Yeah, I can see where that’d have been your fault,’ Trev said.
    ‘Where were you last night?’ said Carter.
    ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
    ‘Well, it was a bloody war, that’s what it was.’
    ‘I found it necessary to spend a little time down the Lat. There was fightin’, wasn’t there?’
    ‘The clubs ’ave signed up to this new football and some people ain’t ’appy.’
    Trev said, ‘Andy?’ and looked at the livid, oozing scar again. Yep, that looked like Andy being unhappy.
    It was hard to feel sorry for someone as basically unlikeable as Carter, but just because he had been born with Kick Me Up The Arse tattooed on to his soul was no reason for doing it. Not to Carter. That was like pulling wings off flies.
    ‘Not just Andy,’ said Carter. ‘There’s Tosher Atkinson and Jimmy the Spoon and Spanner.’
    ‘Spanner?’ said Trev.
    ‘And Mrs Atkinson.’
    ‘Mrs Atkinson?’
    ‘And Willy Piltdown, Harry Capstick and the Brisket Boys.’
    ‘Them? But we hate them. Andy hates them. They hate Andy. One foot on their turf and you get sent home in a sack!’
    ‘Well, you know what they say,’ said Carter. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my enemy.’
    ‘I think you got that wrong,’ said Trev. ‘But I know what you mean.’
    Trev stared at nothing, utterly aghast. The subjects of that litany of names were Faces. Hugely influential in the world of the teams and, more importantly, among the supporters. They owned the Shove. Pepe had been right. Vetinari thought the captains were in charge and the captains were not in charge. The Shove was in charge