Death gave the shade of Mr Tulip a long, cool stare.
AND THAT’S IT?
‘Right.’
You 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
265
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
WAS ANY GOD OF SOME SORT MENTIONED TO YOU AT ANY POINT? ‘NO . . .’
DAMN. I WISH THEY DIDN’T LEAVE ME TO DEAL WITH THIS SORT OF THING, Death sighed. You 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 closed door. And the knob was rattling, and the lock had failed.
Death nodded at him.
AT 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.
AH, WELL. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN A POTATO MIGHT TURN UP.
‘So it’s all going to be all right?’
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
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.
ARE YOU SORRY FOR EVERYTHING?
More unused bits of Mr Tulip’s brain, which had shut down long ago or had never even opened up, came into play.
‘How will I know?’ he said.
Death waved a hand through the air. Along the arc described by the bony fingers appeared a line of hourglasses.
I UNDERSTAND YOU ARE A CONNOISSEUR, MR TULIP. IN A SMALL WAY, SO
AM I. Death selected one of the glasses and held it up. Images appeared around it, bright but insubstantial as shadow.
‘What are they?’ said Tulip.
LIVES, MR TULIP. JUST LIVES.- NOT ALL MASTERPIECES, OBVIOUSLY, OFTEN RATHER NAIF IN THEIR USE OF EMOTION AND ACTION, BUT NEVERTHELESS FULL OF INTEREST AND SURPRISE AND, EACH IN THEIR OWN WAY, A WORK OF SOME GENIUS. AND CERTAINLY VERY . . . COLLECTABLE. Death picked up an
266
hourglass as Mr Tulip tried to back away. YES. COLLECTABLE. BECAUSE, IF I HAD TO FIND A WAY TO DESCRIBE THESE LIVES, MR TULIP, THAT WORD WOULD BE ‘SHORTER’.
Death selected another hourglass. AH. NUGGA VELSKI. You WILL
NOT REMEMBER HIM, OF COURSE. HE WAS SIMPLY A MAN WHO WALKED INTO HIS RATHER SIMPLE LITTLE HUT AT THE WRONG TIME, AND YOU ARE A BUSY MAN AND CANNOT BE EXPECTED TO REMEMBER EVERYONE. NOTE THE MIND, A BRILLIANT MIND THAT MIGHT IN OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE CHANGED THE WORLD, DOOMED TO BE BORN INTO A TIME AND PLACE WHERE LIFE WAS NOTHING BUT A DAILY, HOPELESS STRUGGLE. NEVERTHELESS, IN HIS TINY VILLAGE, RIGHT UP UNTIL THE DAY HE FOUND YOU STEALING HIS COAT, HE DID HIS BEST TO—-
Mr Tulip raised a trembling hand. ‘Is this the bit where my whole life passes in front of my eyes?’ he said.
NO, THAT WAS THE BIT JUST NOW.
‘Which bit?’
THE BIT, said Death, BETWEEN YOUR BEING BORN AND YOUR DYING. No, THIS . . . MR TULIP, THIS IS YOUR WHOLE LIFE AS IT PASSED BEFORE OTHER PEOPLE’S EYES . . .
By the time the golems arrived it was all over. The fire had been fierce but short-lived. It had stopped because there wasn’t anything left to burn. The crowd that always turns up to watch a fire then dispersed until the next one, reckoning that this one had not scored very highly, what with no one dying.
The walls were still standing. Half the tin roof had fallen in. Sleet had begun to fall, too, and now it hissed on the hot stone as William picked his way cautiously through the debris.
The press was visible in the light of the few fires still smouldering. William heard it sizzling under the sleet.
‘Repairable?’ he said to Goodmountain, who was following him.
‘Not a chance. The frame, maybe. We’ll salvage what we can.’
‘Look, I’m so sorry–‘
‘Not your fault,’ said the dwarf, kicking at a smoking can. ‘And look on the bright side . . . we still owe Harry King a lot of money.’
‘Don’t remind me . . .’
‘I don’t need to. He’ll remind you. Us, rather.’
267
William wrapped his jacket around his sleeve and pushed aside some of the roof.
‘The desks are still here!’
‘Fire can be funny like that,’ said Goodmountain gloomily. ‘And the roof probably kept the worst of it away.’
‘I mean, they’re half charred but they’re still usable!’
‘Oh, well, we’re home and dry, then,’ said the dwarf, now sliding towards ‘glumly’. ‘How soon do you want the next edition?’
‘Look, even the spike . . . there’s even bits of paper that are hardly charred!’
‘Life is full of unexpected treasure,’ said Goodmountain. ‘I don’t think you should come in here, miss!’
This was to Sacharissa, who was picking her way across the smouldering ruins.
‘It’s where I work,’ she said. ‘Can you repair the press?’
‘No! It’s . . . done for! It’s scrap! We’ve got no press and no type and no metal! Can you both hear me?’
‘Okay, so we’ve got to get another press,’ said Sacharissa evenly.
‘Even an old scrap one would cost a thousand dollars!’ said Goodmountain. ‘Look, it’s over. There is nothing leftY
‘I’ve got some savings,’ said Sacharissa, pushing the rubble off her desk. ‘Perhaps we can get one of those little hand presses to be going on with.’
‘I’m in debt,’ said William, ‘but I could probably go into debt another few hundred dollars.’
‘Do you think we could go on working if we put a tarpaulin over the roof, or should we move to somewhere else?’ said Sacharissa.
‘I don’t want to move. A few days’ work should get this place in shape,’ said William.
Goodmountain cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Hel-looo! This is sanity calling! We have no money.’
‘There’s not much room to expand, though,’ said Sacharissa.
‘In what way?’
‘Magazines,’ said Sacharissa, as the sleet settled in her hair. Around her the other dwarfs spread out on a hopeless salvage operation. ‘Yes, I know the paper’s important, but there’s a lot of dead time on the press and, well, I’m sure there’d be a market
268
for something like, well, a magazine for ladies
‘Dead time on the press?’ said Goodmountain. The press is deadV
‘What about?’ said William, completely ignoring him.
‘Oh . . . fashion. Pictures of women wearing new clothes. Knitting. That sort of thing. And don’t you go telling me it’s too dull. People will buy it,’
‘Clothes? Knitting?’
‘People are interested in that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t like that idea much,’ said William. ‘You might as well say we should have a magazine just for men.’
‘Why not? What would you put in it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Articles about drink. Pictures of women not wearing . . . Anyway, we’d need more people to write for them,’
‘Excuse me?’ said Goodmountain.
‘Lots of people can write well enough for that sort of thing,’ said Sacharissa. ‘If it was clever, we wouldn’t be able to do it.’
That’s true.’
‘And there’s another magazine that would sell, too,’ said Sacharissa. Behind her a piece of the press collapsed.
‘Hello? Hello? I know my mouth is opening and shutting,’ said Goodmountain. ‘Is any sound getting out?’
‘Cats,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Lots of people like cats. Pictures of cats. Stories about cats. I’ve been thinking about it. It could be called . . . Completely Cats.’
To go with Completely Women, and Completely Men? Completely Knitting? Completely Cake?’
‘I had thought of calling it something like The Ladies’ Home Companion,’ said Sacharissa, ‘but your title has got a certain ring, I must admit. Ring . . . yes. Now, that’s another thing. There’s all the dwarfs in the city. We could produce a magazine for them. I mean . . . what’s the modern dwarf wearing this season?’
‘Chain mail and leather,’ said Goodmountain, suddenly perplexed. ‘What are you talking about? It’s always chain mail and leather!’
Sacharissa ignored him. The two of them were in a world of their own, Goodmountain realized. It had nothing to do with the real one any more.