Read Online The Truth by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page B

red-hot grudge; Mr. Tulip lived his life on that thin line most people occupy just before they haul off and hit someone repeatedly with a wrench. For Mr. Tulip, anger was the ground state of being. Pin had occasionally wondered what had happened to the man to make him as angry as that, but to Tulip the past was another country with very, very well guarded borders. Sometimes Mr. Pin heard him screaming at night.
    It was quite hard to hire Mr. Tulip and Mr. Pin. You had to know the right people. To be more accurate, you had to know the wrong people, and you got to know them by hanging around a certain kind of bar and surviving, which was kind of a first test. The wrong people, of course, would not know Mr. Tulip and Mr. Pin. But they would know a man. And that man would, in a general sense, express the guarded opinion that he may know how to get in touch with men of a Pin-like or Tulipolitic disposition. He could not exactly recall much more than that at the moment, due to memory loss brought on by lack of money. Once cured, he may indicate in a general kind of way another address where you would meet, in a dark corner, a man who would tell you emphatically that he had never heard of anyone called Tulip or Pin. He would also ask where you would be at, say, nine o’clock tonight.
    And then you would meet Mr. Tulip and Mr. Pin. They would know you had money, they would know you had something on your mind, and, if you had been really stupid, they now knew your address.
    And it had therefore come as a surprise to the New Firm that their latest client had come straight to them. This was worrying. It was also worrying that he was dead. Generally the New Firm had no problem with corpses, but they didn’t like them to speak.
    Mr. Slant coughed. Mr. Pin noticed that this created a small cloud of dust. For Mr. Slant was a zombie.
    “I must reiterate,” said Mr. Slant, “that I am a mere facilitator in this matter—”
    “Just like us,” said Mr. Tulip.
    Mr. Slant indicated with a look that he would never in a thousand years be just like Mr. Tulip, but he said: “Quite so. My clients wished me to find some…experts. I found you. I gave you some sealed instructions. You have accepted the contract. And I understand that as a result of this you have made certain…arrangements. I do not know what those arrangements are. I will continue not to know what those arrangements are. My relationship with you is, as they say, on the long finger. Do you understand me?”
    “What —ing finger is that?” said Mr. Tulip. He was getting jittery in the presence of the dead lawyer.
    “We see each other only when necessary, we say as little as possible.”
    “I hate —ing zombies,” said Mr. Tulip. That morning he’d tried something he’d found in a box under the sink. If it cleaned drains, he’d reasoned, that meant it was chemical. Now he was getting strange messages from his large intestine.
    “I am sure the feeling is mutual,” said Mr. Slant.
    “I understand what you’re saying,” said Mr. Pin. “You’re saying that if this goes bad you’ve never seen us in your life—”
    “Ahem…” Mr. Slant coughed.
    “Your afterlife,” Mr. Pin corrected himself. “Okay. What about the money?”
    “As requested, thirty thousand dollars for special expenses will be included in the sum already agreed.”
    “In gems. Not cash.”
    “Of course. And my clients would hardly write you a check. It will be delivered tonight. And perhaps I should mention one other matter.” His dry fingers shuffled through the dry papers in his dry briefcase, and he handed Mr. Pin a folder.
    Mr. Pin read it. He turned a few pages quickly.
    “You may show it to your monkey,” said Mr. Slant.
    Mr. Pin managed to grab Mr. Tulip’s arm before it reached the zombie’s head. Mr. Slant did not even flinch.
    “He’s got the story of our lives, Mr. Tulip!”
    “So? I can still rip his —ing stitched-on head right off!”
    “No, you cannot,” said Mr.