Vimes was sitting with his feet up in the Watch House when the runner came bursting through the door, bringing into the warm room the wet and the cold of the streets.

"Riot in Elm Street! All officers!" gasped the luckless messenger. Despite being off duty Sam Vimes leapt to his feet and hurriedly buckled his sword belt around his skinny middle before running out into the foul night. All officers meant all officers. You had to hope that when it was /your / arse on the line in the future someone else would do the same for you.

Vimes could hardly see in the driving rain that forced his eyes into slits but he ran on down the wet streets as fast as he could. Elm Street was full of shouts and flickering torches. Vimes wondered what the hell was going on, and then he realised. Or perhaps that should be /remembered/. In the days of Winder and Snapcase street gangs had grown into a force to be reckoned with. It wasn't Watch policy to get involved in such scuffles, but someone had obviously decided enough was enough, someone had tried to bring a bit of law and order back to the streets. Vimes wondered who it was as he lurked in the shadows. Best to wait until some other officers caught up before attempting a rescue.

His heart sank as he discovered the identity of the idealist. It was Iffy, fighting off at least three men in the colours of one of the nastier street gangs. He should have /known/. It was always Iffy that got into trouble for involvement in the street scraps. He had a bit of an obsession with it to be honest. Vimes had often wondered whether it was guilt driving him to make all the arrests, a way of paying back the city for the misdeeds he had committed as a younger man.

Vimes leapt into the fray with a cry all thoughts of his own safety forgotten. Iffy was married, and had been hinting recently that he might be a father some time soon. Vimes could not let him die. Janie would never forgive him...

Vimes took down three men with his sword. Recently he had been taking lessons in combat from Gussie Two Grins, the dirtiest fighter Vimes had ever had the fortune to battle on the same side as. Gussie had taught him a thing or two, and Keele's original training, complete with Vimes's own experience meant he had the advantage of considerable more skill than any of his opponents. This advantage evaporated when you remembered that the few Watchman still standing in the melee were outnumbered five to one.

Someone kicked his sword out of his hands and he punched them in the face, sending his other hand thrusting into his pocket to pull out the knuckledusters. He elbowed someone else in the throat as the frantic ringing of bells echoed in the wet night air. Vimes was on automatic pilot as he fought, letting the beast do its work. It was clear he needed to escape, there was no way to fight off this many opponents for any length of time, but currently they weren't allowing him the option of fleeing.

A hail of arrows sent Vimes diving to the floor. Now was his chance. He crawled over to Iffy as quickly as he dared, in serious danger of being shot. Iffy wasn't moving and Vimes felt the icy fingers of fear grip at his heart.

"Iffy?" he whispered and the man's eyelids flickered. His face was curiously grey in the flickering orange light and Vimes suddenly realised it wasn't only the pouring rain that was soaking his friend's clothes and staining his chain mail. It was blood too.

"Sam..." managed Iffy through blue lips, his voice thick with pain.

"It's me," said Vimes, finding his friend's hands and taking them in his own. They were far too cold. "Let's get you out of here," Vimes said. The fighting seemed to have moved away from where they lay to further down the street. In one fluid movement Vimes picked his friend up, swung Iffy onto his shoulder and ran for an alley. An arrow passed so close he felt his hair ruffle and he carried on running until the sounds of the mob had died away, and there was only the hissing of the rain on the cobbles.

"Iffy!" said Vimes urgently as he deposited his friend back on the floor. "Iffy!"

"I can't see you Sam," said Iffy in the same thick voice. Vimes gripped his hands again.

"I'm here Iffy," said Vimes, his own voice choked, but with tears rather than injury.

"I think I'm dying Sam," rasped Iffy.

"No! You're not!" Vimes almost shouted, "You'll be fine. I'll get you to a doctor. Where are you hurt?"

"Sam," said Iffy with more urgency, "Tell Janie that I love her." Vimes couldn't find his voice, he couldn't think of anything else to say, a terrible emotion had laid claim to his heart and had taken his voice too. "Thanks for everything you've done Sam," whispered the dying man, "Look after Janie for me... brother.."

"Of course I will Iffy. Of course I will... brother."

Iffy smiled and Vimes stifled the cry of horror as he saw the blood trickling from the corner of Iffy's mouth. Iffy coughed; the smile faded to a grimace of pain and then Vimes felt the pulse in the cold hands stutter and fail. A numb disbelief settled over Sam Vimes as he knelt on the cobbles with his friend's lifeless body spread out before him, his still warm fingers clutching Vimes's own. He turned his face up towards the night and howled as the rain trickled down his face mingling with the tears. The blood soaked his hands, some of it Iffy's and some of it his own from unregarded wounds caused in the fight. Vimes stared at it, sobbing, and was reminded of tomato juice.



Iffy stood up in a world full of violet shadows.

"IFFY SCURRICK?" said a voice behind him. Iffy turned.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't think I was going to survive. Not after he stuck the knife in my stomach.. And my chest.. And the blow to the head..."

"YOU WERE CORRECT"

A noise on the edge of Iffy's hearing made him peer into the shadows. "That's Sam, isn't it?" he said.

"YES," replied Death,

"What happens to him now? Can you tell me?"

"NO," said Death, "IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO COME AWAY NOW. THE DEAD ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO MEDDLE IN THE AFFAIRS OF THE LIVING. IT UPSETS PEOPLE."

"But I want to help him! He's my friend."

Death considered this for a moment, and the Discworld was suddenly given the prospect of its very own Vimes and Scurrick (Deceased) (1). But Iffy's shadow was already fading as he slipped away to whatever afterlife awaited him. Death turned his attention to the crying man briefly and pulled out a lifetimer. Unfortunately it had at least sixty years worth of sand left in the top bulb, so it looked like duty demanded his presence elsewhere.



1. If you haven't watched the programme Randall And Hopkirk Deceased, the Vic Reeves version or otherwise, this joke doesn't make a lot of sense.