Hot and Cold

Chapter 7

There is no such thing as refined drunkenness. No going smoothly down the bridge while smiling and exchanging 'how'd-you-do-i'm-fine-thank-yous'.

Getting drunk, for anyone who thought it was serious business, was more like knocking down the trestles of the bridge one by one, until everything falls down on a river of liquid sunshine and there is no more bridge, thank you.

Angela Wishbone sat on an empty stool at the Mended Drum. It was no place for ladies, she knew, but tonight everything could just go to the blazes. "Jackamill's Black-out, please, thank you," she told the barkeeper.

The man pushed a small glass towards her. It was filled with a mucky-looking liquid that would score high on suspended solids. She slugged it and felt it go down her throat. It went down scraping, kicking and screaming. She made a face. "Ack," she sputtered. "This thing should be illegal, do you know that?"

The barkeep smiled broadly. "Funny you should say that, miss," he answered. "I had someone come by here last week saying that they're tryna make the distribution of Black-out illegal throughout the city. I says 'Why?' and then the bloke says that it causes 'temporary or permanent unconsciousness, suppurating lesions and incurable blindness'. Don't know much about suppuratin' things, miss, but I do know about the rest, so I tells him that if it didn't do them things, then we can't call it Black-out anymore, can we? And no one likes fibs when it comes to drinking, no ma'am, I've seen too many sad and sorry sights when people start lyin' in here. This place might as well be the very house of Truth, and the drink does exactly what it says and nothin' more."

Boy, he seems to be in a talkative mood today...

Angela's face was blank as the he chaffered on. "Course, miss, they had to do somethin' 'bout it. Heard they changed something with the prow-cess of making Black-out, so now there's only a sixty-eight percent chance of blindness and a fifty-two percent chance of permanent unconsciousness," the bartender paused as he considered the fact glumly. "Wasn't proud of that, miss, but we do what we can to get by, and now I've thought about it, the Blackout reg'lars can come back because they're alive, and that makes for better business."

A second after he stopped speaking, the man a couple of stools away from her started sputtering and coughing. The patron beside him helpfully slapped him on the back, but that must have whacked all the air out of his lungs, and the man desperately clutched at his throat. They heard the man eke out 'Can'tsee...can'tsee!' hoarsely before his eyes rolled to the back of his dead and he fell down sideways on the slough that made up the floor of the Mended Drum. Angela saw that the man's drink was the same mucky brown liquid as hers.

The barkeep shrugged. "Still happens," he said offhandedly. "Poncy! There's another one here! You'd better come out!"

She heard a shuffle from the back door, a loud clatter, and then a string of curses emanated from within. An old man came out, with stringy gray hair, a splendid stoop and a funny eye, if a half-shut eye was funny. He had a limp, of course he had a limp.

"Dagnabbit durn bloody drunks can't keep erm drinks down," Poncy muttered. "Keeps ern dyin', buggers." He took the permanently unconscious man by the back of his collar and dragged him into the back room, muttering a litany of curses all the while. Those who were still sober to a degree had tensed, fearing that they might be the next one to be dragged by Poncy to the back room. Those who were sufficiently cockeyed, of course, slammed back their drinks like an impenetrable shield in a field of battle.

Angela turned to the barkeeper. "Another Black-out then, thanks," she said with a smile.

He placed another glass in front her. "Happy to oblige," he replied with a wink. The lady had a deathwish, must be, but then again she was paying him while wishing for it...

Angela shoved the drink into her gullet. She could swear that it sizzled in her throat before it did something irreparable to her guts. She sat still for a moment, contemplating the state of her viscerals, then thought long and hard about what just happened.

Shit, Angela thought. Shit, shit, shit. She repeated the word again and again in her head until it sounded like something you'd put in a chowder. She was angry, that much was obvious, but at what? And with whom?

Vetinari. Tubman. Porbeagle. Her father...herself.

It wouldn't take a garden-variety moron to figure out that Vetinari knew about her father's letter beforehand. Tubman and Porbeagle must've gone to the Palace to reach an agreement with the Patrician before they called for her. They made her feel so foolish, stubbornly defending something that they already knew was wrong. They should've told her...warned her...instead they had to put on that ridiculous show at her expense, and now she felt like a prime idiot. But Porbeagle /did/ try to warn her; it was her who didn't want to listen. Gods, everything was so buggered up...

Then there was the Patrician. He was a sly bastard, she'd give him that. What did he have to do with it anyway? First he tells her that she had every right to take over the company, then threatens her if she tries to do anything funny, if a sore bruise were funny. On the other hand, he did buy the company and saved her family from an enormous amount of debt. But therein lay the problem...why? Why did he buy it? Everyone knew that Lord Vetinari is from one of the oldest and richest families in Ankh-Morpork; he probably used ground gold bullions for his bath salts, which wouldn't be the weirdest rumour about him out there, but still. What did he stand to gain by entangling himself in the affairs of the middle-class?

Angela turned the empty glass again and again between her hands...

She wouldn't have been so mad at Lord Vetinari if he weren't making such an active effort to be disliked. It was probably his management style, which was odd, but it did give him full license to wield those saucy eyebrows...ye gods. But despite saving her from financial ruin, he was still part of the cirque de chouse that performed the dumb trick on her, and therefore she had every right to be more than miffed with him.

Somewhere on the other side of the pub, an argument began to erupt, and those less inclined to take part in tonight's brawl moved to the outer borders. A broad man sat beside Angela, but she ignored him. Her mind was busy...

Porbeagle and Tubman. It wasn't their fault, she knew, and that made her more pissed off. They were just doing their job by executing her father's wishes. The fact that they did try to inform her thrice about it just saved them from any sort of blame. Still, couldn't they have sold the box company to anyone other than the Patrician? The whole thing made her feel uneasy, like the feeling you get when you boil an egg for what you think was enough time, then you crack it open and see the runny yolk...the feeling that something's not quite finished...

The argument had turned into an all-out brawl. Someone tried putting some formality into the thing and had even set up a tally board by the ornamental kegs, but rather than keeping score, it almost always causes another brawl.

Angela thought about her father, and couldn't help but bristle at his memory. It was her secret hope to take over the company someday, to turn it around and make cardboard boxes popular again, if not in Ankh-Morpork, then in some other country that would appreciate lightweight storage material. Pa didn't bother teaching her about the manufactory, didn't bother with any of them, in fact, so she tried reading all those books...hoping that one day her father would find that she was worthy...

...which he didn't. He didn't even bother giving her a chance, didn't even bother selling it; he just gave it away, like that. But despite how it prickled Angela, she sensed that her father was only trying to avoid a disaster. If he knew that she would pull out the exact move that she just did, then giving the company to the Guild was the only way to make sure that she didn't. Good going Pa, she thought, but you left us with nothing to go by...

And that was the truth. They did have nothing. Duncehat barely made anything for himself, Hardhat was perennially soused, and she had little to no job prospects here in Ankh-Morpork. But if Duncehat knew people at Pseudopolis, she could probably do well as a high-risk trader if she tried hard enough, there was nothing to it. Somehow, she'll be able to see tomorrow...

"What have I got going here, anyhow?" She said aloud to herself, as humans like to do when they are scheming.

"Yeah, what have you got going here, anyhow?" A voice garbled, which sounded like a distant, disembodied echo.

"Nothing," she continued. "The future is out there...outside the city...yes, yes...I could probably pack as soon as I come home..."

"That's right," the voice said, "pack as soon as you come home."

"Then I'll ask Duncehat to take me along the bandwagon. He could recommend me to his ring."

"Yeah, ask Donesat to take you along..." the voice echoed.

Angela nodded to herself. "Then I'd make money soon enough," she said brightly, "and I'll have mum sent over to Pseudopolis, hey, maybe even get Hardhat to be on the wagon too..."

"...er, somethin' 'bout your mum...and wagons...", the voice said inaccurately.

"We could start over there again, brand new and all, " she said.

"Yeah, brand new and all..."

"Then we could get a better house..." Angela said wistfully.

"A better house..." the voice echoed.

"With a good door..."

"Pretty hinges..."

"...and better windows..."

"...with tinted panes..."

"What?" Angela asked.

"Erm, just double glazing then?" the voice said.

Angela turned to the source of the voice, and the disembodied echo turned out to be from the corpulent man beside her. He was definitely older than Angela, and had the appearance of a well-fed seal. He also had a graying, unkempt moustache, and a look on his eyes that suggested that everything wasn't quite there.

"How do you do that?" Angela asked.

The man stared at her openly. "Do what?" he said.

"The disembodied echo," she said. "It sounded like it came from everywhere."

He shook his head innocently. "I don't think I know what you're talking about."

"Look," she said impatiently, "can you just say that last bit...about the tinted panes-"

"...with tinted panes..." the disembodied voice said.

"That!" Angela exclaimed. "Gods..."

The man smiled at her again. "It's a talent," he said. "But technically I just speak out of the corner of my mouth and-"

"Thanks, well, will you knock it off then?" Angela said. "I'm quietly trying to get pissed here."

The echo man had a hurt look on his face. "Oh, what a kind thing to say," he slurred woefully, dragging each word, "when a man's having his last drink."

Angela smiled with only her lips. "Oh, splendid," she said. "Well gulp it down, go home and sleep it off." She pointed her thumb towards the door.

The man's woeful expression did not change. "You wouldn't want to know why I'm having my last drink?" he said glumly.

"Because you just drank your last penny, mister," she said. "That's how everyone gets their last drink."

The man looked down at his glass of whiskey and sighed heavily. "No," he said. "not my last drink for the night..." and when Angela gave her a strange look, he added, "I'm jumping off Brass Bridge later."

The man meant his last drink...for the rest of his life...

"Why not Contact Bridge? It's closer, I think," she said, and when the man gave her a broken look, she raised her eyes to the ceiling in a manner of defeat, "okay, okay...well, what's your name?"

"Sawyer Bones," said the man, "but everyone calls me 'Doc'."

Angela nodded. "Well, Doc," she said cheerfully, "mind telling me why you're having your last drink?"

He turned to her with an enterprising look. "You tell me why you're going to Pseudopolis first," he said, "then I'll tell. Are you running away from something?"

She sighed. "No," she said, pulling at her hair. "I'm not running away from anything. I have nothing here..."

Doc nodded sympathetically. "I guess we've got that in common, then," he said, and he suddenly had a faraway look. "Was going to be a good doctor, you know...bright prospects, bright future...but I ruined my practice..."

Angela looked at him with interest, and Doc picked it up. "I had a great thing going on at Reeldrag Street," he said, and Angela nodded. Doctors there do very well. He continued, "But I sold it...because I wanted to work full-time..."

"On what?" Angela asked.

Doc passed a thick manila envelope to her. She took it, but didn't open it. "What's this?" she said, shaking the envelope.

He chuckled, but it sounded bitter to both of them. "That's the same thing they said," Doc replied, head bowed. "Maybe they're right. I don't know what it is anymore...all I know is that it ruined me. It's not worth it."

While Doc was speaking, Angela gave the envelope a cursory glance. It was bulging with what seemed to be paper...lots of it. There was nothing on the back of the envelope save for an address that said 'Pickering Press, Ankh-Morpork' and below it, the word REJECTED in unnecessarily large letters. It was in red, and appeared to be stamped onto the envelope.

"...they told me I shouldn't have quit my day job, but I didn't listen," Doc went on. "They said I was a two-penny hack who couldn't find the nib of a pen if it poked me in the eye."

Angela patted him helpfully on the back. "That's harsh, Doc," she said, for whatever it was worth. "But is it really enough cause to throw yourself onto the Ankh? I mean," she paused, "that's a pretty permanent thing right there..."

Doc looked at her despairingly. "You wouldn't understand," he said with a broken voice, "they've done this twenty times! I've probably broken the bloody record! I don't think I can stand another rejection. It's taken everything away..."

Angela gave him a sad look that revealed that those words spoke to her as much as it did to him. There's nothing I can say to that, Angela thought. They both had everything swept from under their feet, they both had nothing to go on in this city. Maybe Doc was right, maybe they were both running away, her in a physical sense...and him in a more spiritual sense. Well, what was there to it? Everyone knew all roads led away from Ankh-Morpork, they were probably just going with the flow by leaving.

She sighed and thought about Doc's plan. Suicide. That was pretty drastic, but then how many suicides were committed in this city every day? Going to the Shades at night, that was suicide...brawling at the Mended Drum, that's suicide as well...people always made decisions that would deliberately kill them. But offing yourself because of a manila envelope...fine, twenty...but was that right? Was that the price of a life?

Maybe, maybe not. Some people wouldn't have the whole world if it meant their life, others wouldn't need horse spit to give their life or take another's away...point is, lives aren't equal...they're only as valuable as people make them out to be. Maybe those envelopes meant the whole world to Doc, and in that case there was nothing she could say...

"Doc, this really meant a lot to you, didn't it?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away, and when he did it was only in a whisper. "It did," he said, and somehow him speaking of it as though it were in the past scared her.

Angela gave him an earnest look. "What are you going to do now?"

He smiled wanly. "I finished my last drink, didn't I?" he replied, and stood up. He offered his hand to her. "Well, pleased to meet you, miss."

She shook hands with him. "Pleased to meet another runaway, Doc," she said. "My name is-"

"Wouldn't make a difference," he said, and he reached into his pockets for change. He put it on the wooden counter. "Make sure you have a good coat, I heard Pseudopolis is wet this time of year."

"And you're going?" she wondered aloud. "Just like that?"

He doffed his beaten hat and tipped it towards her. "Just like that," he paused when he saw her worried look. "If it makes you feel better, I did think long and hard about this."

And just like that, he disappeared behind the door and was gone.

Angela wished she could've said something clever, something meaningful that would make a difference for him, but then she realised that whatever it was that she would have said, she wouldn't believe one word of it.

Angela sighed and stared at her glass, before noticing that the manila envelope sitting unopened in front of her. She did a double take on the door and observed that, yes, Doc was definitely gone, but she could probably catch up to him.

In a hurry, she took some coins from her pocket and slammed it on the table, where they rattled noisily. She took the manila envelope in one hand and stood up, using the other hand to steady herself. Gods, was she more drunk than she thought?

The brawl appeared to have died down, and there was much groaning, spitting, and wiping of blood. Some of the less injured had gone home to sleep it off, while those who were out cold had decided to stay and just sleep it off on the floor. Poncy was busy checking which of the patrons were permanently unconscious.

Angela tried to walk, and she wobbled across the floor, over some bodies, stepped on one and heard air being suddenly expressed. She made her way towards the door, keeled a few steps into the cold night, and then fell asleep before hitting the ground.