Reaper Man (13 page)

“And I’m dead,” he said, lamely.

“And fed up with being pushed around, eh?” said the greenish-skinned one. Windle shook his hand very carefully.

“Well, not exactly fed—”

“Shoe’s the name. Reg Shoe.”

“Poons. Windle Poons,” said Windle. “Er—”

“Yeah, it’s always the same,” said Reg Shoe bitterly. “Once you’re dead, people just don’t want to know, right? They act as if you’ve got some horrible disease. Dying can happen to anyone, right?”

“Everyone, I should have thought,” said Windle. “Er, I—”

“Yeah, I know what it’s like. Tell someone you’re dead and they look at you as if they’ve seen a ghost,” Mr. Shoe went on.

Windle realized that talking to Mr. Shoe was very much like talking to the Archchancellor. It didn’t actually matter what you said, because he wasn’t listening. Only in Mustrum Ridcully’s case it was because he just wasn’t bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the conversation somewhere inside his own head.

“Yeah, right,” said Windle, giving in.

“We were just finishing off, in fact,” said Mr. Shoe. “Let me introduce you. Everyone, this is—” He hesitated.

“Poons. Windle Poons.”

“Brother Windle,” said Mr. Shoe. “Give him a big Fresh Start welcome!”

There was an embarrassed chorus of “hallos.” A large and rather hairy young man at the end of the row caught Windle’s eye and rolled his own yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling.

“This is Brother Arthur Winkings—”

“Count Notfaroutoe,”
said a female voice sharply.

“And Sister Doreen—I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course—”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said the female voice, as the small dumpy woman sitting next to the small dumpy shape of the Count extended a be-ringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger.

“And Brother Schleppel—”

The chair was empty. But a deep-voice from the darkness underneath it said, “Evenin’.”

“And Brother Lupine.” The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake.

“And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.”

Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.

Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOoooEeeeOoooEEEee.

“I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,” said Mr. Shoe. “I do my best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the effort.”

“Er…dead people?” said Windle, still staring at the note.

“Apathy, I call it,” said Mr. Shoe, bitterly. “How can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?”

Lupine started making frantic “don’t get him started” signals behind Mr. Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time.

“What movement?” he said.

“Dead Rights,” said Mr. Shoe promptly. “I’ll give you one of my leaflets.”

“But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?” said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.

“You’re dead right there,” said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr. Shoe glared at him.

“Apathy,” he repeated. “It’s always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they like about you
and
take away your property, just because you’re dead? And they—”

“I thought that most people, when they died, just…you know…
died
,” said Windle.

“It’s just laziness,” said Mr. Shoe. “They just don’t want to make the effort.”

Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches.

“How long have you been undead, Vindle?” said Doreen, with brittle brightness.

“Hardly any time at all,” said Windle, relieved at the change of tone. “I must say it’s turning out to be different than I imagined.”

“You get used to it,” said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe, gloomily. “That’s the thing about being undead. It’s as easy as falling off a cliff. We’re all undead here.”

Lupine coughed.

“Except Lupine,” said Arthur.

“I’m more what you might call honorary undead,” said Lupine.

“Him being a werewolf,” explained Arthur.

“I thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him,” said Windle, nodding.

“Every full moon,” said Lupine. “Regular.”

“You start howling and growing hair,” said Windle.

They all shook their heads.

“Er, no,” said Lupine. “I more sort of
stop
howling and some of my hair temporarily falls out. It’s bloody embarrassing.”

“But I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always—”

“Lupine’s problem,” said Doreen, “is that he approaches it from ze ozzer way, you see.”

“I’m technically a wolf,” said Lupine. “Ridiculous, really. Every full moon I turn into a wolf-man. The rest of the time I’m just a…wolf.”

“Good grief,” said Windle. “That must be a terrible problem.”

“The trousers are the worst part,” said Lupine.

“Er…they are?”

“Oh, yeah. See, it’s all right for human werewolves. They just keep their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least they’ve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next minute I’m walking and talking and I’m definitely in big trouble on account of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair stashed somewhere. Mr. Shoe—”

“—call me Reg—”

“—lets me keep a pair where he works.”

“
I
work at the mortuary on Elm Street,” said Mr. Shoe. “I’m not ashamed. It’s worth it to save a brother or sister.”

“Sorry?” said Windle. “Save?”

“It’s me that pins the card on the bottom of the lid,” said Mr. Shoe. “You never know. It has to be worth a try.”

“Does it often work?” said Windle. He looked around the room. His tone must have suggested that it was a reasonably large room, and had only eight people in it; nine if you included the voice from under the chair, which presumably belonged to a person.

Doreen and Arthur exchanged glances.

“It vorked for Artore,” said Doreen.

“Excuse me,” said Windle, “I couldn’t help wondering…are you two…er…vampires, by any chance?”

“’S’right,” said Arthur. “More’s the pity.”

“Hah! You should not tvalk like zat,” said Doreen haughtily. “You should be prout of your noble lineage.”

“Prout?” said Arthur.

“Did you get bitten by a bat or something?” said Windle quickly, anxious not to be the cause of any family friction.

“No,” said Arthur, “by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblahblah…great-great-uncle…blahblahblah…only surviving relative…blahblahblah…may we be the first to offer our heartiest…blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.”

“I hate lawyers,” said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad, hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair.

“It voss quite a good castle,” said Doreen.

“A bloody heap of moldering stone is what it was,” said Arthur.

“It had nice views.”

“Yeah, through every wall,” said Arthur, dropping a portcullis into that avenue of conversation. “I should have known even before we went to look at it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, that’s four days wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I don’t think anymore about it. Next thing, I wake up in the dark, I’m in a box, I finally find these matches, I light one, there’s this card six inches from my nose. It said—”

“‘You Don’t Have to Take this Lying Down,’” said Mr. Shoe proudly. “That was one of my first ones.”

“It vasn’t my fault,” said Doreen, stiffly. “You had been lyink rigid for tree dace.”

“It gave the priest a shock, I can tell you,” said Arthur.

“Huh! Priests!” said Mr. Shoe. “They’re all the same. Always telling you that you’re going to live again after you’re dead, but you just try it and see the look on their faces!”

“Don’t like priests, either,” said the voice from under the chair. Windle wondered if anyone else was hearing it.

“I won’t forget the look on the Reverend Welegare’s face in a hurry,” said Arthur gloomily. “I’ve been going to that temple for thirty years. I was respected in the community. Now if I even
think
of setting foot in a religious establishment I get a pain all down my leg.”

“Yes, but there was no need for him to say what he said when you pushed the lid off,” said Doreen. “And him a priest, too. They shouldn’t know those kind of words.”

“I enjoyed that temple,” said Arthur, wistfully. “It was something to do on a Wednesday.”

It dawned on Windle Poons that Doreen had miraculously acquired the ability to use her double-yous.

“And you’re a vampire too, Mrs. Win…I do beg your pardon…
Countess
Notfaroutoe?” he inquired politely.

The Countess smiled. “My vord, yes,” she said.

“By marriage,” said Arthur.

“Can you do that? I thought you had to be bitten,” said Windle.

The voice under the chair sniggered.

“I don’t see why I should have to go around biting my wife after thirty years of marriage, and that’s flat,” said the Count.

“Every voman should share her husband’s hobbies,” said Doreen. “It iss vot keeps a marriage inter-vesting.”

“Who wants an interesting marriage? I never said I wanted an interesting marriage. That’s what’s wrong with people today, expecting things like marriage to be interesting. And it’s not a hobby, anyway,” moaned Arthur. “This vampiring’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Can’t go out in daylight, can’t eat garlic, can’t have a decent shave—”

“Why can’t you have a—” Windle began.

“Can’t use a
mirror
,” said Arthur. “I thought the turning-into-a-bat bit would be interesting, but the owls around here are
murder
. And as for the…you know…with the blood…well…” His voice trailed off.

“Artore’s never been very good at meetink people,” said Doreen.

“And the worst part is having to wear evening dress the whole time,” said Arthur. He gave Doreen a sideways glance. “I’m sure it’s not really compulsory.”

“It iss very important to maintain standerts,” said Doreen. Doreen, in addition to her here-one-minute-and-gone-the-next vampire accent, had decided to complement Arthur’s evening dress with what she considered appropriate for a female vampire: figure-hugging black dress, long dark hair cut into a widow’s peak, and very pallid makeup. Nature had designed her to be small and plump with frizzy hair and a hearty complexion. There were definite signs of conflict.

“I should have stayed in that coffin,” said Arthur.

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Shoe. “That’s taking the easy way out. The movement needs people like you, Arthur. We had to set an example. Remember our motto.”

“Which motto is that, Reg?” said Lupine wearily. “We have so many.”

“Undead yes—unperson no!” Reg said.

“You see, he means well,” said Lupine, after the meeting had broken up.

He and Windle were walking back through the gray dawn. The Notfaroutoes had left earlier to be back home before daylight heaped even more troubles on Arthur, and Mr. Shoe had gone off, he said, to address a meeting.

“He goes down to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods and shouts,” Lupine explained. “He calls it consciousness raising but I don’t reckon he’s onto much of a certainty.”

“Who was it under the chair?” said Windle.

“That was Schleppel,” said Lupine. “We think he’s a bogeyman.”

“Are bogeymen undead?”

“He won’t say.”

“You’ve never seen him? I thought bogeymen hid under things and, er, behind things and sort of leapt out at people.”

“He’s all right on the hiding. I don’t think he likes the leaping out,” said Lupine.

Windle thought about this. An agoraphobic bogeyman seemed to complete the full set.

“Fancy that,” he said, vaguely.

“We only go along to the club to keep Reg happy,” said Lupine. “Doreen said it’d break his heart if we stopped. You know the worst bit?”

“Go on,” said Windle.

“Sometimes he brings a guitar along and makes us sing songs like ‘The Streets of Ankh-Morpork’ and ‘We Shall Overcome.’
*
It’s terrible.”

“Can’t sing, eh?” said Windle.

“Sing? Never mind sing. Have you ever seen a zombie try to play a guitar? It’s helping him find his fingers afterward that’s so embarrassing.” Lupine sighed. “By the way, Sister Drull is a ghoul. If she offers you any of her meat patties, don’t accept.”

Windle remembered a vague, shy old lady in a shapeless gray dress.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “You mean she makes them out of human flesh?”

“What? Oh. No. She just can’t cook very well.”

“Oh.”

“And Brother Ixolite is probably the only banshee in the
world
with a speech impediment, so instead of sitting on roofs and screaming when people are about to die he just writes them a note and slips it under the door—”

Windle recalled a long, sad face. “He gave me one, too.”

“We try to encourage him,” said Lupine. “He’s very self-conscious.”

His arm shot out and flung Windle against a wall.

“Quiet!”

“What?”

Lupine’s ears swiveled. His nostrils flared.

Motioning Windle to remain where he was, the wereman slunk silently along the alley until he reached its junction with another, even smaller and nastier one. He paused for a moment, and then thrust a hairy hand around the corner.

There was a yelp. Lupine’s hand came back holding a struggling man. Huge hairy muscles moved under Lupine’s torn shirt as the man was hoisted up to fang level.