Making Money

‘This is Uba Yellow, the most poisonous paint in the world! Stand back or I will die horribly!’ said the forger. ‘Er, in fact the most poisonous paint is probably Agatean White, but I’ve run out of that, it is most vexing.’ It occurred to Owlswick that he had lost the tone slightly, and he quickly raised his voice again. ‘But this is pretty poisonous, all the same!’

A gifted amateur picks up a lot, and Moist had always found poisons interesting. ‘An arsenical compound, eh?’ he said. Everyone knew about Agatean White. He hadn’t heard of Uba Yellow, but arsenic came in many inviting shades. Just don’t lick your brush.

‘It’s a horrible way to die,’ he continued. ‘You more or less melt over several days.’

‘I’m not going back! I’m not going back!’ squeaked Owlswick.

‘They used to use it to make skin whiter,’ said Moist, moving a little closer.

‘Get back! I’ll use it! I swear I’ll use it!’

‘That’s where we get the phrase “drop-dead gorgeous”,’ said Moist, closing in.

He snatched at Owlswick, who rammed the tube in his mouth. Moist tugged it out, pushing the forger’s clammy little hands out of the way, and examined it.

‘Just as I thought,’ he said, pocketing the tube. ‘You forgot to take the cap off. It’s the kind of mistake amateurs always make!’

Owlswick hesitated, and then said: ‘You mean there’s people who commit suicide professionally?’

‘Look, Mr Jenkins, I’m here to—’ Moist began.

‘I’m not going back to that jail! I’m not going back!’ said the little man, backing away.

‘That’s fine by me. I want to offer you a—’

‘They watch me, you know,’ Owlswick volunteered. ‘All the time.’

Ah. This was slightly better than suicide by paint, but only just.

‘Er … you mean in jail?’ said Moist, just to make sure.

‘They watch me everywhere! There’s one of Them right behind you!’

Moist stopped himself from turning, because that way madness lay. Mind you, quite a lot of it was standing right here in front of him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Owlswick. That’s why—’

He hesitated, and thought: why not? It had worked on him.

‘That’s why I’m going to tell you about angels,’ he said.

People said there were more thunderstorms now that Igors were living in the city. There was no more thunder now, but the rain fell as if it had got all night.

Some of it swirled over the top of Moist’s boots as he stood in front of the bank’s unobtrusive side door and tried to remember the barber-surgeon’s knock.

Oh, yes. It was the old one that went: rat tat a tat-tat TAT TAT!

Or, to put it another way: Shave and a haircut — no legs!

The door opened instantly.

‘I would like to apologithe about the lack of creak, thur, but the hingeth jutht don’t theem to—’

‘Just give me a hand with this lot, will you?’ said Moist, bent under the weight of two heavy boxes. ‘This is Mr Jenkins. Can you make up a bed for him down here? And is there any chance you could change what he looks like?’

‘More than you could poththibly imagine, thur,’ said Igor happily.

‘I was thinking of, well, a shave and a haircut. You can do that, can’t you?’

Igor gave Moist a pained look. ‘It ith true that technically thurgeonth can perform tonthorial operationth—’

‘No, no, don’t touch his throat, please.’

‘That meanth yeth, I can give him a haircut, thur,’ Igor sighed.

‘I had my tonsils out when I was ten,’ said Owlswick.

‘Would you like thome more?’ said Igor, looking for some bright edge to the situation.

‘This is wonderful light!’ Owlswick exclaimed, ignoring the offer. ‘It’s like day!’

‘Jolly good,’ said Moist. ‘Now get some sleep, Owlswick. Remember what I told you. In the morning, you are going to design the first proper one-dollar banknote, understand?’

Owlswick nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere.

‘You’re with me on this, are you?’ said Moist. ‘A note so good that no one else could do it? I showed you my attempt, yes? I know you can do better, of course.’

He looked nervously at the little man. He wasn’t insane, Moist was sure, but it was clear that mostly, for him, the world happened elsewhere.

Owlswick paused in the act of unpacking his box. ‘Um … I can’t make things up,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Moist.

‘I don’t know how to make things up,’ said Owlswick, staring at a paintbrush as if expecting it to whistle.

‘But you’re a forger! Your stamps look better than ours!’

‘Er, yes. But I don’t have your … I don’t know how to get started … I mean, I need something to work from … I mean, once it’s there, I can …’

It must be about four o’clock, thought Moist. Four o’clock! I hate it when there are two four o’clocks in the same day …

He snatched a piece of paper from Owlswick’s box, and pulled out a pencil. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you start with …’

What?