"You be safe, too." I get out of the car.
Tim glances at me, and all I see are the wounds that he's carrying, the hurts that I recognize because they are the same as my own. It almost brings me to my knees. He slips the car into gear and shoots off down the street.
"Interesting guy," Lissa says. "Now, tell me, why are we here?"
"My car's round the back." I point at the nearby garage. "It's supposed to be fixed." I jingle my keys. "We're going to be on the road in no time."
We're just turning into the mechanic's-the place is closed for the night, just the cars waiting to be picked up-when there's an almighty explosion. A wave of heat strikes me. I smell what's left of the hair on my arms.
"Don't tell me," Lissa says.
"Yeah."
Bits of my car fall from the sky. A dark shape streaks out of the flame toward me. It's a crow-a big one-and its wings are aflame. It races toward my head, a shrieking, flapping comet. An omen if I've ever seen one. I cringe and duck, throwing my hands up before my face. But it's already gone.
I swing around to Lissa, her pale blue face lit by the fire coming from my car, her mouth open. She looks as horrified as I feel.
"What the hell does that mean?" Lissa asks.
"It means that wherever we're going, we're walking for a bit." I look around at all that flame, and the dark sky filling up with smoke. My environmental footprint has broadened considerably this evening. "Maybe we should start running again."
Things can't get any worse, except I'm certain that they will. It's the first new law of the universe according to Steven de Selby's life: things always get worse-and then they explode.
12
So I'm dead," Mike says to me and blinks, his eyes wide.
The newly dead blink a lot.
It's more from the memory of the flesh than any brilliance in the afterlife. There's no walking into the light or any of that nonsense, their eyes are just adjusting to a new way of seeing the world. It's a doors of perception sort of thing.
I have an inkling of what that feels like now, because my world has had its doors and its walls blown open, one after the other with all the ruthlessness of a carpet bomber. I'm feeling a little more than angry. Which isn't the kind of thing you want to bring to the job, it's wildly unprofessional. If this is even a profession anymore.
"Yeah, Mike." I glance around, not sure if anyone is following us. "I'm sorry to say it but, yeah, you're dead."
"Well, this wasn't what I was expecting." He's a bit hesitant. I can't get near him, maybe I'm not helping that much. I'm not really in the mood.
Mike is the fourth dead person who's found me since my car exploded, and that was only an hour ago. Two others were Pomps, the third a punter like Mike. I hadn't seen the Pomps since last year's Christmas party; one of them had gotten a little amorous with the bar staff. Poor bastard-that stuff sticks to you-even dead he couldn't look me in the eye. With them gone I'm probably the only Pomp in the city. Maybe the only Pomp in Australia. And every dead Pomp means more work for me, more of that dreadful pain.
"I'm sorry," I say again to Mike, and I really am.
"Don't be. I'm OK with it," Mike says, shrugging. He's not a Pomp, just a punter, a regular dead guy. "It was hurting at the end. This is much better. I'm really OK with it."
"Good." I'm not OK with death, but I'm trying to cling to my flesh and bones. Shit, I catch myself, I'm being so unprofessional.
"So who is she?" Mike points a thumb at Lissa.
"I'm dead too, Mike," Lissa says, even manages a smile.
Mike nods. Lissa lets this sink in. He blinks, looks her up and down. He obviously likes what he sees. Once again I feel a little tug of jealousy. "You cool with it?" Mike asks.
Lissa sighs. "What you gonna do, eh?"
Mike laughs. "Yeah."
I reach out a hand, pat his wrist and he's gone. I grunt with the pain of it, hunched over. Then I cough.
Every one of these is getting worse, and there's only ever going to be more of them. Souls always take the path of least resistance. As the number of Pomps fall, the souls of the dead are going to go to the closest Pomps they can find, and they're going to come in hard and fast. Sure, some will use Stirrers but if I had a choice of a nice well-lit hallway or a cave dripping with venom, I know which one I'd pick. Doesn't mean I like it.
"I'm doing your job for you," Lissa says, as I straighten with the slow and unsteady movements of the punch-drunk. It seems a long way up to my full height. And there's blood in my spit: a lot of it. My mouth is ruddy with the stuff.
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Some punters need talking down. That guy didn't even need it and you still couldn't manage to be professional."
I raise my hands. "Whoa, you're being much too hard. For Christ's sake, I don't even know if there's a job now."
Lissa flits around me. "As long as they keep coming to you, you do your job." Her eyes are wide and set to ignite. "You didn't want this? Well, neither did I, boy. But we chose this, none the less, when we chose to do what our parents did. Without us, without you, things are going to get bad and fast. So do your job."
"Yeah, well, easy enough when you're not experiencing each pomp." I can feel the sneer spreading across my face. "I'm bruised on the inside. My job is going to get me killed." One way or the other it will, I'm certain of that now.
"Maybe, maybe not," Lissa says. "But you've got to keep moving, and you've got to keep sucking it up. Death doesn't end."
"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" I demand, while not moving at all. My hands are on my hips, and I've a growl stitched across my face, my jaw bunched up so tight it hurts.
"Stopping, wandering aimlessly, a little bit of both." Lissa counts out on her fingers. "Oh, and I could throw in some misdirecting of anger."
She's right of course, but I'm not going to admit it.
I'm walking toward the river-there, that's a destination, everything in Brisbane leads to the river, eventually-through the pedestrian and cyclist underpass near Land Street, concrete all round. The traffic of Coronation Drive rumbles above. Cyclists race past me, all clicking gears and ratcheting wheels, thunking over the seams in the concrete, each thunk jolting me into a higher level of stress.
All these people are in a hurry to be somewhere. Going home, they're the last wave of the working day, the sunset well and truly done with. Until yesterday I was one of these restless commuters, my phone always on, hoping that it wouldn't ring with a change of schedule.
"You know, I had a home once," I whisper. "Had four walls, a dog and a bloody fine CD collection. Shit, I didn't care about the CDs or the house, but Molly. Molly."
"We've all lost things, people we care about," Lissa says. "I've got feelings, too. It's all I have. If you give in to your losses you may as well give up."
I walk around in front of her. She stops, and we hold each other's gaze. "What was your place like?" I ask.
"It was nice, near the beach, not far from a tram line. Oh, and the restaurants." She stops. "Bit of a pigsty, though. Never really got into the whole house-frau thing."
"No one's perfect."
Lissa smiles. "Would have driven you mad."
"I'm sure." I want to say that I would do anything to be driven mad by her. But now's not the time.
I pull my duffel coat around me. The evening's grown a gnawing chill. A wind is funneling through the underpass, lifting rubbish, and it swirls around us like this is all some sort of garbage masque. For a moment it passes through Lissa's form, spiraling up almost to her head. She blanches, shifts forward, and the rubbish topples behind her, leaving a trail of chip packets, cigarette butts and leaves.
"Well, that's never happened before." There's something delightful about her face in that moment, something starkly honest that hurts me more than any pomp. I want to touch her cheek. I ache for that contact, but all we have are words.
"Look, I'm sorry about before," I say, startling a jogger, one of the few I'
ve passed not listening to an mp3. He looks at me oddly, but keeps running.
"So am I," Lissa says. Suddenly a part of me wants to take another jab at her, because maybe it would be easier if she hated me. After all, I'm going to lose her. But I clamp my jaw shut.
I reach the river end of the underpass. There's a seat there and I slump down into it and stare at the water, the city's lights swimming like lost things in the restless dark.
"I think that little fellow wants you," Lissa says.
I look up. There's a tiny sparrow perched on the ledge behind me. I look at it more closely. It's an inkling. One of Morrigan's. Its outline is an almost ornate squiggle of ink.
The little bird regards me with bright eyes, its head tilted, then hops closer. It coughs once, strikes its beak against the ledge and coughs again. I put out my hand, flinching slightly as the sparrow jumps quickly onto my finger. Its squiggly chest expands and shrinks in time with its breathing, and all the while its eyes are trained on me, unreadable and intelligent.
There is a tiny roll of paper clipped to its leg. I reach for it, and the sparrow pecks down hard on my arm, drawing blood. An inky tongue darts out.
"Shit." I'd forgotten about that, mobile phones are a sight easier than this stuff. The sparrow needs to know that it has the right person, and there's also a price. Blood's the easiest way. Satisfied that I am the correct recipient, the tiny roll of paper falls from its leg into my open palm.
The sparrow looks at Lissa and starts chirping angrily, fiercely enough that it's almost a bark, surprisingly loud from such a small creature. Lissa glares at it and the sparrow gives one final growl of a chirp, launches itself into the air, and is gone into the night.
"I don't think it was too happy to see me," Lissa says. "In fact, I know it wasn't."
"Why?"
"Because I've outstayed my welcome, I shouldn't be here. The world wants me to go."
"I don't want you to go."
Lissa crosses her arms. "Steven, you haven't been acting like it."
"I-"
"Just look at the note, would you?"
I unfold the paper. Morrigan's handwriting is distinctive: all flourishes and yet completely legible, even when it's covered with bloody fingerprints. Still alive, Steven. You're not the only one. Don's in Albion, Sam is too. Get there if you're able. Your best chance is together.
Be careful.
M
I read it aloud. Lissa frowns as she looks from the note to me. She shakes her head. "Steven, this doesn't feel right. It could be a trap."
"Everything feels like a trap, though, doesn't it? Every street's a potential ambush. If we keep this up, whoever our opponent is will have won." I heft up my backpack. "Morrigan's alive. I have to cling to some sort of hope."
Lissa's lips tighten, she's not happy at all. "But there's hope and then there's insanity, Steve."
I look her squarely in the eyes. "I've got a bit of both, I reckon. And anyway, besides you and the contents of this pack, it's all I've got."
I'm also much happier following Morrigan than trying to get Mr. D's attention. Lissa has explained the ritual, and why the craft knife is necessary. Anything else has to be worth trying first. Lissa knows that. It's hanging there in front of us, this secondary truth. Drawing Death the old way scares the shit out of me, and I can understand why most Pomps would be unfamiliar with the process. There's too much pain. It's one thing to have people wanting you dead, another entirely to take yourself to that place.
Now all I've got to do is get to Albion. It's a northern suburb, about twenty minutes away. Once I'm there I'm sure I can find Sam and Don. Pomps can sense each other-it's an innate thing, hard to describe, but you know when they're near and, if you know them well enough, you can tell just who is about. I haven't sensed any Pomps since the Hill and I'm a little hungry for it. There's a loneliness within me that is completely unfamiliar.
I realize that all my life there have been Pomps around and now there seems to be nothing but the polluting presence of Stirrers. I need my own kind with a desperation that is almost painful.
And I'm terrified that they'll be dead or gone by the time I get there.
13
I can't believe I'm asking this, but, are you going to steal another car?" Lissa asks.
I have to laugh. The thought had crossed my mind. "I might be mad but I'm not stupid." Besides, actually finding an unlocked car with its keys in the ignition in this part of the city looks like it would be impossible. I'd like to think I could hot-wire a car after breaking into it, but I can't.
I run up the steep stone staircase, two steps at a time, that leads from the river onto the jacaranda-lined traffic of Coronation Drive, and jog to the nearest bus stop, Lissa pacing me all the way. Behind me, a CityCat glides down the river toward the Regatta pier. I stare after the big blue catamaran's flashing lights as a bus comes to a halt. I clamber aboard, and show my pass like I'm just going to Albion for a curry or a pizza. How I wish I was, and with Lissa, too. But the truth is I'm probably going to Albion to die.
"Got a clear run at last," the bus driver says. "Some idiot messed up a bus, then stole a car." I doubt he'd be so friendly if he knew I was the one responsible, which then makes me distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of traveling in a bus. Bad memories surface. Perhaps I should have stuck it out and found a car.
"Yeah, some people, right?" I say.
I sit in the middle of the bus nearest the exit. The driver's already put the bus into gear and is nudging into the traffic on Coronation Drive. From this angle I have a view of the west and I can see a thin trail of smoke darker than the night coming from the direction of the garage. All that's left of my car is blowing in the wind.
The bus rumbles toward the city then takes the Hale Street exit, peeling away from the skyscrapers to the right of us, heading toward the inner-city bypass and Albion. It's also how you get to Royal Brisbane Hospital, and the airport. I'm familiar with the hospital, most particularly the morgue, but it's been a long time since I've been to the airport, and that was only to pick up friends and family. There was a time I'd dreamed of traveling, just never got around to it. Wish I had. I catch myself at that thought-I've indulged in more than enough self-pity. I look at Lissa.
"What?" she asks.
"So tell me about Lissa Jones," I whisper. No one seems to notice that I'm talking to thin air.
Lissa rolls her eyes. "Gorgeous, single, thirty-something."
"Something being?"
"Thirty, and only just. It was my birthday yesterday."
"You could have told me earlier."
She snorts. "What, so you could buy me a cake?"
"Well, happy birthday, Miss Jones." I dig the bottle of water out of my backpack and take what I reckon is a suitably celebratory swig.
"Never wanted to be a Pomp," Lissa says.
"Really? I know you said it, but I thought you were joking."
Lissa raises an eyebrow. "Joking, eh? Because the last day has been such a barrel of laughs."
"Sorry." There's a bit of silence, and it's only going to deepen unless I dive in. "For me it was always something I was going to be." And it was. My parents had never said anything outright banning me from considering anything else, but they'd never really encouraged me to explore my options, either.
Lissa chuckles. "I studied event management," she says, and her smile widens. "I certainly learned a lot about staging a good funeral."
"Your parents used to take you to them?"
"Didn't yours?"
I laugh. "I actually used to think that wakes were just something that people attended every day. I had a black suit from about the age of four."
"Bet you looked cute."
"Yeah, and none of that past tense, thank you." I smile, though there's part of me still demanding that I stop flirting with a dead girl. I know I'm being unprofessional, and she knows I know but, then again, after what has happened to my profession, it hardly seems to matter anymore. "I remember Dad sto
pping a stir in Annerley. The body was actually twitching, and Dad went up to the coffin and slapped the corpse on the face. Stalled it then and there. People were looking at him as though he was mad, and I was just grinning, proud as punch.
"Dad did most of the hospital gigs, the staff knew him. Doctors and nurses, particularly the nurses, they see all the weird stuff. They understand why our job is so important. So they were always polite around him, respectful. I liked that."
Lissa smiles. "Dad's boy, eh? I didn't want the job. I didn't want to spend my life going to funerals and morgues. But the job picks you, and it sticks in the blood. Anyway, in my family it does, whether you want it or not."
I'm not sure if she's making fun of my family's rather high Black Sheep to Pomp ratio-Aunt Teagan, my late Uncle Mike, Tim-so I just nod, and go along with it. "It makes sense, though, could you imagine pomping cold? Shit, that would really screw you up."
It was different in the old days, there was something of a cultural scaffold. If you started to see weird shit, everyone knew what it was. Well, it's not like that anymore. Without family guidance those first few pomps would be nightmarish. I wonder how things are going to work now, who's going to pass on all this information to the next generation. Surely not me.
"I was stubborn, though," Lissa says. "Finished my degree."
"Good on you," I say.
Lissa glares at me. "Anyone ever told you you're a patronizing shit?"
"Yeah, but I'm serious. I only got through the first year of my BA-if you can count four fails and four passes as getting through."
Lissa shakes her head.
"Neither do I."
"You can always go back." I love her for saying that, talking as though there might be some sort of long-term future.
"Nah, I'm scarred for life." The sun's been down a while now and the city's luminous, a brooding yet brilliant presence to our right. "Which isn't going to be too much longer, anyway."
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