The Memory of Death

by Trent Jamieson

  I shake my head. ‘Just the water and before that … Well, we won. There was the wave, that wave that went on forever. I remember saying goodbye.’ Her eyes, green and wild, and flecked with grey. I remember …

  Tim’s face is expressionless. ‘Yes. They’ve all said that.’

  But I’m not them, I’m me!

  ‘Tim,’ I say. ‘When did this start happening?’

  He puts down his pen. ‘I know what you think you are, or what you say you think you are. But you’re not. And because of that you don’t get to ask questions.’

  ‘But I am.’

  Tim looks almost bored. ‘No, you are not. The moment you walked through those doors, all sorts of silent alarms went off.’ Tim smiled. ‘We’ve got remarkably sophisticated since you … since he went away. Steven left the world a human, you’re not.’

  ‘What the hell am I? A Stirrer? Christ, don’t tell me I’m a Stirrer.’

  Tim scrawls something else on his clipboard. ‘No, you are not a Stirrer. You’re … you’re trouble. You’re something worse, something we can’t just stall, and banish back to the Underworld.’

  ‘Look, there has to be some sort of test. Something more accurate.’

  Tim winces. ‘Yeah, there is. It’s traumatic. I don’t know what you are, but we’re not monsters here: except for the monsters.’

  I raise an eyebrow; monsters on the payroll? Sure, I’d been something close, but … Tim grimaces. ‘It’s complicated. Look, I’m sorry, mate.’ I can tell he wants to say Steve, but he doesn’t. I can read him like a book and he knows it, and I can see that he knows it. He looks away from me.

  ‘Ask me any question,’ I say in a voice that has far too much pleading in it. ‘Anything that only you and I could possibly know.’

  Tim shakes his head. ‘We tried that first, it didn’t work. You all know that shit. Even the first one.’

  ‘The first one?’

  ‘Yeah, the one we really thought was you. It attacked Lissa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Went at her with a knife. Like that was going to hurt her.’

  ‘A knife – he should have known better. Where is he? Which one is he?’

  ‘That one got away. It could be you. It could be one of the others, or it could still be out there.’

  ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

  Tim slaps a hand down on the table hard, makes me jump; the dude’s definitely been working out. ‘You, whatever the fuck you are, have to stop doing this. It’s cruel, this joke, this madness. Haven’t we been through enough?’ By the end he’s shouting, jabbing a finger in my chest. I don’t like seeing him hurting. I sit there and take it.

  He wipes at his face. ‘Enough,’ he says, to himself, I can see him reining the anger in. If there is one thing Tim can’t stand it’s being unprofessional. ‘Enough.’

  Tim drops back in the chair and gestures at a camera in the ceiling. The men who brought me to his offices walk in. They grab me; one of them holds my right hand to the table.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Tim says. ‘And I’m really sorry if this proves me wrong.’

  I try to wrench my way out of their grip, but there’s no give in them. I might as well be encased in concrete.

  ‘Need to test if you possess a soul.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Tim gives me a hard look. Pulls out his knife. Every Pomp has one; you need blood to stall a Stirrer. You run the knife across your hand, and touch a Stirrer (or, to be more precise, the body it’s inhabiting) with your bloody palm, and it belts its soul straight back to hell. It’s elegant, painfully simple, and it works. I had my first knife when I was ten. Took it to school, got in an awful lot of trouble for it – like nearly expelled trouble. That was the first time I realised just how different my family’s business was to everyone else’s. This knife could be exactly the same one – in truth they’re all made in a factory in Spain. Silver, sharp, the blade seven centimetres long. A brace symbol – a triangle bisected by a slightly off-centre line – etched into the point.

  Tim looks at the knife for a moment, and then drives it into my hand.

  Eight

  We’d done worse to each other.

  The pair of us. We’ve slammed knives into each other’s hearts, but this breaks mine. There’s no one in the world I’ve ever been closer to than Tim. Never had a brother, just my cousins, and Tim was the one who I got along with best. He’d not followed the family trade; he’d avoided the world of pomping until I’d dragged him into it. By then both our families had been destroyed. We’d shared our losses, and our fears. We’d fought against the End of Days, saved each other’s lives, and now, he’s stabbed a knife into my hand.

  Could have at least given me a little notice.

  I scream. And then I stop – no point in screaming when it doesn’t hurt. The pain has already passed, as though it was more a memory than true pain. He pulls the blade out. It hurts, but not much, and the pain is gone almost at once.

  The look of disappointment on Tim’s face is much more painful.

  ‘Just like the others,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t even have blood.’ He gives me a total you’re dead to me look. ‘Whatever the fuck you think you are: you are not Steve.’

  Not Steve.

  ‘I’m Steve all right.’ I swing that bloodless, wounded hand at Tim’s face. Hit him hard. His head jerks back. ‘I’m –’

  The goons are on me again. Tim’s standing, scowling.

  ‘Jesus,’ Tim says. ‘Get it out of here. You’re nothing. You’re a monster.’

  But I am Steve.

  I know I am.

  I flex my hand where the knife passed through, where I just punched my cousin in the face. There’s not even a mark. Just as there wasn’t when I opened the door to Number Four. I feel my lip where Tim hit me. That’s unmarked too.

  Oh, shit.

  Then the goons are jerking my arms back hard enough that it hurts.

  ‘Take him away,’ Tim says, rubbing his eye, and there’s not even a hint of theatricality to it. The old Pomp Goons drag me back over the chair.

  I don't even bother to struggle.

  What the hell am I?

  *

  They drag L7 back in: the poor bastard. And he’s nursing his hand. I can see the fight’s gone out of him. It’s a shock at first, I know. And I can’t pretend that I don’t feel at least a little relief that he didn’t pass Tim’s test. He doesn’t even turn his head to watch the door close behind him. Well, the fight comes back. It just takes time.

  ‘You could have warned me,’ he says. Maybe not with this one.

  ‘And what would that have done?’

  He nods. ‘Nothing, but, okay, nothing. I would have told you,’ he lies.

  Me and Clash laugh.

  ‘And maybe, just maybe, you were the one. I would have liked to see you bleed.’

  Clash snorts. ‘I’ve ordered pizza,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ the new one of us mumbles.

  But when the pizza slides through the slot he eats as many pieces as the rest of us.

  ‘See,’ I say. ‘It could be much worse.’

  ‘Yes, it could.’ We all say together.

  ‘Where’s the CCTV in here?’ he asks.

  ‘There isn’t any,’ says Okkervil.

  *

  I watch them on the CCTV. Looks like the hornet’s nest is stirred up. They’re all buzzing.

  If Charon’s right. If I trust him, and the guy’s saved us several times before, we need to do this now. Three of them, pushed hard enough. It should work.

  But if it doesn’t.

  If it doesn’t then god knows what I’m releasing on the world.

  *

  I’m not hungry, but when the pizza comes I eat with the rest: no point in starving myself. I mightn’t bleed but I still get hungry.

  ‘We need to commit to a path,’ I say, wiping my lips with a napkin.

  With full bellies, it’s the best time to start plann
ing, and what these versions of me have lacked is a plan. I don’t blame them; I’m not much of a planner. But I can feel something coming – it was in the set of Tim’s shoulders, the way he didn’t meet my gaze – and we need to be ready for it.

  ‘Why? We’re being fed,’ Clash says.

  ‘Yeah, for now. But at some stage they’re going to do something with us, and I don’t think it’s going to be packing us off to the Sunshine Coast for a holiday. We’re recognised as some sort of threat. And I know how I would deal with threats, particularly those that aren’t human.’

  They both look down. We may have done what was needed to be done, but there is blood on my (our?) hands. I’ve killed men and gods and Stirrers. From the sound of things one of me tried to kill Lissa. I get the feeling that they’re only waiting to have us put down. It’s what you do to rabid animals, and I’m not even an animal – I’m not even really alive. If I didn’t look like me I know there wouldn’t even be this hesitation. Which is odd; usually just looking like me is enough to have everyone want me dead.

  ‘There’s a sword hanging over our heads,’ I say. ‘We just don’t know when it’s going to fall.’

  The door opens.

  ‘I didn’t order any more pizza,’ Clash says. We all know that this isn’t pizza.

  The guy who comes through is wearing a suit – nice Italian one. Looks like it might fit me.

  ‘I need to take you upstairs,’ he says, and I’ve known enough death to see it in his eyes.

  There’s another guy standing in the doorway, but I think we might be able to take them both. They’re Pomps, not bodyguards, and I’ve learnt a thing or two over the past couple of years.

  For once I don’t need to say anything. We’re on them both.

  It’s over quick.

  ‘If you try that again, I swear you won’t get back up,’ the Pomp who just beat the shit out of us says. He looks like he wants to make it happen.

  ‘Feels good to commit to an action, doesn’t it?’ I growl, as we pick our pistol-whipped bodies up off the floor. This hurt where the knife didn’t. Together we seem somehow more vulnerable, but more decisive as well.

  He leads us out of the room, and then the darkness descends. A flickering dimness that seems to extrude from the ceiling. It’s slow, in that descent, until all at once, it whips its night-dark tendrils around, and fills the corridor.

  I can’t see what happens, but I hear it. The sickening crunch of bone, the battering of fists against flesh.

  When the darkness is gone there are two Pomps out cold.

  I check their breathing: both are still alive.

  I look up at my companions. ‘What just happened here?’

  ‘Beats me,’ says Okkervil.

  ‘Beats them, is more fucking accurate,’ Clash says.

  They might have been coming down to kill us, but we’ve no intention of killing them in return. They might think we’re monsters, but we know we aren’t. Both men have the silver knives of their office. I grab one, the edge shining with all its violent potential, and pass the other to Clash.

  ‘You guys can fight over that one.’

  ‘And the suit?’ Okkervil says. Only one of them will fit.

  I start changing into it. ‘What do you think?’

  Okkervil laughs. ‘Suit in the middle of summer in Brisbane? It’s all yours, L7.’

  So, we’re not completely the same! I don’t know what that means. But slipping into what is a rather nice silk shirt, and an even nicer Italian jacket and pants, is utterly comforting. Even if the shoes don’t fit.

  Clash belts the knife to his ankle, and Okkervil shrugs.

  We stand at the door, hover there. Over the poor unconscious Pomps, one of them semi-naked. I drape the L7 T-shirt over him. Then I look to the others.

  What this group needs is a leader.

  ‘We take the stairs,’ we all say at once. Not that different then!

  Just because we can’t hear alarms doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. The front door is definitely not the way to go this time. We’re up the stairs almost as a single unit, two steps as once, all the way up to the first floor. None of us may bleed, but we sure can sweat. No one’s waiting for us as we turn left and into a passageway that few know about.

  Last corner before the door out of here, and Lissa is leaning back against the door, almost casual. There’s a dark grin on her face. Too much of the Hungry Death in it. And something else. I would almost think we’re being played.

  ‘You go through this door and you will be hunted, and you will be destroyed.’

  We stop as one.

  ‘You expect me to stay in there?’ I say. ‘You’re going to kill us.’

  Lissa can’t meet my gaze, or refuses to – I hope it isn’t the latter. ‘That’s not exactly the –’

  ‘Not exactly?’ we all say in unison.

  Lissa’s lips thin, and she gestures at the stairs. ‘I want you back down there now, de Selbys.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I walk to the door, slide back the bolt and push it open.

  ‘We’ll find you, you know.’

  ‘We need to sort this out,’ I say. ‘The three of us. We need to know what we are. You can’t deny us that.’

  ‘It’s my job to deny you that. To make sure the dead stay dead. Steve, don’t you just want to rest?’

  She reaches a hand towards me. Of course I want to rest. Of course I am tired. She almost smiles at me.

  ‘Steve …’

  She’s good. She always was. But she can already tell she’s failed. I shake my head.

  Lissa, I want to say, we’ve saved each other so many times. Can’t we do that again? But there’s no room for argument in her eyes, just something cold and hard that tears at me. I look away and open the door to the rear of the building. It’s hot and humid. For a moment, I actually wonder if it isn’t better back in that air-conditioned cell.

  Then the others push through behind me and the door shuts with a loud click.

  ‘Isn’t she going to follow us?’ I feel surprisingly disappointed.

  ‘No,’ Clash answers. ‘She’s gone. Shifted out of there.’

  ‘Then we run.’

  Clash and Okkervil look at each other and then me.

  Clash clears his throat. ‘Sounds good in theory, but we’ve been locked up in that room for weeks. I think running might kill us.’

  ‘I’ve already got a stitch,’ Okkervil says. ‘Those bloody stairs were steep.’

  ‘Really?’

  They give me such a look that I know there’s no point in arguing with me.

  So we hurry from the door, down the fire escape through the Brisbane heat.

  *

  'They’re gone. We still have time to get them,’ Tim says, gesturing at the CCTV display.

  ‘At the rate they’re moving my grandma could catch them, and she’s ninety-seven.’

  Tim looks at me uncertainly; his right eye is swollen, bruised. ‘Do you really want to do this?’

  Even after he’s been attacked, he’s not certain. He doesn’t have to be.

  ‘Don’t make me tell you again.’

  ‘Why couldn’t we have just done this in-house?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Everything’s complicated now,’ Tim says. ‘Do you think they suspect?’

  ‘Of course they do. Steve’s no fool.’

  There’s a small black box on his desk, a gift or a curse from Charon. It is shivering.

  ‘Release the Hound,’ I say.

  To Tim’s credit he doesn’t hesitate. He slides his silver knife across his palm, quick, doesn’t even wince. I need my Ankou to do this, or it won’t work. He picks up the box. Almost drops it, but doesn’t. He presses his bloody palm against one side, then the other, and the other, until all six sides are marked with his palm print. And even then he doesn’t drop it, just places it on the ground.

  The box jumps. The box contorts. It bulges, and all at once I am hearing a new heartbeat, fast the
n slow, slow then fast, and faster. A beat unlike anything human.

  The box expands, shifts and howls. And the Hound sits before me, eyes quizzical. Wide with the moment of its birthing. Then they narrow. They're remarkable, those eyes, dark and familiar.

  It smacks its lips once.

  Charon had told me what it could do. That it knew who to hunt, and that it wouldn’t stop. I hadn’t quite believed him, but now, staring at this mad creature, I have no doubt. What will it do once it finds them, that’s the question.

  I pat it gently on the head. And its stump of a tail wags. It pushes its head against my hand hard, lifts its snout and stares at me with those eyes.

  ‘Go,’ I tell it.

  And it is gone, all scrambling legs, leaving a hint of wood smoke and blood.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say after it.

  Tim’s wiping his hand with a tissue, not very effectively. ‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ he says.

  I grab him another tissue, push it into his palm. ‘I know what I’m doing. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. But I’ve got responsibilities now – we’ve seen the end of the world, and neither of us wants that again. Even if it’s an end of the world shaped like Steve.’

  There’s something wrong about the Steves. And not just their existence; looking at them creates a sensation of unpleasantness, like looking at a cockroach sitting on a slice of birthday cake. These things shouldn’t be here, their presence is wrong. Each time I’ve seen them, I’ve felt it – except, perhaps, for that first time.

  Then I’d felt something else and it had betrayed me.

  Nine

  Two minutes out of Number Four I’m not sure where to go. Not that we’ve gone far. Who do I have left? Someone calls out at us. Clash and Okkervil tug on my jacket sleeves, and I turn to see a drunk staggering out of the Victory. He’s still holding a pint glass, cupping it carefully in his hands even as he heads towards us.

  ‘You,’ the drunk bloke says. ‘You. I’m talking to all three of you.’

  I turn to face him, breaking the first rule of dealing with drunks: giving them any attention at all. Doesn’t look like a Pomp; doesn’t look like he should know me. I certainly don’t recognise him, until I look at him properly – beyond the red face and the bluster, I know that face, I have been that face.