‘You let go,’ Cerbo says, looking at me eyes wide with fear or guilt, or both.
‘And you couldn’t come back and get me?’ I’m on my feet in an instant. I grab him and shake. I’m pumped. My heart is pounding, I barely realise that I’m lifting him off the ground.
‘I didn’t have time,’ Cerbo squeaks.
‘Didn’t have time?’ I shout.
Oscar swings open the door. Tim’s with him.
‘What was that?’ Tim demands. They both stop, staring at me shaking Cerbo.
I put Cerbo down. I straighten my jacket and run my fingers through my hair. ‘Stirrer god, I think.’
Cerbo nods. ‘That’s never happened before.’ He looks at Tim, then Oscar. ‘It’s all right. It nearly had us, but it can’t. Not here, not yet. A finger tap is not an invasion. Now, if you would excuse us, Tim and Mr Goon, there are some things I need to discuss with your boss.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Some things … Tim, I’ve just discovered something you should be able to do. It will be bloody, of course, and you really wouldn’t want to do it. But –’ I glance over at Cerbo. ‘Jesus, what other things should Tim be able to do? I want you to teach him. I need him to know this shit.’
Cerbo dips his head. ‘It would be useful. You are working at a disadvantage.’
‘You got time to talk to this bloke?’ I ask Tim. Cerbo is giving him another pained look.
‘Yeah, I’ll make time.’ I peer at Tim, he looks a bit under the weather. Maybe he didn’t stop drinking after the party.
‘Great, I’ll send him through when we’re done.’
Once Oscar and Tim are gone I gesture to an office chair.
‘I really am sorry,’ Cerbo says, sitting down. ‘No matter what you may think, it was not my intention to put you in danger. The Stirrer god recognised you. It certainly reacted.’
‘Wonderful. I’ve got enough enemies without a bloody god gunning for me.’
‘Too late for that,’ Cerbo says, straightening his hat.
‘It’s very close now, isn’t it? How long do we have?’
‘Best estimate? Twelve months.’
‘And worst?’
‘Well, it just knocked on the door, didn’t it?’ he replies, gesturing above us.
I look up at the ceiling, at the space that I suppose I dropped through. There’s a tiny black smudge there.
‘So how do we stop it?’
Cerbo looks at me. ‘Believe me, that’s what we’re working on. I just don’t know.’
I glance at my bleeding hand. The wound is beginning to close but not as fast or as painlessly as I would like. ‘But it’s going to involve blood, isn’t it? And lots of it.’
‘What doesn’t in our line of business, Mr de Selby? You tell me.’
‘I want you out there. Teaching Tim what he needs to know. Show him what you did. Show him how to shift. But please, don’t do anything that’s going to kill him.’
And then, with a brief dip of his head, he leaves the room. I’m alone.
I snatch up the black phone.
‘We need to talk. And now!’
‘The markets,’ Mr D says, and is gone before I can protest. All I can do is fume into the silence of the handset.
The markets are crowded and run along the southern bank of the River Styx, its black water flowing languidly towards the rolling sea. The crowds that gather here and buy the produce are silent in the main. It is an eerie thing, that silent shopping. There’s not a hint of haggling, no spruiking, no musicians or other street performers, though a flute is playing distantly and atonally. This is a mere shadow of a living market. A memory. The tents shift, the goods within change – kangaroo hide one moment, spinning tops or fruit the next – echoing centuries of commerce. Money is exchanged, and it is various – old coins and paper; plastic, too. I can hear the click-clack of an old credit card machine.
Here, where there are so many dead, the red of the sky mingles with the blue glow of the dead’s flesh. And far above us, a single branch of the One Tree reaches out across the river and the city. I can just make out the shapes of tiny figures up there, finding a place to rest, and a final passage to the Deepest Dark.
‘What do you think of these oranges? Too soft?’ Mr D asks.
‘You’re really an extremely frustrating man.’ I lean in towards him, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from jabbing him in the chest.
Mr D grimaces. For a moment his face is almost as full of motion as the days when he was RM. He may have demanded we meet in the markets of the Underworld but I did not come here to look at oranges, silver jewellery, brewing ash or Troll Doll pencil erasers. Wal’s not talking to me after my flight from the Stirrer god. He’s fluttering around a nearby stall throwing me dirty looks and eating a dagwood dog. There’s tomato sauce bearding his chin.
‘How much did you know about the Stirrer god before you died?’ I ask Mr D.
‘Very little, believe me. I was out of the loop.’
‘But you knew it was coming?’
‘Only that something was coming, and then Morrigan’s little Schism distracted me.’
‘Well, I’ve seen it up close, and let me tell you it terrified me.’
‘There was a guy called Lovecraft. Wrote horror stories.’
‘Yeah, I know who he was. What about him?’ I say, irritated at this turn in the conversation.
‘Well, with Lovecraft, sure, he was a horrible racist, but he got something right. Sometimes terror is the only response.’
‘Terror. OK, so what about Rillman?’
‘Rillman really was a surprise to me. I thought him long gone.’ Mr D squeezes an orange speculatively. ‘I do like a good orange. Oh! Now it’s gone and changed into a pear!’
‘Enough about the –’
Then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A movement not quite right, a little too energetic, just a little too alive. There’s a man, standing by a nearby stall, who isn’t dead.
His arms don’t glow with the blue light that every soul emits in Hell. Nothing living, not as we define it, should be here. I watch him, and try to act like I’m not watching him. His shoulders are broad, and he’s wearing a beaked plague mask and a wide-brimmed black hat. Is this the same guy who cut the window-cleaning assassin’s rope? He moves to another stall, beak bobbing up and down like a toy drinking bird, as he inspects with far too much interest what appears to be a collection of old Archie comics. I can just make out Jughead’s face and crown.
‘Do you see that?’ I ask Mr D.
‘See what?’ He shrugs, putting down the pear.
I’m getting the sort of vibe that if I make any movement towards our Archie-perusing beaked mate, he’ll leg it. ‘If you can’t see him, don’t worry.’ Though how you can miss a non-glowing man in Hell wearing a plague mask is beyond me – even in the markets. The fellow really is going to look peculiar anywhere outside of Black-Death period dramas or fancy-dress parties.
‘Well, you’re worrying me now,’ Mr D says, and looks ready to turn around. I slap a hand onto his shoulder.
‘No need for that,’ I say. ‘You’re not the target. Besides, how would they kill you? You’re already dead.’
‘There are ways and means, believe me.’
Hmm, maybe I need to know some of them.
‘Don’t you get any ideas,’ Mr D snaps. ‘What’s he doing now?’
‘Anything but looking in our direction,’ I say.
Then he’s gone. I refuse to let that stop me. There is some muddy sort of swirl where he was, a sort of crazy wake–black hole combo. I look from Mr D then back to that murky mass. It’s shrinking, and fast.
I know I’m going to regret this. I sprint at the swirling, what I guess – hope – to be a gateway and dive into it.
Silence. Icy fingers clutch my heart and squeeze – my left arm throbs. It’s a real effort not to yell with the sick, deep pain of it.
Then I come out of the dark, skidding on my belly, feeling oddly
refreshed. I spring to my feet, my fists clenched.
I’m still in the Underworld. Mount Coot-tha rears up beyond the river. The One Tree creaks, casting its great shadow over everything. I recognise this place! I can see the old gas stripping tower – the structure that was in part responsible for me becoming what I am. I remember the agony of the summoning ceremony I performed in its living-world clone to enter Hell and call a trapped Mr D to me. How did I ever endure that? I just did, I guess, I had no time to react or think it through. Maybe I could again, but knowing what to expect, I doubt it. How the hell does Rillman manage it time and time again? Who’s helping him?
The masked man stands by the tower, waiting for me, shifting his balance from foot to foot.
I stride towards him. ‘You!’ My hands are balled up at my sides. I’m bigger, meaner, faster. I’m an RM. This is my territory. I loom over him. Finally, I’ll get some answers! A grin goes rictal across my face. ‘No point in running.’
‘You’re right,’ he says, in a voice I can’t quite place, dancing to my left and around me.
And then I’m on my arse, blinking. My nose is bleeding, my head throbs. I have the far-too-fucking-familiar taste of my own blood in my mouth. Whirring wings flash just outside of my line of vision.
‘You all right?’ Wal shouts, his voice thick as treacle in my ears. I blink; he’s blurry and indistinct. And still holding onto the dagwood dog.
‘The prick sucker-punched me!’ I say.
Wal grins. ‘Well, you have to be a sucker first.’
Thanks. Yeah, another comment from the poster boy of my fan club. ‘Do you always have to be like this?’
‘What are you saying? When was I any different? Grow a sense of humour.’
I have to admit that he does look concerned. You don’t often see an RM stunned and bleeding in their region. It’s not particularly good for my ego, especially as this is the second time in two days. At least no one else has seen me this time. ‘He seemed to know what he was doing,’ I say, as Wal flies around me, searching for any other injuries.
‘No shit.’ He lands heavily on my shoulder and I get a spatter of tomato sauce down my shirt front.
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
‘I don’t have X-ray vision.’
I sigh. ‘Just what help are you?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? Even with a god driving down on us in the dark of the ether, something I’d rather not experience again, by the way – I’m here. And you know I always will be, you whiny bastard. We’re stuck together, and I’ve got your back.’
‘Yeah, look, I’m sorry.’ I struggle to my feet. Wal flies from one shoulder to the other. The movement makes my head spin. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘Be careful,’ Wal says. ‘I can’t look after you up there.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
18
Tim’s on the phone shouting at somebody. He hangs up when I slide a chair next to his desk. I look at the dark rings under his red eyes.
‘You really look like you had a big night last night,’ I say.
‘And you look like you’ve just been punched in the nose again,’ he shoots back.
I touch my hand to my face. Yep, blood. ‘Just spent the morning chasing someone through the Underworld. Turns out I should have ducked when I caught up with them.’
Tim passes me a box of tissues. ‘Who do you think it was?’
‘Not Rillman, at least. It felt too different from him. An Ankou, I think, but I couldn’t get a good enough fix on them. At least they didn’t stab me. There’s something almost honourable about a good old punch to the face.’ I apply tissues. ‘Talking of Ankous …’
‘Cerbo’s lesson was instructive.’
‘Do you think you could shift?’
‘Give me three weeks, and I’ll be shifting everywhere. Right now, the thought of doing it again makes me want to throw up. Steve, sorry I ever doubted you.’
‘This situation with Rillman is out of control, Tim. What the hell are we supposed to do?’
Tim shuffles his papers, lifts his eyes to mine. ‘We keep going. There’s nothing else we can do. We keep going carefully and cautiously, and we do not stop. Whoever Rillman is, and whoever he’s working for, they can get to us anytime they want. They’ve already proven it. And if Rillman can shift then there’s nowhere that’s safe. We just have to keep going, until either we stop him, or he stops us.’
My mind turns to things that we may have some control over. ‘How are you going with those Closers?’
Tim frowns. ‘I can’t find out anything. People are being very tight-lipped at the Department – and I mean very.’ He sighs. ‘I can’t remember the last time I came to work with a hangover. I got three of them drunk last night, after the Christmas party, and nothing. Not a bloody peep. But this is my best guess.’ He hands me a small sheaf of papers. ‘These are based on my suggestions, when I was running that portfolio.’
He looks at his watch. ‘We’ve a job interview at 11:30. You’ll need to be there, since we’re using your office and all.’
‘Really? This morning’s been busy enough as it is!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Clare Ramage. She looks good, on paper anyway. Lissa found her. I’m surprised she didn’t mention anything, but, then, the week we’ve been having, eh? We won’t know for sure until we can get her into your office, see how she handles the Underworld.’
‘What do you think?’ The office is just a formality, both Lissa and Tim can usually tell beforehand.
‘I think she’ll be fine.’
‘OK I’ll see you at 11:30. And I’ll read this, right now. That’s a promise.’
‘Make sure you keep it. None of that slipping a bookmark through it bullshit,’ Tim says, and maybe I shouldn’t grin at him. Shit, we’re so good at pushing each other’s buttons we don’t even need to try most of the time. Tim groans. ‘Now, get out of here. And be careful who you let into your room, unless you don’t intend reading that, because if that’s the case, buddy, I might just have to torture you myself.’
He sits there, glaring at me. I stare back sheepishly.
‘I’m on it,’ I say. ‘Really.’
Tim just harrumphs under his breath. ‘Close the door on your way out.’
I walk back through to my office, stopping at the kitchen to make some coffee and feeling all those eyes watching me. Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone last night, or maybe it’s that my nose hasn’t quite stopped bleeding yet. I drop Tim’s notes onto the desk: they land with a satisfying and vaguely threatening thump.
After ten pages I’m glad Tim’s working on my side.
The first page outlines possible threats to Australia’s population should Mortmax fail. Regional Apocalypse is at the top of it. There’s a half-dozen end-of-world scenarios – some of which I wasn’t even aware were a possibility – and how Mortmax might be involved in them.
It’s a pretty damning, but I must admit, honest appraisal. And I can see why Tim may have been pushing for closer government ties to Mortmax, and just why he might have been so resistant to the family business.
And now, since we came so close to a Regional Apocalypse, and streets were crowded with Stirrers, I know why they might just rush through an organisation like the Closers.
I’m twenty pages in when the phone rings.
It’s Neill. ‘I heard you had some trouble yesterday,’ he says.
‘Yeah, I suppose you could call it trouble.’ I find it hard to keep the suspicion out of my voice.
‘Death Moots create a certain … well … chaotic energy, but this is the first time this has happened. Are you sure there’s no one trying to challenge you?’
‘No one’s killed a Pomp yet,’ I say. ‘There’s just been attempts on me.’
‘You sure it’s not that cousin of yours?’ Neill asks. ‘It’s usually the fookin’ Ankous that are the problem.’
; ‘Not my cousin, I’m sure of that.’ I try a different tack. ‘Do you have a government liaison?’ There’s silence down the line for a moment.
‘Yes, it’s only something very new. I never thought we needed it before, but they were quite persuasive.’
‘Define persuasive. Insistent? Or coercive?’
‘Well, it’s certainly made stopping Stirrers much easier,’ Neill says. I’m putting my money on the latter.
‘We’ve a group here called the Closers.’
‘What are they?’
‘Police, but a unit devoted to us. You have anything like that there?’
‘Not that I know of. Just a unit that keeps a closer eye on our paperwork, our visits to morgues and funerals, that sort of thing. But liaison or no, our communications with the government are a little limited. You could say that we both have secrets that the other may not like. Why do you have such a unit there?’
‘The Regional Apocalypse. I think it worried them. I can’t blame them, of course. It worried me.’
‘Times are changing,’ Neill says, and there’s more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.
‘Yeah, they’re changing, all right.’
I put a few more calls through, speaking as directly as I can to the various RMs. All of them seem to have something of a government presence, several when their territories cover more than one country – some have as many as twenty.
For most of them, this is something new. And for the ones that it isn’t they’ve noticed an increased scrutiny. But that’s not the only thing. Their lack of concern about the issue is disturbing. Something doesn’t feel right. This is definitely going on the agenda at the Death Moot.
Talk doesn’t stick to the government departments, though. Every single one of them is pitching an alliance at me, or at the very least a mutual back-scratching sort of set-up. I’m non-committal.
I haven’t hung up from the last call for more than a few heartbeats when the phone rings again.
Alex.
‘Steve, I can’t talk for long,’ he says, his voice low. ‘You’re going to get a call soon. From Solstice. They’ve found the body of the man who tried to shoot you. Well, we think it is.’
Managing Death Page 14
