Managing Death (12 page)

‘I’ll dig around in the files,’ I say.

Suzanne clicks her tongue. ‘I hate to say it, Steven, but Mr D should be educating you more thoroughly. Take this to Mr D. He’s the only one “alive” in your organisation who knows the full story.’

The next hour or so is taken up with a series of lessons echoing Tim’s briefing notes: short histories of my fellow RMs, things I should have known, things Mr D should have taught me. I’m wary though, this is only Suzanne’s perspective. After the Moot, when I have time (ha!) I’m going to talk to each and every RM, draw out their stories, and put what Suzanne has told me into context.

The lesson’s interrupted by a cry from the Stirrer city. A packed-stadium sort of roaring – if a stadium was full of meth-addicted berserkers. Suzanne and I both turn towards the sound.

Suzanne shakes her head. ‘OK, looks like class is over for the night. Do you want to check that out?’

‘Why not?’ We get up and the table and chairs return to dust.

She holds my hand. ‘Don’t pull away,’ she says. ‘I thought I would spare you the pain of a shift.’

‘I can do it myself.’ But we’re already there.

So that’s how it should feel. I think I can copy that, model my own shifts on it. Suzanne nods at me. ‘Get the basics right, and everything else will follow.’

We’re at a point just outside Devour’s walls. The city didn’t have these when I was last here – riding a whispering bike on my way to find my lost love – but the Deepest Dark, like the Underworld, changes fast.

I place a hand against one of the huge stone blocks. It’s cold and shuddering in time with the Stirrers’ yells. I realise Suzanne’s still holding my hand. I try and pull away. ‘Not yet.’

Another shift. We’re on the walls, all that juddering stone beneath us.

We crouch down and stare into the city, which is really the wrong term for the spaces open before us, though there are structures analogous to our cities. It’s more of a nest, a nexus of hunger. Below us, hundreds of Stirrers have gathered in a circle, their teeth-crammed mouths chanting in utter synchronicity. They’re as identical in appearance as ants, which is why the Stirrer in the centre of the circle stands out. Its face warps, or unwarps, grows human. It is a face wracked with agony.

Suzanne squeezes my hand.

‘One of yours?’ I ask.

She nods.

I look around for some way to get down to her spy and for a possible escape route once we do. ‘We have to get him out of there.’

Suzanne shakes her head. ‘We can’t do anything, not here. Not now.’ She lets go of my arm. ‘You need to leave.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Bear witness.’ She glares at me. ‘Go.’

The man in the centre of the circle screams, and I feel a force push at me: Suzanne. I give in to it. But not before seeing the man’s long limbs torn from him and thrown out into the crowd. The Stirrers howl.

The shift to my parents’ living room is easier than I was expecting, but I bring that howl with me. I blink, let my eyes adjust to the light, and slump into the couch.

Poor bastard.

Oscar’s standing out the front. I can hear Travis’s heartbeat coming from the back. The pair’s heartbeats tell me all I need to know. Nothing has happened since I left. Still, I go and check on Lissa.

She’s sleeping.

Then I call Tim.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ he grumbles.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a lead.’

‘And Lissa’s obviously sleeping.’ He yawns. ‘So what’s this lead?’

‘Francis Rillman. Mean anything to you?’

‘Not a thing.’ He sighs. ‘Actually … It does sound familiar.’

‘It should. He used to have your job.’

‘Ministerial advisor?’

‘No, your job here.’ I run through what Suzanne has just told me.

‘Really? Shit.
Now
I remember the name. Something my dad used to say when I was grumpy. Don’t chuck
a Rillman. Never understood what it meant. Let me Google him.’ He sighs again. ‘So how do you spell Rillman?’

‘The usual way,’ I answer.

Tim groans. ‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’

I spell it out. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing, but give me some time. If he’s out there, I’ll find him. Keep safe.’

‘You too.’

I hang up; make my way back to the bedroom.

I need Lissa. Right then I need her more than anything. I kiss her. Gentle and hard on the lips, her mouth responds. Her tongue searches mine. I slide a hand down her neck, slowly, and she pulls me in close. Eye’s opening.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks, we really connect.

‘What was that about?’ she asks when we’re finally still, sweat-drenched.

‘I love you.’

‘Well, duh.’ She stretches, and I can’t help but stroke one of her breasts gently with a fingertip. She pushes my hand away – after a while. ‘How was your meeting?’

‘Informative.’

‘And Suzanne’s offer?’

‘I don’t know.’ The lie sticks in my throat.

‘Suzanne is like that. She has a way of confusing the issues.’ Lissa clicks her tongue. ‘Are our heavies still outside?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How long is this going to go on, Steve?’

‘A while, I think. I’ve got a bit of a lead though, someone by the name of Francis Rillman.’

‘Did you say Rillman?’

‘Yes.’

‘It can’t be him. I pomped him two weeks ago.’

‘Are you sure?’ I slide out of bed, disappointed. Rillman looked promising, and I want this over with.

‘We had a chat. He’s an interesting character. You know he tried an Orpheus Manoeuvre once. His wife, he lost his wife. And he failed to bring her back.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Maybe, but did you know he failed because Mr D stopped him?’

I nod towards the kitchen, slipping on some boxers. ‘Coffee? I think I need to be properly awake to get my head around this.’

Lissa laughs. ‘You’re supposed to offer that
before
the lovemaking.’ She gets up and pulls a dressing gown around her shoulders.

The kitchen is quiet but for the heavy breathing of the espresso machine. I pour two cups. Why is Suzanne so sure it’s Rillman if he’s dead? Where does that leave me? I’ve got two suspects as far as I can see: Rillman who is dead, and Morrigan who is beyond dead. It’s easier to believe that Suzanne is trying something.

Shit, I am so bad at this!

Lissa watches me as I set the cups down on the table.

‘So Rillman, what’d he look like?’ I ask, pushing her cup towards her.

She brings it to her lips, sips contemplatively. ‘Nothing much. Bland, unmemorable. I know that sounds glib, but …’ She furrows her brow. ‘Tired, he looked tired, washed out. His hair was short, parted to one side. Wait a minute, there was one thing.’ She reaches up and touches my nose. Her fingertips are warm and I blink at the contact. ‘His nose was broken, not badly, but you could tell someone had given him a mighty whack once.’

‘Maybe Mr D?’ Though I can’t imagine Mr D ever hitting anyone.

‘Yeah, possibly. He asked about you. Seemed very interested in what you did. Hey, I might have a photo!’

Lissa runs out of the kitchen. I hear her digging around in the bedroom, then a cry of triumph. She comes back holding a photo album, open to a page. ‘Here, here they are! Mum, Dad and Rillman.’

Lissa’s description is apt. He’s plain, all right, not unhandsome, I suppose. But in this photo he’s smiling, and there’s not a glint of murderous intent. His arms are around another woman, tall, dark hair down to her shoulders. She’s smiling, too. Happy days.

‘Is that his wife?’

‘Yes,’ Lissa says. ‘I can’t remember her name.’

No one remembers names, just the tragedies. What must it be like to fail at an Orpheus Manoeuvre? Not just fail, but be stopped? I understand him a little, I think. Suddenly I have to hold Lissa. I kiss her hard.

‘What was that about?’ she asks when I let her go, but I know she gets it too. She has to, right?

I look back at the photo. ‘Did he seem angry at all?’

‘No, more resigned. I got the feeling the angry part of him was long gone. And you know how souls are, they’re a bit insipid, bloodless.’

I reach across the table and touch her arm. ‘You weren’t.’

Lissa smiles. ‘But that’s just me, I’m special.’

‘You are. You don’t know how much you are.’

Lissa shakes her head, but she isn’t one for false modesty. ‘I should have paid more attention to him, but it was a busy day. I think I must have pomped eight people that afternoon. Rillman was the last.’

‘I’d have been the same. Strange, though – everything that I’ve been hearing seems to suggest Rillman could be behind the attack.’

‘Where’d his name come up?’

‘Something Mr D said,’ I lie, and it’s easier than I thought it would be. Like shifting, I’m getting better with practice.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, why not? He’s
supposed
to be teaching me something.’

‘It’s just … Mr D doesn’t like to talk about Rillman. It’s a generational thing, none of them did. Rillman apparently put Mortmax Australia about ten years behind the rest of the world.’ She grins. ‘Oh, yeah, he also ruined a Death Moot.’

‘I like the sound of this guy.’

‘It was quite the scandal.’

‘Well, the chances of it being Rillman are pretty slim,’ I say. ‘You don’t come back.’

Except we both know that isn’t true. It makes me uncomfortable to consider it, but somehow Rillman’s death, his interest in me, make me certain he is the one responsible. That he has come back somehow. It feels right. It terrifies me. Before tonight I didn’t know that humans could inhabit Stirrers. What’s a little moving between worlds compared to that? Like Suzanne said, the Underworld is more permeable than I had thought. Who and what else might be coming through?

Lissa picks up her coffee cup and walks it to the sink. I can see her thoughts in the slope of her shoulders as she rinses the cup.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, kissing the back of her neck.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She places the cup in the drainer. ‘Sometimes I think all this is my fault. If I hadn’t –’

She’s mirroring my thoughts. This isn’t her fault, it’s
mine
. I think about what Suzanne said. About the enemies I’ve made, and all because I fought to stay alive and honour the memory of my family, and because I
loved someone enough to chase them through Hell and bring them back.

We saved each other. Whether it was the right thing or not, it was the only thing either of us would have done. And hang the consequences.

T
he office is quiet, pre-dawn. I’ve a stack of files before me: Rillman, everything I could find on him. Which is virtually nothing. Who the fuck is Francis Rillman? What did he become?

Solstice had left a message on my phone, asking just this question, which is worrying and encouraging. Solstice obviously knows his job – and mine.

There’s another half-bottle of rum sitting in my stomach. My head’s spinning a bit. The throne might heal my wounds but it doesn’t seem to do too much with alcohol until I stop drinking. I’m in my suit, my second-best one. I keep telling myself the drinking’s not a problem when you’re in a suit.

Fifty-nine people have died across Australia in the last hour. My ten new Pomps have taken some of the workload off my crew – Suzanne was exceptionally quick about organising that – but the work is still constant. People are always dying.

And the phone calls have been pretty steady, too. RMs or their Ankous. All of them wanting a piece of me, some favour, or their seat moved in the grand marquee of the meeting room.

I look at the calendar on my desk, pushing the rubbish off it. The Death Moot’s drawing ever nearer. The catering’s organised at least, and the location.

Of course, I could be dead by then.

I grab a sheet of paper, write
Francis Rillman?
in thick black pen. Then scrunch the sheet up and hurl it at my bin.

I’m going to have to go to the source for this one.

I pick up the handset of Mr D’s phone. Even though the line’s dead I can feel the presence listening in on the other end. I play with the phone cord that spirals down to nothing, kind of a nervous thing.

‘We need to talk,’ I say.

No response, but I know he’s heard me.

‘Now. We need to talk now.’

‘My boat,’ Mr D says, his soft voice coming through like a slither of ice in my ear. There’s slight irritation in his tone and I know that I’ve interrupted his reading. Well, too bad. His novels will be waiting for him when he gets back.

There’s a click, and silence again. Seems I’ll be fishing, literally and figuratively.

I send Lissa a text, tell her where I’m going. Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes and shift to Mr D’s boat.

Mr D raises a hand in frustration as I throw my guts up over the edge of the rail – the other is gripping his
fishing rod. ‘You’re not practising. You’ve got to keep practising.’

‘I’m not enough of a masochist.’

‘Really?’

I hobble over to Mr D across the broad wooden deck of his boat, the
Mary C
. My foot’s throbbing. The wound’s healing fast, but it still seems to be a case of my mind catching up with my body. My nose burns with the salt of the sea of Hell, which is better than the taste of vomit. ‘And I have been practising!’

‘Yes, well, this is the second time you’ve seen me in three days. One would think you were having troubles.’ He hands me a fishing rod. Wal’s already holding his, knuckles white. He got it almost the moment he peeled from my flesh, seems to be enjoying the novelty of it all.

‘Suzanne’s made me an offer.’

‘An offer, eh?’ Mr D’s eyes narrow as he connects the rod to a belt around my waist.

‘I’ve taken it. Ten Pomps for ten hours with her. Ten hours of mentoring, of course. Nothing else, completely above board.’

Mr D stares out at the choppy water. I can’t tell if he’s hurt, or being melodramatic. His shifting face doesn’t help either.

‘We’re stretched to capacity,’ I say.

‘I don’t need your excuses and you don’t need her advice.’

‘Where the fuck am I going to get it?’

Mr D rounds on me. ‘That hurts. That really hurts. I’ve been an endless fount of –’