The Memory of Death (8 page)

There are things that I need to know. I’ve a body constituted of salt water, memories and spiders. But there are some memories I can't access, the sort that live a full fathom five down. I’ve been manipulated yet again. Do I have a note pinned to my back that says kick me?

I wait a moment to catch my breath. It’s a long walk to Charon’s from my place. I’m sure there’re faster ways, but I don’t know them yet; instead I’d crossed the ruddy-heavened Underworld, the One Tree to my left (though its branches still overhang us) until I reached the river and Charon’s jetty.

Charon’s working on a boat, hands, all knuckles, closed around a wooden plane that looks at least two thousand years old, sliding it along the curve of the hull, bits of wood curling up and falling away like tiny waves.

‘So you’re responsible for all this?’

He stiffens, puts the plane down and turns towards me. ‘I did what had to be done.’

‘What the fuck was that?’

Charon smiles. ‘I got you a new job.’

‘So, you sorted this out with the Death of the Water? Forgive me if I don’t quite believe that.’

Charon’s smile slips. ‘Not exactly, no … but I think it’ll leave you alone for a while. There are greater forces than that in the world, and you’re nudging into that territory now. You’re memory given form. It was a lot of work bringing you back, drawing you from the deeps. Some of the memories are so slick and fast, like little fish. Sickness is easy; that one’s fat and slow. Loss and sadness too. Rage is a sun burning in the sky, love likewise. I’ve woven you from the seawater. I got it wrong with the first one; it was all that shining rage and little else.’

I find it hard to believe there is that much anger in me and yet I know it’s true, as much as I don’t want it.

‘I’m Charon, I know magic, I’m older than magic. Once, before time itself, I crossed the waters from a dead universe to this one, and I waited, in the dark with all the monsters.’ His eyes get that distant look, then they focus again on me, and I feel the weight of that eternity. ‘Each time I tried, it didn’t work – each summoning was a different aspect of you, but not you. Then came the last and the least, and I realised that I was doing it wrong. That I needed you all together, to bind you into one. But that …’ He grimaces. ‘Like herding bloody cats with ADD.’

Wal snorts, and I glare at him.

‘So am I Steve or not?’

Charon shakes his head. ‘You’ll do.’

‘Wrong answer.’

Charon shrugs. ‘Life, death, real or not, they’re not relevant. It lost its relevance when you became RM those years past. You’ve died on the edge of the Knives of Negotiation and come back. You’re a mist that I’ve made into a man. There are far worse things to be.’

Yes, and I know one of them. ‘There’s another Steve, isn’t there, down there in the deeps?’

Charon turns the page of his magazine. ‘You couldn’t completely come back.’

‘That’s why I still can’t remember the water: because I haven’t left it.’

‘Probably.’

‘So what facet of Steve is he? I thought I had it all up here.’ I tap my face.

‘Ah, Steven, there’re more sides to a person than stars in the sky. Humans are ridiculously and annoyingly complex – it’s we supernatural beings that are easy to understand. I try not to hold it against humanity, but it is difficult.’

‘So which Steve is the real Steve?’

Charon gives me a look that suggests that’s the sort of thing he’d expect from an annoyingly complex being. Except, I’m not all me, am I?

‘It depends: how do you define real?’

‘And if I go down and liberate him?’

‘No, no, you can’t. That’s whole End of Days stuff there, and you and me both are sick of the End of Days.’

I think of me still beneath the water, still suffering, though I can’t think of it; there’s a space my mind can’t go. An abyss. If anyone should take a bullet for me, it’s me, but I don’t like it. It makes me feel uneasy.

‘Do I know I’m even gone? Can he feel me?’

Charon shakes his head. ‘Absolutely not. That would be far too cruel.’

‘You sold me out.’

‘I got you out of Hell,’ Charon grumbles. ‘You understand that?’

‘For what?’ I say. ‘She doesn’t love me.’

Charon rolls his eyes. ‘You think she was ever going to just fall into your arms?’ he asks. ‘You were the one who changed her. You made deals without discussing any of it with her. You may have saved the world, but you changed it too. Count yourself lucky that there’s a place for you in this new thing that
you
made.’

‘If I work for the Closers, I’m working against Mortmax, aren’t I?’

‘Not really … sort of … a little.’ Charon shrugs again. ‘Maybe we need some more balance in the world.’

‘When did Mortmax become the enemy?’

‘They aren’t the enemy. They contain the enemy; one of them at least. That Hungry Death, even diffuse, split among the Thirteen, is an untrustworthy thing. And not just that; you see, there are other things in this Earth that you would never –’

‘I’ve already had that conversation with James.’

Charon smiles. ‘Good, you needed to have it.’

‘I don’t appreciate being played.’

Charon sighs. ‘I don’t appreciate your anger. I had to deal with the maddest son of a Death in the world, I had to turn all that fairytale logic on its head, and I may be older than fairytales, I may have helped in the invention of that logic, but it wasn’t easy. And not only that, but I got you a new job. Do you want to know how many people I have done that for?’

I look at him, silent.

Charon returns the gaze, hard. ‘I’ve done it for no one else. Since the beginning of history. Orpheus Manoeuvres, plenty of those, but this: never. And there you are whinging that your girlfriend doesn’t love you anymore.’

‘She wasn’t my girlfriend, she was my fiancé. I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.’

Charon’s eyes bore into mine. ‘You’d saved the world, you were being dragged to Hell. What the fuck else was she going to say? I did this for you, because I felt you deserved it, because I felt that what happened to you wasn’t fair. The world isn’t fair, but when you save it, sometimes you get a chance to redress the balance. Don’t make me regret this any more than I already do. One thing though: I would keep away from the sea.’

‘Why? The Death of the Water going to change its mind?’

‘It could … I doubt it, but do you really want to risk that?’ Charon rubs his chin. ‘Now, you may thank me.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Yeah, thank you. Thanks a lot.’

‘That is not what I mean. You will thank me, by being what you are, by becoming the job that I have provided.’ Charon growls. ‘And you didn’t even think to ask me what it cost me? Now, be gone!’

He gestures in my direction, and I find myself in Aunt Neti’s parlour (my parlour now) alone.

So that is what I am. Steve and not Steve, bits of the best and worst. I’m salvage, driftwood.

We all are. I’m not quite whole, but then again, I can never think of a time when this wasn’t true. Not before my parents’ deaths, and certainly not after.

You can get used to anything.

I dig another beer out of the fridge, take a deep satisfaction in levering open the bottle cap with one of the Knives of Negotiation. My arm tingles and then Wal slides free of the ink. ‘She seemed pretty mad at you.’

‘She? Charon is a she now?’

Wal shrugs, his wings beating. ‘It’s subtle. I mean, like all of you people he doesn’t exactly leave it hanging out there, but it’s there, it’s definitely there.’

Neti was a woman. I’m a man. Charon was a man, now he’s a woman.

‘He, I mean she, thought it would be easier on you.’

‘Maybe I should go back and –’

‘Don’t make it any worse. My, but you can be an ungrateful shit,’ Wal says. He flits around the room, grabs a beer from the fridge. ‘You’ve got these nice new digs, you’re alive – sort of. And you’ve got a chance to win Lissa back. Give it time. You both have time.’

And I really can’t argue with that.

There’s time enough for everything. Time to heal old wounds, time to start a new job, time to find out about all those crazy things James was speaking of. I can’t help it. I smile, just a little, and Wal smiles back.

‘Welcome back, you bastard.’ He raises his beer high. ‘Now, up ya bum!’

‘Yours too,’ I say, seeing far too much cherub arsecrack in the process.

*

The American RM shakes his head. ‘So Steven is back?’

‘
Yes,’ I say. ‘No Steves plural now, just one.’

‘
To put it bluntly,’ Cerbo says, ‘is he an enemy or an ally?’

‘
I don’t know, but I need you to do something for me,’ I say.

‘
Anything.’

‘
I need you to research Aunt Neti, I need you to find out any weaknesses.’

‘
The Knives of Negotiation for one,’ Cerbo says.

‘
Yes, well, Steve has those now.’

‘
What?’

‘
We couldn’t keep them. That’s his role, to protect them. Very powerful forces decided to apply pressure.’

Cerbo shakes his head. ‘Those damn knives. They’re nothing but trouble; worse than the Hungry Death itself. At least that is contained.’

‘
Just do the research.’

Cerbo nods his head. ‘There’s nothing I like doing more. Do you want to bring your Ankou in on this?’

I shake my head. ‘Tim can’t be trusted. He’s too close to Steve. He took him the knives. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can be trusted.’

Cerbo gives me a big grin. ‘Ankous that can’t be trusted. Enemies in the Underworld. Why, it’s just like the old days.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘I’ll get to work.’

‘
Be fast and thorough,’ I say.

‘
You expecting trouble?’

‘
This is Steve we’re talking about.’

‘
Yes. The one who saved the world, who gave us his powers. The only one of us alive who has ever performed a successful Orpheus Manoeuvre, won a Negotiation, become Death of the Entire World and defeated a god.’

‘
Exactly, though he did have help.’ First time I ever saw Steve, I was dead. I was his successful Orpheus Manoeuvre.

‘
I really thought things would calm down after the End of Days. Hardly any Stirrers, no revenant gods, just good old-fashioned pomping and time for a holiday.’

I smile at him, show too many teeth. ‘Do you really want to get bored?’

Cerbo laughs and shifts back to Boston and his books. The man really loves research.

I drop into my throne, feel my senses heighten with its power, and turn and stare at Bruegel’s
Triumph of Death.
It’s the original, and it’s still startling. I wonder if I’m not staring at the future. There’s something premonitory about it, but in our line of business it’s easy to see that. I look down at my palms, smooth where once they were rough with the scars of my trade. I’d sent more Stirrers back to the Deepest Dark than just about anyone. Steve took those scars from me, when he made me this.

The first time I saw him, standing there hunched and sullen in the Wintergarden food court, I’d seen something, some potential among the sadness. I’d never realised that it would lead us here. Maybe if I had I wouldn’t have bothered.

‘
Steve, why did you come back?’

Sometimes you get what you want, and sometimes that’s the worst possible thing in the world.

I’m yanked from a dream of the sea – of hands and falling bicycles, and her, my Lissa who isn’t my Lissa anymore, calling out across the dark – by a rising mumbling coming from the parlour.

Two-thirty, my alarm says. That damn mumbling. It plays on my mind. Over and over, a chattering insistence. I sigh; I know I’m not going to get any more sleep. I drag myself out of bed, and to the suitcase. To be honest I don’t know what to do with the knives – where they might be safe, or how I am expected to protect them – and I realise the challenge that I had set Tim, somewhat irresponsibly. But I have them now; he kept them safe, he managed it, and I'm far more powerful.

I thumb the combination, open the case.

And there they are. Beautiful as death. They’ve tasted my blood. They know me, and I know them. Ah, the memories.

‘Hello. Hello,’ they say.

I take out the knives; they’re heavy, somehow heavier than they were in the suitcase, as though the world itself gives them mass. They feel like the weapons of a god, which is pretty much what they are. They shiver in my hands.

‘Hello. Hello.’

I bring them together. It shouldn’t work; I’m no longer the Orcus. I hold my breath, and they bind, winding around each other, becoming the scythe Mog. My scythe.

Sharp as death, the destroyer of gods. Perfectly weighted, my fingers closed around the snath as though they were born to it. It feels good.

Guardian, wielder: what’s the difference really?

‘Interesting,’ I say.

‘Interesting,’ Mog says back.

So I’m in my pyjamas, or my PJs as Mum used to call them, and I’m thinking about having another beer. Listening to a band called British India, never heard of them until I’d escaped from Hell – well, sort of escaped. My memory of that flight from the Death of the Water is muddled at best, mostly not there, which is alarming as, according to my mate Charon, a large part of me is fashioned from memory.

The music suits my mood. Good drinking tunes, and I’m maudlin, utterly, utterly maudlin, here in my bit of the Underworld. Which happens to be a series of tastefully wallpapered rooms in one of the side-pockets of Hell, kind of a juncture between the land of the living and that of the dead; easy access to the city of Brisbane and its Underworld twin. Plenty of bottleshops in Brisbane city.

I’m not dead or anything – well, I’ve died a few times – but there’s still blood in these veins, and I’m still kicking. Still capable of being sad, of making plans and realising that plans really aren’t worth a hell of a lot. And there’re two talking blades in a safe near my head that I’m trying hard not to think about. You touch those blades together and you have enough power, they become a scythe called Mog.

When I had been Death, I’d been able to wield that scythe. Now I am something else, and it seems to work too. I’d killed a god with Mog; it’d also been handy to lean on, and, well, holding it gave you a bit of a buzz, to be honest.

Yeah, that’s the complicated sort of life I lead.

There’s a knock at the door. I smile, finish my beer.

It’s nearly as sad when you’re not drinking alone. I had considered summoning my Inkling Wal, but this is better – Wal can be a bit judgey. I gesture at the door, and it opens. A new trick I’ve learnt since I became Master of these rooms bordering the land of the living and the dead.

James, who is sort of my new boss – well, the boss of a little moonlighting, slightly betrayalish work I have going – is standing there. He’s giving me a look that isn’t quite angry, not quite disappointed, but either way it’s not happy. I’m familiar with that sort of expression; I get it a lot.

‘You know it’s only 2 pm.’ James gestures at the bottles stacked up next to me.

‘Of course, I make it a rule not to drink before mid-afternoon.’

‘Sober up,’ James says without blinking. ‘You’re on the clock.’

I put my empty next to the half-dozen others and stand up. A little shaky, but I don’t dislodge the china on the coffee table, or fall flat on my face – good sign.

‘Get dressed,’ he says, and wrinkles his nose, which would be almost childlike if it wasn’t broken. James looks like a prize fighter who didn’t win a lot of prizes; probably broke a lot of hands though. ‘Actually, have a shower first.’

I’m a while in that shower, and a while shaving. By the time I walk back into my parlour, James is looking very agitated. I’m not used to having a boss; I agreed to this job only a week ago.

‘Sorry about the wait,’ I say, trying to sound sincere. ‘But, look at me, it was worth it.’ I slide the last cufflink into my cuff, and slip on my suit.

‘The wallpaper hissed at me,’ James says.

‘It’s not the wallpaper,’ I say. ‘It’s what’s behind the wallpaper.’

James raises an eyebrow.

‘You don’t want to know.’

He steps towards the middle of the room. ‘I’ve got work for you. And could you turn that music off?’

It stops. Bye-bye, British India. Bye-bye, sublime guitar riff.

James blinks. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Magic.’

‘Bluetooth?’

‘What’s the difference?’

I take comfort that I’m far better dressed than him. When I suit up I literally suit up, and it’s always Italian and tailored.

‘Now tell me about this job.’

‘People are disappearing in Logan.’

‘Anything weird about that?’

James scowls. ‘I live in Logan, mate. The place gets a bad rap. You want me to throw you back in the ocean?’

‘You won’t get a bigger fish, believe me.’

‘You certainly drink like a fish.’ James gives a little chuckle at that.

Yeah, I’ve gotta stop with the drinking. I've been here before. How easy was it to slip back into bad habits?

‘Look, something’s been happening in Logan, and it started when the Carnival arrived. The Carnival that isn’t there.’

That’s got my interest a little.

‘You seen this Carnival?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Where is it? Can you picture the place?’

James nods, gestures at the door. ‘We’ve had people watching it. I’m parked out on George Street, we could be there in twenty minutes.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Now follow me.’

I lead him to a door in the room next to my parlour, and I don’t even turn to check on those blades. Not even a little bit.

James shivers. ‘Cold in here.’

‘It is, isn’t it. Now I want you to concentrate on the Carnival, and its location in space. Can you do that?’

James nods. And I feel it. The right door approaching. We walk for about a minute, and then we stop. I put my hand against the wooden door to my right. It shivers.

I reach down and open the door.

One step and we’re standing in the middle of a field, the sun bright above us and me wishing I’d remembered my sunnies. I can hear the sound of the M1 not too far away, and the Gateway Motorway too. The heavy rumble of traffic, there’s a cold wind blowing. Some kind of water bird is mucking through a puddle to the east of us.

There’s no Carnival.

‘This the right place?’

James nods again. ‘It isn’t always here.’

‘Where’s your guy?’

‘Anthony!’ James calls.

And then I see him.

‘He wasn’t dead when you left him, was he?’

‘What?’

‘Hello, Anthony,’ I say. Anthony’s spirit turns towards me, and then it screams.