The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (40 page)

Tim’s last words to me this afternoon, after a very quick beer, were: “Meeting tomorrow morning at 8:15. Cerbo. Do not be late. And you would be better off for reading my notes.” Faber Cerbo is Suzanne Whitman’s Ankou. I’ve not had much to do with him. I wonder what he wants?

Tim’s notes are extensive, and amusing. He knows his audience, I guess. And I can understand why he might be hurt that I haven’t read them yet. He’s obviously put a lot of work into making it de Selby digestible.

By the time Lissa pulls into the driveway, I’m a third of the way through the notes and aware of various allegiances within the Orcus or, as Tim has subtitled his report, Who Hates Who. The most prominent allies on the list surprise me: Neill Debbier, South Africa’s RM, and Suzanne Whitman, the RM of North America. Between them they seem to wield the most influence.

It’s fascinating. As is the fact that Cerbo is Mortmax’s resident expert on the Stirrer god. I should have been pushing for a meeting earlier. Tim’s notes suggest that now, with the Death Moot so close, the lobbying is going to start in earnest. Hence my meeting with Cerbo, I assume.

I watch Lissa get out of the Corolla. Her face is pinched with the weight of a day’s work. She pomped five souls today. I felt them all, as I did the stall she performed at the Wesley Hospital.

There’s a bandage wrapped around her hand, and she’s bending over to pick up some groceries. I leap down from the front steps and run to carry them for her.

“You don’t have to,” she says.

“Bullshit.” I take the bags from her. “Let me look at that hand.”

“It’s nothing. Dr. Brooker’s seen to it. Says to say hi.”

Dr. Brooker’s the Brisbane office’s medico. He’s tended to that office since before I was born.

I take her bandaged hand and kiss it, gently. Wrap my arms around her, and hold her tight. Just liking the way she feels. The corporeality of her.

The storm’s coming, dark clouds boiling, dogs howling and barking in response to bursts of thunder. The rain sighing, exhaled from above and beating down on a thousand suburban roofs not too far away. The air’s electric and, with it, my region’s heartbeats are shed from me like a cloak. Steam rises from the road.

Bring on the lightning. Bring on this moment of peace.

“Let’s get inside,” Lissa says.

And we do. Just before it starts pissing down.

I lug the groceries to the kitchen and I’m a few minutes putting stuff away. Looks like there’s cooking going on tonight. For the first time that feels all right. I grab a Coke from the fridge for Lissa and a beer for myself, and we sit out on the balcony. It’s too hot inside.

Lissa holds my hand and we sit there, drinking our drinks, sweat cold against our skin, and watch the rain fall.

Storms build slowly but pass too quickly, and soon the pulse of the world is back.

“What are you cooking for dinner?” I ask.

Lissa arches an eyebrow.

“What are
we
cooking for dinner?” I offer.

“You’ll find out.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot lately.”

“I think the correct word is dick,” Lissa says, and kisses me hard. Apology accepted.

After dinner I walk into the bathroom and my good mood evaporates at once. The walls are covered with blood. It’s a typical portent
for a Pomp but this is the worst one I’ve seen in a while. A stir is coming, and a big one.

We need unity in the face of the Stirrer god, and that’s not going to happen unless my Death Moot goes off without a hitch. With the exception of the odd alliance, regions keep to themselves outside of these biannual meetings, partly because the work load for each Death is phenomenal and mainly because most of the RMs don’t trust, and/ or actively hate, each other. I need the Death Moot to succeed.

I try to be quiet about it, cleaning furiously at the walls—all tiled because my parents were Pomps, too, and no one wants to make work for themselves—but Lissa catches me in there.

“Oh, no,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She looks so tired. I don’t let her help, she’s worked hard enough today, and she needs her sleep.

Bad shit’s on its way. That’s what this wall is telling me. The blood dissolves easily enough with soap and water and scrubbing. It’s not the real stuff, but an ectoplasmic equivalent. Regardless, it takes me a good half-hour to clean it all away, and clean myself up.

When I finally get to bed, Lissa’s asleep.

I lie next to her for a while, but don’t close my eyes. I wish I could follow her, but I can’t. I’ve no desire for nightmares tonight. After all, I’ve already faced some of them today, and been reminded of others.

People die as I lie there. Heartbeats stutter and fail.

Then my eyes shut.
Wham
. I’m back in that madness of knives and laughter. And then the scythe. My hands clench around its snath, the blade humming at the other end. Two hundred people stand before me, their eyes wide, their mouths small Os of terror. And I start swinging.

I jolt awake. Only a moment has passed.

I pull myself from the bed, pick up Tim’s notes and finish them off.

I also started on another bottle of Bundy.

I
open one eye a crack. There’s half a bottle of rum settling uneasily in my stomach. I’d fallen asleep again. Well, I don’t know if you could call it sleep, but I was definitely unconscious.

My mobile phone’s ringing.

The clock radio gives out a hard red light: 2:30 in the am. Bloody hell. Lissa nudges me with an elbow, soft, then not so. When did I come back to bed?

“Going to answer that?” Her voice is a late-night mumble, with just a hint of edge to it.

It’s the first night in two months that I’ve actually fallen asleep—totally by accident, Lissa’s head on my chest—and someone calls.

At least they dragged me from that cackling nightmare. The swinging scythe, though in this version it was in time to Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” Maybe I was awake before the phone started ringing, just trying to pretend I was asleep. Either way, I’m awake now.

If this is Tim calling, drunk and doleful, from the Regatta in Toowong, there are going to be serious words. Particularly after his and Lissa’s intervention.

Another elbow nudge. She’s going to crack a rib at this rate. “Well?” Lissa says.

The sheets tangle as I try and get up. Lissa grabs a handful, tugs, and I’m free enough of the sheetly bonds to move. I scramble for the
phone on the bedside table. It’s the brightest (loudest) light source in the room, so it’s easy to find. Still, 2:30! And it keeps on ringing. Who’d have thought a Queen medley ring tone could get annoying?

Not Tim. Caller ID sets me straight on that.

Suzanne Whitman.

Mortmax Industries’ North American Regional Manager. What the hell is the U.S. Death doing calling me now?

“Hello,” I croak.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” She sounds surprised. Sleep is hardly de rigueur in the RM crowd.

I pause, long enough to get my game voice on—sort of. “Not at all. Just came back from a run.”

“At 2:30 in the morning?”

“My personal trainer’s a bloody bastard. What can I do for you?” Lissa sits up next to me and mouths, “Who is it?” I shake my head at her. She frowns. If there’s one thing that Lissa hates, it’s secrets. She’ll have to wait.

“It’s not what you can do for me, Mr. de Selby, but what I can do for you—and it’s quite a lot,” Suzanne says, somehow sounding both threatening and sexy at once. “Meet me in the Deepest Dark in an hour.”

“An hour?”

“I assume you’re going to need a shower after your run.” She hangs up.

I drop my phone back on the bedside table, and pull myself completely out from under the sheets. Lissa’s bedside light switches on.

She looks at me intently. “So … who was that?”

“Suzanne Whitman.”

Lissa’s face tightens. “Her. Why now?”

“She wants to see me in an hour, in the Deepest Dark.”

“Death Moot?”

“What else would it be?” The ceremony has set more than just the Caterers in motion.

“You want me to come?” Lissa asks.

“You know you can’t go there. There’s no air, for one, none that you can breathe, anyway.” I drop back down next to her, rest my chin on my hand. “Are you concerned about me spending the wee small hours of the morning with another woman?”

Lissa purses her lips. “No, of course not, but the Deepest Dark’s a bloody odd choice.”

Lissa’s been there. She wasn’t alive at the time. I don’t know how much she remembers, but she certainly doesn’t look too keen to return.

I shrug. “It was her decision.”

“Don’t let Suzanne Whitman make your decisions for you.”

“I won’t. No one makes decisions for me but me. You’re starting to sound like you don’t like her.”

“I don’t.”

“And why’s that?”

Lissa rolls away and pulls the sheets over her head. Then reaches out and switches off the light. “I need to sleep,” she says.

The shift to the Deepest Dark is a blazing supernova of agony in my skull.

It’s
really
that bad.

I arrive bent over and coughing. Desperate as I am not to show any weakness, it’s as good as I can do.

It’s a moment until I’m aware of my surroundings.

The creaking of the One Tree permeates everything because, in a way, the One Tree
is
everything in the Underworld and the Deepest Dark. The sound rises to us through the dark soil beneath our feet, it builds in my bones. To say that it is loud is to emphasize one aspect of it to the detriment of everything else. It is a sound against which every other sound is registered.

And this place is hardly silent. The dead whisper here, a breathy, scratchy, continuous whispering. They release their last secrets before ascending into a greater secret above.

Up and down are relative in the Deepest Dark. Around us, through dust and soil that comes directly from the Underworld, wend the root tips of the One Tree: each is the width of my thigh. In the Deepest Dark we are beneath Hell itself. The air smells of blood, ash and humus. It’s a back of the throat kind of bouquet. Not the best thing when you’re already gagging.

Suzanne doesn’t speak until I’m standing straight, and I’ve wiped a hand across my mouth. “You’re late.”

I make a show of peering at the green glowing dial of my watch. “I’d hardly call thirty seconds late.” I’m being deliberately provocative. I find it helps when people think you’re stupider than you are. It’s about the only advantage I have.

Suzanne smiles thinly. Her dark eyes regard me impassively.

Suzanne’s got a Severe—yes, with a capital S—sort of Southern Gothic thing going on. Her hair is cut into a bob. A black dress follows sharp lines down her lean body. Pale and muscular limbs jut from the sleeves. It’s certainly not sensible garb for the cold fringes of the Underworld. She could be going out for the night, or about to chair a meeting. If she could get away with it in the Deepest Dark, if it wasn’t so dark, I guess she’d be wearing black sunglasses. She glances at the tracksuit pants and tatty old jumper I’m wearing beneath my dad’s old duffel coat, and sniffs.

“So, Suzanne, just what is it that you can do for me?”

She smiles condescendingly. “I chose this place because it is important to you.”

Above us the sky is luminous with souls, glowing faintly red, heading out through the ether to wherever souls go once life and the Underworld is done with them. It should be peaceful except there’s a
great spiraling void, like a photo negative of a galaxy, eating up one corner of the sky, and it’s getting bigger. The Stirrer god.

In the distance, maybe a kilometer away, is Devour, the Stirrer city. Its high walls glow a color very similar to my watch. I rode a bike through there a few months ago, fleeing for my life and for the life of the woman I love.

That Stirrer god, though, is hard to ignore. It’s a sinister dark stain on the pants front of Hell and it’s getting bigger. Sometimes it’s a great eye, as I remember it, sometimes a million eyes, staring down. Leering at the Underworld.

I’ve felt the weight of the god’s vast and angry gaze upon me, and I’ve stared back at it. So I’ve a personal stake in all of this, but then when that god arrives, life itself, from bacteria up, will be under threat. It’s amazing, though, just how much people are pretending that it isn’t going to happen. RMs, my colleagues. People who should know better.

“You chose this place because you knew it gives you an advantage over me,” I say.

“What a cynic.”

“I prefer to call it realism.” I point toward the dark god in the sky. “Maybe it’s just too big. Maybe it’s something that we can’t do anything about at all. But we have to try.”

“What do you know about that thing up there?” she asks.

“That the Stirrers worship it and that it’s drawing closer. What else is there?”

Suzanne waves her hand dismissively, as though the Stirrer god was nothing more than a buzzing insect. “Look, I want to offer you a deal. Think about all the resources you would have at your disposal. My offices, my staff—they’re much bigger than yours. And that difference in staffing is even larger now after your little problem.”