Kzine Issue 16

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  I never did get any lasagna that night.

  NINE CORPSES, THREE BY THREE

  by Meryl Stenhouse

  Myna kneeled beside the dead sheep. Blood soaked into her white robe tucked beneath her folded knees, the warm, sticky fluid slick against her skin. She raised her knife to the sun, arms bare to the elbow but already marked crimson by her trade. In one swift, shallow stroke she sliced open the sheep’s belly, avoiding the shining coils of the intestine. That was always bad luck for a reading, to taint the air with the stench of a punctured gut.

  She slid her hand into the warm, wet opening. The pulse still fluttered with the last echo of the beast’s life. She nicked the peritoneum, then tore the membrane apart with her hands. A shining lobe of the liver bulged into the opening. A few gentle nips with the silver blade and the organ came free, the weight of it straining her wrist. She dropped it into the silver bowl beside her.

  On the other side of the corpse, on a raised dais decorated with fresh boughs and hung with white flowers, the wedding couple clasped hands. From her position, Myna had a good view of the woman’s Jimmy Choo heels. A Prada handbag was tucked beside her chair, simple and elegant. It probably cost more than Myna made in a month.

  “Nice and clean,” said a low voice behind her. One of the fathers, she assumed. The comment was not meant for her. The combined families spread in a loose semi-circle behind Myna; fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins. This was a big family, an old family, a branch descended from Caesar himself, and still bearing some of the influence of that great emperor in their wealth and power.

  The genial chatter had stilled as she had sliced the sheep’s throat, but now the voices rose again. Only the betrothed were silent, their hands clasped tightly. In a moment, their future would be told. Would their love endure? Would they be blessed with children? Would their future be easy, or difficult?

  Myna’s hands jerked as she wiped the knife on a clean cloth and slid it back into the leather sheath. The sun beat down on the back of her neck, where a headache trembled, waiting to strike. Sweat trickled down her temple, but to wipe at it would leave a red streak across her face. She picked up the bowl in trembling fingers, trying to breathe, trying to connect herself to that flow of other that allowed her to glimpse the will of the gods.

  A hush had fallen over the crowd. She was taking too long, chastised herself for her unfocused thoughts. She placed the bowl in front of her and leaned in. She wasn’t the only one. The weight of the family’s expectation pressed in on her.

  She laid the liver out, purple and slick in the sunlight, the strong lobe to the right, the smaller lobes to the left, the triangle of the gallbladder in the centre, facing her. She traced the shape with bloodied fingers, eyes searching for blemishes, fingers probing for hard spots, bloodied pockets or other malformations.

  The ripple of voices faded to silence as she focussed on the story before her. The wide sweep of the main lobe was a smooth expanse of glistening flesh, clear of markings. Tecum, the deity of the ruling classes, whose sphere of influence took up most of the right side, was clearly pleased.

  On the smaller left lobe, the pointed area at the bottom was given over to Munthukh, goddess of love and health, not a particularly powerful deity, but the absence of signs in her quarter would be a blow to the engaged couple. Myna kneaded the area. Two pea-sized lumps rolled beneath her fingertips, making white indentations in the quarter. They were close together, almost touching.

  She straightened to address the couple. “Munthukh has blessed this union.” A wave of delighted clapping followed her remark. Ilithiia, goddess of childbirth, was similarly pleased, the smooth outer membrane of the liver a crosswork of interlacing lines, the sign of extended family to come. The couple on the dais leaned in, amid the congratulations of their families, to share a long, sensuous kiss.

  Myna yanked her gaze away, forcing herself to breathe through the pain in her chest. She examined the rest of the liver, but the organ was clear and clean. All the signs indicated a long and prosperous life together.

  Bitter resentment swelled and choked her. Why was she here? This perfect, blessed couple didn’t need her to tell them they would have a good life; that they would be together for many years. The crowd blurred and faded as Laura’s memory crept in, whispering loss, the ghostly touch closing Myna’s throat with grief. She bit down on her lip to stop the tears from falling.

  She fled as soon as she could, to wash her hands in a luxurious downstairs bathroom that was bigger than the bedroom she and Laura had shared in their modest townhouse. Outside, the families celebrated, and the young sheep, now on a spit, filled the air with delicious scents.

  The ornate house loomed over Myna as she took the side path out the little gate to her car. The striking combination of arch, vault and dome would appear to be just a rich family aping ancient Roman architecture. But the mark of their Etruscan heritage was stamped on every aspect of the magnificent house and grounds, clear to those, like Myna, who could trace their ancestors back to pre-roman times, invisible to the busy modern society around them. Myna packed her ceremonial gear into the boot. Through the little gate into the manicured and extensive grounds, she could see the engaged couple dancing.

  For years this family had prospered through careful consideration of the wants and desires of the gods, secure in the thought that proper attention would protect them.

  Myna slammed the boot, harder than she intended to. She wanted to go back inside, to pull the woman aside and tell her, it doesn’t matter how much you try, it won’t make a difference. You think you can appease the gods, earn their favour with your offerings and your fealty? You can’t. Your fate is set, and what looks auspicious now can turn against you with the next spilling of the entrails.

  Myna leaned on the car, bowed under the familiar feelings of grief and loss. Three months and her body, her brain, still hadn’t adjusted.

  She got in the car, and drove home. She hadn’t packed her gear with as much care as usual, and the knives rattled against the silver bowl, an unplanned cacophony to drive away spirits.

  * * *

  Myna let herself in the back door and tossed her keys on the table. A maudlin yowl broke the silence; long, mournful, accusatory. Princess Puttri, Laura’s pedigree Oriental cat, was stretched out on the hall rug, claws digging into the pile as she beheaded a pigeon. The almond-shaped eyes glared at Myna, chocolate tipped ears up in an attitude of fuck you. Which summed up Puttri’s personality perfectly, as far as Myna was concerned. Myna stamped her foot on the wooden floor. “Get out!”

  Puttri fled, leaving the pigeon on the rug, entrails stretched out between the body and the head. Blood melded the rug’s pattern of red and white into a formless blob. Myna grabbed a handful of paper towels from the kitchen and dropped to her knees beside the mess, cursing Laura for saddling her with the needy, finicky cat when what she wanted was Laura here to clean up the mess, Laura to drink coffee and argue with, Laura warm in her bed at night.

  The pigeon blurred in front of her. She crushed the paper towels to her hot face, bit down on them to stop the tears which flowed without her permission, all the time now, it seemed. She had cried enough to fill the ocean and still it hadn’t filled the Laura shaped hole in her life.

  The storm over, she rested her hands with the soggy towel in her lap. The pigeon had bled out; its glassy eye stared up at her. A warning tickled the back of her consciousness. Her eye traced a path from the decapitated head, down the oesophagus. A lobe of the liver, discoloured and spotted, peeped out from behind the crop.

  Myna turned her head away, abruptly. She would not read. Would not. Let the gods say what they wanted, she would not hear. She snatched the body up in the soggy towel, shoved it into a plastic bag, making her position plain with a firm knot. Damn the gods. There was no truth now that she wanted to see.

  She threw the bag into the wheelie bin. She told herself that was the end of it. That she had seen nothing in th
e brief glimpse.

  But she had, of course she had. The north-west quadrant belonged to Vetis, Lord of Death and Destruction. And there was no mistaking the dark suffusion of blood. An ill omen.

  She stood by the bin, struggling with herself for at least a minute before she threw open the lid and yanked out the bag. She tore through the flimsy plastic. The entrails spilled out and she lay them correctly, glancing up at the sun and reorienting herself to the proper position.

  She took the tiny liver in her fingers, found the dark stain. When she pressed the organ, white spots appeared for a moment, swallowed by blood when she released the pressure. Nine spots. Nine marks in Vetis’s quadrant. Nine sacrifices for the Lord of Death and Destruction.

  She sat back on her heels, the liver cooling in her hands.

  * * *

  Myna’s brother, Pace, didn’t answer his mobile, and messagebank ran out of time before she thought of something to say. She rang through a second time, trying to gather her thoughts in advance.

  “Myna?”

  Her thoughts fled at the sound of his voice. She stammered a hello. From the chatter in the background she guessed he must be at the police station, sorting paperwork for a change.

  “What can I do for you?”

  His voice was cool, but she couldn’t fault him for it. She hadn’t seen Pace for a few weeks, not since she had screamed at his wife for suggesting that it would help the grieving process to clear out all Laura’s things and give them to charity. Pace and Rochelle had retreated from her life, leaving Myna to cling to the detritus of Laura’s existence.

  “I’m sorry to call. I just—I’ve seen an omen.”

  A pause, long enough that Myna wondered if he was still there. “Hold on.”

  She heard footsteps, a door clicking closed.

  “Go on.” Pace’s voice had an echo now. She imagined him hiding in a closet.

  “Nine marks in the quadrant of Vetis.”

  “Vetis… he’s not good, right?”

  “God of Death and Destruction.” The image of the liver rose again in her mind.

  “Charming. And the nine marks mean?”

  “Nine events involving death.”

  He snorted. “Helpful.”

  Her hand tightened on the phone. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t get a cinematic view.”

  “All right, all right, I know. It’s just… It’s hard for me. I can’t go out there and say hey, anyone seen something weird lately? Possibly nine weird things? Why? Oh, you know, why not?” She could hear footsteps, he must be pacing in the small room. “I can’t start an investigation on the basis of nine bad omens.”

  “One bad omen. Nine marks. Bodies.” She paused. “It could be bodies. Deaths. Attacks. It could be nine bombs for all I know.”

  “Don’t make jokes like that.” There was a chill in his voice that scared her. “Nine bombs these days is not outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Well, forget the bombs. If this was in a different quadrant I would say someone’s herd is going to increase nine-fold.”

  “What if I don’t have a herd?”

  “It’s a metaphor, Pace.”

  “Well, maybe it’s something to do with your client. Who were you reading for?”

  “I wasn’t reading for anyone.” She grimaced. “Princess Puttri disembowelled a pigeon on the rug.”

  “So you just saw an omen out of the blue? I thought you could only interpret based on a question?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. What he said was true. The question, the selection of the sacrifice, the positioning of the kill, the flow of the blood, the placing of the liver, all had meaning. Why had she seen an omen in the liver of a dead bird on the rug?

  “You know what? You’re right. I shouldn’t have seen anything. Maybe what I saw was nine dead birds in Puttri’s future.” She felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

  “Well, if Princess Puttri has any more pressing questions…”

  She smiled, a movement so unfamiliar that she felt the shape of her face changing. “I’ll be sure to oblige.”

  “Good. So… how are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.” The auto-response came out first. “I’m… it’s day by day, sometimes.”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “So… Rochelle and I were talking about maybe having you over for dinner this week…”

  She doubted they had been talking about that at all. “Sure.”

  “Thursday?”

  “See you then.”

  Princess Puttri wailed from the doorway. Myna glanced at her food bowl, mucky with dried fish bits. No wonder the kitchen stank. She sighed and turned on the hot water.

  * * *

  When Myna saw Pace’s name come up on her phone, she thought he was ringing to check she was still coming for dinner. But the curt, clipped greeting dispelled that thought.

  “I have something weird for you.”

  “Weird in what way?” The risotto she was cooking sizzled and she swore at it, spilling half of the ladleful of hot stock onto the stovetop instead of into the pot. The smell in the kitchen, now cleaned from top to bottom, was much improved from eau de Whiskers, but now included burning stock. Making the risotto had been a mistake. She wasn’t in the right mind for cooking.

  “A woman rang in with a report about her husband’s ashes. Her cat knocked the urn off the shelf, and when she went to clean it up, she found chunks of cement in it. So she brought it in.”

  Bloody cats. “And?”

  “It was cement dust, not ashes.”

  “No kidding? What happened to the ashes?”

  “No idea. But we’ve found more missing ashes.”

  She didn’t need her talent at haruspicy to see the future. “How many?”

  “Five so far.”

  The risotto sizzled demandingly. She shoved the pot off the heat. “So at least five missing bodies?”

  “Missing sets of ashes,” Pace said.

  Myna suppressed a smile. Pace just couldn’t help himself. His policeman’s brain was irritatingly exact. “All right, five missing sets of ashes then. Dodgy funeral home?”

  “All from different funeral homes, but they went through the same crematorium. Federation Gardens.”

  She fumbled for a pen and paper. “Where?”

  He gave her the address. “I just thought—as soon as I read the case files I thought of you. And—I’m glad you’re investigating again.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pace hung up. Was she investigating again? This had just been an accidental reading, a dark omen that, if not for Princess Puttri, might never have been seen.

  But it was Vetis, and she couldn’t just walk away. She had been warned. She had warned Pace. And he had done what he always did. Found the odd things, the weird things, the things that didn’t fit, and he had given them to her.

  She imagined Laura sitting across the breakfast bar. Laura as she had been, not wasted and pale from the chemotherapy, hollowed face and bald head so corpse-like that Myna had struggled to meet her eyes. Go in. Be careful, she would say. And then that quirky smile that made Myna’s chest ache. Try not to break anything.

  How many times had Laura, successful corporate lawyer, called in favours to get Myna good representation in court? Breaking and entering, desecrating a protected place, hunting on private land. That had been a tough one. No use shouting at the judge that a giant flying snake was not something that needed preservation.

  She went to the hall cupboard. Inside, dust coated everything, including the purple canvas backpack hanging on a hook at the back.

  #

  Myna pulled over to the side of the road and sat there with the engine running, her initial reconnaissance plans defeated. Federation Gardens must have once been idyllic, surrounded by bushland and market gardens. But urban sprawl had caught up with the area and now it was surrounded by clear-felled subdivisions, ready to be sold.

  The low wall of the crematorium surrounded a couple of acres of l
awn and rose bushes, not even remotely useful for a concealed approach.

  She put the car into gear and moved forward, hoping she would be considered just another home buyer, looking for a good situation. The road went over a little crest, the edge of the subdivision on her left, an abandoned market garden on her right, fronted by a billboard advertising stage two of the subdivision.

  A dark shape behind the rambling orchard caught her eye. An old shed lurked behind the rows of custard apple trees, wood nearly black with age. Myna pulled into a rutted drive. There had been a gate once, which now lay on its side in the long grass. Myna parked the car behind some trees and grabbed her backpack.

  Boxes in tottering piles leaned against the shed wall. The big doors were too large and too rusted for her comfort, and the small door well padlocked. Clearly the place was too far out for vandals and taggers to have found it, though with the subdivision going in, it wouldn’t be long before they did. She had bolt cutters in her backpack, but would prefer not to use them if she could help it.

  Luck was on her side. Further around on the crematorium side a window had been broken, the glass removed and piled neatly to one side. Very considerate. Someone was still looking after the place. She pulled on a pair of gloves and swung herself up and over the windowsill and inside.

  Wings exploded overhead and she cried out and ducked. Only a flock of pigeons, their swooping flight making flickering patterns in the sunlight. She leaned on the wall for a moment until her heart rate returned to somewhere near normal.

  A smell tickled her nostrils. She sniffed. Decay. Probably pigeon carcasses everywhere. She sniffed again. The air inside the shed was heavy and unmoving, and deeply tainted.

  When the pigeons had settled back into cooing insensibility she made her way down a narrow corridor between piled boxes. The sickly undertone of death was getting stronger, so much so that she gagged.

  She stepped out from between the boxes next to a mini-excavator, bright yellow in the gloom. She gagged again, the smell of rot going straight to her stomach. The concrete floor had been torn up and piled along one wall. And on the dirt in the middle of the room nine corpses lay face-down, naked, the skin on their backs bubbling with carrion insects.