Death Most Definite (Death Works #1)

by Trent Jamieson

  “Well, I didn’t see or sense one in Logan. Just a body, and a lot of people mourning.”

  “Hmm, you got lucky. Your mother had two.” Dad sighs. “And here I am stuck in the office.”

  I make a mental note to call Mom. “So Derek wasn’t lying.”

  “You’ve got to stop giving Derek so much crap, Steve. He’ll be Ankou one day, Morrigan isn’t going to be around forever.”

  “I don’t like the guy, and you can’t tell me that the feeling isn’t mutual.”

  “Steven, he’s your boss. Try not to piss him off too much,” Dad says and, by the tone of his voice, I know we’re about to slip into the same old argument. Let me list the ways: My lack of ambition. How I could have had Derek’s job, if I’d really cared. How there’s more Black Sheep in me than is really healthy for a Pomp. That Robyn left me three years ago. Well, I don’t want to go there today.

  “OK,” I say. “If you could just explain why the girl was there and, maybe, who she was. She understood the process, Dad. She wouldn’t let me pomp her.” There’s silence down the end of the line. “You do that, and I’ll try and suck up to Derek.”

  “I’m serious,” Dad says. “He’s already got enough going on today. Melbourne’s giving him the run-around. Not returning calls, you know, that sort of thing.”

  Melbourne giving Derek the run-around isn’t that surprising. Most people like to give Derek the run-around. I don’t know how he became Morrigan’s assistant. Yeah, I know why, he’s a hard worker, and ambitious, almost as ambitious as Morrigan—and Morrigan is Ankou, second only to Mr. D. But Derek’s hardly a people person. I can’t think of anyone who Derek hasn’t pissed off over the years: anyone beneath him, that is. He’d not dare with Morrigan, and only a madman would consider it with Mr. D—you don’t mess with Geoff Daly, the Australian Regional Manager. Mr. D’s too creepy, even for us.

  “OK, I’ll send some flowers,” I say. “Gerberas, everyone likes gerberas, don’t they?”

  Dad grunts. He’s been tapping away at his computer all this time. I’m not sure if it’s the computer or me that frustrates him more.

  “Can you see anything?”

  A put-upon sigh, more tapping. “Yeah… I’m… looking into… All right, let me just…” Dad’s a one-finger typist. If glaciers had fingers they’d type faster than him. Morrigan gives him hell about it all the time; Dad’s response requires only one finger as well. “I can’t see anything unusual in the records, Steve. I’d put it down to bad luck, or good luck. You didn’t get shot after all. Maybe you should buy a scratchie, one of those $250,000 ones.”

  “Why would I want to ruin my mood?”

  Dad laughs. Another phone rings in the background; wouldn’t put it past Derek to be on the other end. But then all the phones seem to be ringing.

  “Dad, maybe I should come into the office. If you need a hand…”

  “No, we’re fine here,” Dad says, and I can tell he’s trying to keep me away from Derek, which is probably a good thing. My Derek tolerance is definitely at a low today.

  We say our goodbyes and I leave him to all those ringing phones, though my guilt stays with me.

  3

  I take a deep breath. I feel slightly reassured about my own living-breathing-walking-talking future. If Number Four’s computers can’t bring anything unusual up then nothing unusual is happening.

  There are levels of unusual though, and I don’t feel that reassured by the whole thing, even if I can be reasonably certain no one has a bead on me. Something’s wrong. I just can’t put my finger on it. The increased Stirrer activity, the problems with the phones… But we’ve had these sorts of things before, and even if Stirrers are a little exotic, what company doesn’t have issues with their phones at least once a month? Stirrers tend to come in waves, particularly during flu season—there’s always more bodies, and a chance to slip in before someone notices—and it’s definitely flu season, spring is the worst for it in Brisbane. I’m glad I’ve had my shots, there’s some nasty stuff going around. Pomps are a little paranoid about viruses, with good reason—we know how deadly they can be.

  Still, I don’t get shot at every day (well, ever). Nor do I obsess over dead girls to the point where I think I would almost be happy to be shot at again if I got the chance to spend more time with them. It’s ridiculous but I’m thinking about her eyes, and the timbre of her voice. Which is a change from thinking about Robyn.

  My mobile rings a moment later, and I actually jump and make a startled sound, loud enough to draw a bit of attention. I cough. Pretend to clear my throat. The LCD flashes an all too familiar number at me—it’s the garage where my car is being serviced. I take the call. Seems I’m without a vehicle until tomorrow at least, something’s wrong with something. Something expensive I gather. Whenever my mechanic sounds cheerful I know it’s going to cost me, and he’s being particularly ebullient.

  The moment I hang up, the phone rings again.

  My cousin Tim. Alarm bells clang in the distant recesses of my mind. We’re close, Tim’s the nearest thing I have to a brother, but he doesn’t normally call me out of the blue. Not unless he’s after something.

  “Are you all right?” he demands. “No bullet wounds jettisoning blood or anything?”

  “Yeah. And, no, I’m fine.”

  Tim’s a policy advisor for a minor but ambitious state minister. He’s plugged in and knows everything. “Good, called you almost as soon as I found out. You working tomorrow?” he asks.

  “No, why?”

  “You’re going to need a drink. I’ll pick you up at your place in an hour.” Tim isn’t that great at the preamble. Part of his job: he’s used to getting what he wants. And he has the organizational skills to back it up. Tim would have made a great Pomp, maybe even better than Morrigan, except he decided very early on that the family trade wasn’t for him. Black Sheep nearly always do. Most don’t even bother getting into pomping at all. They deny the family trade and become regular punters. Tim’s decision had caused quite a scandal.

  But, he hadn’t escaped pomping completely; part of his remit is Pomp/government relations, something he likes to complain about at every opportunity: along the lines of every time I get out, they pull me back in. Still, he’s brilliant at the job. Mortmax and the Queensland government haven’t had as close and smooth a relationship in decades. Between him and Morrigan’s innovations, Mortmax Australia is in the middle of a golden age.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Tim sighs. “Oh, no you don’t. There’s no getting out of this, mate. Sally’s looking after the kids, and I’m not going to tell you what I had to do to swing that. It’s her bridge night, for Christ’s sake. Steve, how many other thirty-year-olds do you know who play bridge?”

  I look at my watch. “Hey, it’s only three.”

  “Beer o’clock.” I’ve never heard a more persuasive voice.

  “Tim, um, I reckon that’s stretching it a bit.”

  There’s a long silence down the other end of the phone. “Steve, you can’t tell me you’re busy. I know you’ve got no more pomps scheduled today.”

  Sometimes his finger is a little too on the pulse. “I’ve had a rough day.”

  Tim snorts. “Steve, now that’s hilarious. A rough day for you is a nine o’clock start and no coffee.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy.” My job is all hours, though I must admit my shifts have been pretty sweet of late. And no coffee does make for a rough day. In fact, coffee separated by more than two-hourly intervals makes for a rough day.

  “Yeah, OK, so it’s been rough. I get that. All the more reason…”

  “Pub it is, then,” I say without any real enthusiasm.

  I’ve a sudden, aching need for coffee, coal black and scalding, but I know I’m going to have to settle for a Coke. That is, if I want to get home and change in time.

  “You’re welcome,” Tim says. “My shout.”

  “Oh, you’ll be shouting, all right.”


  “See you in an hour.”

  So I’m in the Paddo Tavern, still starving hungry, even after eating a deep-fried Chiko Roll: a sere and jaundiced specimen that had been mummifying in a nearby cafe’s bain-marie for a week too long.

  I had gone home, changed into jeans and a Stooges T-shirt—the two cleanest things on the floor of my bedroom. The jacket and pants didn’t touch the ground, though, they go in the cupboard until I can get them dry-cleaned. Pomps know all about presentation—well, on the job, anyway. After all, we spend most of our working day at funerals and in morgues.

  I might have eaten something at home but other than a couple of Mars Bars, milk, and dog food for Molly there’s nothing. The fridge is in need of a good grocery shop; has been for about three years. Besides, I’m only just dressed and deodorized when Tim honks the horn out the front. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spent ten minutes working on my hair.

  Getting to the pub early was not such a good idea. Sure, we avoided peak-hour traffic, but my head was spinning by the first beer. Chiko Rolls can only sop up so much alcohol—about a thimbleful by my calculations.

  “Why bulk up on the carbs?” Tim had declared—though I’m sure he’d actually had something for lunch. “You need room for the beer.”

  I end up sitting at the table as Tim buys round after round. He comes back each time a little bit drunker. His tie slightly looser around his neck. A big grin on his face as he slides my beer over to me. “Now, isn’t this perfect?”

  We’ve always been like this. Get us together and the drinks keep coming.

  He’s already bought a packet of cigarettes. We used to sneak off at family parties and sit around smoking whatever cigarettes we could afford, listening to the Smiths on cassette. Things haven’t changed for Tim. If Sally knew about those cigarettes he’d be a dead man. To be honest, I’m not that keen on them either. The last thing you ever want to do is pomp a family member.

  “Look,” he says, well into our fifth pint. He nurses his beer a while, staring at me like I’m some poor wounded pup. “We’re worried about you. Look at you there, all miserable.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t get shot at every day. This is new.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Don’t you mention her. It was three years ago.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m over her.”

  Tim drops his glass onto the table. It makes a definitive and sarcastic crack. “If Sally were here she’d be laughing right now. Just because we’ve stopped setting you up on dates doesn’t mean we agree with you.” He raises his hand at my glare. “OK. So how about work? Is that going well? I hear there’s been a few issues lately.”

  “What are you fishing for?”

  “Nothing—that’s Mr. D. He’s been away the last few days, fishing, hasn’t he?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t think these were work drinks. You trying to claim this on your tax?”

  Tim shakes his head. “Of course not. I suppose I just get a bit nervous when Mr. D is away for so long. The whole department does.”

  “Shit, you are fishing.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re going to have to be more subtle than that. Morrigan doesn’t like you that much, Tim.”

  Tim’s face darkens. “It’s not my job to be liked. Besides, he doesn’t like your dad all that much, either.”

  “Morrigan loves my father. He just never agrees with him. That, my dear cousin, is the very definition of a friendship. Mutual admiration orbiting mutual contempt.”

  Tim grins. “Certainly what we have, eh? And may it always be so.” He raises his pint glass. “To immortality.”

  I crack my pint against his. “Immortality.” We’re both aware of how ridiculous we sound. Grow up around Pomps and ridiculous is all you’ve got.

  I want to tell Tim about the dead girl but I can’t quite bring myself to. Truth is, I’m a bit embarrassed. I’m not sure if my feelings for her show that I’m finally over Robyn or that I’m in deeper than ever. Besides, it’s just not the done thing. You don’t fall for a punter. No one’s that unprofessional. No one’s that stupid.

  By mid evening there’s a pretty decent cover band belting out versions of pub rock standards from The Doors to Wolfmother. They’ve only started into the first bars of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” when I see the dead guy. I look at Tim, who’s just ducked back from a smoke.

  “That’s odd,” I say, all the while wondering how sober I am.

  Tim raises an eyebrow. He’s not a Pomp but he knows the deal. He can recognize the signs. And they’re very obvious in a crowded pub. Some people reckon that Black Sheep know the deal better than anyone, because if you’re from a pomping family you don’t choose to become a Pomp, you choose not to. “Punter?”

  “Yeah.” I tap my phone with beer-thickened fingers. Is this thing broken? I wonder.

  “Maybe it’s someone else’s gig,” he says, hopefully, looking from me to the phone and back again.

  I shake my head. “No. The schedule’s up. Nothing about a Pomp being required here. Second time today.”

  “And you neglected to tell me this?”

  “I thought this wasn’t a work meeting.”

  “See what I mean?” Tim says, pointing at the space where the dead guy stands. “This is why we worry when Mr. D goes fishing.”

  I throw my gaze around the room. The last time this happened someone started shooting at me. Can’t see that happening here.

  “Something’s not working,” Tim says. “Shouldn’t you…?” He nods toward the dead guy.

  “Yeah.” I put down my beer and roll my shoulders. There’s a satisfyingly loud crack. “I’ve a job that needs doing.”

  I get up, and an afternoon’s drinking almost topples me. I grip the table, perhaps a little too desperately.

  Tim reaches out a steadying hand. “You right?”

  “Yep. Yep.” I push him away. “I’m fine.”

  There is no way I should be doing this drunk. I could lose my job. I’m sure it’s somewhere in my contract. But technically this isn’t supposed to happen. There’s a dead guy here, and no one to facilitate his next step. It’s a crowded pub, and yet there’s this empty space—empty to everyone but me. If it didn’t piss me off so much it would be funny to watch. Anyone who gets close to the dead guy frowns then darts away.

  If only that space was near the bar.

  The dead guy’s head jerks in my direction. His eyes widen and he blinks furiously: a look that would be almost coquettish if it wasn’t so familiar.

  “It’s all right,” I say.

  It isn’t, he’s dead. But there’s nothing that can be done about that. Whatever could have been done wasn’t or failed. We’re past that. Pomps don’t deal with the dying but with what comes after. We’re merely conduits, and gatekeepers. The dead pass through us, and we stop the Stirrers coming back. But this—this dead guy in the Paddo, and me—is too reactive. Someone should have been sent here by head office. He should be on the schedule. But he isn’t. And that leaves a very bitter taste in my mouth; I do have some pride in my job. Death is the most natural thing in the world but only because we work so hard to make it look easy.

  I look around. Just in case… Nope, no other Pomps in the building. Should be able to feel one if there is, but I have had a lot to drink.

  “Sorry,” the dead guy says, his voice carrying perfectly despite the noise.

  “Nothing to be sorry about.” I’m wearing the most calming expression I can muster. I know he’s scared.

  I reach out my hand, and he flits away like a nervous bird, and brushes a bloke’s arm. The poor guy yelps and drops his beer. Glass shatters and the circle around us widens, though people don’t realize what they’re doing. I can feel eyes on me. This must look more than a little crazy. But the gazes never linger for long—looking at a spot where a dead person is standing can be almost as uncomfortable as bumping up against one. The average human bra
in makes its adjustments quickly and shifts its attention elsewhere.

  The dead guy steps back toward me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him, keeping my voice soft and low. His eyes are focused on my lips.

  “Terry.”

  “You want to talk, Terry?” A name is good. Morrigan would describe it as being of extreme utility. It’s a handle, a point of focus. Terry’s eyes search my face.

  “No. I—this isn’t right. I’ve been wandering, and there’s nothing. Just—” He blinks. Looks around. “What is this place? Shit, is this the Paddo?”

  “You shouldn’t be here, Terry,” I say, and he’s back, looking at me. There’s more confidence and less confusion in his eyes.

  “No shit. I haven’t been back to Brisbane in years. I—do people really still listen to grunge?”

  “What’s wrong with grunge?”

  Terry rolls his eyes. “Where to begin…”

  I take another step toward him. “Look, it doesn’t matter, Terry.” This is inexcusable. Someone has majorly screwed up, and I’m certain I know who. But that’s for later. I need to stay calm.

  “Terry, you know where you need to be,” I say gently, as gently as you can above the cover band’s rendition of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

  He nods his head. “I can’t seem to get there.”

  “Let me help you, Terry.”

  I reach out. This time he doesn’t dart away. I touch him. And Terry’s gone, passing through me, and into the Underworld. There’s the familiar pain of a successful pomp, a slight ache that runs through me. I take a deep breath. Then, between blinks, all that space around me fills with people. I elbow my way toward my table none too gently; I reserve softness for the dead. I’m fuming with a white-hot rage, my body sore from the pomp.

  Derek’s in trouble, now. If he’s messed up the rostering this badly, what else is he doing wrong? I’m filled with a righteous (and somewhat enjoyable) anger. I’d call him right now, but anger isn’t the only thing I’m filled with and it’s decided to remind me in no uncertain terms.