Managing death sds-2

by Trent Jamieson

  'Cerbo's lesson was instructive.'

  'Do you think you could shift?'

  'Give me three weeks, and I'll be shifting everywhere. Right now, the thought of doing it again makes me want to throw up. Steve, sorry I ever doubted you.'

  'This situation with Rillman is out of control, Tim. What the hell are we supposed to do?'

  Tim shuffles his papers, lifts his eyes to mine. 'We keep going. There's nothing else we can do. We keep going carefully and cautiously, and we do not stop. Whoever Rillman is, and whoever he's working for, they can get to us anytime they want. They've already proven it. And if Rillman can shift then there's nowhere that's safe. We just have to keep going, until either we stop him, or he stops us.'

  My mind turns to things that we may have some control over. 'How are you going with those Closers?'

  Tim frowns. 'I can't find out anything. People are being very tight-lipped at the Department – and I mean very.' He sighs. 'I can't remember the last time I came to work with a hangover. I got three of them drunk last night, after the Christmas party, and nothing. Not a bloody peep. But this is my best guess.' He hands me a small sheaf of papers. 'These are based on my suggestions, when I was running that portfolio.'

  He looks at his watch. 'We've a job interview at 11:30. You'll need to be there, since we're using your office and all.'

  'Really? This morning's been busy enough as it is!'

  'Who is it?'

  'Clare Ramage. She looks good, on paper anyway. Lissa found her. I'm surprised she didn't mention anything, but, then, the week we've been having, eh? We won't know for sure until we can get her into your office, see how she handles the Underworld.'

  'What do you think?' The office is just a formality, both Lissa and Tim can usually tell beforehand.

  'I think she'll be fine.'

  'OK I'll see you at 11:30. And I'll read this, right now. That's a promise.'

  'Make sure you keep it. None of that slipping a bookmark through it bullshit,' Tim says, and maybe I shouldn't grin at him. Shit, we're so good at pushing each other's buttons we don't even need to try most of the time. Tim groans. 'Now, get out of here. And be careful who you let into your room, unless you don't intend reading that, because if that's the case, buddy, I might just have to torture you myself.'

  He sits there, glaring at me. I stare back sheepishly.

  'I'm on it,' I say. 'Really.'

  Tim just harrumphs under his breath. 'Close the door on your way out.'

  I walk back through to my office, stopping at the kitchen to make some coffee and feeling all those eyes watching me. Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone last night, or maybe it's that my nose hasn't quite stopped bleeding yet. I drop Tim's notes onto the desk: they land with a satisfying and vaguely threatening thump.

  After ten pages I'm glad Tim's working on my side.

  The first page outlines possible threats to Australia's population should Mortmax fail. Regional Apocalypse is at the top of it. There's a half-dozen end-of-world scenarios – some of which I wasn't even aware were a possibility – and how Mortmax might be involved in them.

  It's a pretty damning, but I must admit, honest appraisal. And I can see why Tim may have been pushing for closer government ties to Mortmax, and just why he might have been so resistant to the family business.

  And now, since we came so close to a Regional Apocalypse, and streets were crowded with Stirrers, I know why they might just rush through an organisation like the Closers.

  I'm twenty pages in when the phone rings.

  It's Neill. 'I heard you had some trouble yesterday,' he says.

  'Yeah, I suppose you could call it trouble.' I find it hard to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

  'Death Moots create a certain… well… chaotic energy, but this is the first time this has happened. Are you sure there's no one trying to challenge you?'

  'No one's killed a Pomp yet,' I say. 'There's just been attempts on me.'

  'You sure it's not that cousin of yours?' Neill asks. 'It's usually the fookin' Ankous that are the problem.'

  'Not my cousin, I'm sure of that.' I try a different tack. 'Do you have a government liaison?' There's silence down the line for a moment.

  'Yes, it's only something very new. I never thought we needed it before, but they were quite persuasive.'

  'Define persuasive. Insistent? Or coercive?'

  'Well, it's certainly made stopping Stirrers much easier,' Neill says. I'm putting my money on the latter.

  'We've a group here called the Closers.'

  'What are they?'

  'Police, but a unit devoted to us. You have anything like that there?'

  'Not that I know of. Just a unit that keeps a closer eye on our paperwork, our visits to morgues and funerals, that sort of thing. But liaison or no, our communications with the government are a little limited. You could say that we both have secrets that the other may not like. Why do you have such a unit there?'

  'The Regional Apocalypse. I think it worried them. I can't blame them, of course. It worried me.'

  'Times are changing,' Neill says, and there's more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  'Yeah, they're changing, all right.'

  I put a few more calls through, speaking as directly as I can to the various RMs. All of them seem to have something of a government presence, several when their territories cover more than one country – some have as many as twenty.

  For most of them, this is something new. And for the ones that it isn't they've noticed an increased scrutiny. But that's not the only thing. Their lack of concern about the issue is disturbing. Something doesn't feel right. This is definitely going on the agenda at the Death Moot.

  Talk doesn't stick to the government departments, though. Every single one of them is pitching an alliance at me, or at the very least a mutual back-scratching sort of set-up. I'm non-committal.

  I haven't hung up from the last call for more than a few heartbeats when the phone rings again.

  Alex.

  'Steve, I can't talk for long,' he says, his voice low. 'You're going to get a call soon. From Solstice. They've found the body of the man who tried to shoot you. Well, we think it is.'

  'Where?'

  'Look, when I say they've found the body, I mean we did; but they've taken it away.'

  'Did you get much of a look? Did it fit my description?'

  'No, I didn't get a look in. The Closers were already there when I arrived.' Alex's voice lowers to a whisper. 'I really don't like that crew. There's something… off about them.'

  'Tim hasn't been able to find out anything about them, either.'

  'Yeah, no agency is that secret. There's always someone who knows something, and is willing to talk. Usually, when there isn't, you have to wonder.' There's a quiet murmuring in the background. Alex raises his voice. 'Look, I've got to go. But I will talk to you soon.' He hangs up abruptly.

  There's another call. I don't recognise the number.

  'Yes?' I say.

  'Nothing to worry about, it's just Solstice.'

  'What can I do for you, Detective?'

  'Nothing, really, it's more what I can do for you. I thought I might send some fellas over to keep an eye on your house.'

  'My house, or me? Am I a suspect in my own shooting, Mr Solstice?'

  Solstice clears his throat. 'Of course not, but then again… stranger things, Mr de Selby, stranger things. It wasn't your body that they picked up at Toowong Cemetery with injuries that suggest a great fall.'

  Toowong Cemetery sits on Mount Coot-tha, or One Tree Hill, as we know it. One of the many points close to the Underworld, it made sense that my attacker would have used it. Why hadn't I thought of that?

  'Have you identified the body?'

  'Well, that's just it. There's not a lot to identify, but what we have suggests that this person was a Pomp. I'd like you to take a look at him, so there – I suppose there is something you can do for me.'

  'Where are you?'
/>   He tells me. It's an address, just off Milton Road, in the inner city. That's peculiar. It's not the usual morgue (or as the government likes to call it, Forensic and Scientific Services) out on Kessels Road to the south of Brisbane. This has gone wide of the usual coronial pathways. I didn't even know there was a morgue there. I'll have to check this with Tim. I don't like the idea of dead bodies being stored where we can't get at them. It throws me, to be honest.

  But I want to see that body. I shift.

  It's like any morgue I've ever seen, though it smells of new paint and disinfectants. It's cold, tiled halfway up the walls. A body obscured in black plastic lies on a stainless steel table, and there's the familiar, thin smell of death that can't quite be removed, no matter how many cleaning agents you use. Could be worse, Dad had some absolute horror stories about morgues in the fifties, little more than corrugated iron sheds – things started smelling pretty high in there come late spring. And the flies… No flies here, at least.

  Traffic rumbles somewhere in the distance – Milton Road, I guess – though here it's quiet but for the murmur of refrigeration units, and the chirruping of a computer with what I imagine is some sort of email notification. Someone's getting a lot of emails.

  Solstice looks pale beneath his tan. Even the dragon tattoo on his forearm has lost its lustre. I won't go so far as to say that he looks sick, but it's close. I sometimes forget that not everybody deals with death as often as me.

  'When did you start using this place?'

  Solstice smiles. 'That's classified. But it's new. Not even the coroner knows about this one.'

  'Do any of my people?'

  'No, but we only keep "persons of interest" here. And you know about it, now.'

  I don't like it. How could we stop a Stirrer from stirring here? 'So where is he?'

  Solstice walks to the nearby slab, pulls back the plastic sheeting.

  There really isn't much to identify. Everything's there, but it's pulped. Features are warped and flat, and insects, or some other sort of creature, have had a go at digesting bits of what's left. The skin is chewed and tunnelled, mined as though it was some sort of resource, and I guess it is. All flesh and bone is.

  'Someone had gone to a bit of effort to hide the body. If a maintenance fella hadn't decided to work on the northwest corner of the cemetery he may have sat there for even longer.'

  I know I'm not getting the full story. I know they snatched this away from the cops, but I try to not let that show on my face.

  'There's no licence or wallet, obviously, and his fingerprints have come up blank. We're waiting on dental, but I'm not feeling that hopeful. But then there's this.' He pulls the plastic sheeting down to the waist.

  Interesting.

  Along both of his arms and his chest are a series of interlinking brace tattoos, and a couple of other symbols that may have some esoteric potency, or be a load of bullshit. It's always hard to tell but they're certainly the sort of tattoos that a Pomp might have. He even possessed a bit of death iconography on a shoulder blade, a cherub like mine, though his is bigger.

  'If he was a Pomp, he certainly didn't belong to me. I can feel it when my Pomps die.' It was something I haven't had to experience yet, but no doubt will, soon enough. Every RM does. 'He's been too long gone for me to tell if he belongs to anyone else.' Could he belong to Suzanne? No, that doesn't make sense.

  'Do you trust the other RMs?' Solstice asks.

  I snort, can't help myself. 'Do you know how RMs actually become RMs, Mr Solstice?'

  Solstice shakes his head. 'A certain negotiation,' he says. 'Something about a tree?'

  Which is pretty good. He certainly knows more than I did when I was just a Pomp. I think back to the Negotiation, wondering why something so bloody had such a civil name. After all, two mumbling death-lusting stone blades were involved. 'Let me just say the process doesn't even begin to encourage trust. I wouldn't trust those bastards as far as I could throw them. Backstabbers, every one of them. After all, it's the only way you become RM. Back, front and side-stabbing, with a little slashing thrown in as well.'

  'And what about you?'

  'I never wanted this job. And you know, I hold that as a badge of pride.'

  'Can't make it easy for you… lacking that ruthlessness. And yet, here you are, RM.'

  'I did what I had to.'

  'I suppose they'd all say that, wouldn't they? Doesn't everyone, who rises to a position of power?'

  I glance at my watch. 'Are we done? I've got an appointment.'

  'Yeah, we're done.'

  'And about those fellas you want to send over. Don't bother, we've got our own people.'

  'You trust them?'

  'Absolutely.'

  Solstice smiles. 'Just turn a blind eye to any cars parked across from your place.'

  'This is inhouse,' I say between gritted teeth.

  Solstice shakes his head. 'Not when people die, it isn't.'

  I grin nastily at him. 'That's how death works.'

  19

  'Well, would you look at that?' Tim says. 'You're early.'

  Tim's sitting in his office and that's where I've shifted again. 'Right place, wrong time. At least your pants are on,' I say.

  'You don't have a clue what's going on behind this desk.' Tim lights a cigarette. 'I thought you were reading those briefing notes.'

  'Funny you should say that. I was interrupted by a call from Solstice.' I open Tim's door, and wave across the room at Oscar. He grimaces at me. 'Tim, I don't like how the Feds keep poking their noses into our business.'

  Tim sighs. 'Steve, it's all about accountability.'

  'It sounds like you agree with their approach.'

  'No. But I understand it.' He ashes into a Coke can. 'You read my notes?'

  'Most of them. But this group doesn't feel like that. I spoke to Alex, too. He says he can't get anything on them. This is Australia. We don't have any covert groups.'

  'What about us?'

  'That's different. We're not so much covert as unacknowledged. We've been around since life began.'

  Tim walks with me to my office then heads to reception to wait for our possible new recruit.

  Oscar's waiting outside my door. There's a certain percentage of rage beneath his professional demeanour.

  'Sorry,' I say. 'Had an interview with the police.'

  Oscar grimaces, though I think he's coming to terms with me a little. 'How hard is it to phone, eh?'

  He opens the door to my office. Lissa's sitting in one of the chairs.

  I turn to Oscar. 'What's this with the security breaches today?' I ask. He grimaces again and shuts the door in my face.

  'And don't you have your own office, Ms Jones?'

  'This was the only time I knew I would be able to see you,' Lissa says. 'There's not much window in either of our schedules… You look a little pale.'

  'I've been chasing shadows all day, not much chance to get a tan.' I drop into the throne. 'How is it that everybody knows about Rillman except me? Did you know he's regularly been crossing into the Underworld? Suzanne -'

  'What about Suzanne?' Lissa says sharply.

  I try not to look guilty. 'Mr D says she's told him that Rillman has been making trouble for years. Just not here. Seems it took my promotion to bring him back to Australia.' It's another thing Morrigan has to answer for.

  I sense another heartbeat in the building. 'We have a visitor,' I say. 'Clare Ramage?'

  'She's good,' Lissa says. 'One of the best I've found. Even has a bit of family history in the trade.'

  Oscar knocks on the door, then swings it open, giving me the thumbs-up, and a woman (Clare, I'm guessing) in her early twenties walks into the room. Tim follows her.

  I scan her face to see how she copes with this space. She tilts her head. Good, she can already hear the creaking of the One Tree. My mind's not on the interview, though. I'm back at that odd morgue, trying to piece things together. Who was the assassin working for? And when did bodies stop bein
g processed through the usual channels?

  I sit through the interview trying to look interested, but it's Lissa who asks most of the questions. I hope I appear affable and bossish enough, and not that distracted. It's over in under an hour. Once Clare's gone, Tim and Lissa talk it through.

  'What do you think?' Lissa asks me. I blink at her.

  'About what?'

  Lissa snorts. 'Clare?'

  I wave my hand absently at the door. 'Miss Ramage was fine. Eminently employable.'

  Tim's phone beeps. He grimaces. 'I've got to take this one.'

  'Ankou?'

  'Nah, the Caterers. Since the ceremony they've been calling me every bloody second hour, because somebody went and left this to the last minute.'

  I don't know whether to be offended that they're dealing with Tim instead of me. 'Yeah, you better.' Tim gives Lissa a look that I can't read, and she nods. Oh no, this better not mean another lecture for me.

  When Tim's out of the room, Lissa frowns. 'You're losing focus again.'

  'No, I'm not,' I mumble. How can I explain that, if anything, I'm more focussed than ever before, it's just the picture that's changed. 'Take my word for it, I'm not. Clare's got the job, I can make her a Pomp tomorrow. Give her one more day to think about it, and to be normal, eh?'

  Lissa nods, tries to pull a smile, fails. I can understand why she's worried about me, but she doesn't need to be. Not about this. 'You don't want to give her too long.'

  'Worried she'll change her mind?'

  Lissa gets up, pecks me on the cheek, walks to the door. 'Who wouldn't?'

  'You, me, Tim.'

  Lissa laughs. Bad examples, every one of them.

  I'm left alone. Lissa was the first person I turned into a Pomp: Lissa. She'd been one before, of course, but when she was resurrected back into her body, I'd had to return her powers. In those dark moments, as the Stirrers surrounded us, there had been an intimacy that was terrifying. We'd looked into each other's soul and found an echo and a challenge of, and to, our own.