The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy

by Trent Jamieson

  “I try not to. Far too depressing. I do have a stab at the crosswords though.”

  “What? Well…you really should.” Tim takes a long drag on his cigarette, flicks the stub at his feet. “Steve, when you want to piss someone off, I can’t fault you. You aim high.”

  “It could be totally unrelated,” I say, hopefully.

  “Yeah … unrelated.” Tim taps his phone. Mine shudders in sympathy a moment later.

  I squint at the screen. There’s a whole bunch of coordinates—at least that’s what I think they are.

  “In case you don’t get it, they’re all coastal.” Ah-ha, I’m right—coordinates. “And they’re only the ones we know about. Oh, and some smart guy at the office even worked out what you get if you substitute letters for the coordinates.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “Don’t leave me hanging, mate.”

  Tim shakes his head. “It spells your name.”

  “Really?” I peer at the numbers. “I can’t see it. How do you get a name out of coordinates?”

  Tim waves his hands vaguely in the air. “It’s there, believe me. And if Owen in the office can work this out, on his lunch break no less, there are all sorts of agencies across the world that can too, none of which we want to make any more nervous than they already are.” Tim’s voice cracks a little. “Steve, we’re Pomps, we send souls to the Underworld, and we fight Stirrers—and God knows there have been enough of those lately. We’re not equipped to deal with the Death of the Water. Christ, it should be an ally. We need allies, Steve. There’s the whole End of Days thing looming.”

  “I know,” I say, and I do. “I know, but that bastard wasn’t going to get those souls. They were mine.” I growl those last words, the knives in their sheaths beneath my jacket stir. Tim steps back, and I don’t like the way his heartbeat shifts up a notch. Tim shouldn’t be frightened of me.

  Yes, he should.

  I take a deep breath, and push HD down. Tim relaxes, but he doesn’t move any closer. My hands shake.

  “Mate,” he says, “the Death of the Water’s taking them whether you want it to or not. These are unscheduled deaths.”

  Death runs to a schedule. Mine. Cerbo tried to explain it to me once. If the schedule starts breaking down…it’s not good. And already unscheduled things are happening. Stirrers stirring when they shouldn’t be, people dying with years left in them. A vast weight of death is coming, and the schedule isn’t reflecting it at all.

  “I’m going to have to sort that out,” I say, not really that confident which issue I’m talking about, or if I’m up to the job of sorting either. “And I will.”

  Tim walks from the shore to a nearby picnic table, jumps up and sits lightly on top. For a moment, I’m remembering him as kid. There’s something unconsidered and natural in the movement, despite the frown on his face, and I realize it’s because he’s totally engaged with the problem, and that he’s come up with some new solution, finally we’re past the acrimony and onto the action. “I’m thinking maybe we need someone else to negotiate this,” he says.

  “Your reasoning being?”

  “We can’t afford to lose you. You’re the Orcus; you’re our most potent force in the battle that’s coming. Use someone else to…um, to test the waters.”

  “Too risky. I made this mess. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt as result.” Besides, if I can’t deal with something as simple as an aggrieved Death, how am I going to deal with a god? Though when you work in a business where the term “negotiation” also describes a knife fight to the death…“Who were you thinking of?”

  “Not really a who, but a what…Charon.”

  “I don’t think the ferryman’s going to be happy with that.” Except, boats, water, there’s an affinity there. They may even get along. Water has to have some friends, surely. “And that’s if I can even find him. He’s been keeping a low profile lately.”

  “Maybe he feels threatened after what happened to Neti.”

  “Could be, though I doubt it.” I find it hard to imagine Charon’s threatened by anything. Neti wasn’t either, until Francis Rillman, one time Mortmax Ankou, sliced and diced her—but we dealt with him.

  Yes we did.

  “You find him, and you get this mess sorted.” Tim says, not looking at me, facing the sea and those churning shafts of water. His phone’s rung three times in the course of this conversation. All, I’ve gotten is a text from Lissa asking when I’m going to be putting in an appearance for lunch.

  Is it wrong I’m more worried about that than this?

  “I’ll consider it. But until I do, don’t you tell Lissa,” I say.

  “Is that wise? Secrets haven’t been that good for you two, remember?”

  “No, a scheming RM who just happened to have also slept with Lissa’s father wasn’t good for us.” I look at Tim, and he’s clamping down hard on a chuckle. Yeah, that’s the soap opera that was my life last Christmas. Five months on and I’m not even close to ready to laugh about it, and I’m more than a bit annoyed that he is. “You haven’t seen the Death of the Water. No one’s going to be getting jealous over that.”

  “It’s not jealousy. It’s disgust at duplicity, mate. You need to be more honest.”

  “I am.” Not always, not nearly enough. For one, there’s how I dealt with Rillman. His body is buried in dust in the deepest part of the Underworld. That’s a secret I’m never sharing. Not with Tim, not with Lissa. I can almost convince myself it never happened, or, at the very least, that the bastard deserved it. “She knows I took those souls, she just doesn’t know it made me an enemy.”

  This is much harder to hide, can’t kick a pile of dust over the sea. All you’re going to end up with is mud and that sticks. On the plus side, this snatching of one hundred and fifty souls from the Death of the Water can’t be anything but justifiable. Hell’s never going to be confused with a great time, but all the rumors I’ve heard suggest the Death of the Water’s equivalent is much, much worse.

  “Have you asked her yet?” Tim’s voice softens. “Well, have you?”

  “As if you’d not know by now.”

  “You ask her, and then you sort this out.”

  Tim’s gotten me into and out of a lot of trouble. But this is something I’m going to have to resolve myself.

  “Absolutely, I’ll ask her, and I’ll make peace with the Death of the Water straight after.”

  Yeah, easy, right.

  “One thing though,” I say.

  Tim’s sunglasses hide his eyes but I know they’re narrowing. “Yes.”

  “You haven’t said anything about my hair.”

  He flicks his cigarette butt in the air, gets to his feet, and grinds it to a black smear, all without looking at me.

  “Look, I only got it cut yesterday.”

  But he’s already gone. Shifted back to the office. I’m left staring at the angry dancing water, my crows squabbling like a bunch of naughty school kids behind me.

  “Soon,” I say. “Soon.”

  And maybe it hears me, because all at once the waterspouts are gone, and there’s nothing but vapor and a rainbow.

  Spooky.

  Why do I always put these things off?

  2

  So, I have two major issues, not counting the nearing End of Days: how do you make peace with the Death of the Water, and how do you ask a girl to marry you?

  The first, well, I’ve got something of an idea. The second … not so much.

  I sit at a table outside a cafe in West End waiting for Lissa to pay the bill because I forgot my wallet—perfect illustration of how distracted I am. I should be too busy to worry about this, but I can’t help it. I keep waiting for the moment to present itself, but it never does.

  See, here’s the thing—is she going to think I’m asking because the world’s end is nigh and it isn’t much of a commitment?

  Ask, then save world?

  Save world, then ask?

  Problem is, what if I don’t save the wor
ld? What if I ask and she says no, and I don’t feel like doing the whole saviour thing after that? I mean, it’s the kind of work you have to put your heart into.

  Bugger, it would be easy (I guess) if I had another job. But I’m the guy who got to be Death.

  Trust me, you don’t want to be following my career path. For one, there was a lot of blood and slaughter involved. Before I came along, those who wanted what I have sacrificed their friends and family willingly—even excitedly—in what is known as a Schism.

  Not me. Not at all. In less than a week I had everything blown out of my life in a burst of gunshots and explosions. Most of my family and friends died, killed by Morrigan—a man closer to me than any uncle. My home-and work-life were irrevocably altered. And Australia nearly passed the tipping point into a Regional Apocalypse.

  To say it sucked is somewhat understating the case.

  And that was before I became one of the Orcus.

  And, just when I was getting used to it, as much as you ever can—the constant cumulative pulse of a nation’s hearts; the nightmares, natural and supernatural alike; the lack of sleep; the rising death lust—just as I learned to cope, it got a hell of a lot worse. The only people who really understood me, my fellow Orcus, all went and sacrificed themselves because they thought I had the best chance of defeating a god intent on the end of the world.

  I certainly wasn’t consulted in that sudden promotion from Regional to Global.

  But I managed, partly because I’m not completely me anymore. I’ve indulged HD only once. And I regret that indulgence…sometimes. I should never have strangled Francis Rillman. I should never have let HD take such control, nor should I have enjoyed it so: squeezing the life out of him. I’d laughed in his face.

  That’s not the man my parents loved. That’s not the man I’d believed myself to be.

  Should I tell her? Should I divulge, repent, whatever it is I need to do? And how does that factor into her response to my proposal? Gotta be a tick in the negative column certainly. HD is rather keen to see me come clean. It would, HD loves it when the shit hits the fan.

  I glance at my watch. Two-thirty. I need to be back in the office soon, so much to do, and Lissa has a soul to pomp on the Southside around three-thirty. We hold off too long and she’ll be stuck in traffic. Death waits for no one—the M3 motorway leading south out of the city on the other hand…

  The world’s pulse thump-thumps away within me. HD rattles the bars of his cage, not a pleasant feeling when you’re the cage itself. It’s a typical situation, and sensation, these days, as is my circling of that question.

  There’s an engagement ring in my pocket. I’ve slipped it, and its little red box, from jacket pocket to jacket pocket for three weeks. Can’t forget that, but I can forget my wallet.

  I peer into the cafe. How long does it take to pay a bill?

  Lissa’s chatting away with the barista. I’ve never known a person who makes friends so easily. She says something and the guy laughs—a little too heartily. Would he take as long to ask her to marry him? HD suggests we kill him.

  No. No. We do not kill cute guys who flirt with my girl.

  The barista laughs again, even reaches out a hand to touch her arm.

  Never too late to make an exception. HD’s quick to agree. A single breath and I could call the scythe of Death into being.

  Lissa turns from the laughter, and looks in my direction, for a moment I think she’s read my mind, but her grin is too warm and the smile is directed at me.

  Who wouldn’t want to laugh with a girl like that? She’s everything I find gorgeous and challenging and wonderful. She made my heart beat faster from the first time I saw her. Quite remarkable considering she was dead, a soul come to warn me, to tell me to run. I’d fallen in love with her before she opened her mouth, and I haven’t stopped.

  She’s in her standard get up. Black and black. Black skirt ending a little above the knees, black long-sleeved blouse, dark hair, cut messy and short, framing a pale face quick to smile or frown. None of which comes close to describing how impossibly radiant she is.

  Pinned to her blouse is one of her favorite Mickey Mouse brooches, classic mid-fifties Mickey stomping along merrily. For a touch of variety Lissa’s wearing purple Doc Marten boots—she has a green pair at home, but she favors the purple. There’s a knife hidden up her left sleeve, strapped to her wrist, another in her left boot. She blinks as she leaves the dark of the cafe for the street. Her eyes, green flecked with gray, focus on me. There’s something reckless and measured in the gaze. I feel at once mocked and loved, and I want it all. How does she do that?

  Lissa grabs her handbag (black) from the chair beside me, and slips her purse into the bag’s cavernous interior.

  “You were laughing a lot in there.”

  “I know, he’s cute, huh?”

  I can’t help but pout. What about me? I’m wearing my best suit here. And I know my hair looks fine. If anything I’m overdressed for West End.

  I take her hand and she squeezes mine. The contact shocks me as it always does, even now. A bit over six months ago, touching Lissa would have sent her to Hell, literally. It’s what Pomps do. It’s what pomping is all about. And me, back then, so unprofessional, so immediately in love, I couldn’t do it.

  It saved my life.

  And it saved hers, too. I pulled an Orpheus Maneuver and brought her back from the Underworld. It was a complicated beginning to our relationship but better than no beginning at all.

  We walk out from under the cafe’s awning and into the most perfect sort of autumn day. The sky is an utterly stunning blue. It should take the breath from me, put everything in context, except I can feel the weight of the ring in my pocket like it’s a bowling ball, and my context involves enemies avid for the world’s ending.

  I’ve a lump in my throat.

  I shouldn’t want this over with but I do. Christ!

  Lissa stops, considers me and frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You look a bit off-color.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Really, I’m fine.” Though I want to say, see what this is doing to me! “I’m fine.”

  Lissa has parked the car around the corner on Vulture Street.

  We’re standing on a crossroads. Now that’s gotta be symbolic. I scan the road. Nothing peculiar. There are plenty of people about. Someone’s playing a harmonica very much out of tune down the street, they’re getting a good rhythm though. I swallow, and take a deep breath. It’s time.

  “Well there is something. I’ve, that is to say…Will you—”

  Lissa’s hand clenches around mine.

  “Run,” she says. “Now.”

  3

  Lissa yanks me ahead of her, though she’s quick to pass.

  I hear the car just before I see it.

  An old Holden, V8 by the deep rumble of its engine, thing’s twice the size of most modern cars. It cuts through the traffic as though there isn’t any. Brakes shriek, a car swerves out of the way and into oncoming vehicles. The collision reverberates down the street followed by even more bangs, glass shatters. People are hurt, someone’s screaming, someone’s dying. I’m running, Lissa a little ahead, looking for somewhere to take cover. About a hundred meters up the road there’s a car park, bordered by a low red-brick fence. I’m never going to make it, and if I shift out of here now, I’m going to leave Lissa defenseless.

  I glance back.

  The Holden’s wheels thump out a beat as it bangs up over the gutter. The chassis of the car grinds and sparks against the concrete. The vehicle takes out a bench, knocks it aside, but not without doing more damage. Black smoke roils along the street and with it the stench of burning rubber and oil. I watch the driver hunched over the wheel, his eyes flicking between Lissa and me.

  Crows and sparrows descend on the scene. My Avian Pomps. I get a multiplicity of views. Including, oh dear—

  I hit the telephone po
le hard, knocks the breath from me. Should’ve been watching where I was going instead of what was following me. I’m on the ground between the pole and the car, which is rapidly closing in, head ringing.

  Crows descend, striking the windshield, with bone-cracking, crow-killing force.

  “Up you get.” Lissa grabs my hand, heaves me back to my feet, and we run as the car slams into the pole not quite front-on. Metal roars. Its fuel tank explodes. We both hit the ground again, showered in debris. I cover Lissa with my body, wrap myself around her, as something, maybe a tire, dislocates my shoulder, and bounces down the footpath (yep, definitely a tire) and into a shop window.

  Lissa’s panting as I get to my feet. I help her up, carefully studying her for injuries. Other than an elevated heartbeat and a skinned knee, I can’t sense any hurt in her. I start to breathe again.

  I realize I’m leaning on Mog with my good arm. Where the hell did my scythe come from? More than a touch embarrassing, like discovering your fly is undone, you’re not wearing underpants, and you have an erection.

  “Put it away,” Lissa says, trying to obscure it from the oncoming crowd with her body.

  The scythe’s stony snath grows slick with condensation. In humid Brisbane, Mog’s always so much colder than the air around it.

  Right now though, I don’t care about the scythe. I round on her. “Don’t you ever come back for me. Putting your life at risk like that,” I say. “I can look after myself.”

  “Look after yourself.” Lissa snorts. She’s about to say something else but she doesn’t, there’s a dead man standing next to us.

  He scratches his balding head and blinks the newly deceased blink, shocked at what has happened, seeing the world as a dead person sees it. The shock will quickly fade, that’s a living thing. Vengeful spirits, well they’re rare, apathy is the rule of thumb for the dead.

  What are often considered angry spirits are usually only the dead that haven’t been pomped—confusion mistaken for rage. The dead’s concerns are suddenly and drastically different to those of the living, the most pressing being how to get to the Underworld.