The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy

by Trent Jamieson

  “What does 24 May mean to you?” I ask.

  Mr. D stops, mid putt. “Where did you hear that?” It’s the first time that he looks at me directly. I catch a glimpse of serious in all those faces he contains. All the deaths various, each is registering confusion. HD finds the deathly mash-up amusing. Me, I like a good, solid, unchangeable face.

  “The date keeps coming up. Do you know anything?”

  Mr. D swings his putter, misses the hole. Nearly missed the ball. He shakes his head. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “We both know it’s not nothing. That date. It was scratched into a table in Suzanne’s room. Aunt Neti had it marked on her calendar. Both had written the letter M by it.”

  Mr. D purses his lips. “M, eh,” he says, “I don’t like the sound of that. I was hoping—” He peers at me. “What were you doing in Aunt Neti’s rooms?”

  “Being attacked by spiders.”

  “Oh, they’ll do that,” Wal says, still without looking at me. “Spiders can hold onto a grudge like nobody’s business.” Not just spiders apparently.

  I ignore the snark.“You said you were hoping. Hoping what?”

  Mr. D waves Wal away, the little cherub’s chest puffs with the indignation. “Think about that date,” Mr. D says. “Think about just who is connected to it. You know them. You might be trying hard to forget, but you know him.”

  Him? May 24…my eyes widen. Oh, no. That’s fucking ridiculous.

  Every year, since I can remember, there were parties, great big family (when I had a great big family) gatherings. If we didn’t have it at our place—he’d take us all out to dinner. I remember smoking cigars with him on the balcony at the Siana Restaurant near Eagle Pier staring at the Story Bridge out over the river. I remember when I was five and I baked him a cake. He said it was the best cake anyone had ever made him—even if I’d burnt one side of it to a crisp.

  “Yes,” Mr. D says, nodding.

  “It’s Morrigan’s birthday.”

  “Hell of a coincidence,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t believe in coincidences at all. And neither do I. Morrigan is gone. Someone’s trying to distract us from the truth. “And maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe they were planning him a party. Maybe they all expected him to win.”

  That could be possible, after all I have Morrigan’s birthday in my Google calendar—I’m terrible at remembering birthdays, and even worse at remembering to check my calendar.

  Oddly enough, Morrigan, while stern and utilitarian about everything else, did love his birthday. Only last year we’d all gone out to Cloudland in the Valley. All of us, descending on that place, it had been a hell of a—the memory of that happier time almost knocks the wind from me.

  “Morrigan’s gone,” I say. “He died at the Negotiation, his soul was destroyed: you told me yourself.”

  “Yes, no soul for him. But quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  I have a terrible thought. What if Morrigan had been the one needed to defeat the Stirrer god? Surely not. The idea’s ridiculous. There has to be another reason.

  “If he has something to do with this …” I trail off. That’s all I’ve got.

  “Yes, he’s gone. But he may have notes. May have plans somewhere. Maybe he was getting ready for the apocalypse.”

  “We checked his computers.”

  “But did you check the right ones? If he had plans he wouldn’t have left them lying around. As contemptuous as he was of me, I know he wouldn’t have risked discovery,” Mr. D grins wickedly. “I could be quite imaginative in my punishment.”

  I nod my head. “I’ll look again. Carefully. I thought this was all over.” The idea of Morrigan holding the key to the world’s salvation has a neatness to it that appeals. Finally the evil prick might actually do some good.

  “It’s never all over for you.”

  “Another distraction,” I say. “Between this and my dispute with the Death of the Water…”

  “Your what?!” Mr. D waves his putter in my face, I gently push it aside.

  “I’ve pissed off the Death of the Water.”

  “Oh dear. You are going to have to sort that out now. Now, I mean. Right this instant.”

  “The Water is mad.”

  “The Water is Death. It could drown the earth. Do you want to lose every city on the coast? If it hasn’t happened yet, then it is being incredibly restrained. Crete, they had a minor dispute with the Water once, and you know what happened to them, no more leaping bulls.” Mr. D drops his putter and shakes me. “Steven, I know we’ve had our differences, but you should have come to me sooner.”

  “You lied to me.” I yank myself from his grip, and Mog’s back in one hand, the putter in the other. I chuck the golf club away.

  Mr. D’s eyes flick from the blade to my face. He raises his hands, shifts backwards a little. Even Wal is keeping his distance.

  “What choice did I have?” Mr. D demands. “Suzanne’s plan had merit. You were the perfect candidate. And if I had told you…”

  “What? I would have been informed? I would have been able to make a decision?”

  “No, she might have gone with someone else. The moment a person knows that they’re being groomed for anything, their attitude changes. I like you, Steve. I didn’t think you deserved to die.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You have to speak to the Death of the Water. You can’t afford to waste any more time. The Stirrer god is coming. It may even get here on 24 May. Right now its presence is building, don’t tell me you can’t feel it. And as it builds your own powers will be disrupted. Your ability to detect Stirrers for one, maybe even your ability to control that monster inside you. Bad things are coming, wicked things, but if you don’t sort out your differences with the Death of the Water then there may not be anything left for the god to destroy.”

  I know all this. I take a deep breath, resist the urge to strangle Mr. D. “How do I speak to the Death of the Water? Take a bit of a dip?”

  “No. No. No.” Mr. D searches his pockets. “Damn, I thought I had a number. Charon should have it, they’re good friends, I think. I mean it makes sense.”

  Totally. “Number?”

  “Phone number.” He gives up his hunt. “Have there been a lot of drownings lately?”

  I frown. “Yes.”

  “I think you should check the papers. See what has been happening. If there have been more than usual it will be apparent.”

  I know exactly how many there have been, and I know how many are left—just one. But I don’t dare tell Mr. D this.

  “You have to keep up-to-date with what your other half is doing. Get the figures right so you know just what he has been taking. He will come in all aggrieved. The Death of the Water always feels unappreciated.”

  “So I’ve pissed off something that already has a chip on its shoulder?”

  “Not a chip, more like a slab. Oh, and don’t make any stupid deals. Certainly none you’re not prepared to go through with.”

  “I’ve no intention of doing anything stupid at all.”

  Mr. D smiles grimly, his face shifting faster and faster. All manner of deaths passing over it. “Doesn’t matter what your intentions are. You’ve pissed off a Death. Not a co-worker, or an underling—that’s a whole other empire out there, a bigger one than yours, and it’s angry.”

  9

  Mr D has a point, and it’s really only backing up what Tim said the other day. If I don’t sort out my issues with Water, I’m never going to be able to deal with the god that’s coming. I’m only just realizing what that’s going to cost me. And if it’s really going to manifest on the twenty-fourth, I better be ready and all allied up. I don’t know what it is about me that finds putting things off so attractive, but it keeps leading me deeper and deeper into trouble. And it’s not as if I can put off the end of the world. That’s coming regardless.

  Yet here I am, a man who has made enemies with his only ally, and not done anything to see a cessation
of the argument. On top of which I then chose to hide from my mentor, whose advice will be pivotal in the upcoming conflict. And I’ve yet to ask Lissa to marry me. What the hell kind of man am I?

  I close my eyes, focus on Charon, and shift. I end up in a small ferry terminal jutting into the Styx. I look out across still, dark water. It’s quiet, no lapping of waves against the shore. I squint into the murk. There’s no ferry and there’s no Charon.

  The river is silent. Motionless. It alarms me, that quiet. There’s too much of the End of Days in it. End of Days. End of Days. Everything’s the End of Days! I whistle a couple of bars of Hank Williams’s “Ramblin’ Man” into the dark, and the sound is swallowed up. But at least I’m grinning now.

  I crouch down and stare at the river, and discover why it’s so silent. The water’s frozen. The ice cracks and groans in time with the One Tree.

  Where the hell is Charon? All I can do is follow the memory of his presence like a scent. And in doing so I realize he permeates the Underworld almost as completely as I do. Here he has sat at a riverside cafe, or stood on the walkway of the Go Between Bridge, at the top of the gentle arch admiring the river, with which he shares such an intimate relationship, below. Everywhere there is a hint of him: a memory that strikes me. I can almost hear the flap of his rubber thongs and taste the choking smoke of his cigarettes.

  I shift, and Wal with me, through the Underworld, from one ferry stop to the next, watching as the lights go on, the traffic starts its moving, the Tree creaks even louder, and the dead do the things that dead people do—shadow stuff, reflections of all the living things and their movement in the living world.

  The river quickens. Liquefies. Cracks snake across the frozen face of the water. As I watch, lumps of dark ice start moving, rushing with the river out to the sea of Hell.

  I’m responsible for all of this.

  Little old me. Maybe the sun does shine out of my arse after all.

  I pause for a while to watch my Underworld flower. The sky continues to brighten. The river flows. Somewhere, nearby, birds sing the melancholy tunes of the land of the dead.

  “Impressive isn’t it?” Wal says, dipping chubby fingers into the water.

  “I’d have never believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “You better get used to it. With great power comes—”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve grown up since you last saw me.”

  “Really? You could have fooled me. No offense intended, of course.”

  Charon’s in none of his usual haunts. The docks are empty. The river is busy with baroque CityCats—the catamarans running up and down it, filled to capacity. There’s never a shortage of the dead. Where is he?

  Somewhere water’s crashing, somewhere bleak creatures howl and whales are singing. Somewhere saws are sawing. There’s the biting smell of wood being shaped and worked. And the even stronger scent of tar bubbling. I make my way around Mount Coot-tha. Shifting then walking, clambering over the humps of great root buttresses.

  I find him in front of a…to be honest, I’m not sure what it is, but it’s big.

  “Mr. de Selby,” he rasps. “It’s a pleasure as always.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s an Ark of course.”

  Of course it is.

  “What the hell do you want an Ark for?” I ask above the sound of hammering and sawing, the random outbursts of swearing.

  Tar bubbles in two steel pots the size of buses nearby. The heat they’re producing is rather pleasant, Charon almost has a rosy hue, the smell not so much.

  “Just a second.” Charon bends down. The fellow’s tall, easily a foot or so taller than me, and skeletally thin, he picks at the tight pale skin beneath his left rubber thong, just behind his big toe. “There you are, you bastard. Always something getting stuck in there, maybe I should reconsider the old rubber pluggers, eh?” he says, tapping his thongs. He squints down at his foot and yanks hard, I can’t help gagging a little at the sound of flesh tearing. There’s a shriek and a tiny black bug writhes between his thumb and forefinger.

  Charon rises, bones clicking all along his spine, and shows me the writhing thing. “Wood mite,” he crows. “Bloody thing’s been bothering me for days.”

  Thumb and forefinger close, pincer-like, and the little mite screams again. Far too loud and human a sound for such a tiny creature. It pops. Wal winces, and darts around behind me. I can’t judge at all, I was mashing up spiders not that long ago. Yeah, and I strangled a man with my own two hands. Mite popping is a mere trifle.

  Charon wipes the bloody mess all over his jeans—there’s rather a lot of it—then licks his fingers clean.

  “Now, oh the Ark. I’m the boatman. I’m responsible. After all, what’s an Ark but a bloody big ferry? And when the going gets biblical, you know…”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “If the world goes to shit and I need to get everyone to the other side.” He smiles up at the brightening sky. “Thanks for the light. I’ve never liked working in the dark, brings back memories of the old days. There was a time when everything was dark, everything. All manner of nasties could sneak up on you, including me, often enough.”

  I consider the Ark. It’s resting on the side of the mountain, the bulky boat obscuring most of the nearest stony face, shackled in scaffolding, and lodged between two massive root buttresses. Charon’s boatmen scurry like hyperactive ants all over the structure.

  I’m shocked at Charon’s lack of faith in me. So shocked that I’m actually shocked at how shocked I am. “I know, it’s big and all,” I say, “but that’s not going to be able to carry every soul, surely.”

  “You’d be surprised how compact souls are, mate. I’m not saying that it isn’t going to be a bit squashy, but …”

  He’s got a point.

  “You close to finishing it?”

  Charon winces. “You’re asking about the twenty-fourth, eh? It’s going to be close. I won’t lie to you. And I may yet fail, but that’s in the offing for everything that finds itself with enough ambition to make plans.”

  “You knew about the twenty-fourth?”

  “You didn’t?” Charon whistles. “You didn’t, did you? All that maneuvering and they neglect to tell you that.”

  No one told me anything. But I’m not about to admit that to him. I shrug.

  “It’s been nice to have a distraction,” Charon says. “Was a time when all I did was wait for people to give me coin at the riverbank. Tedious, tedious business.”

  “Good to have a hobby.” Mine’s stalling Stirrers, I guess. “Mr. de Selby, this hobby may well be humanity’s last hope. But surely you didn’t seek me out merely to gawp at my construction, what do you want?”

  “I need you to talk to the Death of the Water for me.”

  “Death of the Water, eh. Why would you …” Charon’s eyes narrow, he breathes out as though he is bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he shakes his head. “Right, it’s the whole boat thing. I fiddle around with boats, and suddenly I’m best of pals with the bloody Death of the Water.”

  “Well, Mr. D said…I mean, it makes sense doesn’t it?”

  “Makes sense? Makes sense?! Not one little bit! I cross rivers. I don’t do oceans. I don’t even like salt water all that much, and part of that is because of him. Give me a nice broad river like the Styx, where you can see the shore on the other side—it might be shrouded in mist, it might be obscured by the whole life-death interface, but you know it’s there. But oceans, that’s long-haul merchant marine kind of bollocks. Do I look like a merchant marine to you?” I open my mouth to speak, but he doesn’t let me answer. “No. If you have a problem with the Death of the Water, then you’re going to have to sort that out yourself.”

  “What about that?” I say jabbing a thumb at the Ark.

  “That, my dear Orcus, that is different. That’s a last resort. And do please note the stress on the word last.”

  “B
ut—”

  “I can’t be seen taking sides, for one—though I can see it has a point, you did take away its souls. And I’m busy. I’ve a bloody Ark to build.”

  “So you think it’s hopeless?”

  Charon sighs. “Just being a realist. You can’t blame a bloke for that.” He coughs, fumbles in his jeans for a packet of cigarettes, plucks one out with the same efficiency he’d used on the bug, then jiggles the packet under my nose.

  I wave them away. “No, I guess you can’t.”

  “Steven, you’re going to have to start sorting out your own problems. You’re the top of the rung. You’re the one with the view. You know things that the rest of us can’t, not even beings like me.”

  “I s’pose,” I say.

  “Time you act like you do, eh.” His face softens then, and he reaches into one of the pockets of his voluminous jeans, pulls out a tiny notepad and pen, one of those you’d expect to buy at a slightly twee stationery shop. Actually, is that Hello Kitty?

  He scribbles something on the notepad, rips out the page and pushes it into my hand. “That’s the Death of the Water’s number.”

  “I still can’t believe the Death of the Water has a phone.”

  “Well you do, don’t you, Orcus?”

  Fair enough.

  “Call that number when you’re ready to talk. It’ll be waiting. Water’s always waiting for something, bitter monstrous thing.” For a moment, Charon rests a bony hand on my arm. “You know, the Death of the Water could have stopped you at the outset, I think. But he didn’t. He let you take those souls from him, so you would owe him. He’s a devious watery prick. You be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Charon doesn’t look convinced. “Now, if that’s all, please leave, I’ve got a boat to build.”

  I have to ask, before I go. “So what do you think happens on the twenty-fourth?”

  “I’ll have my Ark finished so that it doesn’t matter.”

  10

  Despite Mr. D’s advice, I decide not to call the Death of the Water straight away. I’m tired, suddenly it feels like too much, I need some time with Lissa. I need to talk to her before I set up anything else, just in case it all goes horribly wrong, as things in my life have a tendency to do.