Managing Death (24 page)

I shake my head, remembering the ashy rubbish we’d consumed on his boat.

‘He stole your ability to change your face?’

Mr D twists the top of his beer. ‘Yes, only his approach is a little more utilitarian.’

‘He can change his form!’

‘Only into the dead. Which is very useful if you don’t mind murdering people. Also, it makes it extremely difficult to be found.’ Mr D sighs. ‘I’m sorry I have left you such a mess.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ I say grimly.

‘I hope so, but this may well be beyond you. Rillman’s tenacity is more than a match for yours, and he is one
of the smartest people I have ever met. And you, dare I say it …’

‘Thank you very much,’ I say. ‘Now get me one of those beers after all. And tell me every fucking thing you know.’

B
y the time I shift home, Lissa is asleep. I check her schedule. She’s not starting until late. It’s nearly 5:00 am Christmas Eve, though it doesn’t feel like it. My eyelids are heavy, but I fear what sleep offers more than anything Rillman can throw at me personally. I pull down the blinds and scrawl Lissa a note.

Oscar arranges for another crew to look after her. The body the Stirrer inhabited has already been collected. I can almost pretend that it was never here, but it’s opened wounds again. Looking at the kitchen, where it had sat, and where my parents had been killed, and their bodies stolen. Too many Stirrers have been here. They’ve poisoned my memories of this place.

I think about its offer. No, Lissa and Mr D are right. You don’t deal with Stirrers. No matter what.

I shift to my office, and work on my presentation for the Death Moot. I check on Lissa from time to time, but she doesn’t wake, poor darling.

Tim comes for me around ten. It’s meet-the-Caterers day. He’s already been briefed on last night’s problem with an exploding car and he’s employed more staff
to investigate, and to search all the other vehicles for bombs. Nothing’s come up yet.

My eyes feel square from staring at my computer for so long. I read Tim my Moot preamble, feeling very good about it, even statesmanlike. There’s all manner of stirring stuff, demanding unity, and that the Orcus must act as one to fight this threat. And that it is not impossible. He nods his head at the end.

‘I’ll rewrite it for you,’ he says.

‘Really?’

‘Trust me. You’ll even believe you’ve written it when I’m done.’

He’s nervous, twitchy. ‘Is it time?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, they’ll be there soon,’ he says. ‘Oscar will walk us over.’

Kurilpa Bridge is like a huge game of cat’s cradle drawn out in steel and wire. There’s a metal canopy above us, providing a little shade. I look back at the way we came, down the walkway that leads to Tank Street with its lawyer-crowded coffee shops and glass-fronted restaurants.

‘Maybe we should have gotten a coffee first,’ I say.

Tim crushes a cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. ‘No time.’

‘Why did you choose the bridge?’ Oscar asks. He studies first one bank of the river then the other, then pushes his face into his broad hands. There’s clearly not
enough escape routes – unless you want to dive into the river. There’s plenty that way.

‘Technically it won’t really be the bridge, not as Brisbanites see it,’ Tim says. ‘The marquees will be set up in the space between the Underworld and the living. You’ll have quite a view of the city, and the Underworld equivalent, without really touching on either.’

‘There’ll be two marquees?’ Oscar asks, and I can tell he’s even less happy.

‘One for the Ankous, to bitch about the RMs, and the other, the big top if you will, for the main show. Both will be air-conditioned, of course.’ Tim mops at his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Maybe the next Death Moot could be in Antarctica.’

I grin. ‘No, they did that in 1963. It wasn’t a hit. Too many bloody penguins.’ I remember Mr D’s stories about that one. Said it was so cold his knees ached for the whole Moot and then a week afterwards.

Oscar shakes his head. We’re not much help.

‘Water beneath bridges is a traditional interface between the lands of the living and the dead. And Mortmax Industries is all about tradition, but I didn’t make the decision,’ I say. ‘I just bled over it.’ I pat Tim on the back. ‘Both of us did, didn’t we, buddy?’

Tim shudders. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘And there’s still a little more blood needed,’ I say. ‘We’re going to disappear for a while Oscar, but don’t worry. We will be back.’

Oscar shrugs. ‘We do what we can, boss. I’m aware there are some places that we can’t follow you.’

After a couple of joggers have passed us by, Tim and I pull our knives from beneath our jackets. Tim counts down silently to three and we cut our palms, heart line to thumb. I walk to the western rail of the bridge, Tim to the eastern and as one we plant our bloody palms on the bare steel.

Metal thrums. And there is a sound like someone scratching a record, a painful scritch! that runs across the heavens.

Oscar throws up his hands, and then he’s gone. But it’s really us who have gone.

The sky darkens, then brightens. The whole city contracts, expands and contracts again, as though reality has grown rubbery. And suddenly it is only Tim and I on the bridge. There is no traffic on the expressway, and no people here or on the streets below. The city is quiet. Oddly enough there are birds in the air and the river is teeming with fish. Its surface bubbles, the water itself a murky reddish brown, the same colour as my palm print on the rail. The bridge itself is luminous, silver and white, and a bright sun burns in the sky.

‘Well, I never,’ Tim says. ‘How’s that for magic and stuff?’

‘Now, where are these Caterers?’

A bell tolls, loud and clear. It echoes and vibrates through the bridge so that it’s almost a bell itself.

‘There, I think,’ Tim says.

A right hand, pale, long-fingered and neatly manicured, materialises in the air between Tim and me. Then another. And another until a dozen hands are present. Then left hands being to appear. And twelve men, or women – they’re as androgynous as Ziggy Stardust – stand before us, all slightly shorter than me, all carefully dressed in white suits. A pair of them scurry to the centre of the bridge and start taking measurements, pulling tape between them, scrawling notes down onto clipboards.

The Caterer nearest to me dips its head. He seems to be the boss.

‘Mr de Selby. A pleasure.’ He claps his hands. ‘And what a glorious venue. Shiny, new. Nothing of the gothic about it, and you would simply
not
believe how tiresome all the gothic is.’ He spits out the word as though it were a bitter poison, revealing neat but very sharp teeth.

The rest of the day is spent walking over nearly every inch of the bridge, marking sections with our blood, anchoring, as the Head Caterer calls it, this reality with our own. With too much blood, the bridge may sink into the living world and the Death Moot will become a crowded affair, and Mortmax will not only be paying the Caterers but also Brisbane City Council for illegally building marquees on this public thoroughfare. With too little, this reality might just drift away and the Moot with it.

Oscar calls me a couple of times, but there is no hurry in the Head Caterer, just a methodical preparation
of the bridge. I can respect that, but there are several more pressing situations I should be applying myself to.

By early evening, Tim and I are feeling a little anaemic. And Tim is sick of Caterers bumming cigarettes off him. But the Head Caterer is clapping his hands with joy, and already one marquee is constructed.

‘This will be the best Moot in our ten thousand years of catering,’ he says. ‘The location!’ He points to Mount Coot-tha in the north-west, the shadowy hint of the One Tree. ‘The air, so vibrant, and yet so suggestive of death. You have done well with this city. I promise you, people will not forget this Moot.’

‘Ten thousand years?’ I say. ‘You’ve been doing this for ten thousand years?’

‘Yes, and thank goodness for climate control these days. You would not believe just how feral it used to be. Cold in winter, boiling in summer. Terrible, terrible.’

We shake hands, sealing the deal with a little more blood. Then the Head Caterer goes off to direct the positioning of a freezer in the kitchen set-up.

There’s a door made of pine, in the middle of the bridge, nothing more really than a frame. One of the Caterers leads us to it.

‘Access point,’ the Caterer says. ‘You come and go through here. Got pizza and beer coming if you boys would like to stay.’

We beg off, it’s Christmas Eve after all, and walk through the door. We’re back into our reality. There’s no Narnia-esque time transition, it’s night in the real
world as well, just an ear-popping step into a jogger-crowded bridge. We both leap out of the way of an oncoming cyclist. The door that we walked through is gone. Oscar’s waiting patiently with Travis and Tim’s burly bodyguards.

Lissa’s not due home for another couple of hours. Oscar insists that we walk back to Number Four. Tim has a hair appointment in the Valley so we part company on the bridge, Tim heading to the nearest taxi rank with his security.

There’s a shortcut from the bridge to George Street via a tunnel. It’s well lit, though empty at this time of night. We head through it, Travis walking ahead, Oscar behind me.

Halfway in, the lights flicker and dim, and I realise that this was a mistake. Each end of the tunnel is gated, and both gates slam shut in unison.

I slap my head with my palm. Not again. When am I going to learn?

T
he lights that have dimmed suddenly flare and shatter. A ripple of glass fragments rains down and darkness engulfs us. Oscar is shielding me with his body. I hear Travis run towards us, can picture the gun already in his hand. ‘Down!’ he hisses. ‘Stay down.’

And I’m on the concrete still under Oscar, then he rolls to one side, ending up in a crouch.

I try desperately to make sense of things in the dark. I can hear Rillman’s heartbeat. Steady and familiar. My eyes are adjusting now. There, a slight movement down the other end of the walkway. And as if on cue, a light flickers on. Rillman glares at it in irritation.

He walks towards us. He hasn’t changed since the photo that Lissa showed me was taken, though that must be several decades old. He’s unprepossessing, even in the suit he’s wearing, and about a head shorter than me. He could be a bad parody of a chartered accountant, if only he were wearing a bowler hat.

Here he is, I’m seeing him clearly for the first time (no waxen obscuring of his features, and my eyes not swollen with blood) and he’s not so bad. Not so scary.
Except his eyes. They gleam with a force a rage utterly at odds with his demeanour.

‘I’d call off your goons,’ Rillman says. ‘I really don’t want to hurt anyone, except you.’

Travis is at my side. ‘Just keep out of the way,’ he says to me. He has his pistol aimed at Rillman’s head.

‘Guns don’t frighten me,’ Rillman says. That makes one of us.

‘It’s not the gun you need to worry about, mate.’ Oscar runs at him. It’s like watching a steam engine hurtle at a minnow.

Rillman moves out of the way, smooth as oil, but Oscar is turning, too. He swings a punch at Rillman’s head, only it isn’t there anymore, he’s down, hunched at an insane angle. Then he’s slipping around and punching Oscar twice in the sternum. The fight’s confusing. Darkness and light. Shadows melding. Rillman is in several places at once. I can sense what he is doing, the bastard’s shifting in tiny bursts. How the fuck’s he doing that? Oscar doesn’t stand a chance.

Travis is trying to get a clear shot, cursing under his breath.

Bone cracks and Rillman pushes Oscar away from him as though he’s nothing but an irritation. The big man teeters, his arms flailing, then falls flat on his back, coughing up ropes of blood.

I turn from Oscar to Travis. His face has tightened with dismay or anger, I’m not sure. He’s stopped swearing. ‘Stay where you are,’ he growls at Rillman.

Rillman laughs. He hasn’t even got a sweat up and one of my guards is already down. ‘Stay where I am, or what?’

Travis shoots just above his head. The bullet ricochets down the tunnel. We both cringe. Oscar is on the ground, moaning.

Rillman takes a step forward. And then with no transition he’s in Travis’s face. A perfect shift. There’s a flash of silver. ‘Oh, dear,’ Rillman exclaims.

I get to my feet, my arms reaching out towards Travis. But it’s too late.

Travis takes a few steps forward, one hand clamped over his neck. Blood bubbles from between his fingers, and he falls hard on his knees. Then he gestures once, weakly – with whatever strength he has left – with his free hand, for me to run. That’s all he has in him. He topples forward. One less heartbeat, one less guard.

His ghost looks at me. Blinks and shakes his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.

‘You have nothing to be sorry about, Travis. Nothing,’ I say.

A moment later his soul flashes through me.

Rillman laughs. ‘Always the professional, eh? Even when it comes to pomping your own staff. You better get used to that.’

I peer at Rillman. His hands are empty. What is he cutting with? His nails are short, neat. But I guess a man capable of changing his form, of shifting from space to space, is capable of just about anything in a fight.

My legs are like jelly, but I’m an RM, damn it! ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ I say, and my voice isn’t as stern or as strong as I would like it to be.

‘Yes, but not nearly hard enough,’ he says. ‘You’re really rather awful at all this aren’t you?’

I shrug.

Rillman pauses, takes a step back. ‘I thought you would be more impressive. All these weeks of watching you, watching those around you … For someone with such loyal friends, you’re rather disappointing.’

‘You couldn’t kill me with your bomb. And these insults are nothing to me’

Rillman smiles. ‘That bomb wasn’t meant for you.’

‘You keep away from her.’

‘She’ll be mine when I have time for her. And you know there is nothing you can do.’ He flicks his wrists in the manner of a magician. There is a thin line of grey light in his hands. It takes me a moment to realise what it is.