Managing Death (33 page)

Wal pulls himself from my arm. ‘What have you done?’

The body is there, between the two of us. It’s answer enough.

I
shift to my office. It’s late. Ten. I can hear someone using the photocopier. Such an everyday sound.

I’m sick, but it’s not from the shifting. Mr D was right, all I needed was practice. I smile, and spew into the bin, but it’s not cathartic. There’s no release in it. Just pain.

I slump into my throne. It’s bigger now, far bigger, all encompassing. It dominates the room like the dark seat of some dark empire, and yet I hardly notice it. I settle in, and my pain ebbs, a little. But I have worse hurts. I put my head in my hands.

All the world’s heartbeats rain down on me, all those clocks winding down, all that strength pulsing towards its undoing.

And that’s the least of it. Every time I close my eyes they’re there – those innocent deaths of which I was the cause, that final pomping of Rillman’s soul.

I sit in my throne, sobbing, drowning in the world’s pulse. Tim’s is there. So is Lissa’s. I can pick them out like threads. Mr D once said that the sound becomes soothing – the cacophony a lullaby. Here I am, struck by those billions of heartbeats, and then I feel Lissa
nearby. I drag myself from the comfort of the throne and Mog blurs, becomes the knives again. They rest, bound by sheaths knitted from evening, on my belt. I shift through the wall, and there she is.

‘Steven, are you all right?’ She’s been crying, too. I should have sought her out straight away, but I couldn’t face her. I can barely face her now.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Are you?’

‘I think so.’

Then I’m holding her and I can almost forget the pain and guilt I’m feeling. Finally she pulls from me.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she says. A vein pulses in my head. Does she know? ‘You shouldn’t have come after me like that.’

‘You know I had no choice. I’ve nothing left but you.’

‘I know you were trying to do the right thing. But Christ, you –’

‘I should have told you about Suzanne. No more secrets, right? I promise.’

She touches the knives at my belt, curiously.

‘They’re mine,’ I say, ‘and, to be honest, I don’t want them out of my sight. I’m the only RM left standing. Mortmax International is my responsibility now.’

‘And HD?’

‘It’s under control, I think … I don’t know. Rillman – Solstice is gone. He won’t be a problem anymore.’

In my office I can hear the unmistakeable ring of the black phone. I ignore it. Lisa looks at me questioningly. ‘It can wait,’ I say. ‘We need to get out of here.’

Lissa holds me tight, and it’s all I can do not to crush her in my grip, so desperately do I need that contact. ‘Where do you want to go?’ she asks.

‘Home,’ I say.

I shift with her in my arms. And we are back in my parents’ place, in the hallway, Mum’s perfume as strong as ever.

‘We’re going to move out of here. It was always a mistake to live here,’ I say.

I can’t bear my parents looking down at me from those photos. I know how they would judge me for what I’ve done, what I am.

‘Are you sure?’ Lissa asks, though I can tell she’s pleased. This was never our home. I nod. ‘Then we need to find a place that Stirrers can’t just stroll into,’ she says.

I can tell Lissa wants to talk this through, all of it. And I want to as well. But there’s a weight of exhaustion pulling on her. She’s worn out with worry, with the hell that has been this last week. And we have time. There’s no Death Moot or Rillman to concern us now, and the Stirrer god isn’t here yet.

‘Try and rest,’ I say. ‘We have so much to do, but not now.’

I walk with her to the bed. Lissa’s fast beneath the sheets and even quicker to fall asleep. I stand there looking at the person I have risked all for, and for a moment I feel better.

I call Tim.

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ he asks. ‘I came to the office, and you’d both just left.’

I don’t want to talk about it. Tim’s going to have to trust me. ‘How are the Ankous?’

He’s a while in answering. I can’t tell if I’ve offended him, which probably means I have. ‘They’re all right. In shock, but that’s understandable. Mortmax has suffered its biggest, loss … gain … Shit, I don’t know, what’s happened? What the hell do we even call you?’

‘Steve,’ I say. ‘I’m your cousin, remember?’

‘Steve. Solstice’s offices, they were worse than anything Morrigan ever did. The rotting dead. Their rage and, God, their laughter. That’s what’s going to stick with me the most. They laughed as we stalled them, every single one, as though it didn’t matter. I’m fucking terrified.’

I’m more than familiar with that laughter. ‘Sometimes it’s a reasonable response. Listen, Tim, we’re going to have to start mobilising,’ I say. ‘The Stirrer god is coming. But we will be ready.’

‘Are you OK? You sound –’

‘I’m exhausted,’ I say. ‘Bloody knackered. I’ll call you tomorrow. We both need to think, and to rest – that most of all. You can’t do anything if you’re tired.’

‘I thought you couldn’t sleep.’

‘I can now,’ I say. ‘You should, too.’

‘One more thing,’ he says. ‘The black phone in your office keeps ringing.’

‘Don’t answer it,’ I say. ‘I can deal with that tomorrow, too.’

I hang up, and take a shower. But I can’t wash HD or the thing I’ve done from me. Wal is on my biceps, and he looks frightened. When I’m done, I walk to the back balcony, the towel wrapped around my waist.

Another storm rolls in from the south, but this one’s soft and earthy, and while it may hide a stir or two, it’s just a storm. I watch it build for a while. Rain falls, light spatters at first, and then it’s a real downpour.

Lightning bursts in the distance. I wait for the thunder to come rumbling through the suburbs, and when it does I turn to go inside.

Something catches my eye.

They must have been there for a while, silently waiting for my scrutiny: a shivering darkness spread across the lawn. Sharp beaks. Slick black feathers, glossy with the rain. A thousand crows, at least. And they have bowed down low, their wings extended.

‘Awcus, awcus,’ they caw.

I dip my head.

HD seems pleased, all this laid out for it and me. I raise a hand, gesture towards the sky. As one they beat their wings into the angry air, and batter hard against the rain. The vast murder of crows breaks from the ground, finds the night sky and is gone. I could have dreamed the whole thing, but for the dark feathers fluttering down.

Awcus
.

I walk into the living room and pour myself a drink, a big one.

Lissa’s asleep when I stumble back into the bedroom. The rain hammers on the iron roof but it’s ebbing. HD roils within me, grinning its ceaseless grin. But I force it down. I’m tired and on my way to being drunk. I can’t stifle a yawn. I settle next to Lissa, slide my arm around her. So tired. She moans something in her sleep, then calms.

The dying rain and Lissa’s breathing are the most perfect sounds in the world. I’m not sure when sleep claims me.

Death. Mayhem. Madness and blood. The metronomic sweeping of the scythe.

But I sleep soundly.

S
o Book Two. Who’d have thought?

Once again, for the last stages (after the big grub of a first draft), a huge thank you to my publisher Bernadette Foley, my structural editor Nicola O’Shea and my copy-editor Roberta Ivers. This was foreign ground to me, and you’ve made the whole process a lot less scary than it could have been. If the book’s a butterfly it’s because of the chrysalis you lot wove … maybe I’m taking that metaphor too far.

Thanks again to everyone at Avid Reader Bookstore (and the cafe) for being amazing, and for still putting up with the least available casual staff member in the universe, and to Paul Landymore, my SF Sunday compadre who never lets me get away with much. Thanks also to the city of Brisbane, with whom I have taken even more liberties – particularly concerning her bridges – and to my Aunty Liz, who isn’t going to like the swearing but switched me on to fantasy when I was a very young lad. All those Greek myths and tragedies: you can’t get a better gift than that.

Thanks to Diana, who has to put up with everything, and still loves me.

And thanks to you, who have followed me onto Book Two. I hope you liked it.

Trent Jamieson
is a writer and editor and has published over seventy short stories, two of which have won prestigious Aurealis Awards. He also teaches creative writing, and has recently taught on the highly regarded Clarion South program, the professional development course for genre writers. He lives with his wife, Diana, in Queensland, Australia.

Find out more about Trent Jamieson and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at
www.orbitbooks.net

if you enjoyed

MANAGING DEATH

look out for

THE IRON HUNT

by

Marjorie M. Liu

When I was eight, my mother lost me to zombies in a one-card draw.

It was not her fault. There was a blizzard. Six hours until sunset, lost on a twisting county road. Bad map. No visibility. Black ice, winds howling down.

I remembered. Slammed against my seat belt. Station wagon plowing into a drift, snow riding high as my window. Metal crunching: the edge of the bumper, the front tire, my door. Beneath us, a terrible reverberating crack.

Lodged. Busted. Dead on our wheels. More than dead. My mother showed me spikes packed into the snow and ice. Tiny metal stars, so sharp the points pricked my palm when I bent to
touch one. She pointed out the tires, torn into scrap, ribbons of rubber. Told me not to worry. Called it a game.

My mother cleared the road behind us. I watched from the car. Face pressed against the cold window, fogging glass. She juggled stars and spikes for me, and did not wince when the sharp points bounced off her tattooed hands. She danced in the falling snow, eyes shining, cheeks flushed with the blood of roses, and when I could no longer bear to sit still, I joined her and she held my wrists and swung me in great circles until we fell down.

I remembered her laughter. I remembered.

I remembered that I did not want to go with her. I wanted to stay with the car. I wanted to stay home with the wreck. Listen to the radio. Play with my dolls. My mother would not let me. Too dangerous. Too many weirdos. I was too little to handle the twelve-gauge stashed beneath the passenger seat, or even the pistol in the glove compartment; and the boys were still asleep. Anything could happen.

So we bundled up. Slogged backward in the dull silence of snow and the endless winter bones of the white forked trees. My mother carried me on her back. I saw: silver clouds of my breath engulfing the tattoos on her neck; that lazy red eye, Zee, tracking my face in his dreams. I felt the bulge of knives beneath her black wool coat, too light and short for a blizzard, for anyone but a woman who did not feel the cold. I heard the song she sang over the crunching beat of her boots on the empty road. ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’ Voice like sunshine and the rumble of a slow train.

A mile behind us, some local bar. Lonely way station. Out in the middle of nowhere, just a shed, neon lights shaped like a naked woman flickering on and off through the dirty tinted glass. Nipples winking. Pickup trucks in the narrow, shoveled, salted lot. Scents of fried food and burned engine oil in my nostrils.

My mother hesitated when she saw the place, just as she had hesitated earlier when we passed it in the car. Wavered, shoulders hitching. Both of us covered in snow. I could not see her face, but I felt her tension. Breathed it. Looked down and saw Zee struggling sleepily against her skin. Tattoos begging to peel.

We entered the bar. My mother let the door slam shut behind us. I could not see: too dark, too smoky, loud with laughter and rocky music. Warm as an oven compared to the blizzard chill. I clung, face pressed to my mother’s neck. She did not move. She did not speak. She stood with her back to the door, so very still I could not feel her breathe, and all around us those voices faded dead within a hush, and the music, the low, rolling wail of electric guitar, snapped, stopped. Silence descended. Slow, cold, heavy as snow. Pregnant – a word I would have used. Expectant, full, with something living and turning,
gestating
, in that dark smoky womb.

‘Hunter Kiss,’ said a deep low voice. ‘Lady Hunter.’

I peered over my mother’s shoulder, past the loose black curls of her snow-riddled hair. She squeezed my leg. I did not listen. I could not help myself.

It was still difficult to see. Just one lamp on the bar, casting a glow, a ring of fire that did not touch the handful of men and women scattered like fleas in the smoky shadows. Still. Poised. Coiled. Dressed in flannel, jeans, weighed down with thick overcoats, dull and torn. Hats pulled low. Eyes like old wells – dark, hollow, with only a glint of reflected light at the very bottom of their gazes. Auras black as pitch. Anchored and straining. As though crowns of ghosts rested upon their heads.