Managing Death (13 page)

‘Bullshit.’

Wal shakes his head at me sternly. Since when did these two become so pally?

‘Sometimes I could just slap you, de Selby,’ Mr D says.

‘It doesn’t work. Believe me, mate, I’ve tried it,’ Wal says.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Mr D says.

Yeah, the Steven de Selby fan club is in session. ‘Look, I don’t really have time for this,’ I say between teeth so tightly clenched they’re squeaking a little round the molars.

Wal rolls his eyes. Considering he doesn’t really have any, it’s impressive. ‘Christ, Steve, would you look at where we are?’

A long way from shore
, I think.

Mr D casts his line into the sea of Hell. The sinker plonks and plunges down, down, into what Mr D calls the deep tract depths. Great shapes roll out of the luminous water: proto-whales and megalodon mainly, long ago extinct, but this is Hell, and Hell teems – there’s really no other word for it – with such things. Extant memories, the seething echoes of other ages. I just wish that all the teeming stuff wasn’t so bloody huge.

Mr D assures me we’re safe. After all, I’m the big boss around here. ‘Unlike those above, these seas are yours.’

One of the perks of being RM. Nothing in Hell can touch me. But I’m not about to go for a dip. Wouldn’t if you paid me, wouldn’t if you gave me a cage to swim in.

I glance back across the bay towards the coastline, salt still stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. The One Tree rises on the distant shore, its great branches extending like a leafy mushroom cloud over the entire Underworld echo of Brisbane. But out here I can almost imagine that it’s just a regular Moreton Bay fig in the distance. I peer over the edge of the boat, my free hand gripping the icy stainless steel rail.

A great sharky eye looks up at me. I swear it winks as it glides past.

I step away from the rail. ‘Um, pass me a beer … and maybe a bigger boat.’

Mr D digs around in the esky. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, de Selby? You’re perfectly safe here on the
Mary C
.’ He slaps a cold one in my hand.

‘You think you should be having that?’ Wal asks, his lips pursed.

I shrug. ‘Hair of the dog.’

Wal casts his line into the sea, his tiny wings flapping furiously. ‘Hair of the dog, my arse.’

As usual I can see rather too much of his arse. His chubby baby fingers grip his fishing rod, and he hovers like an obese hummingbird. How’s he going to cope if a fish takes the bait?

This is all looking like such a bad idea. I take a mouthful of whatever brew Mr D could get on sale in
Hell, some sort of generic brand that I’ve never heard of – Apsu Gold. It goes down pretty rough and bitter and tastes of ash in my mouth. Still, it’s beer.

The boat rocks, shivers, judders, messes with my already impaired sense of balance. I swear it’s moving in a dozen different directions at once. One of Charon’s pilots is behind the wheel. Even he’s looking a bit green. Of course, he’s used to river traffic.

Mr D has returned to his chipper and annoyingly distracted state. He sips on his beer politely and eats tiny sandwiches, cut into triangles. His rod is lodged casually under his right armpit. I’ve never known a more capable man who somehow manages to look like he doesn’t have a clue.

Something tugs and I let it feed out, give it plenty of line. Mr D doesn’t mess around with his fishing gear. His beer might be cheap, but this is top-of-the-line Underworld equipment.

‘So what has she told you? What has she said that has led you to me, your old boss, your
current
mentor?’ Mr D asks. I’m almost shocked by his directness. Finally.

‘Francis Rillman,’ I say. ‘The name keeps cropping up.’

Mr D shakes his head. ‘That is one person I will not talk about.’

‘But he –’

‘That bastard crossed me. He tried to tear down everything I had built and all … all for a woman.’

Mr D had a terrible track record with his Ankous. After all, Morrigan followed Rillman.

‘I think he’s trying to kill me. Suzanne says it’s because I managed to pull off the Orpheus Manoeuvre.’

Mr D checks his line. ‘It may have drawn his attention to you, but Rillman, I doubt it. He’s an idealist.’

‘And what does he want?’

‘An end to death itself,’ Mr D says as though it’s the most amusing and obvious thing in the world. ‘And, ironically, me dead. I told him at the time that he couldn’t have it both ways.’ I can see him inhabiting that moment. Something passes across his faces, an old hurt – a bitterness – and the amusement is replaced with an emotion more resolute. His lips tighten, he plays out more line. ‘That is all I will speak of him.’

An end to death! As if that is possible, or even preferable. Death is pervasive and necessary: it is the broom that sweeps out the old and allows the new to flourish. Sure, I would think that, but I can’t see why Rillman would want this.

My fishing rod dips. I let out a little more line.

And then something is more than tugging – there’s a wrenching, hard against me. ‘Hey, I –’

And then I’m plunging into that brimming-over-with-monsters sea. The line didn’t feed, and that line is connected to me. I’m being dragged down.

The water’s cold and slimy. It snatches the breath from me. I’m tangled in the rod, and I’m going fast. Already the water pushes hard against my ribs.

Should be no problem. I should be able to shift myself out of here. Only it isn’t working. What should feel like an opening out, a broadening of perspective, mixed with the snapping of a rubber band against my back brain, is nothing but a dull ache. I can’t shift. Interestingly, my hangover’s gone. You’ve gotta take the good with the bad.

I look up. The
Mary C
’s hull is a tiny square on the surface. It winks out of sight; something big has passed between the boat and me. Something huge. It’s several seconds before I can see the bottom of the boat again, and it’s barely a square at all now.

I think I see a pale shape dart in the water, but it’s more likely the spots and squiggles dancing before my eyes. I’m still going down, and fast. I grab the pomping knife from my belt, start cutting at the line. It should be easier than it is, but I’m not surprised that it isn’t. Finally the line snaps. My lungs burn. Great dark shapes are circling.

I feel a pressure on my shoulder, sharper than the water, and ending in five points, each digging into the muscle of my shoulder.

I whip my head around – no one, nothing – but the grip, if anything, grows more certain.

A whisper, straight into my ear, no wet gargles. Just a voice as sharp as that grip: ‘You’re in danger.’

No shit.

I thrash in the dark. The last bubbles of my breath escape my lips. This shouldn’t be happening. This is no
earthly sea. This is
my
domain. Damn it, I’m the RM of this entire region of the Underworld. Nothing should be able to touch me here. But something has – is. And not just touching, but squeezing. I wonder for a moment if this isn’t some elaborate initiation ritual.

No breath now. All I have is a mild discomfort, a soft dizziness running through me, and that insistent voice, and it’s permeating me more completely than my blood.

‘You fall, but not alone, and in the falling, darkness waits.’

Darker than this? I doubt it.

‘And then you will be alone. Everything dies, by choice or reason. There is meaning in the muddle. There is blood and crooning in the mess.’

I’m not finding much sense in the mess presented. I struggle in the grip, but it’s unyielding.

‘Oh, but there’s a long drop for you.’

‘Let. Me. Go.’ I swing my head towards the voice, concentrating, throwing everything at it: which isn’t much. Things tear within my psyche. A sickening sensation of my thoughts, of me, ripping apart. My muscles clench in sympathy. And for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something. A face. A grinning shadow, a mirror reflection, but so much more varied.

‘Such a long drop for you. Such a long fall.’

Then the pressure’s gone, and I’m rising. A tiny, chubby pale hand is clamped around my index finger. We shoot towards the surface.

Then out of the darkness a great maw opens. Teeth the length of my forearm loom over and under us. Wal looks at me. I shrug.

This is not a good day.

But this I can deal with. The megalodon’s rough teeth brush my arm, but here I cannot be hurt and certainly not by something dead.

It’s odd, but for a moment I’m curious. A slight objectivity clouds my fear, or burns it away. This is what it is to be an RM: to be endlessly curious, to endlessly count down the hours, to peer at the life around me and not be involved in any of it other than the taking. It’s with almost a sense of ennui that I consider the rows of pale teeth flexing in the meat of the megalodon’s mouth.

Wal’s hand tightens around my finger. His lips are moving but I can’t make out the words, just the panic and I remember where I am.

The force that dragged me down has gone. I squeeze Wal’s hand with my thumb, concentrate on the boat and then we’re there, coughing and spluttering on the deck. I reach around and clutch at my shoulder where fingers had dug so deeply in, and dry heave out my pain.

Mr D is waiting with towels. He chucks one at me, and then Wal. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I thought I was safe here.’

He shrugs. ‘You’re not dead, are you? Not even bleeding.’

‘It grabbed me, the damn thing grabbed me, and then it spoke.’ I’m still spluttering.

Mr D stops still. ‘What spoke? What did it say?’

‘That I would fall. That I would be alone.’

Mr D’s eyes widen. ‘What do they have planned for you?’ he whispers.

‘Who? Who has what planned for me?’

‘Nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. Sounds like the All-Death – the death that exists outside the linear, the now and the then. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It likes to grab and mutter. Most of the time it doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Like an oracle?’ I ask, thinking back to high school and Year Ten Ancient History.

Mr D shakes his head. ‘It’s more like a drunk old uncle at Christmas time, or a senile great-grandfather. Just nod your head sagely and listen, but don’t take it too seriously. I’ve not known it to actually have much of a handle on reality. It may even have you confused with someone else.’

‘OK,’ I say, wanting to take some relief from this.

‘Yes, but it is a little disturbing.’ Mr D doesn’t know me all that well if he thinks that’s going to offer any comfort.

‘So what do I do?’

‘Wait and see.’

Wait and see; it’s always wait and see!
I glance at my watch. ‘I have to get back to work.’

Mr D smiles. ‘You’re Regional Manager, you’re one of the Orcus. You never stop working, whether you want to or not.’

Which is exactly why I feel like an impostor.

Wait and bloody see? I already know what’s coming. I don’t need Mr D or the All-Death to tell me. No matter how hard I try, it’s never going to be enough.

H
ome.

The house is silent, but for the last few drops of water dripping from my suit. Boxes are still stacked against one wall. The place smells a bit musty; some windows haven’t been opened since we moved in. The air-conditioning’s been off for a while and I’m sweating before I take my first step. Everything is lit with hard Brisbane summer light.

Lissa’s left a note on the kitchen table:
You know where I’ll be. Oh, and one of us has to get milk. Hope you enjoyed the fishing.

I don’t know about ‘enjoyed’. In fact, I feel more confused than ever. How could Rillman bring about an end to death itself? It’s impossible. Life is built on death, the passing on of things, the dreams and devourings. Take out Mortmax and all you have is chaos and a Stirrer-led apocalypse. Rillman can’t want that. It makes no sense.

Out of the living room and into the bedroom. I drag off my wet clothes; fabric making sucking noises as I tug first pants then shirt and underpants from me. My hair’s plastered to my forehead.

This All-Death disturbs me. A dim echo of its voice scratches away in my ears. And I can tell it worried Mr D as well. He couldn’t have got me away any faster if he tried.

A quick shower, a little product for the hair, and a dry suit and I’m looking … well, I’m looking better. I’m head of Mortmax Industries in Australia and I look the part at least. Very funereal, but classy funereal, I reckon.

I look at my watch, Lissa should be at work by now.

I shift. This time I feel like I can hold it together. Maybe it is getting easier. Lissa jolts as I appear behind her in Number Four. Oscar and Travis jump, and I get the feeling that if I’d appeared any closer to Lissa I’d have received a fist to the throat.

I don’t care that there are two burly men surrounding her. I wrap Lissa in my arms, and I kiss her hard.

‘What was that for?’ she asks when she is done kissing me back.

‘Sorry to leave you alone this morning,’ I say, once I catch my breath.

Lissa smiles. ‘I’ll live.’

I don’t want her to just live. But I can’t say it here. I hug her again, tighter. Stopping only when someone behind me clears their throat.

Lundwall from the front desk hands me my messages. ‘I’ve emailed the details to you.’

There are phone calls from Sydney and Perth. Tim is down in Melbourne, sorting out some issues there, and I don’t expect to see him until the Christmas party
tonight. People look to me for advice and I’m not sure what I need to give them: certainly more than I’m actually capable of. I sometimes pity my staff, looking up to me as though I know what I’m doing. Poor bastards.

Lissa follows me into my office. I sit down in the throne and it whispers a greeting that only I can hear.

Her phone plays the ‘Imperial March’, confirming an app update. Ah, the schedule’s running through, being reconfirmed now that I am sitting in the throne, and all the multitudes of variables are factored in. She lifts her eyebrows as she takes in her jobs for the day.

‘Busy day?’

‘You should know.’

‘We’ll do something tonight, I promise.’