The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (23 page)

I’m exhausted, but manage to have a shower.

Steam fills the room. Tim’s in trouble, he has to be. I’ve been out here for days and I still know so little, except that Morrigan doesn’t seem to have a lot of difficulty finding me. If I stay out here, there’s no one to help Tim. How could I ever face Sally again?

The truth is, Morrigan can kill me whenever he wants.

It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m standing in the doorway, shaking, after another dream of bicycles. Even here I can feel it—the Stirrers building in the west and the south. I’ve had as much rest as I’m going to get.

“We have to go back, now. I can’t spend another moment out here.”

Lissa nods. “This was never going to be easy, Steven. But what do you really know?”

“That this has to stop. I’m learning nothing out here, except that Morrigan can get me.”

So much for escape, it really was a bad fit. I’m a Pomp, death is calling me, and the rough madness of the Stirrers. Maybe that’s what Morrigan expected, maybe he knew I couldn’t keep away for long. “We have to finish this.”

“It’s going to be tough, going back.”

“Yeah. But what else can I do?”

“I’m worried about what it’s going to do to you,” Lissa says. “I don’t want to see you hurting.”

“Hurting more than I am now?”

Lissa nods at last. “I guess you’re ready. It’s time to find Mr. D.”

I grab my backpack—it’s already packed—and open the door.

Lissa stands there. The Stirrer.

“We need to talk,” she says.

M
y knife is in my belt. I can get it out in a moment. I look Lissa—I mean, the Stirrer—up and down. It doesn’t seem to be armed.

“Well?” it asks.

I can either fight and run, or step back from the door.

I let the Stirrer in. She/it is unarmed and walks quickly by me and sits on the bed. The room shifts with her presence—the life in it starts bleeding away. I can feel all those poor microscopic creatures that fill any space on the earth dying. A silent shriek fills the room.

Lissa fumes at her body, and the Stirrer either ignores her or can’t see her.

My eyes dart between the two of them. My Lissa, and this facsimile. Its presence startles me. This is a first, a Stirrer not trying to kill me. Just having her here is unsettling enough. They’re Lissa’s eyes, but they’re not. The mocking wit has been replaced by a hatred that is at odds with her words.

“Morrigan wants you back in Brisbane. The killing’s over with. He says it’s time you returned.”

This immediately rings false. I have no position of power to negotiate from.

She must read this in my expression. “He needs you back, Steve.” The informal address is wrong and its callous eyes narrow. “He says it has to stop, for the sake of the region.”

“I don’t believe her,” Lissa says.

Neither do I. Her presence itself is a continuous nexus of death. As long as this Stirrer and its ilk exist, the dying cannot stop—it can only accelerate.

“I don’t believe you,” I say to Stirrer Lissa. I can see that this is going to get confusing very quickly. I’m so used to waiting for Lissa’s opinion. And that’s just what he’s given me, a deal dressed in the most persuasive face possible for me. The bastard has wrong-footed me.

“He wants to negotiate?” I don’t know why, but my words send a shudder down my spine. I move toward the door.

“Yes.” Then Stirrer Lissa realizes what I’m doing. She gets up from the bed, but it’s too late. “You little prick!”

I dash over the threshold and slam the door shut then mark it with the brace symbol. At once it’s hot to touch. It will take a while for her to break through.

She’s swearing on the other side of the door. But not as much as my Lissa.

Then I’m in the car, rattling down the road. Heading away from the motel as fast as I can.

“I couldn’t stall her,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s you.”

“It’s not me,” Lissa says. “It isn’t. Everything that it remembers, everything that it knows—that I knew—contains nothing of the me that you know.”

“I know, you’re right. But it’s you.”

“Oh, Steven. I could kill you.”

Well, I couldn’t kill her. Not even a malevolent copy of her. Not ever.

We’re on the road to Brisbane. Stirrer Lissa was right, it’s time to
negotiate, but not with Morrigan. No matter the pain, it’s time to talk to Mr. D.

We drive south down the Bruce Highway, heading through the lightening landscape toward Brisbane. The flat plains on either side of us are broken only by the warty ruptures of ancient volcanoes, now silent. It’s a tired country, and an old one, and I know what it feels like.

My brain is somewhat similar, my thoughts worn down, broken only by the sudden adrenal jolt that I’m actually doing this, crashing toward the last place any sane person would want to. There’s a fair bit of traffic going the other way, people already starting to flee the city. I shake my head at the folly of that, even if it’s a lesson I’ve only just learned. You can’t escape death. It has a habit of following you.

We’re in Brisbane early in the morning before peak-hour traffic—before even its first suggestion, just trucks and taxis on the road—and I get the feeling that it’s not going to get too busy. The souls of the newly dead are hitting me: an altogether different and unwelcome traffic. They’re stale and prickly and every one of them turns my stomach. Each has felt the touch of a Stirrer. I wonder if Sam is still out there, and how she might be feeling, having had to deal with all this urban pomping virtually alone.

I head to the inner-city suburb of Toowong. It wasn’t so long ago that I fled from here, though it feels like an absolute age. I park the car in a side street, under a drooping poinciana tree, slip on my backpack then walk to the CityCat terminal on the river and wait for a ferry. This is the most convenient place, Lissa tells me. I don’t want to telegraph my movements too much, though I already suspect that Morrigan has more than a good idea about where I am.

As we sit on the dock waiting, I sketch an upside down triangle on the bench, pick at a scab until it bleeds and mark the triangle with my blood. Anything to make a Stirrer uncomfortable.

“Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck?” I ask Lissa, because there’s never a moment that’s too dark to talk cartoons.

“Mickey Mouse. I can’t stand Warner Brothers cartoons.”

“Shit, are you serious? You can’t be serious.” So those badges aren’t ironic.
You can never tell.

“I love Mickey Mouse,” she says, tapping the badge on her sleeve. “Finest fictional creation of the twentieth century.”

“Finest creation of the—Oh my, you seem to have forgotten Batman, not to mention Superman. What’s Mickey Mouse got besides a whiny voice and big ears?”

“Universality,” Lissa says. “No Mickey Mouse, no Disney, no manga, no anime. Besides, he rocks.”

“He’s a bloody wimp. I can’t believe anyone actually likes Mickey Mouse, well, anyone above the age of four. Now, I’m a Bugs Bunny man. He’s like some sort of trickster god.”

“He’s just Brer Rabbit.”

“That’s like saying
Firefly
’s Mal was
just
Han Solo. He wasn’t.”

Lissa rolls her eyes. “There’s no point in having this conversation with you. You’re too much of a nerd.”

I’m just nervous as hell, that’s what I am. There’s a CityCat coasting in, the pontoon rocks with its approach. The blue and white catamaran’s engines hum; its forward lights blink. “At least I don’t like Mickey Mouse. Next you’re going to tell me you don’t like the Simpsons.”

“Well…Nah, just kidding.”

The CityCat docks, and we get on. I nearly buy two tickets—even now it’s hard to escape the habit, the belief that she’s actually there. It’s early and the CityCat’s almost empty, but there are still some passengers, all of them looking a little startled by the hour, which is odd. People up at this time tend to be annoyingly bright and chirpy. I wonder if they’re feeling what I feel. Being this close to a Regional Apocalypse it would make sense. Unprotected, even the chirpiest of
the chirpy would start to present with symptoms of fatigue and despair. I sit out front, and the cat pulls away from the pier. It slides toward the city, the skyline brightening in the distance.

It would almost be a normal day except there are bodies floating in the river. As I watch, someone topples from the edge of the CityCat and what’s left of their soul burns through me. No one even notices.

Lissa points to a metal tower on the side of the river across from Toowong. It looks like a lighthouse but is actually an old reconditioned gas-stripping tower. It was used to clean coal gas for the city, stripping it of impurities, but now it’s just a landmark on the West End side of the river. “That’s where we need to go to get at Mr. D,” she says. “I can feel it.”

And looking at it, I know she’s right. The tower has a sort of gentle gravity—it draws the eye, like Lissa draws the eye. This is why we had to come back to Brisbane. There’s a certain density of souls in the city that the rest of Queensland doesn’t have. The population here is big enough to make such a place possible. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before. Now I find it hard to look at anything else. It’s the tower or Lissa. Both entrance and terrify me.

“Why are you sticking around?” I ask. She tilts her head at me. “I mean,
how
are you sticking around? You should be gone already, even with the binding. Everybody else is gone.”

“The Underworld is pulling at me all the time,” Lissa says, “but I don’t want to go. I’m a Pomp, and I know what I’m doing. I know the tricks, there’s all manner of stalls. The binding is just one of them.”

I’m wondering how I don’t know this. I wish I’d never bought into Morrigan’s philosophy. There was so much I just didn’t bother learning. I’d been too busy doing nothing, earning money, not really caring where it had come from, and moping after Robyn.

“But that’s only part of it,” she says. “There are two things holding me here. Hate—I really want to get the bastard who did this to me—and something else.”

“What’s the other thing?” I ask.

“You.”

The city has never looked more beautiful than it does now. I smile, and Lissa’s smiling too. She’s never looked more gorgeous. Ah, I tumble so fast, but this is different. I want to hold her hand, but I can’t. I want to wrap my arms around her, and I can’t. She’s all I want but to touch her would destroy her, and take away the little that we have. This perfect moment is nothing but a lie.

Lissa coughs. “You’ve got that whole geek–cool thing going on, like Cory Doctorow or—”

“Who’s Cory Doctorow?”

“Science-fiction writer, and cute.”

I don’t know what to say about that. So I just say nothing, pull my jacket tight about me, shove my hands deep in its pockets and wait until we get to our stop.

We turn our backs to South Bank and head toward the tower in West End. There’s hardly a soul about, though someone’s swimming at the little fake beach there by the river. The tower’s a half-hour tramp along the bank and it’s still a good walk away when it starts to rain. And it’s not just rain. I can’t believe that I didn’t see this coming.

Brisbane is beautiful in the rain, and it doesn’t rain nearly enough. The city’s been drying up for decades, so I feel kind of mean-spirited cursing it, but this rain is something else. It’s the fiercest downpour I can remember. The sky’s so dark, and my vision so limited, that it could be the middle of the night. But even then I’d see more clearly, because there would be streetlights.

The wind builds quickly as we walk, growing from breeze to gale to something else, the river churns past us, black as the sky. Storm-tossed things crash past us: outdoor furniture, rubbish and signage. Every step toward the tower is a struggle.

“This isn’t normal,” Lissa says.

I look at her. “It used to be. This is about as close to a Brisbane storm as I’ve seen in years. But it feels wrong.”

We just grin and bear it, and I find myself almost knocked on my arse on several occasions, but it isn’t enough to stop us.

“So they’ve built a fence around it,” I say. “A high, rattling, shaking in the wind, fence.”

There are Moreton Bay figs thrashing in the wind behind the fence, which looks like it could take off into the air at any moment.

“You can climb over it.” Lissa is already on the other side, a broad smirk on her face. “It’s hardly a fence at all. Hardly any barbed wire.”

“Yeah,” I say uncertainly. I hadn’t actually noticed the barbed wire. The rain is streaming off the figs that rise up behind the fence, their root buttresses like knuckles bunched above the ground. I remember reading about this now. They’re the reason this tall, portable (possibly too portable) fence has been erected—the trees are unsafe. The tower just happens to sit directly behind them. Metal spotlights shudder stupidly in the wind, making shaky shadow puppets of everything.

It seems some sort of fungus has gotten into the roots of the trees. It’s visible even as I near the top of the fence, a dark stain penetrating the wood. I wonder what that might be like if it ever affected the One Tree. The fence can’t support my weight, it wobbles, creaks, and then slams onto the muddy, but hard, ground. I’m face down in it, and winded.