Managing death

'It's just… Mr D doesn't like to talk about Rillman. It's a generational thing, none of them did. Rillman apparently put Mortmax Australia about ten years behind the rest of the world.' She grins. 'Oh, yeah, he also ruined a Death Moot.'

'I like the sound of this guy.'

'It was quite the scandal.'

'Well, the chances of it being Rillman are pretty slim,' I say. 'You don't come back.'

Except we both know that isn't true. It makes me uncomfortable to consider it, but somehow Rillman's death, his interest in me, make me certain he is the one responsible. That he has come back somehow. It feels right. It terrifies me. Before tonight I didn't know that humans could inhabit Stirrers. What's a little moving between worlds compared to that? Like Suzanne said, the Underworld is more permeable than I had thought. Who and what else might be coming through?

Lissa picks up her coffee cup and walks it to the sink. I can see her thoughts in the slope of her shoulders as she rinses the cup.

'It's OK,' I say, kissing the back of her neck.

'I'm so sorry.' She places the cup in the drainer. 'Sometimes I think all this is my fault. If I hadn't -'

She's mirroring my thoughts. This isn't her fault, it's mine. I think about what Suzanne said. About the enemies I've made, and all because I fought to stay alive and honour the memory of my family, and because I loved someone enough to chase them through Hell and bring them back.

We saved each other. Whether it was the right thing or not, it was the only thing either of us would have done. And hang the consequences.

13

The office is quiet, pre-dawn. I've a stack of files before me: Rillman, everything I could find on him. Which is virtually nothing. Who the fuck is Francis Rillman? What did he become?

Solstice had left a message on my phone, asking just this question, which is worrying and encouraging. Solstice obviously knows his job – and mine.

There's another half-bottle of rum sitting in my stomach. My head's spinning a bit. The throne might heal my wounds but it doesn't seem to do too much with alcohol until I stop drinking. I'm in my suit, my second-best one. I keep telling myself the drinking's not a problem when you're in a suit.

Fifty-nine people have died across Australia in the last hour. My ten new Pomps have taken some of the workload off my crew – Suzanne was exceptionally quick about organising that – but the work is still constant. People are always dying.

And the phone calls have been pretty steady, too. RMs or their Ankous. All of them wanting a piece of me, some favour, or their seat moved in the grand marquee of the meeting room.

I look at the calendar on my desk, pushing the rubbish off it. The Death Moot's drawing ever nearer. The catering's organised at least, and the location.

Of course, I could be dead by then.

I grab a sheet of paper, write Francis Rillman? in thick black pen. Then scrunch the sheet up and hurl it at my bin.

I'm going to have to go to the source for this one.

I pick up the handset of Mr D's phone. Even though the line's dead I can feel the presence listening in on the other end. I play with the phone cord that spirals down to nothing, kind of a nervous thing.

'We need to talk,' I say.

No response, but I know he's heard me.

'Now. We need to talk now.'

'My boat,' Mr D says, his soft voice coming through like a slither of ice in my ear. There's slight irritation in his tone and I know that I've interrupted his reading. Well, too bad. His novels will be waiting for him when he gets back.

There's a click, and silence again. Seems I'll be fishing, literally and figuratively.

I send Lissa a text, tell her where I'm going. Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes and shift to Mr D's boat. Mr D raises a hand in frustration as I throw my guts up over the edge of the rail – the other is gripping his fishing rod. 'You're not practising. You've got to keep practising.'

'I'm not enough of a masochist.'

'Really?'

I hobble over to Mr D across the broad wooden deck of his boat, the Mary C. My foot's throbbing. The wound's healing fast, but it still seems to be a case of my mind catching up with my body. My nose burns with the salt of the sea of Hell, which is better than the taste of vomit. 'And I have been practising!'

'Yes, well, this is the second time you've seen me in three days. One would think you were having troubles.' He hands me a fishing rod. Wal's already holding his, knuckles white. He got it almost the moment he peeled from my flesh, seems to be enjoying the novelty of it all.

'Suzanne's made me an offer.'

'An offer, eh?' Mr D's eyes narrow as he connects the rod to a belt around my waist.

'I've taken it. Ten Pomps for ten hours with her. Ten hours of mentoring, of course. Nothing else, completely above board.'

Mr D stares out at the choppy water. I can't tell if he's hurt, or being melodramatic. His shifting face doesn't help either.

'We're stretched to capacity,' I say.

'I don't need your excuses and you don't need her advice.'

'Where the fuck am I going to get it?'

Mr D rounds on me. 'That hurts. That really hurts. I've been an endless fount of -'

'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.