Managing death

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.

14

Home.

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.'

'Of course we will,' Lissa says. 'It's the staff Christmas party.'

Then she's out of here.

Oscar clears his throat. He's standing at the door. 'A word if you please, Mr de Selby.'

'I know, I'm sorry I left you in the lurch.'

Oscar shakes his head. There's a sort of sternness in his eyes that I've not seen in anyone since Morrigan died. 'This will work much better if you do what we tell you… and you keep us informed of your plans.'

'My plans tend to change from moment to moment.'

'Just keep us updated. That is all I'm asking.'

'Did you see anything last night?'

Oscar shakes his head. 'Other than the RM who visited you? Nothing.'

They're a little more on the ball than I thought. Well, that's good, right?

Oscar watches this work its way across my face.

I clear my throat. 'I'll keep you posted on my… um… movements. I'm sorry, if I forget. Just let me know, though – what exactly is the difference between what you're asking and being a hostage?'

Oscar grins. 'Unfortunately very little, other than the very large sums of money you are paying us for the privilege of our protection.'

Talking of being a hostage, I wave at the huge amount of paperwork in front of me. 'Yeah, I've got stuff to do.'

He nods. 'I'll be at the door. My replacement will be here in half an hour.'

'What? You're telling me you need to rest?'

'Only if you want to live.'

Everyone's a comedian.

I sign off on a couple of investment suggestions. Read the latest data from Cerbo on the approaching god, which isn't much, but I know I'm going to have to contact him soon.

The lack of information I have at my fingertips is frustrating, so I flip through Twitter.

Death@MortmaxEuro: Ah, plague so wearying.

Death@MortmaxUS: Train wreck@Festival LA. More B-list stars, but one A. Expect a thousand tedious retrospectives.

I resist the temptation to read the online news, then check my email again. There's one from the South African RM, Neill Debbier. Mr de Selby, While I am aware that you are no doubt busy with all things Death Moot – not to mention the attempts on your life – I would be appreciative if you were to visit my offices. My diary is flexible today. You are welcome at any time.

Regards,

Neill It's a change from Suzanne who seems to want everything now, now, now.

What the hell. I look at my desk with its teetering piles of paper. No time like the present.

I don't shift directly into his office – well, I try not to at any rate – that would be rude. And in these times, when RMs – OK, only one RM, but we're all a team, aren't we? – are being attacked, it could induce a panic.

I'm not sure what a panicked Neill would do, but I don't really want to find out. I'm only beginning to understand my own abilities and RMs are notoriously closed mouthed. There are more secrets within our organisation than I would have believed just a few months ago – secrets, like landmines waiting for me to inadvertently stomp on them. But then again, what's a landmine anyway, but a really, really nasty secret?

The shift is relatively painless this time. 'Yeah!' I punch the air a little.

Neill's Ankou, David, types away for a moment or two, pointedly ignoring me.

I cough.

He looks up, feigns surprise. 'You're early,' he says.

Why does everyone seem to know what I'm doing better than me? 'When were you expecting me?'

'Based on your movements, around your lunchtime, so very early morning here.'

Based on my movements? I wonder just who it is who is watching me. I don't have anyone spying on the other RMs, maybe I should. Yeah, as if I could afford to lose more staff.

'Are you ready to talk to the boss?'

'Of course I am.'

I get what looks to me like a smile of pity. David presses down on a somewhat prehistoric intercom, a big brown box as clunky as all hell. I get the feeling they don't bother with Bluetooth here, but then again, Mr D used to use sparrows as his main form of communication, and his 'data-storage' consisted of scrunched-up balls of paper and Post-it notes.

The intercom buzzes a moment before Neill picks up.

'Yes?' The voice is warm.

'Mr de Selby's here.'

'He's early. Excellent.'

Neill's through the door almost at once, his hand out, giving me a professionally firm handshake that lasts one or two seconds too long.

'Come in,' he says gesturing at his open door. 'We have a lot to talk about, you and I.'