Managing Death Page 2

  I wince, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. It’s bright enough inside the house, and the cruel sun of a Brisbane summer waits outside. ‘Maybe more than was good for me.’

  ‘More than was good for the both of us. Again. Try not to breathe in my direction, will you?’

  Seven in the morning. The sun is already high and bright, the air-conditioning throbbing, like my head, though the hangover’s fading. One of the upsides of being RM is that I heal faster than I used to. Regional Managers are considerably harder to harm or kill than your average Pomp, though I’ve seen it happen. My predecessor, Mr D, died beneath the wheels of an SUV, but by then he had lost the support of his Pomps. Most of them murdered. He looks pretty good considering all that, but you have to go to the Underworld to see him. I try and avoid it if I can.

  I grab the car keys from the bowl on a table next to the front door. Lissa snatches them from my hand.

  She glares at me. ‘Don’t even think about it. Turn off the aircon and clean your teeth. I’ll be waiting in the car.’

  I’m quick about it. Lissa looks very pissed off. For no good reason, as far as I can tell. Hey, I haven’t been drinking that much lately. She offers the barest hint of a smile as I get into the car, hardly waits for me to sit down before we’re going. The little multi-coloured Corolla’s engine bubbles along. This car predates air-conditioning. There’s a bead of sweat on Lissa’s lip that I find endearing. I reach over to touch it with my thumb, and she pushes my hand away. Ten minutes of silence. Out of the ’burbs and onto the M3 Motorway.

  ‘You really should be practising your shifting.’ Lissa says at last. The traffic’s already creeping, the highway burdened with even more cars than usual; it’s a matter of days until Christmas.

  ‘Yeah, but I like coming to work with you.’ That’s only partly true – certainly not today.

  Shifting hurts, I really haven’t mastered it yet, and I don’t like the pain. I’m sure I could handle it if it was the same sort of agony each shift, but it’s not. Sometimes it manifests itself as a throbbing headache, others as a kick to the groin, or a hand clenching my guts and squeezing. There’s usually a bit of gagging involved.

  Lissa grunts. Changes lanes. I reach over to turn on the stereo and she slaps my hand again. This is the real silent treatment.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’ I shake my stinging fingers.

  ‘It’s what you haven’t done,’ she says, and that’s all I can get out of her, as she weaves her way through the traffic.

  What the hell haven’t I done? It’s not her birthday. And we’ve only been together for two months, so there’s no real anniversary to speak of. I try to catch her eye. She ignores me, contemplating her next move. Changes lanes again.

  We cross the Brisbane River on the Captain Cook Bridge, crawling as the Riverside Expressway ahead becomes anything but express: choked by a half-dozen exits leading into and out of the city. I can feel the water beneath us, and its links to the Underworld and the Hell river Styx – all rivers are the Styx and the Styx is all rivers. When I was a Pomp it was just murky water to me, a winding thread that bound and separated the city, east from west, north from south. Now it hums with residual energies, it’s like stepping over a live wire. My whole body tingles, the hangover dies with it – down the river and into the Styx, I guess. A smile stretches across my face. I can’t help it.

  Lissa doesn’t seem to appreciate the grin.

  She clenches her jaw, and swerves the Corolla into a gap in the next lane barely large enough. A horn blares behind us, Lissa holds the steering wheel tight, the muscles in her jaw twitching.

  I settle in for one of the longest fifteen minutes of my life. The only noise is the traffic and the thunk of the Corolla’s tyres as it passes over the seams in the unexpressway. I can’t find a safe place to look. A glance in Lissa’s direction gets me a scowl. Looking out over the river towards Mount Coot-tha earns me an exasperated huff so I settle on staring at the car directly in front of us, my hands folded in my lap. It’s as contrite a position as I can manage.

  At last Lissa belts into the underground car park of Number Four, off George Street, pedestrians beware. She pulls into a spot next to the lift, turns off the engine and stares at me. ‘So, even after that drive you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?’

  ‘I –’ I give up, look at her, defeated. I can feel another grin straining at my lips. That’s not going to help. Lissa’s eyes flare.

  ‘Look,’ she snarls, ‘we’ve all lost people that we care about, but you –’

  ‘I’ve what? What do you think I’ve done?’

  ‘Oh – I could just – no, forget about it.’ Lissa yanks her seatbelt free, storms out of the car and is already in the lift before I’ve opened my door.

  I have to wait for the lift to come back down. The basement car park’s full. I can see Tim’s car a few spots down. I’m last to work, yet again.

  I could shift up to my office from here. But I don’t reckon it’s worth the pain.

  The lift takes me straight up to the sixth floor. Everyone’s a picture of industry when the doors open, and no one gives me a second glance. Which worries me. Where are the usual hellos? The people wanting to talk to me? Why hasn’t Lundwall from the front desk hurried over to me with a list of phone calls that I’m not going to bother returning? I look around for Lissa. Nowhere. No one meets my gaze.

  ‘OK,’ I mumble. If that’s how everyone is going to play it … I mean, I haven’t come to work drunk in over a week.

  I amble over towards the coffee machine in the kitchen. The tiny room empties out the moment I walk in. I don’t hurry making my coffee, then stroll into my office, taking long, loud sips as I go.

  ‘Nice to see you’ve made it,’ Tim says. Tim’s trying so hard to hold it all together. I used to be able to tell, with a glance, what he was thinking. Now, sometimes I can’t even meet his eyes. He’s developed movements, tics and gestures, which are wholly unfamiliar to me. He’s sitting on my desk – his bum next to the big black bakelite phone – carefully avoiding the throne of Death. I understand why. It exerts a pull. I’m sure he feels it, too. How it does it is beyond me, it shouldn’t. It’s not particularly imposing, merely an old black wooden chair. There are thirteen of these in the world, made for each member of the Orcus. Just a chair and yet so much more. I cannot stand in here without feeling the scratching presence of it. I know I could lose myself in it, that I’m perhaps losing myself already. Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t be so bad. Then I wonder if that’s what the throne wants me to wonder. If a chair can really want anything.

  In one hand, Tim’s clutching the briefing notes that I should have read about three weeks ago.

  ‘Yeah, isn’t your office across the way?’ I ask.

  Tim folds his arms, says nothing.

  ‘So who’s stealing paperclips this week?’ I force a grin. Honestly, that had been a major issue last month. Paperclips and three reams of A4.

  The door bangs shut behind me. I jerk my head around, and Lissa’s standing there, her arms folded, too. Ambushed!

  ‘What the hell is this? Look, those Post-it notes on my desk are all accounted for.’

  She’s not smiling. Neither is Tim. Christ, this is some sort of intervention.

  ‘Do you know what today is?’ she asks.

  ‘The 20th of December.’ Sure, I have to look at my desk calendar for that.

  Tim snorts. Pulls the bookmark out of the briefing notes. A bookmark whose movements have been somewhat fabricated – damn, I thought he’d swallowed that one. He slaps the notes. ‘If you had actually read these, you’d have an idea, you’d probably even be prepared.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got work to do. The Death Moot’s on the 28th and I –’

  ‘Absolutely. What do you need to do?’

  I shrug.

  In a little over a week the Orcus, the thirteen Regional Managers that make up Mortmax Industries, will be meeting in Brisbane for the biannual Death Moot. With just t
wo months in the job, I’m expected to organise what my predecessor Mr D once described as a meeting of the most bloodthirsty, devious and backstabbing bunch of bastards on the planet.

  ‘You’ve got no fucking idea, have you?’ Tim says.

  Lissa touches my arm. ‘Steven, we’re worried about you.’

  Tim doesn’t move. His eyes are hard. I can’t remember seeing him so pissed off. ‘Mate, I like to have a drink as much as anyone, but I have responsibilities. And you do, too. To this company, to your staff and your shareholders, and to your region. You’re an RM. You’re one of the Orcus!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say. How the hell did I ever become one of the Orcus? Me being RM was just a massive mistake, a joke played out by the universe. I’d fought for this role, only because I’d had no choice. Death for me, and death for my few remaining friends and family – or fight and live. I’m about to mention my call to Meredith when Tim laughs humourlessly. My cheeks burn.

  ‘Then start acting like it,’ he says.

  I walk past him, drop into my throne. For a moment, there is no argument. Lissa and Tim fade away. It’s just the throne and me. The throne deepens and broadens my senses, brings the living/dying world even closer to the fore. In this chair I touch not only the land of the living but the land of the dead as well. Traffic is moving nicely in both zones, which is really rather remarkable. The throne is opiate, CNN and 3D extravaganza rolled into one. I have to concentrate to manage that sensory overload. Part of me doesn’t want to; the effort of it burns a little behind my eyes like the seed of a migraine. How the hell am I expected to handle all this? And it’s not getting any easier.

  I open my eyes. Oh, yes, the ‘interventionists’ haven’t left. How much have they seen?

  ‘You don’t have a clue how hard I work,’ I say, but they do, and they’re right.

  ‘That’s just it,’ Lissa says. ‘You’re working so hard at avoiding everything that you’re going to avoid everything out of your life. You’ve come unstuck, you’re drifting, and you haven’t even noticed it.’

  Tim’s nodding. I glare at him.

  ‘Steve, you’re even more disengaged than you were when Robyn left.’

  Now, that’s just too low. Robyn’s my ex. She couldn’t handle me being a Pomp and it took me years to get over that. It took Lissa, and the loss of nearly everything that I cared about. Surely I’m not … ‘That’s bullshit!’

  ‘What’s bullshit is the amount of work Lissa and I have had to do to cover for you. When was the last time you spoke to another RM?’

  I’d initially tried really hard to keep in touch with them. To start a discussion about a global response to the Stirrer god. Nothing, silence. The global response had been for every RM to ignore my emails and my calls. If they weren’t going to speak to me, I wasn’t going to speak to them. ‘They’re all pricks and backstabbers,’ I say.

  Tim nods. ‘Exactly, and you’ve left us to deal with them. The whole Orcus, and no RM to bat for us. Thanks a lot, mate.’

  ‘Well, you’re my Ankou.’

  Tim nods. ‘And I’ll watch your back. But I’m not here to wipe your arse. If this keeps going on … we’re both out of here.’

  Lissa’s face is as resolute as I have ever seen it. ‘Do you know how hard I’ve been working? Hunting down new staff in Melbourne, Perth, Mount Isa, Coober Pedy? I’ve run around this country, God knows how many times, trying to find you people who at the very least have a chance of not dying on the job. And you’re hardly interested. Have you spoken to any of them after their interview? Have you made yourself available to any of them?’

  I open my mouth to speak: what about Meredith? But once, just once, isn’t enough of a defence. They’re right. I know they’re right, but if they could sit in this throne … dream my dreams … They’re right. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Today?’ Tim asks. ‘Or from now on?’

  ‘Both.’

  Tim beams at me. ‘That’s what I want to hear. A bit more enthusiasm would be nice, though.’

  I lean back in my chair. ‘All right. All right. Where do I start?’

  Lissa unfolds her arms, walks to the desk and takes up another chair. ‘The Death Moot. Let’s start with that. The business we can get to, but the Moot is a priority. You’ve got to find the Point of Convergence.’

  ‘Can’t we just book a hotel?’

  ‘Ha! This is Mortmax Industries,’ Lissa says. ‘Things don’t work that way. It’s revealed through some sort of ceremony, although I’m not sure what it entails. And Tim can hardly go and ask anyone else. How do you think the other RMs would take that?’

  ‘Bad. It would be bad,’ I say.

  She pats the black phone on my desk. ‘You’re going to have to speak with Mr D. And after that you’re going to have to start paying attention to the business of being RM.’

  I pick up the heavy handset. ‘Do I have to call him now?’

  Lissa starts to fold her arms again. Tim’s face is settling into a scowl. ‘It has to be done. And today,’ Lissa says. ‘In some ways we’ve been as bad as you. We should have done this sooner. Today’s the last day you can perform the ceremony.’

  More than a twinge of guilt hits me at that. They’ve been putting this off and putting this off, hoping I’d come good on my own. I can’t help feeling I’ve let them down. The business I don’t care about, but Lissa and Tim are the centre of my world.

  Yet there’s part of me wondering how they could have let this get so far. Ah, more guilt! I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘I was wondering when you would call,’ Mr D says, without the slightest pause. There’s a large quantity of affront in his voice. Maybe the bastard has some feelings after all. I certainly didn’t witness them when he was alive.

  ‘Are you in on this, too?’ I ask.

  ‘Mr de Selby, I have no idea what you mean.’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, you should have been talking to me for some time, but you haven’t. Oh well, it’s never too late to start.’ He chuckles. ‘Until it’s too late. And you are running out of time.’

  ‘I’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’

  I put the handset back in the cradle. ‘There,’ I say.

  Both Tim and Lissa stare at me.

  ‘Don’t you two have work to attend to?’

  Tim smiles thinly. ‘Of course we do.’ He’s out of my office without a backwards glance.

  Lissa stays a moment, touches my arm. ‘It had to be done,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re both right.’ I grab her wrist as she pulls away, and squeeze it gently. Flesh and bone. I doubt I’ll ever get used to being able to touch her. ‘I’m just happy that you care enough to do this.’ I’m not sure that I sound all that convincing. I’ve got to see Mr D. I’ve suddenly got work to do.

  Lissa bends down and kisses my cheek. ‘Dying isn’t the only way a girl can lose someone,’ she says.

  I want to ask her if that’s a threat, or a fear, or a promise. Talk of Robyn has got my head in something of a spin. I could do with a drink.

  Instead, I get to my feet, prepare myself for my shift into the Underworld and say, ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t lost me yet.’

  I let go of her wrist and, looking into her eyes, I disappear – or she and the office do. I’m not sure which it is. One reality is exchanged with another, the air folds around me, changes density, and taste. Light, sound, all of it is instantly different. I’m bathed in the red glow of the Underworld.

  The shift is hard. This one makes me sick, literally. Mr D pats my back until the vomiting stops. ‘You do understand that it gets easier the more you practise?’

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Yeah, but it’s the practice that’s so hard.’ He passes me a glass of water, obtained from a small tank by his chair. I gulp it down, and take in my surroundings. This is Hell of course, but what a view. I’m standing on one of the upperm
ost branches of the One Tree. The Underworld equivalent of the city of Brisbane is beneath us, suburbia stretching out to the dark waters of the Tethys, the CBD’s knuckles of skyscrapers constrained as Brisbane is bound up in a ribbon of river. The air is loud with the creaking of the One Tree. It permeates everything in the Underworld. The One Tree is the place where souls go to end their existence. It draws them here from across the Underworld and absorbs them, down into its roots and into the great secrets of the Deepest Dark. It’s a Moreton Bay fig tree, bigger than any city, with root buttresses the size of suburbs. It’s also where my old boss hangs out. Dead but not dead, he waits here to act as my mentor in all things RM.

  There’s a cherub by the name of Wal fluttering about my head. He looks a little plumper than I remember him, but I wouldn’t say that to Wal. He’s rather sensitive, comes from spending most of his existence as a tattoo on my arm. In fact, it looks like he’s already pissed off. His Modigliani eyes are narrower than usual. It’s been a good couple of weeks since I was in the Underworld, and it’s only here, or close to it, that he can manifest. He gets rather shirty if he can’t spread his wings. I do my best to ignore him. I only have enough strength for one intervention today.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’ I ask Mr D.

  ‘It’s the 20th of December. Must be getting hot up there. I was always fond of Christmas in Brisbane. Are the cicadas singing? Have they put up the Christmas tree in King George Square?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘It can be very lonely in Hell,’ Mr D says, and his face, which notoriously shifts through a dozen expressions in a second, grows even more furious in its changes. ‘Particularly when you are in someone’s employ. Specifically to advise that someone. To steer them through the roughest channels of their job away from the snares and the rocks of Orcusdom. To save them making the same mistakes you did. And yet, they never visit you. Never call. Never ask for advice.’ He nods to his armchair, the single piece of furniture on the branch, and the stack of old science-fiction novels beside it. ‘I’m running out of things to read, and without you I can’t even go fishing. When did you last drop a mercy pile of books down here? When did you last reply to one of my invitations on Facebook, or comment on an update? You’re not even following me on Twitter.’