Managing death

'And you look like you've just been punched in the nose again,' he shoots back.

I touch my hand to my face. Yep, blood. 'Just spent the morning chasing someone through the Underworld. Turns out I should have ducked when I caught up with them.'

Tim passes me a box of tissues. 'Who do you think it was?'

'Not Rillman, at least. It felt too different from him. An Ankou, I think, but I couldn't get a good enough fix on them. At least they didn't stab me. There's something almost honourable about a good old punch to the face.' I apply tissues. 'Talking of Ankous…'

'Cerbo's lesson was instructive.'

'Do you think you could shift?'

'Give me three weeks, and I'll be shifting everywhere. Right now, the thought of doing it again makes me want to throw up. Steve, sorry I ever doubted you.'

'This situation with Rillman is out of control, Tim. What the hell are we supposed to do?'

Tim shuffles his papers, lifts his eyes to mine. 'We keep going. There's nothing else we can do. We keep going carefully and cautiously, and we do not stop. Whoever Rillman is, and whoever he's working for, they can get to us anytime they want. They've already proven it. And if Rillman can shift then there's nowhere that's safe. We just have to keep going, until either we stop him, or he stops us.'

My mind turns to things that we may have some control over. 'How are you going with those Closers?'

Tim frowns. 'I can't find out anything. People are being very tight-lipped at the Department – and I mean very.' He sighs. 'I can't remember the last time I came to work with a hangover. I got three of them drunk last night, after the Christmas party, and nothing. Not a bloody peep. But this is my best guess.' He hands me a small sheaf of papers. 'These are based on my suggestions, when I was running that portfolio.'

He looks at his watch. 'We've a job interview at 11:30. You'll need to be there, since we're using your office and all.'

'Really? This morning's been busy enough as it is!'

'Who is it?'

'Clare Ramage. She looks good, on paper anyway. Lissa found her. I'm surprised she didn't mention anything, but, then, the week we've been having, eh? We won't know for sure until we can get her into your office, see how she handles the Underworld.'

'What do you think?' The office is just a formality, both Lissa and Tim can usually tell beforehand.

'I think she'll be fine.'

'OK I'll see you at 11:30. And I'll read this, right now. That's a promise.'

'Make sure you keep it. None of that slipping a bookmark through it bullshit,' Tim says, and maybe I shouldn't grin at him. Shit, we're so good at pushing each other's buttons we don't even need to try most of the time. Tim groans. 'Now, get out of here. And be careful who you let into your room, unless you don't intend reading that, because if that's the case, buddy, I might just have to torture you myself.'

He sits there, glaring at me. I stare back sheepishly.

'I'm on it,' I say. 'Really.'

Tim just harrumphs under his breath. 'Close the door on your way out.'

I walk back through to my office, stopping at the kitchen to make some coffee and feeling all those eyes watching me. Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone last night, or maybe it's that my nose hasn't quite stopped bleeding yet. I drop Tim's notes onto the desk: they land with a satisfying and vaguely threatening thump.

After ten pages I'm glad Tim's working on my side.

The first page outlines possible threats to Australia's population should Mortmax fail. Regional Apocalypse is at the top of it. There's a half-dozen end-of-world scenarios – some of which I wasn't even aware were a possibility – and how Mortmax might be involved in them.

It's a pretty damning, but I must admit, honest appraisal. And I can see why Tim may have been pushing for closer government ties to Mortmax, and just why he might have been so resistant to the family business.

And now, since we came so close to a Regional Apocalypse, and streets were crowded with Stirrers, I know why they might just rush through an organisation like the Closers.

I'm twenty pages in when the phone rings.

It's Neill. 'I heard you had some trouble yesterday,' he says.

'Yeah, I suppose you could call it trouble.' I find it hard to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

'Death Moots create a certain… well… chaotic energy, but this is the first time this has happened. Are you sure there's no one trying to challenge you?'

'No one's killed a Pomp yet,' I say. 'There's just been attempts on me.'

'You sure it's not that cousin of yours?' Neill asks. 'It's usually the fookin' Ankous that are the problem.'

'Not my cousin, I'm sure of that.' I try a different tack. 'Do you have a government liaison?' There's silence down the line for a moment.

'Yes, it's only something very new. I never thought we needed it before, but they were quite persuasive.'

'Define persuasive. Insistent? Or coercive?'

'Well, it's certainly made stopping Stirrers much easier,' Neill says. I'm putting my money on the latter.

'We've a group here called the Closers.'

'What are they?'

'Police, but a unit devoted to us. You have anything like that there?'

'Not that I know of. Just a unit that keeps a closer eye on our paperwork, our visits to morgues and funerals, that sort of thing. But liaison or no, our communications with the government are a little limited. You could say that we both have secrets that the other may not like. Why do you have such a unit there?'

'The Regional Apocalypse. I think it worried them. I can't blame them, of course. It worried me.'

'Times are changing,' Neill says, and there's more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.

'Yeah, they're changing, all right.'

I put a few more calls through, speaking as directly as I can to the various RMs. All of them seem to have something of a government presence, several when their territories cover more than one country – some have as many as twenty.

For most of them, this is something new. And for the ones that it isn't they've noticed an increased scrutiny. But that's not the only thing. Their lack of concern about the issue is disturbing. Something doesn't feel right. This is definitely going on the agenda at the Death Moot.

Talk doesn't stick to the government departments, though. Every single one of them is pitching an alliance at me, or at the very least a mutual back-scratching sort of set-up. I'm non-committal.

I haven't hung up from the last call for more than a few heartbeats when the phone rings again.

Alex.

'Steve, I can't talk for long,' he says, his voice low. 'You're going to get a call soon. From Solstice. They've found the body of the man who tried to shoot you. Well, we think it is.'

'Where?'

'Look, when I say they've found the body, I mean we did; but they've taken it away.'

'Did you get much of a look? Did it fit my description?'

'No, I didn't get a look in. The Closers were already there when I arrived.' Alex's voice lowers to a whisper. 'I really don't like that crew. There's something… off about them.'

'Tim hasn't been able to find out anything about them, either.'

'Yeah, no agency is that secret. There's always someone who knows something, and is willing to talk. Usually, when there isn't, you have to wonder.' There's a quiet murmuring in the background. Alex raises his voice. 'Look, I've got to go. But I will talk to you soon.' He hangs up abruptly.

There's another call. I don't recognise the number.

'Yes?' I say.

'Nothing to worry about, it's just Solstice.'

'What can I do for you, Detective?'

'Nothing, really, it's more what I can do for you. I thought I might send some fellas over to keep an eye on your house.'

'My house, or me? Am I a suspect in my own shooting, Mr Solstice?'

Solstice clears his throat. 'Of course not, but then again… stranger things, Mr de Selby, stranger things. It wasn't your body that they picked up at Toowong Cemetery with injuries that suggest a great fall.'