'He really is rubbish, isn't he?' Wal says to Mr D. 'I can't fly, can't do a thing when I'm stuck on that arm. And would it hurt to use a little deodorant, mate?' He lands heavily on my shoulder. Talk about the weight of opinion. And I'm not too happy about being that close to all that pudgy nakedness.
I raise my hands in supplication and defeat. This all would have been a lot easier if I'd had something to drink beforehand. 'You're right. Both of you are right. I'm sorry. I'll do better. I have to.'
'I forgive you,' Mr D says, grinning a dozen various but magnanimous grins. 'But you owe me.'
I clench my jaw, try not to make it obvious. 'Yeah, I owe you. But, finally, I'm here to make you work.'
Mr D dips his head knowingly. 'Yes. You need to find the Point of Convergence. Without it, you can no more have a Death Moot than you could hold the Olympics sans stadium. And without the Point of Convergence you cannot engage the Caterers.'
'I thought we could just hire someone from a restaurant.'
Mr D chortles, exchanges an amused glance with Wal. 'And they would be able to enter the nexus between the living and the Underworld, how?'
Wal's laughing too, holding his belly. 'Oh, he's beyond bloody naive!'
'Yeah, beyond naive,' I say, feeling sick. Which is either the residue of the shift, my embarrassment at not knowing this and the fear of all the other things I don't understand, or just possibly the throbbing filament of rage that is firing up in my brain at all this mockery. 'And I will continue to be beyond naive if you do not educate me.'
'Right,' Mr D says, 'the Point of Convergence is revealed through a ceremony. This is what you need to do…'
By the end of his instructions, I'm less than pleased.
He gives me a hearty pat on the back. 'You'll be fine, son. Be careful with those Caterers, though. You don't want to piss them off. Oh, and the canapes, you want them to do the canapes – they have this thing they do with an oyster…'
Son? Mr D never calls me son.
Maybe boy, or Steven, or de Selby. Just what is he up to? This is why I've barely used him as a mentor. Too many riddles, too much in the way of diversion – and I don't think he even realises he's doing it.
He hands me a piece of paper and a pen. 'Oh, and I need you to sign this.'
'What is it?'
'A release. A legal and magical document. It allows me at least a modicum of movement. Sometimes I would like to be able to visit my friends. Aunt Neti is down there, as are the markets. How am I supposed to sample the Underworld if I am trapped here on the branches of the Tree?'
Seems fair enough. Maybe a little too fair.
I glance at him suspiciously and he smiles, almost looks innocent, but for the tumble of faces that follow. Mr D can never settle on just one.
Still, out of guilt at my neglect of him, I sign it.
'Don't be a stranger,' he says, and looks at his watch. 'You better get going. I can't believe you've left it so late.'
Neither can I. The one thing I don't want to mess up is a Death Moot. Ruin this, and I'm on my own. And that Stirrer god is approaching. The End of Days is approaching, and it seems I've gotta jump through a whole lot of bloody hoops to stop it.
'Oh, and next time? Some books, please,' Mr D says. 'Now shoo!'
Another shift.
Back in my office.
I take a deep breath. Maybe it is getting easier. Then I throw up in my wastepaper bin, noisily and messily. Bloody shifting. I rinse my mouth out with cold coffee, put the bin as far away from the desk as possible, to be dealt with later, and walk out into the open workspace of Number Four. People are busy coordinating pomps, getting the right people to the right place. The floor beneath us would be just as hectic, though they deal with the business end of Mortmax: the stuff that finances all of this. Our shares are doing quite well at the moment, so Tim tells me.
I knock on Tim's door.
'Enter,' he says somewhat officiously.
I poke my head in. Tim's having a smoke. He juts his jaw out, daring me to comment. I don't take the bait.
'Lissa out on a job?' I ask.
'Yeah. There's a stir expected at the Wesley Hospital.' I remember the last time I was there. Seven Stirrers and me, one of the few Pomps left alive in Brisbane. Still gives me the shivers.
'I miss her when she's not around.'
Tim snorts at that. 'Ah, young love. Give it time. The missing goes, along with all the sex. Believe me.' Yeah, right, I know how much he misses Sally. Young love, indeed.
'OK, I just wanted to tell you that if anything goes wrong with this whole Convergence Ceremony thing it's your fault.'
Tim stabs the cigarette butt into his ashtray. 'That bad is it?'
'I have to see Aunt Neti.'
Tim smiles wanly. Aunt Neti freaks him out. Maybe it's the eight arms, or the murderous glint in her eyes. 'You going now? Do you want someone to come with?' It's the least earnest sounding offer I've ever heard. But no surprise there. Our first meeting had been rather memorable, Aunt Neti's predatory eyes focussed on the both of us as she recounted tales of particularly bloodthirsty Schisms. She'd been very annoyed when Tim didn't finish his scones. His joke about avoiding carbs had fallen curiously flat, and the air in Neti's parlour had chilled considerably. I thought she was going to tear his head off.
'Yeah, I'm going now. Better to get it over and done with, obviously. And thanks, but I need to do this one alone. I want to.' At least I can manage to sound like I mean it.
'OK.' Tim can't hide the relief in his voice. 'On the plus side you've only got a short walk.'
A short walk to Hell; well, a particular part of it. 'I'll talk to you when I get back. I'm going to need your help with the ceremony,' I say. 'I'm sorry. I didn't realise how badly I'd let work slip.'
That's not true. I knew, but I just couldn't find a way out. Can't say that I have yet. But at least I'm trying.
'We were never going to let you fall too far,' Tim says. 'We love you too much. Now be safe.'
'I will.' I shut the door behind me. If I really wanted to be safe there's no way I'd do what I'm about to do.
There's a doorway – and though its door is very heavy, it's never closed – that leads to a hallway, which in turn leads to Aunt Neti's parlour.
Every region's headquarters has one. As I walk towards the portal, conversation in the workspace dies down. I straighten my back, check my hair in a mirror near the door. I sigh. It'll have to do. Still no one has said a word. I turn around: a dozen pairs of eyes flick this way and that.
'Don't you all have work to do?'
A phone rings. Someone starts typing away furiously. A stapler snap, snap, snaps.
I enter the hallway, suddenly I need to pee. But I can't, I have to stay on the path.
No turning back now.
3
The hallway creaks and groans, echoing the One Tree. Two, three steps in and the sounds of phones ringing, the beating of hearts, the snap of staplers grow muted. Then there's just silence, but for that creaking and groaning. The brown carpet ripples in sympathy with a floor that buckles with the stress of keeping a link between dimensions. It's hard to stay on your feet here, but I do my best, and I don't need to grab a wall to steady myself.