other. When an RM's phone rings it's never a good thing.
It's Tim on mine. I answer it, trying to work out just who is calling Suzanne.
'Steve?' Tim asks. He sounds a little frightened. He'd been laughing at my table only a few hours ago. I immediately think the worst.
'Yeah.' Just give me the bad news.
'Neill's dead.'
I look at Suzanne and Cerbo. They're both pale as sheets, both getting the same message.
'Dead?'
'Yeah, it seems that Rillman has had better luck in South Africa.' An RM? Someone has managed to do what I thought impossible. 'Is it a Schism?'
'No. David, Neill's Ankou, called me. Let me tell you, the guy was in a state. Someone came at Neill with knives, cut him up badly. Cut him into little pieces, is how David put it.'
Then Tim's voice falls away. He's still talking, but I can't hear him. Something is clawing its way into my chest. A force, a strength that's part dark chuckle, part dread fear, part chest imploder. I recognise it at once. With Neill dead, a twelfth of his share of the Hungry Death is drawn into me.
I drop to the floor, maybe black out, because the next thing I see is Cerbo hesitating between Suzanne and me. We're both on the carpet.
'Well, can you help me get up?' Suzanne says, the first to recover. Her eyes are bright.
And yet, Cerbo hesitates. 'That hasn't happened yet,' Suzanne growls. 'Here, now. Focus on me.'
Cerbo runs to Suzanne's side, pulling her to her feet.
What the hell was that about? I wonder. I'm shaky, but standing now. Suzanne glances at me.
'This is not good,' she says.
'But Neill has been dead for a while.'
'The transfer isn't instantaneous. The Hungry Death has to find us. It's drawn to our flesh, but it takes time.' Suzanne shakes her head. 'Poor Neill.'
'I thought you said the transition needed blood,' I say.
'Well, there was plenty of it – Neill's blood,' Suzanne says grimly.
'This changes things,' Cerbo says. 'Surely you can -'
'It changes nothing.' Suzanne smiles so viciously at Cerbo that he quails.
She looks at me. 'Tend to your region, Steven. I must tend to mine.'
'What about Neill's region? Who's tending to it?'
'Charlie Top. At least, until we can organise some sort of transition. A Schism and Negotiation is messy, but this is far worse. It will have to do. We've two days until the Moot. We can organise something then.'
I try and imagine something messier than a Schism. I can't, but then I'm not really the most knowledgeable RM. What I really don't like is the stronger HD inside me. The mere thought of all that carnage pulls at my lips. He pulls at my lips, from the inside. It's an effort not to smile, but I won't give HD that satisfaction. This is my body.
Suzanne waves me away with one hand. And I go. I shift to my office, my head pounding with this new fragment of the Hungry Death. I tumble into my throne and the comfort it provides. The throne is slightly bigger, its edges harder, and yet I find it more comfortable to sit in. I decide I don't like that and I get to my feet, walk about my office, pull open the door.
The office is busy, but that's what you expect at this time of year, and in this trade. Holidays mean nothing – other than a serious inflation of the payroll, according to Tim.
Word has spread fast about Neill. Lissa's left a message on my phone, she's coming in straight away. I look at my watch. It's getting late. People glance hurriedly away as I catch their eye. This is an office that is spooked. I don't blame them.
I make a show of going to the photocopier, try to look like everything is normal. It seems to have the opposite effect, particularly when I jam the bloody machine. Right, then, a more direct approach is needed. These people haven't deserted me, and I damn well won't desert them. I walk to the centre of the office, and clear my throat. I've heard my share of inspirational speeches.
'As you have probably heard, the South African RM has died.' The office is silent, listening. 'Well, we have a Death Moot to run. In just three days, the remaining RMs will be here. Things are going to get hectic, but I am not going anywhere. Rillman has tried to kill me numerous times, and failed. I will not desert you.'
I don't notice Tim until he's standing beside me. Lissa's here, too, now. She smiles hesitantly at me.
'We'll see this out,' Tim says.
'We've faced worse.' Lissa's voice is hard and strong. She holds my hand. 'But it won't mean anything if we don't keep pomping or if we stop stalling Stirrers. We can't let Neill's death distract us. Everything dies, we all know that.'
'And we have to make sure that that keeps happening. We have to be strong. I won't let you down.' I don't know if that's enough, but it's all I have.
'Where were you?' Lissa asks me, once everyone returns to work – inspired, or terrified, or hunting for the job pages.
'Checking out the bridge,' I lie.
Tim looks like he's about to say something, and then seems to think the better of it.
I guide them both into my office, and then the black phone, Mr D's phone, rings.
29
There's a first time for everything.
I snatch it up.
'Neti's rooms,' Mr D says in a tone I've never heard before. 'Now.'
Mr D can be direct when he needs to be.
'What the hell is going on?' Lissa demands.
'I need you to stay here,' I say. 'Both of you. It's something to do with Neti. Mr D sounds frightened.'
I head out the door, then across the office floor. I'm running by the time I hit the hall. Wal shudders on my arm and begins to slide free, his ink turning to muscle and bone. He tears from my flesh with the hummingbird whirr of a cherub's flight.
'Where are we going in such a hurry?'
'Neti's rooms. Mr D -'
'Bugger.'
I don't bother knocking this time. I open Neti's door, almost hitting Mr D in the head in the process.
'Watch yourself,' Mr D says.
'Neti?'
'Oh, she's dead. Well and truly, more than I could have ever believed.'
But that much is obvious already. There's not much of her left. Her little parlour is splattered with blood. It's everywhere. Strings of it dangle from light fittings, puddles gleam red and slick all across the floor. Is this what Rillman had wanted to do to me?
'I've never seen anything like this,' Mr D says. But I have. HD is having a grand old time, I can feel him tugging at the corner of my lips.
I try and imagine the fight. There are burn marks everywhere, just like the Stirrer safe house. And the smell of cooking flesh, not the usual wholesome odours of scones or cake – though there is some of that in the background. The spider in the corner hangs limp and dead.
Wal flits around us, looking slightly green. 'What does this mean?' he says.
'Rillman took a great deal of pleasure in doing this,' I say.
'Obviously,' Mr D says.
'Who's going to replace her?' Wal asks, puffing out his chest, and riffling through her collection of china plates. I wave him away from there.
