Don has old-school Labor Party blood running through his veins. Broad shouldered, with a big jaw that the gravity of overindulgence has weakened somewhat, he looks like he should be cutting deals with a schooner of VB in one hand and a bikini-clad babe in the other. He has the dirtiest sounding laugh I've ever heard. The truth is he's a gentleman, and utterly charming, but two failed marriages might suggest otherwise. After a couple of beers, he slips into moments of increasing and somewhat embarrassing frankness. 'They were bitches, absolute bitches.'
And after another couple, 'Nah, I was a right bugger.' And then, 'Don't you ever get married, Steven. And if you do, you love her, if that's the way you butter your bread. You do like women, don't you? Not that it matters. It's all just heat in the dark, eh? Eh?'
Yeah, charming when he wants to be. Which isn't now. To suggest Morrigan is behind all this is ridiculous. Even I'm not that paranoid.
Don looks ludicrous with a rifle, even when the bloody thing is pointed at my head. Maybe it's the crumpled suit or the beer gut and his ruddy face. But he's serious, and he hasn't lowered the gun yet. No matter how silly he looks, he can kill me with the twitch of a finger.
He stinks of stale sweat and there's a bloody smear down his white shirt. There's a hard edge to his face, and I recognize it because I'm sure I look that way, too. It's part bewilderment, part terror and a lot of exhaustion. We three have probably been doing most of Australia's pomping between us for the last twelve hours.
Sam, on the other hand-even in her cords and skivvy, with a hand-knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, and a beret that only a certain type of person can pull off-looks like she was born to hold a pistol. Sam is what Mom would call Young Old, which really meant she didn't like her. I couldn't say what her age is, maybe late fifties or early sixties. Her pale skin is smooth, except her hands-you can tell she has never shied away from hard work. She grips her pistol with absolute assurance.
Interestingly, it's aimed at Don.
We've gone all Reservoir Dogs in Albion, and I almost ask if I can have a gun, too, just to even things up a bit. I'm also wondering if I can trust anyone. Don certainly doesn't trust me.
'Jesus, Don, put the bloody thing down.' Sam jabs her pistol in his face. This could all go bad very quickly. 'There are enough people trying to kill us without you helping them.'
'You put yours down first,' Don says sullenly. I open my mouth to say something, then glance back at Lissa who shakes her head at me. She's still outside, and out of sight of Don and Sam. There's no need to complicate this stand-off any further. I close my mouth again, partly to stop my heart from falling out of it. It seems I'm getting more familiar than I've ever wanted with the actuality of guns-and it's not getting any more pleasant.
'On the count of three,' Sam says.
Don lowers his rifle immediately. He's not much of a conformist. 'You're right,' he says. 'I know, Sam. It just got under my skin a bit… the whole damn situation.'
'I have a tendency to get under people's skins,' I say.
'So do ticks,' Lissa whispers, but I'm the only one who hears her, and I don't even bother flashing her a scowl.
Don chuckles. 'That's what I've always liked about you.' He reaches a hand out to me, and pulls me into a sweaty bear hug. At the human contact I struggle to hold back tears. 'Sorry, Stevo. Christ, I've just had a bad kind of day.'
'We all have,' I say as he pulls away.
Sam runs over to me and her hug is even more crushing. She smells a lot nicer though, mainly lavender and a hint, just a hint, mind, of some good quality weed.
'I'm so glad you're all right,' she says.
If you can call this all right, then you're way more optimistic than me, I think. Still, I hug her tight, and this time I can't quite hold back the tears.
'It's all right,' she says. The bloody Pomp mantra: It's all right.
Does she think Morrigan's responsible? Surely not.
'You want a cup of tea?' Don asks, looking a little embarrassed. He nods toward a Thermos in the corner of the room sitting somewhat incongruously next to a sledgehammer, a new one, its handle coated in plastic.
'Tea?' I say, wondering at the hammer.
Don smiles ruefully. 'I'd get you a beer but, well, I haven't had time to run to the bottle shop.'
Too busy worrying about Morrigan, I think.
'Tea would be great,' I say.
'I'll have one, too,' Sam says, then blinks, staring out the open door. 'Lissa? Oh, I'm sorry.'
Does everybody know this girl? So I wasn't a member of the Pomp Social Club, but Jesus, how did I never meet her?
'Don't worry, Miss Edwards,' Lissa says. 'It was quick. I've had time to adjust.'
'Miss Edwards?' I'd always known her as Sam, and this throws me.
'Some people are more polite than others. In your case, most people,' Sam says to me. 'You were lucky she found you.'
I nod my head. 'Lissa's the reason I'm still alive.'
'No surprises there,' Don says. 'You couldn't piss your way out of a urinal.'
Well, isn't this the Steve de Selby support group. I'm about to say something narky but I notice that Don's hands are shaking, enough that I think he may soon spill the tea. I take the cup gently from his grip.
'No arguments from me,' I say, even if I'm grinding my teeth slightly. 'How did you two make it?'
'They got a little over-enthusiastic,' Don says. 'I was finishing at a wake-no stir, oddly enough-when some bastard just starts shooting. They missed, and I could see something wasn't quite right. Turns out he was a damn Stirrer. That in itself was peculiar, because I should have felt him. Then I realized he was a Pomp… well, used to be. I recognized him, but didn't know his name, though I've since seen a few I do. I blooded up and touched him, too quick to get some answers, and then all I had was a still body and a rifle. Then I got the hell out of there, once I'd made sure.' His fingers brush at his blood-smeared shirt.
It has to be touch, and it has to be blood to stop them. Death is intimate, and bound in life. And blood and death are entwined. Think about all those ancient tales that mix them up, like vampire myths. Stirrers don't feed on blood, but life, and a Pomp's lifeblood is the only way to shut the gate.
Death is up close and personal and we're all staring into its face. Which is why pomping can hurt, though death is less traumatic than life. If every pomp was as painful as childbirth, the world would be crowded with dead people desperate to cross over to the Underworld. And they'd damn well want to be paying us more.
'I got lucky, too,' Sam says. 'I saw the Stirrer before it saw me, stalled it, took its pistol and got in touch with Don.'
'We were both lucky,' Don says.
Sam wraps an arm around his waist. I look at Lissa, she smiles at me. I didn't know that these two were a couple: one of the many things on the list of stuff that I don't know about my friends, family and colleagues. Don bends down and gives Sam a kiss.
'I'm sorry about your parents, Steve,' Don says. 'But there was nothing you could have done.'
I don't know how to respond to that. Was there something I could have done? I run the options through in my mind. I was just as much in the dark as anyone.
Don changes the subject fast. 'So you said that Morrigan's alive?' He looks over at Sam as though to say, I told you so.
'Doesn't prove anything,' Sam says. Aha! So Sam doesn't agree with Don!
'Last time I saw him, via the Hill, he was in Number Four, and he was wounded,' I say. 'Then an hour or so ago, a sparrow got a note through to me. I suppose he had a fair idea where I might be. Sparrows are good hunters.'
'A sparrow. One of those inklings of his?'
I nod. 'Yeah.'
Don and Sam exchange looks. 'He sent you here?' Don asked.
'Not here, exactly, just the general direction.' I don't know where he's going with this, but I'm starting to not like it.
