returning calls, you know, that sort of thing.'
Melbourne giving Derek the run-around isn't that surprising. Most people like to give Derek the run-around. I don't know how he became Morrigan's assistant. Yeah, I know why, he's a hard worker, and ambitious, almost as ambitious as Morrigan-and Morrigan is Ankou, second only to Mr. D. But Derek's hardly a people person. I can't think of anyone who Derek hasn't pissed off over the years: anyone beneath him, that is. He'd not dare with Morrigan, and only a madman would consider it with Mr. D-you don't mess with Geoff Daly, the Australian Regional Manager. Mr. D's too creepy, even for us.
'OK, I'll send some flowers,' I say. 'Gerberas, everyone likes gerberas, don't they?'
Dad grunts. He's been tapping away at his computer all this time. I'm not sure if it's the computer or me that frustrates him more.
'Can you see anything?'
A put-upon sigh, more tapping. 'Yeah… I'm… looking into… All right, let me just…' Dad's a one-finger typist. If glaciers had fingers they'd type faster than him. Morrigan gives him hell about it all the time; Dad's response requires only one finger as well. 'I can't see anything unusual in the records, Steve. I'd put it down to bad luck, or good luck. You didn't get shot after all. Maybe you should buy a scratchie, one of those $250,000 ones.'
'Why would I want to ruin my mood?'
Dad laughs. Another phone rings in the background; wouldn't put it past Derek to be on the other end. But then all the phones seem to be ringing.
'Dad, maybe I should come into the office. If you need a hand…'
'No, we're fine here,' Dad says, and I can tell he's trying to keep me away from Derek, which is probably a good thing. My Derek tolerance is definitely at a low today.
We say our goodbyes and I leave him to all those ringing phones, though my guilt stays with me.
3
I take a deep breath. I feel slightly reassured about my own living-breathing-walking-talking future. If Number Four's computers can't bring anything unusual up then nothing unusual is happening.
There are levels of unusual though, and I don't feel that reassured by the whole thing, even if I can be reasonably certain no one has a bead on me. Something's wrong. I just can't put my finger on it. The increased Stirrer activity, the problems with the phones… But we've had these sorts of things before, and even if Stirrers are a little exotic, what company doesn't have issues with their phones at least once a month? Stirrers tend to come in waves, particularly during flu season-there's always more bodies, and a chance to slip in before someone notices- and it's definitely flu season, spring is the worst for it in Brisbane. I'm glad I've had my shots, there's some nasty stuff going around. Pomps are a little paranoid about viruses, with good reason-we know how deadly they can be.
Still, I don't get shot at every day (well, ever). Nor do I obsess over dead girls to the point where I think I would almost be happy to be shot at again if I got the chance to spend more time with them. It's ridiculous but I'm thinking about her eyes, and the timbre of her voice. Which is a change from thinking about Robyn.
My mobile rings a moment later, and I actually jump and make a startled sound, loud enough to draw a bit of attention. I cough. Pretend to clear my throat. The LCD flashes an all too familiar number at me-it's the garage where my car is being serviced. I take the call. Seems I'm without a vehicle until tomorrow at least, something's wrong with something. Something expensive I gather. Whenever my mechanic sounds cheerful I know it's going to cost me, and he's being particularly ebullient.
The moment I hang up, the phone rings again.
My cousin Tim. Alarm bells clang in the distant recesses of my mind. We're close, Tim's the nearest thing I have to a brother, but he doesn't normally call me out of the blue. Not unless he's after something.
'Are you all right?' he demands. 'No bullet wounds jettisoning blood or anything?'
'Yeah. And, no, I'm fine.'
Tim's a policy advisor for a minor but ambitious state minister. He's plugged in and knows everything. 'Good, called you almost as soon as I found out. You working tomorrow?' he asks.
'No, why?'
'You're going to need a drink. I'll pick you up at your place in an hour.' Tim isn't that great at the preamble. Part of his job: he's used to getting what he wants. And he has the organizational skills to back it up. Tim would have made a great Pomp, maybe even better than Morrigan, except he decided very early on that the family trade wasn't for him. Black Sheep nearly always do. Most don't even bother getting into pomping at all. They deny the family trade and become regular punters. Tim's decision had caused quite a scandal.
But, he hadn't escaped pomping completely; part of his remit is Pomp/government relations, something he likes to complain about at every opportunity: along the lines of every time I get out, they pull me back in. Still, he's brilliant at the job. Mortmax and the Queensland government haven't had as close and smooth a relationship in decades. Between him and Morrigan's innovations, Mortmax Australia is in the middle of a golden age.
'I don't know,' I say.
Tim sighs. 'Oh, no you don't. There's no getting out of this, mate. Sally's looking after the kids, and I'm not going to tell you what I had to do to swing that. It's her bridge night, for Christ's sake. Steve, how many other thirty-year-olds do you know who play bridge?'
I look at my watch. 'Hey, it's only three.'
'Beer o'clock.' I've never heard a more persuasive voice.
'Tim, um, I reckon that's stretching it a bit.'
There's a long silence down the other end of the phone. 'Steve, you can't tell me you're busy. I know you've got no more pomps scheduled today.'
Sometimes his finger is a little too on the pulse. 'I've had a rough day.'
Tim snorts. 'Steve, now that's hilarious. A rough day for you is a nine o'clock start and no coffee.'
'Thanks for the sympathy.' My job is all hours, though I must admit my shifts have been pretty sweet of late. And no coffee does make for a rough day. In fact, coffee separated by more than two-hourly intervals makes for a rough day.
'Yeah, OK, so it's been rough. I get that. All the more reason…'
'Pub it is, then,' I say without any real enthusiasm.
I've a sudden, aching need for coffee, coal black and scalding, but I know I'm going to have to settle for a Coke. That is, if I want to get home and change in time.
'You're welcome,' Tim says. 'My shout.'
'Oh, you'll be shouting, all right.'
'See you in an hour.' So I'm in the Paddo Tavern, still starving hungry, even after eating a deep-fried Chiko Roll: a sere and jaundiced specimen that had been mummifying in a nearby cafe's bain-marie for a week too long.
I had gone home, changed into jeans and a Stooges T-shirt-the two cleanest things on the floor of my bedroom. The jacket and pants didn't touch the ground, though, they go in the cupboard until I can get them dry- cleaned. Pomps know all about presentation-well, on the job, anyway. After all, we spend most of our working day at funerals and in morgues.
I might have eaten something at home but other than a couple of Mars Bars, milk, and dog food for Molly there's nothing. The fridge is in need of a good grocery shop; has been for about three years. Besides, I'm only just dressed and deodorized when Tim honks the horn out the front. Perhaps I shouldn't have spent ten minutes working on my hair.
Getting to the pub early was not such a good idea. Sure, we avoided peak-hour traffic, but my head was spinning by the first beer. Chiko Rolls can only sop up so much alcohol-about a thimbleful by my calculations.
'Why bulk up on the carbs?' Tim had declared-though I'm sure he'd actually had something for lunch. 'You need room for the beer.'
I end up sitting at the table as Tim buys round after round. He comes back each time a little bit drunker. His tie slightly looser around his neck. A big grin on his face as he slides my beer over to me. 'Now, isn't this
