In the backyard the air is cool. It's a typical spring evening and the city is still and quiet, though I know that's a lie because it's never really still or quiet. People are always sliding away to the Underworld, and things are always stirring. But I can imagine what it would be like to believe otherwise. I sit on the back step, smoking one of the cigarettes that Tim bought-yes, I'm that drunk-and wait for Molly to finish her business, thinking all the while about Lissa. I'd helped Terry easily enough. Why couldn't I help her? She's the most striking girl I've ever seen, but that shouldn't matter. I'm already feeling the remorse that no amount of alcohol can shield you from, because drinking is all about remorse.
Molly trots up next to me and I scratch her head. 'What's wrong with me, eh?'
She's got no answer to offer. She's happy, though, to receive the scratching. I yawn at last, get up and leave the unquiet city outside.
I'm drunk and exhausted but I'm restless as all hell. I walk about my house, not really connecting with any of it. All the stuff I've bought. The useless shit, as Dad calls it. The posters, the DVDs, and CDs: some not even out of their wrappers. None of it plants me here. None of it means anything. I might as well be a ghost. I wonder if this disconnect is how it feels to be dead. I'll have to ask Morrigan-if anyone will know, it'll be him. Molly follows me for a little while but can see no sense in it, or just gets bored, and wanders off to her bed. I drop onto the couch in the living room, and sit on my cordless phone. The damn thing beeps at me.
I press the talk button and hear the familiar rapid blipping dial tone: there's at least one message on my voicemail.
I ring through to check. Two missed calls. The alcohol steps politely aside for a moment. One of the calls is from Morrigan: too late to call him back. Besides, if it had been really important, he would have tried my mobile.
There's a message, too. The phone crackles, which means either there are Stirrers about or we've hit a period of increased solar flare activity. Both mess with electrical signals.
'Steven,' Dad says. 'Hope you haven't been drinking.' He doesn't sound too hopeful. 'Thought I'd call to let you know you were right, it wasn't a coincidence. The police released the name of the gunman. Jim McKean.'
McKean…
McKean…
The name's familiar. Dad fills in the blanks. 'McKean's a Pomp… Was a Pomp. Sydney middle management; didn't show for work yesterday. I've heard he was doped out: on ice, that's what they call it these days, isn't it? Out of character, completely out of character.'
Of course, McKean!
I remember him. A quiet guy. Always seemed nice, and a little bookish. We'd actually talked science fiction at a Christmas party a few years back. He was a real Heinlein nut, not that I'm saying anything, but…
'Morrigan's using his connections, digging into the why, but-whatever the reason-McKean is behind bars. You don't need to worry.'
But I am. The guy came after me with a gun. Even with Molly the house seems too… empty.
'Give me that phone, Michael.' It's Mom. 'Steven, your father was less than speedy in passing on to me the details.' Mom stresses the last word. 'Your rather worthless father said you'd had a tough day. He neglected to tell me that you'd been shot at. You'll be having dinner with us tomorrow night. No excuses. Now, I hope Tim hasn't gotten you too drunk. We're all rather worried about you.'
The message drops out.
I've a dinner invite for Wednesday, and I'll be there. Mom and Dad are excellent cooks. I might have inherited the pomping career but the culinary skills seemed to have skipped me. I might even have made enough peace with my stomach to be hungry by then.
I play the message over, twice, just to hear their voices. It grounds me a little. The dead aren't the only ones who like to feel that people care. I check my mobile but no missed calls, no texts, and the schedule hasn't changed.
I switch on the television, and flick through the channels.
Two of them are running stories about McKean. Shots of him being taken into custody, backlit by a frenetic clicking lightshow of camera flashes. There's something not right about him but I guess you could say that about anyone who decides that today is a good day to start firing a rifle into a crowd. No one was killed, thank Christ, but not all of that is luck: he wasn't gunning for anyone else. There's nothing in the story linking him to me. Nothing about me at all.
The sight of him draws a rising shudder of panic through me that even the weight of alcohol can't suppress. I guess it has affected me more than I care to admit.
I turn off the television and switch on my Notebook, hook into Facebook, and the Mortmax workgroup- Morrigan set that up-and there's Jim McKean in my network: looking his usual awkward self, and nothing like a killer. I check his profile. His life/death status is up as dead. Morrigan installed that morbid little gadget a year or so ago. Pomp humor is very much of the gallows sort.
Peculiar, as McKean isn't dead. But that slips from my mind in an instant, because there's Lissa's face in his friends list. I click on her profile photo.
She worked for Mortmax?
I bang my head with my palm. Of course she had. Lissa Jones. Melbourne agency. It's all here, and I must have met her before. Her green eyes mock me. Her status though, according to this, is living. Something's wrong with that gadget of Morrigan's.
I open Dad's profile. Dead.
Then Mum's. Dead.
I open my own profile. Status: Dead.
Then I'm opening all the Brisbane pages. And every single one of them, including Morrigan, is the same.
Something prickles up my spine.
I switch to Mr. D's profile. It has his usual picture, a crow on a tombstone. His is a dry and obvious sort of humor. But Regional Managers are like that. Death, after all, is the reason for their existence. His status: gone fishing.
Nothing peculiar there. Our RM loves to fish-most of the Orcus do. I've heard he has a boat docked at the piers of Hell, and that Charon's own boatmen run it. I've seen the photos of the things he's caught in the sea of the dead-the ammonites, the juvenile megalodon, the black-toothed white whale with old mariner still attached.
Regardless, the timing is odd. I get the feeling that there's something I'm not seeing, but there's a thick and somewhat alcohol-muddied wall between the truth and me.
I switch off the Notebook. Then look at my watch. There's no one I can reasonably call about this. So I call Dad.
'Do you know what time it is?'
I don't realize that I'd been holding my breath until he answers. Morrigan's gadget is wrong, thank Christ. 'Sorry, Dad, but…' I mumble something drunkenly at him about the Facebook accounts.
Dad lets out a weary breath. 'That's what this is about?'
'Yeah, it's, I-'
'We'll discuss this tomorrow, when you're sober.'
'But Dad-'
'Get some sleep.'
There's a long moment of silence. Dad sighs again. 'OK, there's some sort of glitch on the server. If we'd kept to the old ways… well, I wouldn't be answering a call from you in the middle of the night. I tell you, Steve, it's been a hell of a week.' Which is saying something, as it's only Tuesday night. 'Just a wonderful one for Mr. D to take off. Morrigan's looking into it. Now, go… to… sleep.' Dad sounds like he is already, which is good or I'd be in for a lecture.
'Sorry,' I say.
''S OK,' he says. 'I'm just glad you're not hurt. We'll talk about this tomorrow.' He hangs up, and I'm left holding the phone.
Dad said I'm safe, earlier. I can't say that's how I see it.
It's a weird world. A weird and dangerous world. When you're a Pomp, even such a low level one as me, you get your face rubbed in it. Robyn couldn't handle it. I don't think she believed in half of what I did. I don't blame her
