Read Online Managing Death by Trent Jamieson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Trent Jamieson
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out and touch her, and the sparrow, misinterpreting this desire, flies at the back of her head. I manage to convince it otherwise an instant or two before contact.
An ibis ostensibly digs in a bin as she attends an open-air funeral service and pomps a soul, that of an elderly gentleman, whom she charms utterly. I can see his posture shift from scared, to guarded, to a chuckling disregard as she reaches out to touch his arm. He is gone in a flash – I feel the echo of the pomp through me. And Lissa is standing there, on the very fringes of the funeral service, alone.
Lissa’s the ultimate professional. She talks to the dead so easily. Knows how to bring them around from loss to acceptance. She is the best Pomp I’ve ever seen.
After a while, she walks up to the ibis. I stare at her through its dark eyes. ‘Steven, I love you, but this is creepy. Don’t you have work to do?’
I’m out of there in an instant, my face flushed.
I get out of my chair and, as I do every day about this time, pull open the blinds to the rear windows. These face the Underworld. My office is immediately lit with a reddish light. The One Tree isn’t far away. Down below, the traffic of the Underworld moves slowly, in a stately reflection of the living world’s traffic. The various bends of the river that I can see are busy with catamarans and ferries. Traffic, cars and buildings are almost identical to the living city, except everything is that little bit ornate. Mr D says that’s his fault. I haven’t bothered to change it, yet. I’m not sure how, but I’m certain it’s a lot of work.
With the blind open, the sunlight and unlight battle it out over my desk. They’re equally matched. Where they strike my desk there’s a patch of gloom, neutralised only when I turn on my lamp. I’ve read that the living and the dead worlds occupy the same place, but I don’t really understand how that’s possible. I prefer to think of them as two skins of the same onion.
A shrill screech startles me. I flinch, then glance over at the window leading to Hell. Someone’s hanging from a harness and cleaning the glass from the outside with one of those big plastic squeegees. He’s slowly sinking into view. This is a first. He’s a big fella, pale skin, long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a strong jaw marked with stubble. The harness digs into his shoulders. What is a living person doing in Hell?
He waves, I wave back.
Then he pulls out a gun and fires. It’s such a casual movement that I hardly notice it. Don’t even react until it’s done. My stomach flips, I throw my hands in the air, and stumble backwards, then catch my balance on the back of a chair.
The window stars, but doesn’t implode. You have more than double-glazing when your office faces Hell.
Through the fragmentation of the glass, I see the ‘cleaner’ frown.
I look at the door; I’m much further from it than the window. If I run that way I’ll probably get a shot or two in the back and, while I’m at it, lead him into the office. Enough people have died in here this year already. It seems clear that he’s only after me – and if this is about me, I want to keep it that way. Besides, I’ve taken bullets before and survived them easily. I lift up a chair. Not the throne, that weighs a bloody tonne.
He fires again. The window shatters this time, glass going everywhere. The bullet thwacks against the wall behind me. Alarms sound throughout the building and the One Tree’s creaking intensifies to a dull roar now there’s no glass to block it out. Hell has entered the building.
My arm tingles, then burns. Wal extrudes from my flesh. He pulls the most impressive double-take I have ever seen, his wings fluttering madly.
‘What the hell?’
‘Gun!’ I shout. ‘Assassination attempt!’
‘Right, then. Shouldn’t you be running the other way?’
‘Shut up and help!’ I yell.
I charge towards the gunman, the chair gripped in my hands as though
An ibis ostensibly digs in a bin as she attends an open-air funeral service and pomps a soul, that of an elderly gentleman, whom she charms utterly. I can see his posture shift from scared, to guarded, to a chuckling disregard as she reaches out to touch his arm. He is gone in a flash – I feel the echo of the pomp through me. And Lissa is standing there, on the very fringes of the funeral service, alone.
Lissa’s the ultimate professional. She talks to the dead so easily. Knows how to bring them around from loss to acceptance. She is the best Pomp I’ve ever seen.
After a while, she walks up to the ibis. I stare at her through its dark eyes. ‘Steven, I love you, but this is creepy. Don’t you have work to do?’
I’m out of there in an instant, my face flushed.
I get out of my chair and, as I do every day about this time, pull open the blinds to the rear windows. These face the Underworld. My office is immediately lit with a reddish light. The One Tree isn’t far away. Down below, the traffic of the Underworld moves slowly, in a stately reflection of the living world’s traffic. The various bends of the river that I can see are busy with catamarans and ferries. Traffic, cars and buildings are almost identical to the living city, except everything is that little bit ornate. Mr D says that’s his fault. I haven’t bothered to change it, yet. I’m not sure how, but I’m certain it’s a lot of work.
With the blind open, the sunlight and unlight battle it out over my desk. They’re equally matched. Where they strike my desk there’s a patch of gloom, neutralised only when I turn on my lamp. I’ve read that the living and the dead worlds occupy the same place, but I don’t really understand how that’s possible. I prefer to think of them as two skins of the same onion.
A shrill screech startles me. I flinch, then glance over at the window leading to Hell. Someone’s hanging from a harness and cleaning the glass from the outside with one of those big plastic squeegees. He’s slowly sinking into view. This is a first. He’s a big fella, pale skin, long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a strong jaw marked with stubble. The harness digs into his shoulders. What is a living person doing in Hell?
He waves, I wave back.
Then he pulls out a gun and fires. It’s such a casual movement that I hardly notice it. Don’t even react until it’s done. My stomach flips, I throw my hands in the air, and stumble backwards, then catch my balance on the back of a chair.
The window stars, but doesn’t implode. You have more than double-glazing when your office faces Hell.
Through the fragmentation of the glass, I see the ‘cleaner’ frown.
I look at the door; I’m much further from it than the window. If I run that way I’ll probably get a shot or two in the back and, while I’m at it, lead him into the office. Enough people have died in here this year already. It seems clear that he’s only after me – and if this is about me, I want to keep it that way. Besides, I’ve taken bullets before and survived them easily. I lift up a chair. Not the throne, that weighs a bloody tonne.
He fires again. The window shatters this time, glass going everywhere. The bullet thwacks against the wall behind me. Alarms sound throughout the building and the One Tree’s creaking intensifies to a dull roar now there’s no glass to block it out. Hell has entered the building.
My arm tingles, then burns. Wal extrudes from my flesh. He pulls the most impressive double-take I have ever seen, his wings fluttering madly.
‘What the hell?’
‘Gun!’ I shout. ‘Assassination attempt!’
‘Right, then. Shouldn’t you be running the other way?’
‘Shut up and help!’ I yell.
I charge towards the gunman, the chair gripped in my hands as though
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