Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

I turn to Lissa. "Why didn't I…?"

She shakes her head. "The day you had, Steve. It's lucky you're not dead."

"I'm sorry," I say to Tim. "I really am."

"Yeah. At least you're OK."

As if this can even remotely be called OK. None of us are.

"Who's in the back there?" Tim asks.

"It's a dead girl. She's been following me around."

I hear a loud humph, at that from the back. "Following, well, I-"

"You two have a thing going?"

I shrug. "She's dead, Tim."

"She's also right here," Lissa says. "Like, hello!"

I frown at her. Then turn back to Tim. "Someone's killing Pomps. She's a Pomp, she knows how to trick up death a bit. She warned me."

"Mom's dead," Tim says. "Dad, too. The family. She couldn't have warned them."

"I was just lucky, I suppose. Just lucky," I say, and I know that's not quite right but I can't think of anything else to say.

Tim jabs a finger in my face. "The next time you call me, fucking be a little more specific, eh." He glances toward the road, just in time to swerve out of the way of a fire engine, its lights blazing. "Maybe I could have done something."

"It was already too late then," I say. "If there'd been anything I could have… Christ, Tim, you weren't the only one to lose family."

Tim slows the car.

"They're all gone. Your mom said that she loves you. Tim, you and Sally, and the kids, you have to-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Tim says. "Sally, the kids, they're already on a flight to London."

"Aunt Teagan?"

"Yeah. Steve, we have to get you out of here. I'm safe, they're not going for Black Sheep. I've checked the register. Not a single fatality in six weeks. You're the only one in danger here. Not me, certainly not the dead girl."

"Lissa," I say. "That's her name."

He looks at me, shakes his head. "You've never made it easy on yourself. The ones you fall for."

My cheeks are burning, so there's no point in denial. Tim pretends to ignore it.

"I'm sure Lissa doesn't want you dead. It's crazy that you don't run."

I raise my hands in the air. "I know, but I'm staying. I need to get to the bottom of this. Maybe after this is done, whatever it is that needs to be done. If I live long enough. But if I stop now, and think…" My eyes start to well up. There's a dark wave of loss towering over me, but I can't acknowledge that now. I wipe the tears away with my thumb.

A couple more fire engines race past us. "Jesus, Steve, you've put on a show," Tim says.

"I can't have you driving me around," I say. "Even in this car. It's too dangerous. I'm a target. Every moment you're with me puts you in danger. I don't care what the guy on the phone said. I need you to stay out of this."

"Fuck that."

"Tim. I can't be responsible for your death. I just can't. You've got kids. A wife. You have to think of them, mate."

Tim's shoulders tense. "That's bullshit," he says. "Here we fucking go again, just because I'm a Black Sheep. Because I didn't become a Pomp."

"No, it isn't, and you know it. Shit, if you were a Pomp, you'd probably be dead by now." I take a deep breath. "You need to be safe. Promise me you will."

Tim glares at me. There's an anger there that I'd never seen before, and it hurts me to see it. Then the more methodical part of his brain starts reining in his rage. "OK," he says at last. "Where do you want me to take you?"

I give him an address, not very far away. We're there in a couple of minutes. No one follows us: the streets are almost empty. Tim pulls the car to the side of the road.

"Thank you," I say. "If you can, get out of town. I think this is going to get worse before it gets better-if it ever gets better. Stay at a friend's place for a few days."

Tim nods, though I know he's just going to go home and try and deal with what's going on. "Be safe, you bastard," he says, then turns and speaks to the back seat. "Take care of him. He's all the family I have left, even if he is a Pomp." I don't have the heart to tell him that Lissa's already out and standing on the side of the road.

"You be safe, too." I get out of the car.

Tim glances at me, and all I see are the wounds that he's carrying, the hurts that I recognize because they are the same as my own. It almost brings me to my knees. He slips the car into gear and shoots off down the street.

"Interesting guy," Lissa says. "Now, tell me, why are we here?"

"My car's round the back." I point at the nearby garage. "It's supposed to be fixed." I jingle my keys. "We're going to be on the road in no time."

We're just turning into the mechanic's-the place is closed for the night, just the cars waiting to be picked up-when there's an almighty explosion. A wave of heat strikes me. I smell what's left of the hair on my arms.

"Don't tell me," Lissa says.

"Yeah."

Bits of my car fall from the sky. A dark shape streaks out of the flame toward me. It's a crow-a big one-and its wings are aflame. It races toward my head, a shrieking, flapping comet. An omen if I've ever seen one. I cringe and duck, throwing my hands up before my face. But it's already gone.

I swing around to Lissa, her pale blue face lit by the fire coming from my car, her mouth open. She looks as horrified as I feel.

"What the hell does that mean?" Lissa asks.

"It means that wherever we're going, we're walking for a bit." I look around at all that flame, and the dark sky filling up with smoke. My environmental footprint has broadened considerably this evening. "Maybe we should start running again."

Things can't get any worse, except I'm certain that they will. It's the first new law of the universe according to Steven de Selby's life: things always get worse-and then they explode.

So I'm dead," Mike says to me and blinks, his eyes wide.

The newly dead blink a lot.

It's more from the memory of the flesh than any brilliance in the afterlife. There's no walking into the light or any of that nonsense, their eyes are just adjusting to a new way of seeing the world. It's a doors of perception sort of thing.

I have an inkling of what that feels like now, because my world has had its doors and its walls blown open, one after the other with all the ruthlessness of a carpet bomber. I'm feeling a little more than angry. Which isn't the kind of thing you want to bring to the job, it's wildly unprofessional. If this is even a profession anymore.

"Yeah, Mike." I glance around, not sure if anyone is following us. "I'm sorry to say it but, yeah, you're dead."

"Well, this wasn't what I was expecting." He's a bit hesitant. I can't get near him, maybe I'm not helping that much. I'm not really in the mood.

Mike is the fourth dead person who's found me since my car exploded, and that was only an hour ago. Two others were Pomps, the third a punter like Mike. I hadn't seen the Pomps since last year's Christmas party; one of them had gotten a little amorous with the bar staff. Poor bastard-that stuff sticks to you-even dead he couldn't look me in the eye. With them gone I'm probably the only Pomp in the city. Maybe the only Pomp in Australia. And every dead Pomp means more work for me, more of that dreadful pain.

"I'm sorry," I say again to Mike, and I really am.

"Don't be. I'm OK with it," Mike says, shrugging. He's not a Pomp, just a punter, a regular dead guy. "It was hurting at the end. This is much better. I'm really OK with it."

"Good." I'm not OK with death, but I'm trying to cling to my flesh and bones. Shit, I catch myself, I'm being so unprofessional.

"So who is she?" Mike points a thumb at Lissa.

"I'm dead too, Mike," Lissa says, even manages a smile.

Mike nods. Lissa lets this sink in. He blinks, looks her up and down. He obviously likes what he sees. Once again I feel a little tug of jealousy. "You cool with it?" Mike asks.