Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

For me, pomping was the perfect job. There was no real responsibility, and it was good money. I had few friends, other than family, and a few people whose blogs I read. There I was, walking and talking through life, not having much impact, not taking too many hits either.

The problem with that is that it doesn't work. The universe is always going to kick you, and time's waiting to take things away. If my job hadn't made that obvious, well, I'd deserved what had happened to me.

In my case it had taken everything at once. And put in front of me the sort of woman I might have found if I'd actually been in there, living.

I realize that I've been staring into her eyes.

"Don't fall in love with me," Lissa says.

Too late. It's far too late for that.

"You've got tickets on yourself," I say softly. "Fall in love with you? As if!"

I look up. The bus driver's staring at me. Half the people in the bus are. I didn't realize I'd been talking so loudly. Talking to myself, as far as they can tell.

"I'm serious." Lissa turns her head, stares out of the window.

"Too serious," I say, not sure that she is even listening. We sit in silence for the next few minutes until we're a stop away from the heart of Albion. I jab the red stop signal like it's some sort of eject button. The bus pulls in, the doors open and I'm out on the street, in a different world. Restaurants are packed to the rafters with diners. The place is bustling.

That's not where Don and Sam are, though.

"Aha," I point west. "I can already feel them."

We wander down the street, a steep curve, the traffic rushing by, desperate for whatever the night has on offer.

There are some nice parts of Albion. On the whole it's a ritzy part of Brisbane, but no one's told this bit of the suburb. The restaurants are behind us now, and we're descending from the urbane part of suburbia to the sub. It's no war zone but there's a burnt wreck of a bikie club a few blocks down, and a couple of brothels nearby. You can smell petrol fumes and dust. The city's skyline is in front of us, high-rises and skyscrapers bunched together, lighting the sky. You can't see Mount Coot-tha from here but I can feel One Tree Hill, just like I can feel Don and Sam. They must be able to do the same.

They're holed up in an old Queenslander which would have been nice, once, with its broad, covered verandah all the way around, big windows and double doors open invitingly to catch afternoon breezes. Not anymore, though. You could describe it as some sort of renovator's delight-if they had a wrecking ball.

"Absolutely delightful place," Lissa says. We both have a little chuckle at that.

The corrugated roof dips in one corner of the front verandah like a perpetually drooping eye, as though the house had once suffered some sort of seizure. Some of the wooden stumps the building's sitting on have collapsed. It's a dinosaur sinking into itself.

"Still looking at about half a million for it I reckon."

"Real estate, everything's about bloody real estate," Lissa says. "That's the problem with the world today."

"Well, it's a prime location."

Lissa grimaces. "If you want easy access to pimps and car washes."

"The train station is just up the road, don't forget that."

"And what a delightful walk that is."

I make my way gingerly up the front steps. One in every three is missing. The front porch has seen better days, too, and that's being generous. The wood's so rotten that even the termites have moved on to richer pastures, and whatever paint remains on the boards is peeling and gray, and smells a little fungal.

As I reach for the door, something pomps through me, another death from God knows where. Not again. There's more of that far too frequent pain, and I'm bent over as the door opens a crack. I'm too sore to run, so I push it and find myself staring down the barrel of a rifle. I know the face at the other end of the gun, and there's not much welcome in it.

"Hey," I say. "Am I glad to see you."

"Stay right there," Don growls.

"Don't be stupid, Don," Sam says from the corner of the room. I can just see her there. She's holding a pistol and not looking happy. "It's Steve."

"How'd you find us?" Don demands.

"Morrigan," I say. "He's alive."

"Of course he is," Don says, his face hardening. "He's the bastard who betrayed us all."

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."