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Knives of Negotiation are safe. The Caterers are on their way, and the Death Moot has a venue. Not bad for a day’s work. I’ve texted Lissa, told her I’ll be waiting at home.
    I’m determined to show her I can do this. That I’m not dropping out, and that she isn’t losing me.
    She’s right, I do need to practise my shifting, and I want to read as much of Tim’s briefing notes as I can before she gets home. Here, where I’m relatively free from distractions. I’ve been drifting. Dad once said that pomping is for Pomps and that business is for dickheads. Of course, it didn’t stop him being very good at both. Pomping’s all I’ve ever known, but managing a business is uncomfortably new to me. I like people, but I’m not sure I can tell them what to do. After all, I spent a lot of my time as a Pomp arguing with management. The shit I gave my immediate superior Derek … I almost miss the guy.
    Tim’s last words to me this afternoon, after a very quick beer, were: ‘Meeting tomorrow morning at 8:15. Cerbo. Do not be late. And you would be better off for reading my notes.’ Faber Cerbo is Suzanne Whitman’s Ankou. I’ve not had much to do with him. I wonder what he wants?
    Tim’s notes are extensive, and amusing. He knows his audience, I guess. And I can understand why he might be hurt that I haven’t read them yet. He’s obviously put a lot of work into making it de Selby digestible.
    By the time Lissa pulls into the driveway, I’m a third of the way through the notes and aware of various allegiances within the Orcus or, as Tim has subtitled his report, Who Hates Who. The most prominent allies on the list surprise me: Neill Debbier, South Africa’s RM, and Suzanne Whitman, the RM of North America. Between them they seem to wield the most influence.
    It’s fascinating. As is the fact that Cerbo is Mortmax’s resident expert on the Stirrer god. I should have been pushing for a meeting earlier. Tim’s notes suggest that now, with the Death Moot so close, the lobbying is going to start in earnest. Hence my meeting with Cerbo, I assume.
    I watch Lissa get out of the Corolla. Her face is pinched with the weight of a day’s work. She pomped five souls today. I felt them all, as I did the stall she performed at the Wesley Hospital.
    There’s a bandage wrapped around her hand, and she’s bending over to pick up some groceries. I leap down from the front steps and run to carry them for her.
    ‘You don’t have to,’ she says.
    ‘Bullshit.’ I take the bags from her. ‘Let me look at that hand.’
    ‘It’s nothing. Dr Brooker’s seen to it. Says to say hi.’
    Dr Brooker’s the Brisbane office’s medico. He’s tended to that office since before I was born.
    I take her bandaged hand and kiss it, gently. Wrap my arms around her, and hold her tight. Just liking the way she feels. The corporeality of her.
    The storm’s coming, dark clouds boiling, dogs howling and barking in response to bursts of thunder. The rain sighing, exhaled from above and beating down on a thousand suburban roofs not too far away. The air’s electric and, with it, my region’s heartbeats are shed from me like a cloak. Steam rises from the road.
    Bring on the lightning. Bring on this moment of peace.
    ‘Let’s get inside,’ Lissa says.
    And we do. Just before it starts pissing down.
    I lug the groceries to the kitchen and I’m a few minutes putting stuff away. Looks like there’s cooking going on tonight. For the first time that feels all right. I grab a Coke from the fridge for Lissa and a beer for myself, and we sit out on the balcony. It’s too hot inside.
    Lissa holds my hand and we sit there, drinking our drinks, sweat cold against our skin, and watch the rain fall.
    Storms build slowly but pass too quickly, and soon the pulse of the world is back.
    ‘What are you cooking for dinner?’ I ask.
    Lissa arches an eyebrow.
    ‘What are
we
cooking for dinner?’ I offer.
    ‘You’ll find out.’
    ‘I’m sorry