Managing Death by Trent Jamieson

between us. She’s in her usual black get-up: a Mickey Mouse brooch on one collar of her blouse. I don’t get the appeal of Walt Disney characters – give me Bugs Bunny any day – but I’m so happy to see her.
    ‘Are you OK?’ Lissa asks. She grabs me tight enough that my ribs creak.
    ‘Yeah, I am.’ I groan in her embrace. ‘Well, I think I am.’
    Brooker nods. ‘He’s fine.’ He’s already packing up his bag: good doctors are always in demand. ‘As far as I know, nothing can really hurt him, just slow him down a little.’
    ‘Define hurt. My foot’s throbbing!’
    ‘Well, the glass was part of Number Four, I’d say that’s why it hurts you so much.’ He rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘Or it could be that your body is still getting used to what it has become. The pain may just be old habits dying hard.’
    I wish they’d die a little more easily.
    Lissa pulls back, looks at me, and winces. Oh, I’d forgotten about the ear. It starts to sting, but now no more than a scratch might. The top of the ear is already growing back.
    Tim peers through the door. Dr Brooker delivered him as well. ‘He OK, Dr Brooker?’
    ‘Nothing a bit of rest won’t fix. He’s an RM: both wounds will heal quickly, not like the rest of us idiots.’ Dr Brooker looks at me. ‘Just be careful.’
    His phone chirrups, signalling another emergency, or a game of golf. He merely looks at it, grunts, and with a curt nod, leaves the room.
    I glance over at Tim. ‘OK, we’re six hours into the working day and I’ve already been shot at. I want to know why, and I want to know now.’
    ‘I’m already on it,’ Tim says, pulling his phone out. ‘I’ll call Doug at my old department.’ Doug Anderson is a good choice. The man has more fingers in more pies than anyone we know. He took up Tim’s role as policy advisor and head of Pomp/government relations. ‘The last time this happened … ’
    Call me a pessimist, but I have a terrible certainty that this is going to be worse.
    And why’s Morrigan in my dreams again? He’s gone, and there’s no coming back for him. As Mr D said, after the knife fight of the Negotiation, Morrigan’s soul was obliterated.
    I can’t be feeling guilty about that, surely?

9
    S eems I’m stuck in my office. Despite her concern, Lissa couldn’t stay long. Her hand is bandaged again, another cut, another stir. And she’s always on the hunt for potential Pomps. That’s hard work. Like Tim said, we advertise, of course, but that’s not easy either. The job titles are deliberately vague, the interview process detailed and convoluted. None of us earlier generation Pomps ever had to interview for the job. Our families had all worked for Mortmax for generations, probably since the last Schism.
    There’s just too much work to be done. People never stop dying, and there are not enough of us to make sure the transition is smooth.
    For all its healing attributes, the chair itself really isn’t that comfortable. Not enough lumbar support or something. I’d rather sit in a recliner, but no recliner I know is going to knit me back together as quickly. A fella could go mad with all this sitting,
Rear Window
style. I’m used to being on my feet, out and about: pomping the dead, and stalling Stirrers.
    I keep having to remind myself that that is in thepast now. The first thing I can do is check on my staff. Make sure I’m not letting them down anymore.
    I close my eyes; connect with all my Pomps, the 104 people that I have working around the country. My other Pomps, my Avians – the sparrows, crows and ibis – work as good eyes but they are hard to control and their ‘process’ in stalling a stir involves a considerable amount of pecking. I find directing them gives me a migraine which makes practice somewhat unappealing. Generally they’re left pomping the spirits of animals, those big-brained enough to cage a soul.
    The window’s already repaired, and the floor has digested the broken glass.