Thursday, January 24, 2008

Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

And now I'm back. I admit, eight days isn't as quick as I'd like, but still, it's definitely my best performance in quite some time. So I won't worry too much about that.

Anyway, I think I shall keep this introduction brief. Not much has happened in my life as of late, or at least nothing that's really worth telling you all about (if anyone even reads this, that is). The upshot is that I don't have to spend another few paragraphs whining about how little writing time I manage to give myself, and can just get on and give you another story.

The following is the second from my "present collection". I won't give any hints about what to expect, save for this: the title of the post is not a statement of intent. If you know what that means, you're already half-way there; if not, don't worry about it, 'cause the story will explain in time.

Well, I think that's all from me. On with the story...






The Walls Of Jericho


A man may have a hundred children and live a long life; but however many his days may be, if he does not get satisfaction from the good things of life and in the end receives no burial, then I maintain that the still-born child is in better case than he.

- Ecclesiastes 4:3


When David Willis had left for work on this Thursday morning, there was no thunder in the heavens. There were no clouds of locusts on the horizon. There were no rats swarming the streets. The waters had not turned red with blood. There were no omens of any description, good, ill or otherwise, nothing at all to suggest that this Thursday was any different from the countless others before it. There wasn’t even a mildly eerie rainstorm, the sun instead being up, out and shining away in the cloudless skies, like the irritatingly cheerful fucker it was.

The only problem with his morning was that the bus had been late: combined with roadworks on Gregorian Road, this meant he didn’t arrive at Barratech Boxes, Inc. until 8:28am, seven minutes after he’d planned. But still, he’d tried to make up for the lost time, and by 9:34am, he’d already viewed and responded to his e-mails (all four of them), as well as started work on the day’s dispatch reports. Only an hour and six minutes at work, and he was doing well already.

Barratech Boxes, as the name indicated, manufactured boxes, of all sizes, shapes, materials and designs. This was a fairly important, albeit unsung, service, so there were always enough customers to make sure no one ever worried about job security. As a result, David had comfortably spent his thirteen years of service with the company in the same post, that of Distribution Services Authenticator. Each time a box was put together and then placed in a truck, it would be logged onto the central computer system, and each time a full truck was sent off, a report of all those logs was sent up to David’s cubicle. Essentially, his job was to compare these reports to the orders sent in by their customers, to ensure that the boxes sent off were the ones that should have been sent off: usually they were, but when they weren’t, he would have to notify both his manager and the factory floor, and make sure the correct truck was sent with a written apology attached. This only happened once every few months, but with an average of six trucks leaving every hour, there was still always a steady flow of reports to keep him busy.

On the whole, David enjoyed his work. He liked numbers and patterns and lists: he liked their simplicity, their orderliness, their innate sense of balance. He liked that warm feeling he got when the reports matched up, when the universe continued to run to its steady beat. And even when they didn’t match up, when the resulting merry circus kicked off, he still liked the process of putting it all back into balance. Sometimes, when it got to around 5pm, he would find himself clock-watching, but then he would just get another report and put the feeling behind him. Ultimately, he was good at his work, and it allowed him a simple, quiet lifestyle, the kind he felt best suited him. Yes, he enjoyed it.

At the moment, he was working on a report for Niceday, an office supplies wholesaler: amusingly, they operated a depot on the same commercial estate where Barratech lived, only three units down. Their order was for ten thousand of the 75cm cardboard cuboids, all with the Niceday logo and slogan printed on the side. So far, everything matched up, but it would take another few minutes of checking to be absolutely sure.

“David?”

The voice startled him, not least because the person who spoke was only a few feet away. He hadn’t realised he’d become that absorbed in his work.

David put down his pen, and span his chair round to face the newcomer. It was Louise, the manager’s PA, a woman in her mid-twenties who, to David’s eyes at least, was not entirely unattractive. Of course, that shouldn’t make a difference in the business world, but somehow, it did. He liked that she always kept her appearance simple and modest, with her plain black trouser suit, and her blonde hair tied into a single ponytail, and he liked that, despite her role, she never took part in the petty gossip that fuelled the office lunch breaks. Though he had no intentions of ever saying it aloud – he was old enough to be her father, for Christ’s sake – he could always find time for whatever she needed.

“Hi, Louise.” he said with a light smile. “How can I help?”

“Miranda wants to see you in her office. As soon as possible.”

“Really?. Do you know what for?”

Louise shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Oh. I guess I’d better head over. Thanks, Louise.”

“No problem.”

Louise gave a quick smile and walked away. David stood up, slid his chair under the desk and left his cubicle. Miranda’s office was on the floor above this room, about five minute’s trek from the lifts.

That he was being summoned by Miranda was a little worrying. She was the CEO of Barratech, and a woman he only met a few times a year, at Christmas parties and whatnot: he usually dealt with Michael, the head of “support staff” like David. Despite having to meet with someone so far up the tree, he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong for quite some time, so this probably wouldn’t be bad news. But all the same, he couldn’t shake a strong feeling of unease. It was a vague and unhelpful feeling, directed only at a sense that running away, right now, would be a wonderful idea.

He just put it down to the typical human dread of uncertainty. The lack of ill omens didn’t help: if he had known what he was walking into on this sunny Thursday morning, then he wouldn’t have even stayed long enough to grab his coat.

* * * * *

As things turned out, it wasn’t just Miranda who wanted to see him. There was also Michael, and Lewis, the reclusive head of Human Resources. Miranda’s office was large and clean, big enough to hold a boardroom table in its centre, with enough room to comfortably fit several filing cabinets, and a desk by the full-length blinded windows. It was decorated in uniform grey paint and grey carpet, its only decoration being a landscape painting of medieval Jerusalem.

Miranda, Michael and Lewis were all sat in a row on one side of the boardroom table, a number of papers spread in front of them. For half a second of absolute panic, David thought he’d been sent back in time to his first interview. But then he got a grip on himself, and was merely confused as to what in the hell was going on.

More worrying still, the three managers were looking a little nervous themselves. And when managers got bad news, they tended to spread it around.

“Good morning, David.” Miranda said, calm voice clearly faked. “Please, sit down. There’s nothing to worry about. We just have a job for you.”

That couldn’t be good. Either way, David thought it best to not ask questions. He sat down on the nearest chair, the opposite side of the table from his three superiors.

Miranda cleared her throat. “Right then. I guess I should ask the obvious question first. Are you a religious man, David?”

David blinked. What did that have to do with anything?

“Not especially, no.”

Miranda nodded. “Okay. Well, that should make things easier for you.” She didn’t elaborate, and David didn’t feel brave enough to ask her to.

“Umm…” she continued, “as you know, David, Barratech Boxes is a subsidiary of Exocel Acquisitions.”

David nodded, if only because it seemed appropriate. He did know, but it wasn’t a piece of information he needed to use every day.

“They currently own seventeen separate businesses, including ourselves.” Miranda went on. “Over the last six months, they have been negotiating to buy an eighteenth. Last night, they informed us that it has been successful. They now, umm…own 63% of Hell.”

“Oh, okay.” David said, more intelligent responses taking cover somewhere in the back of his brain.

Miranda briefly glanced at Michael, perhaps in pleading. Either way, he subsequently clasped his hands together, as was his wont, and took over the briefing.

“Exocel are concerned,” he said tonelessly, “that Hell is not sufficiently geared towards making a profit, and would like someone to visit them and suggest ways to remedy the situation. As Barratech is, apparently, umm…the site with easiest transportation to Hell, the, umm…responsibility of doing so, has fallen to us.”

Instantly, David could see just where this was going.

“I’m assuming that you want me to take care of it.”

Lewis was the one who answered the question. “Yes.” he said, clearing his throat. “We know this isn’t your usual area of expertise, but this is a very important assignment, and we need someone we can trust. Someone who wouldn’t, umm…get any funny ideas.”

If was being completely honest with himself, David had been assuming this to be some kind of elaborate prank against him. But Barratech Boxes wasn’t known for its practical jokes, and besides, something about these three suggested they were being genuine. For one thing, neither Miranda, Michael or Lewis ever said “umm.”

So, whilst this was still a completely bizarre assignment, he was willing to take it on. At the very least, an excursion would do him good.

“Okay.” he said, after a brief lull in the conversation. “When do you want me to leave?”

“As Exocel explained it to us,” Michael said, “time is a relative concept in Hell. So feel free to leave whenever you’re ready. Just go to the lift at the end of the corridor, and go to floor six-hundred and sixty-six. It should be a fairly simple journey.”

“And we would appreciate it, David,” Lewis suddenly chipped in, “if you kept all of this to yourself. Otherwise, things could, umm…get out of hand.”

David nodded. The need for secrecy made a kind of sense: after all, this was completely bizarre.

He was also beginning to understand why his employers were so nervous. It wasn’t so much that Hell really existed, and had been bought out by their company’s owners – though that was still fairly troublesome – so much that the responsibility for its success had suddenly been thrust onto their shoulders. Barratech Boxes had always been left to just do its own thing, so having others rely on them so heavily was an unwelcome novelty. David would doubtless feel the pressure himself before long, but he was happy to wait for everything to sink in first.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet.” he said. “I guess I’d better head on down there.”

He stood up slowly. He waned to make a move sharpish, but it would be rude to just run.

“Thank you, David.” Miranda said, just before he turned for the door. “Your efforts will not go unappreciated.”

* * * * *

According to the clock hung above David’s computer, it was now 10:21am. He pulled out his briefcase from under the desk, and packed the few things he reckoned he’d need: A4 lined pad, pens and pencils, pocket calculator, plastic wallet with some Barratech promo documents (for inspiration), Tupperware box with two home-made cheese and pickle sandwiches (for lunch). He considered picking up his coat as well, but Hell would probably be quite warm, so he instead took his phone, wallet and house keys out of the pockets and put them in the briefcase as well.

He shut the briefcase, picked it up and had a final look around the cubicle. It was a cosy little thing, eight feet by eight feet, its walls a dark blue fur. Most of the other thirty-nine cubicles in the room had calendars, funny pictures/sayings, photos of the partner and kids or similar decorations, but David kept his plain and tidy: if he’d had a family, then doubtless there would be photos, but as it was, the clock was his only adornment. He also liked to keep his desk scrupulously clean, all absolutely non-essential items confined to either the drawers, the In tray or the Out tray. His colleagues often considered him scarily neat, but David had simply maintained his corner of the universe in the way he liked it.

“You off somewhere, David?” The voice was from the cubicle to his left: indeed, Jeff’s smiling face was peering over the wall. Jeff smiled a lot, which some people felt odd for a guy who had to review customer complaints for a living, but as far as David was concerned, any job was enjoyable to the right mind.

“Yeah. Apparently there’s some contractors I need to meet. I don’t know why, but I’ll be told on the way. Should be interesting.”

Though David disliked lies, he’d always been able to tell them fairly convincingly. He’d been practising that one in particular since he left Michael’s office, so he was able to keep a straight face.

Jeff shrugged, then smiled. “Well…enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will. See you later.”

Jeff smiled again, and dropped back into his cubicle. David walked towards the door at the end of the room, where the lift waiting for him in the corridor beyond. As he reached the door, he turned back to face the mass of cubicles. The room was large, over a hundred feet long, but for the briefest moment, it became even larger. For half a second, the identikit cubicles, the harsh strip lighting, the white walls spotted with ridiculous motivational posters, all seemed to stretch for an infinity that was truly appalling to the soul. But then he blinked, and the room was back to normal.

He turned back and went through the door. The corridor stretched off to the left and right: the lift was to the left, at the far end. He walked over to the lift, his shoes squeaking on the plastic floor, and pressed the Call button. The doors opened instantly, the first time in months they’d managed to do so, and he stepped inside.

Just as Michael said, there was a button marked “666”, right between “G” and “< >”. It definitely wasn’t there when he used the lift this morning, and in a moment’s clarity, he knew that it wouldn’t be there when the next person came along. Though not reassured by this, he had a job to do, and so he calmly pressed the button. The doors closed, and he felt the lift begin to descend.

As David had said, he wasn’t a religious man. He considered himself to be an agnostic, more or less: he didn’t know whether or not God existed, and the question also wasn’t of much concern to him. From what he’d experienced of the world – which, admittedly, wasn’t a whole lot – even if God did exist, then He didn’t much care for the well-being of His creation, which made any ideas of worshipping Him pretty much moot. But all the same, now that Hell seemed to really exist after all, he had to conclude that so did Heaven and God. He wasn’t sure what he felt about that, if he felt anything at all. On the other hand, he understood that others would have less unconcerned responses, which certainly explained Miranda’s opening question.

It was also becoming apparent to him that, even if he had a more useful temperament than others, he was still completely the wrong man for the job. He was a professional double-checker, not an ideas fountain: how could he help craft a successful business, especially one with the kind of profit margin that was so clearly expected? But still, he was here now, and at the very least, he would just have to explain his situation to…well, Satan, he supposed, and hope that he could pull something out of the hat. That prospect alarmed him a little more than he was expecting.

Whilst he waited, and tried to think of ideas that weren’t forthcoming, David double-checked his appearance in the lift’s shiny metal walls. They weren’t designed as mirrors, of course, so his reflection was distorted and only borderline recognisable, but the wavy image starting back at him seemed to be looking okay. The black jacket and black trousers were unstained and uncreased; the white shirt was clean, with only a few inevitable creases; the red tie was straight, its knot the right size and in the right place; the black shoes were polished, dry and unsoiled; the short black hair was washed and unruffled, the small, metal-framed black glasses level on his face. He was not a vain man, but all the same, he took pride in looking presentable: a decent first impression was crucial to all dealings, and a smart appearance was crucial to all first impressions.

His watch said that it was now 10:29am, so he’d been in the lift for just over a minute. Considering his destination, this didn’t surprise him much. All the same, this was when the lift finally began to slow down, that weird rising sensation telling him that he was almost at his destination. After a few seconds, the lift stopped altogether, and the doors opened.

David found himself at the edge of a small cave, no larger than fifty feet, its walls a red that looked similar to sandstone. It was largely featureless, only a few small stalactites hanging from the ceiling, and the ground covered in a flat layer of red sand. A tunnel at the far end curved down and off to the right, presumably leading to Hell itself.

The cave’s only occupant was a single man, stood facing him a few feet away. He was clearly a man, and clearly humanoid, but it was also obvious that he did not belong to any of the species walking around upstairs. He was immensely pale, almost chalk-coloured, about seven feet in height and, whilst not muscular, was still clearly familiar with the notion of exercise. He wore what was best described as a grey jumpsuit, though he went barefoot, both his toe- and fingernails equipped with short black spikes, and his shoulder-length, faintly greasy black hair was tied back into a ponytail. However, his two most notable features were also his most unusual: yellow eyes, with black eyeballs and vertical slits like a cat, and a pair of black feathery wings, currently folded up but still a good foot taller than he was.

Despite his extraordinary appearance, the man was definitely, in his own way, very good-looking. David was not pre-disposed to finding his fellow men attractive, but nevertheless, the thought struck him that this man, whatever he would turn out to be, wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance painting. His first impressions immediately ran to “angel”, but that didn’t seem entirely right, if only because you weren’t supposed to find them in Hell. But whilst he could be seen as sinister, calling him a demon also felt equally improbable.

David stepped out of the lift, its doors quickly closing behind him. The man smiled, revealing two rows of spiked, blindingly white teeth.

“Hi.” the man said. “You must be David Willis. I’ve been expecting you.”

David wasn’t sure if it was only the setting that made that line so intimidating: the man’s low voice, almost like an animal’s purr, probably didn’t help. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. He stuck out his hand, and the man shook it, his grasp firm and warm.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are…”

The man smiled again. “I’m Satan.”

The handshake ended, but Satan carried on talking. “I imagine I’m not what you expected. Don’t worry about that. Hell’s a one-way trip, so when it comes to describing me and my enterprise, people usually just make shit up. But considering the reputation they’ve given, I’m hardly going to complain, am I?”

Despite his momentary sense of unease, meeting Satan himself in the flesh didn’t alarm David as much as he might have thought. Maybe that was because, up and until an hour ago, he’d never expected him to exist.

“Anyway, that’s enough about me.” Satan continued. “I hear you’re the one who’s going to turn this place into a respectable business.”

“Er…yes.”

Satan gave another smile. “Good. I’ve always wanted to get involved in corporate affairs. It looks like so much fun.”

“I’m not that far up the tree, but…yes, I suppose it is.” David had always thought of his job as “interesting” rather than “fun”, but either way, he definitely held his words to be true.

“Good, good. Well, I guess you’ll be wanting to see the shop floor. Get a first-hand look at what you’re working on.”

Truth be told, David didn’t have a clue what he wanted. His only plan was to just follow the tide of fate until a better idea turned up. But Satan’s suggestion would do for now.

“Er…that would help, yes.”

“Great. It’s not far from here, so just follow me.”

Satan turned and started walking towards the tunnel. David, as requested, followed a few paces behind. The sand crunched beneath his feet, and it was only now, after a full conversation, that he realised the cave didn’t echo. But this was the least unusual thing about the scene, so he put it aside.

The two of the them headed down the tunnel, which, after a few hundred metres or so, curved off to the left and started to level out. It widened slightly, and they soon arrived at a set of high wooden doors, curved up to a tip in a very Gothic style. Above the doors, in a flowing script written in some kind of metal, were the following words:


Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here


Satan looked up the inscription and laughed. “It’s from Dante. I’ve always wished that I’d thought of it myself.”

David allowed himself a smile. Dante would probably appreciate the tribute.

Satan stepped forward and pushed open the doors, their protracted creaking ominous and yet somehow predictable.

“Welcome to Hell.” he said.

David found himself confronted with another cave, only in this case, such a limited word failed to do it any sort of justice. The space was vast, almost impossibly vast, its walls so far away that they seemed to disappear into the horizon. Small batches of cloud (or large ones: the space made scaling difficult) drifted in slow patterns, both above and below the wide ledge in which he now stood, some of them turned a moody grey and raining forlornly on the ground far below. The cave’s bottom, viewed from the vertigo-inducing distance of tall buildings, was a near-infinite honeycomb of pits, their size probably large but still too far away to properly judge. Each pit seemed to have different contents, fire or mud or snakes or something else equally unpleasant, lit by red lamps that dotted the ridges between them: with the amount of pits, the lamps produced a glow that lit up the cave itself, turning the clouds weird shades as they circled. An army of beings in similar appearance to Satan, obviously demons of varying types, patrolled the space in ones and twos, some crawling, some walking, some flying.

David was not a man accustomed to dealing with immensity. He put his hand over his mouth, unable to do anything except stare in shock and awe. Through this mental stillness, the fact slowly entered his brain that Hell was weirdly quiet: there was the spatter of rain, the occasional chatter of demons filtering up, but none of the moaning and screaming that he would have perhaps expected. But then again, what part of his day so far wasn’t odd?

Satan turned to face him. “Also not what you expected, I see. We’ve tried a variety of layouts over the eons, but this one seems to be the best. Like with most things, the simplest solution is just to borrow from the Greeks.”

He gestured for David to come closer to the edge. He did so, gingerly: he didn’t usually get vertigo, but this place didn’t seem to care.

“We carry out our job on an entirely subjective basis.” Satan explained. “Each pit is for a single person, and the punishment they receive is tailored to fit their particular sins and weaknesses. It heightens the unpleasantness, and this being Hell, that’s precisely what you want.”

He pointed to three pits in turn. The distance made it hard for David to tell which exact ones were being pointed at, but he wasn’t going to ask.

“See that guy there? He’s George Hamilton, and in 1836, he murdered his wife and kids for fun. He’s not big on nature, so after the British hung him, we made sure he was stuck in a forest that wants to kill him. Over there is Jerry Cordin, who thought he was a 38th-century Casanova. We thought he was a prick, so now he has a harem of extra-freaky space mutants. And that unlucky soul is Ani Milozni, who got her kicks from torturing Teutonic Knights with carnivorous bugs. So guess what we’re now doing to her.”

Satan paused briefly. “It probably strikes you as very quiet. It does me, I know. We used to have all the wailing and grinding of teeth, but frankly, it gets on your nerves after a while. So we just them all scream to themselves these days.

“It’s a well-run enterprise, in all. Of course, we don’t count much on customer satisfaction, but my men are loyal and work hard, and we find ways to keep ourselves amused. We enjoy it here.”

David just nodded. It certainly all seemed very Hell-ish, despite, or rather because of, Satan’s pride. And now that the shock was starting to be less paralysing, he was also beginning to have a few ideas for the business. There was definitely potential here, though he’d have to wait and see if his contributions would help.

Satan seemed to pick up on his optimism. He pointed off to the right, where an archway could just about be seen near the cave’s floor. A wide pathway curved down across the wall, linking the ledge with that spot.

“My office is just down there.” he said. “I’ll give you a proper tour of the shop floor later, but for now, I suggest we talk business. I imagine you’ve got lots to say.”

* * * * *

Satan’s office was spacious and tidy, its only furnishings being a large desk, three comfy chairs and two aging filing cabinets. It had been carved out of bedrock, much like the rest of Hell, yet the sandstone walls had been smoothed enough to hang a painting, an unspecified tropical beach at night. The only other items were a computer sat on the desk, a Dilbert desk calendar next to it, and a goldfish bowl on one of the cabinets, its sole fish occupant swimming in deranged circles around a small and obviously plastic ruined castle.

Satan was sat on the chair behind the desk, his wings hooked over its back. He leaned back and cracked his knuckles.

“So, what do you suggest?” he said. “How can Hell elevate itself into the business world?”

David thought for a few moments. He knew what he wanted to say, but still wasn’t entirely sure how. He was also beginning to realise the full nature of his responsibility: he was already aware that this assignment was of vital importance to Barratech Boxes, not to mention Exocel, but it was only now becoming clear to him how necessary it was that he be impressive here. If Satan thought his suggestions rubbish and chose another business partner, then his career would be over before he even left this office. Of course, Satan seemed fairly easy-going thus far, but the pressure did not give him much reassurance.

But then, in that merciful way we often think of things when worried, a thought came to him.

“Well…to be able to turn a profit, you need something to sell.” He paused for a second, then frowned. “That sounded a little more obvious than I thought it would.”

Satan just shrugged. “All ideas are welcome, David. And besides, that doesn’t explain what we can sell.”

“That’s why you use what I like to call “Hell money”. When people are alive, they stock up on special currency. That, or their families can donate it after their death, or a combination of both. Either way, once someone has died and come here, they can use the currency they have to buy a less unpleasant experience. They can reduce their punishment, get things that make themselves more comfortable, or if they’ve got enough currency, they can escape Hell altogether. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Satan laughed. “I think that’s inspired, David. We’ll have to run up a catalogue of things to sell, of course, but Lilith’s always been good at that sort of thing. I’m not sure if she wants to speak to me right now, though…” he smiled, perhaps nervously. “…Though that’s a story for another time.”

David didn’t respond. He’d never imagined Satan to have relationship problems, but then again, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

“You ever been married, David?” Satan asked with a smile.

“Err…no. No I haven’t.”

“Technically speaking, neither have I. But I’ve come close enough, and take it from me, whoever thought up the idea should have a prime spot on the shop floor.”

David just nodded.

“So,” Satan continued, “what other ideas do you have?”

David was glad to get back on track. “Personally, I think a new layout would be useful.”

Satan raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Err…yes. To encourage people to spend their Hell money a little quicker, I think you should try and conform more to people’s expectations of this place. Give yourselves a more traditional look. Throw people in lakes of boiling fire, get your demons to stab them with pitchforks, all that kind of thing. I hope you get what I’m after here.”

“Yes, I do. ‘Realise the nightmare’, that seems to be your point.”

David nodded. “That’s it, yes. The key rule of business is to always give your customers what they expect. What they expect here is unpleasantness, and usually a very specific kind. You give them that, and they’ll respond to the other services you offer. I mean, you already run a very impressive operation, don’t get me wrong about that, but, you know…”

“Things can always get worse, yes.” Satan paused, then grinned. “‘Always give your customers what they expect’. I’ll have to remember that. Thank you, David.”

“My pleasure.”

“I must say, it’s quite odd to say ‘customers’. I’ve never thought of them that way before. But I guess they are now, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

David suddenly had another idea, one he was amazed had taken him this long. “I suggest you also extend the range of sins available. The more customers you can get through your doors, the better. Of course, it’s up to you what sins you create, but personally, I’ve always had a big problem with people who eat peppers.”

Satan laughed, far more uproariously than David had been hoping. “Good thinking, David. I can’t stand peppers either. But still, what is or isn’t a sin is more a prerogative of Dad upstairs, but I’ll put a word in. These days, he usually agrees to my requests.”

“Well, that’ll be helpful.”

David, for maybe the first time in a long while, was beginning to feel quite pleased with himself. His ideas, odd and last-minute they may have been, were actually being well-received. He’d never had to propose business ideas before, and especially not under these circumstances, and he was doing far better than he’d dared to hope. Satan actually seemed quite excited by it all.

Of course, that was when another realisation caught up with him. He was about to voice it when he started hearing a soft banging sound from the direction of the filing cabinets. He looked over to see the goldfish repeatedly head-butting the wall of its bowl, a fish’s usual vacant stare replaced with a frenzied, bug-eyed look. David had to suppress an uncharacteristic urge to laugh.

Satan looked over his shoulder to follow David’s gaze, then quickly looked back. “Don’t worry about that.” he said. “That’s just Darwin. He does things like that all the time.”

He paused, then shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. Have no fear, evolution is real. But rules are rules, and you don’t wage war on religious doctrine without paying the price. Besides, I imagine he sees the funny side.”

David didn’t say anything. He didn’t see Darwin laughing at all: in fact, he felt an unpleasant moment of empathy with the man. But he tried to put the feeling aside. He still had a job to finish.

“So, Satan…” Actually saying the name aloud made David pause, but he made himself continue anyway. “…What do you think of my proposals so far? I appreciate that they’ll be quite complicated to carry out, but if I have a little more time, I’m sure I can come up with something more sensible.”

Satan waved his hand, as if to swat away David’s concern. “Don’t worry about that, David. I know you haven’t had much time. And anyway, Hell does not run according to your laws of physics. We can do whatever we wish to this place. We could even make it dance on the head of a pin, if we could ever find a point in doing so.” He smiled briefly. “Excuse the pun.

“Still, I think your proposals so far are brilliant. As far as I’m concerned, any step in the direction of the corporate world is one worth making. We’ll certainly make the changes you suggested, and then we’ll see what you come up with next. I’m sure it’ll be exciting. If you like, you can stick around and see the results.”

.“Umm…yeah, sure. I’ll try not to get in the way.” David noted that time down here was relative, so it wouldn’t hurt him to stay…well, as long as he wanted. He just wasn’t sure how long that would be.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t.”

Satan turned to his computer and tapped at the keyboard a few times. He then leaned towards the microphone attached to the monitor, and cleared his throat.

“Could Kokomo and Aforgomon come to my office, please? There are some things we need to discuss.”

Satan turned back to David and grinned. “I always try to stay on first-name terms with everyone. It makes life run so much easier, I think.”

* * * * *

David looked at his watch. Its hands pointed at 1:46pm: this didn’t give any clues as to the time of day, if indeed there even was one, but it did tell him that, subjectively at least, it had been an hour and a half since Satan and the other demons had done their restructuring work. Truth be told, though, “work” was perhaps the wrong word: they had used only a few word and gestures, and then the physical space of Hell had gradually re-ordered itself. It was a very odd thing to witness, a process best described as watching two scenes fade into each other in a film, only in three vivid dimensions. It was largely impossible to say when exactly the old Hell had changed into this new one, but nonetheless, the change had definitely happened.

For the subsequent ninety minutes, David had been sat alone in Satan’s office, trying to come up with more business ideas. He knew that the best way to do this was to actually spend time on the shop floor, but the demons were still trying to get used to their new working methods, and he didn’t want to get under their feet. So he stayed in the office, relying on his own admittedly limited imagination. However, he’d yet to have any decent brainwaves, partly for that reason, but mostly just because Darwin’s incessant head-banging was getting on his nerves: as Satan explained it, he enjoyed having the biologist in his office, and was reluctant to throw him into the new Hell. At the moment, David didn’t really appreciate the sentiment.

Finally, his patience ran out. With a protracted growl, he tore off the paper he was using from its pad, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at a bin in the corner of the room. It missed spectacularly, and so with a louder growl, he picked up his A4 pad and chucked it into his open briefcase. It landed on the rim with a thunk, and rested half-out of the case. He shoved the pad the rest of the way in, slammed down the case’s lid, and stood up so quickly that the wheeled chair coasted back across the floor. He then picked up the case and marched towards the door.

His sudden display of temper had alarmed him. He hadn’t done anything like that in years: at least two, if his memory served him correctly. Maybe getting outside would be the wise idea after all.

Just as he reached the door, David paused for a few seconds and tried to calm himself down. He largely failed, but still, he moved very carefully when he opened the door and stepped out into the new Hell.

The cave was still as big as before, still so immense that it threatened to turn your mind into whimpering mush, but nearly everything else had changed. Instead of the near-infinite pits, there was instead a single vast lake, filled with a boiling red liquid that David assumed to be blood, its surface dotted with flickering yellow flames. The lake contained a huge mass of naked people, a number beyond human counting, so tightly packed they almost obscured the waters in which they were imprisoned. They thrashed and screamed and groaned nigh-on continuously, their agony dividing them between trying to escape their boiling tomb, and simply tearing at each other with a mad frenzy. The demons had changed too: they no longer had their distorted angelic appearance, but had become something of far greater resemblance to their name, ten-foot, red-skinned beings with fur, horns and cloven hooves. They patrolled the lakeside, or hovered over the surface, in groups of two or three, occasionally stabbing people at random with their three-pronged pitchforks.

David turned to the right and started waking around the lake, keeping his distance from the demons and their patrols. He didn’t intend on walking very far: he reckoned a full circumference would take several days, and he had things to be doing in that time. And besides, all the wails and screams, a hurricane of splashing and shouting like the evil twin of a public swimming pool, were already beginning to increase his general annoyance. He’d advised Satan that returning all the noise would increase the hellish atmosphere, and it had promptly done so. He could see why Hell had been kept quiet in the first place.

Aside from his irritation with all the noise, David was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had only been in Hell for three hours – indeed, he had only been aware of its very existence for four hours – and he had already succeeded its entire layout and structure. If he was to be completely honest with himself, he had always been fairly low down the tree at Barratech, and he was unused to having influence over his company’s workings, especially not to this degree. Of course, Hell wasn’t his company, but he still felt a distinct pride at playing such a key role in its new developments. Not everyone could claim to influencing Satan, after all.

David had been walking for a few minutes when he saw something in the lake…or, rather, he saw someone. He stopped, then walked a little closer. He looked closely, straining his eyes, trying to find the brief glimmer of the face he’d seen. He’d almost accepted it as an illusion when, in the corner of his eye, he spotted them again. Yes. She looked very different from when he saw her last, but all the same, that was definitely her alright.

Louise.

He walked towards a pair of nearby demons, who were idly waving their pitchforks at some brawling people. They stopped and turned to face him as he approached, then gave a joint respectful nod. David felt his courage increase with their deferential gesture.

“Can you get her out of the lake?” he said, pointing over at Louise. “I know her from upstairs.”

The two demons nodded again. “Of course, sir.”

They headed over to Louise, their large and robust forms giving them an unusual bounding walk, and after a moment’s pause, reached out and grabbed her flailing arms. They pulled her out of the lake, and left her panting and shaking on the red stone floor. The two demons silently went back to their patrol as David ran over.

Louise looked up at him with an unsteady gaze, almost as if she held him to be an illusion. “David.” she said, her voice croaky and toneless, yet easily audible over the cacophony from the lake. “What are you doing here?”

“Exocel bought this place out. Michael got me down here to work as a consultant.” Under the circumstances, David thought he could comfortably tell Louise the truth.

Louise just laughed, if the jagged and bitter sound could be classed as such.

“I suppose I should ask you the same question.” David said.

Before answering, Louise gingerly pulled herself up into a sitting position, wincing each time she put pressure on the ground. David had always considered seeing Louise naked to be fairly high on his “unrealistic wishes” list, but now he was actually confronted with it, he suddenly felt like changing his priorities. Her time in the lake, however long that was, had covered her in burns, welts, bruises and scars, an overlapping web of injuries that gave her a closer resemblance to Frankenstein’s Monster than a recognisable human being. She was, frankly, repulsive to look at, and David knew that it was his responsibility.

“I’d gone round to Michael’s for the night, like I do each Friday. I choked to death on a pepper, of all things. And according to whichever demon threw me in here, eating peppers is now a sin worthy of Hell. Never mind that I was fucking my boss. It was peppers.”

David blinked a few times. “How long have you been here?” he said, before he had time to realise how retarded such a response was.

Louise gave him a sombre look, if only briefly. “Hell is eternal, David. I’ve always been here.”

She gave another almost-laugh, now with an alarmingly venomous edge. “I swear, if I ever meet the guy who came up with all this, I’m going to claw his fucking face off.”

David just shrugged. “Nothing to do with me, I’m afraid. I’ve only just got here. But I need to go. There’s people…well, demons, I need to see. But I’ll be coming back.”

Louise returned the shrug. “Right. Later.”

David turned and started to walk away. As he did, he heard Louise say, in a voice so emotional it barely sounded like the same person: “I don’t have any Hell Money. Get me the fuck out of here, David.”

He paused, and turned back. “I’ll do my best, Louise.”

He then headed off towards Satan’s office, back the way he came. As he walked, he suddenly realised that he had absolutely no intention of helping her. The knowledge did not make him feel good. It wasn’t simply that Louise had become deformed and hideous, and looking at her made him want to vomit. And it wasn’t even that she’d been busy sleeping with their boss, ending the already faint dreams he’d had for them both. No, they were both too easy. He wouldn’t help because he had a job to do, and rescuing Louise would interfere with that job. He knew that didn’t say much about him as a human being, but all the same, he had made his choice, and he would stick with it. Wherever the path led, he would follow, and he would accept whatever came at its end.

But still, he wasn’t sure if that was wise.

As he neared Satan’s office, he noticed that Kokomo and Aforgomon were stood outside, with a third man between them. He was a human, very much so, dressed in a suit not dissimilar to David’s own, but with unkempt blond hair coming down to his shoulders. He had clearly just come out of the lake, as he also had a large number of burns and scratches, and his left eye, either missing or damaged, was hidden behind a black eyepatch. These injuries, especially the eyepatch, combined with the “cat’s got the cream” grin to form a very unpleasant-looking man: not horrible, but evil, the kind of man any self-respecting father would keep his daughters well away from.

Aforgomon noticed David’s approach, and gave him a friendly wave. This looked almost humorous on such an obviously devilish creature…at least, it would if David had been in the mood to laugh.

“David!” Aforgomon said in a cheerful voice, then pointed at the evil-looking man. “This is George Hamilton. He’s been clever and stocked up loads of Hell Money, and he’s going all the way up to Heaven. We’re just seeing him off now.”

George laughed, with appropriate cruelty. “I love this new system of yours, David. You’re really quite the pioneer. In fact, if I wasn’t dead, I’d have to poach you for my own business.” He laughed again.

“Thank you.” David said evenly. He wasn’t sure if being complimented by this man was really a desirable thing.

And that’s when David did something that, on the whole, not many humans ever achieve: he had another epiphany, his second in as many minutes. Ultimately, the message burning itself across his brain was a simple one.

Screw the path. You need to get outside.

He turned to Aforgomon. “Listen, next time you seen Satan, can you tell him I’ve gone back upstairs? I’ll be back down, but I really need some fresh air.”

Aforgomon nodded and smiled. “Sure thing, David. I’ll see you later.”

* * * * *

David was stood back in front of the lift. A little disconcertingly, he could still hear the screams from the lake, even through the big wooden doors and half a mile of solid rock. But he tried to put that unease to one side: he’d be back in Barratech in only a few minutes, and he could put all this madness behind him. Of course, he’d probably have to dive back in once Miranda, Michael and Lewis learnt that he’d done a runner, but he would just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

He pressed the Call button for the lift, which opened immediately. In some odd way he couldn’t quite identify, he couldn’t say he was surprised. He stepped inside, and pressed the G button. The doors closed, and he felt the lift carry him back up to fresh air and sanity.

In his minute’s wait, he tried to put his mind at ease by thinking about his evening. He didn’t have any plans, as he never did, but there was that Godfather DVD he’d bought the other day and still hadn’t watched. He’d have to do that tonight. He also decided that he’d cook a beef curry for dinner, because he hadn’t done one of those for a while. The steak needed using up, anyway. Yeah, that sounded like the makings of a fun evening.

He eventually felt the lift come to a stop, the change in velocity compressing his body in that usual weird way. The doors opened to reveal, not the lobby of Barratech Boxes, Inc., but the cave he had just left.

David frowned. What the hell was going on here?

He pushed the G button again, and the lift started another journey upwards. He tried to carry on planning his evening, but his thoughts kept on turning to what he might find once the lift stopped. He could give a good guess, which was two-thirds of the problem.

The lift stopped, and the doors opened back onto the cave.

David felt himself start to sweat. By this point, he suspected what might be going on, but the last thing he needed was to be proven right.

He pressed the G button for a third time, and the lift once again started moving. This time, he didn’t bother trying to distract himself, and simply prayed his hardest that what he thought was happening wasn’t. He now knew for a certainty that God existed, but given the day’s events, he still didn’t feel as if his prayers would be answered. The lift began to feel very, very small.

Eventually, it stopped, and the doors opened back onto the cave. This time, Satan was stood nearby, like when David first arrived. The same went for his appearance: instead of the demon he had become on David’s advice, he had changed back to his black angelic image. However, his smile was new, looking, for the first time, deeply malevolent.

“I can see why the guys and girls at Barratech chose you.” he said, smile still present. “You ain’t exactly imaginative, but you don’t panic. A skill like that is valuable, especially down here. But you need to remember, David, that Hell is the way it is, and we all just have to deal with it.

“Ah, don’t be miserable. We all manage to find ways to keep ourselves amused. You’ll get used to things. And hey, there’s still plenty of work we need you to do. Profits must always go up, after all.”

David looked at his watch: 2:34pm, it said. With a completely depressing certainty, he knew that he’d never need to check it again. He knew that Satan was right, even if wasn’t sure exactly what he was right about.

He stepped out of the lift. First things first, he’d need to do something about all that screaming.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Seven months.

I just want to say that again.

Seven. Months.

Well, I think you kinda get the idea. It has been a long time, hasn't it? I must admit, I haven't been gone anywhere in particular: life just got a little on top of me, like it does sometimes. Firstly, that case of writer's block I was complaining about last time, rather than clearing up quickly, only proceeded to get worse, to the point where I couldn't even write e-mails. Secondly, before I'd even sorted that out, I had to throw myself back into the university maelstrom, and I've only just cleared up the two-month's worth of assignment backlog. So, I'm afraid, this place kinda got lost amongst all the struggles and annoyances.

Sorry about that.

But still, I'm back now. The work has been (almost) sorted, my writing groove has (mostly) returned, and I can celebrate by, shock horror, giving you all some new material! (well, kinda: see below for why.) Part of why I was so busy was that, because I had no money (again), I decided to not buy anyone Christmas presents, and write them stories instead...the catch was, of course, that having to write six short stories in a month bordered on impossible. But I achieved it nonetheless, and more to the point, some of these tales are actually among my best work. And despite these stories being presents, and so technically not my property any more, I'm going to indulge my ego and share the better ones with you all: for the sake of ease, I shall post them one at a time, over the next few days.

The first is one that, if only in part, will already be familiar to you: The Dreamtime. Yes, I know that giving someone an already half-written story is a bit cheeky, but I thought it was an appropriate tale, and one that I've been wanting to finish for a long time. Either way, it means that I'm now able to fulfil one of my long-standing promises, and present you with its conclusion. So don't complain, alright? :-P

Anyway...for the continued sake of ease (and because I made a few edits), the original part of this story will be re-posted, and the prior post will be deleted. So if you're new to this blog, and you don't have a clue what the last five sentences have been all about, then just don't worry about it. Get on and read the rest instead.

This preamble is getting quite long enough, so I won't waste time explaining what The Dreamtime is all about. Instead, I shall just get on and post it, and get this party re-started:






The Dreamtime



You can’t always get what you want.

You can’t always get what you want.
You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
Well you just might find
You get what you need.

- The Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”



The shoe lands on the red dirt, resting for only a second, then lifts into the air. It comes back down another second later, on rock this time, landing a short way ahead, and a little further to the left than it perhaps should. The other shoe lands on another rock, just ahead and to the right, its top above the rocks in front of it. This other shoe, and the leg it holds onto, compress slightly, so that the first shoe, the left one, can lift up into the air. This left shoe hangs in the air for a second, long enough to cause speculation on where it will go next, eventually laying to rest on an area of red dirt, between a rock just to the left and one behind it. Both shoes pause for a time, compressing as the body above them leans slightly backwards.

But then the shoes are off again, moving from rock to rock, dirt patch to dirt patch. Sometimes the route is simple, sometimes not, and though there are many pauses, it is always forward, always upward.

* * * * *

Australia, 1865. Where life is a bad joke, performed poorly and taken too far, and the meaning always lost in translation.

Agatha Morton turns away from the window. A view is a view, but you can only look at landscape for so long. And there’s only so much to look at, anyway.

She walks over to the bed, a huge four-poster dragged out into the centre of the room. She lifts up the netting, revealing the boy laying down on the sweat-soaked bedsheet. This boy, no older than twelve, is wearing only a vest and briefs, shivering uncontrollably despite the intense heat. When Dr Arzt came by yesterday, he said this was a good sign, that his body was finally starting to cool down…Agatha isn’t so sure, but she isn’t a doctor.

And you wouldn’t need a doctor to tell you that heat was the problem. Heat defines this country. It gets everywhere: in every house, every room, every outfit, every body, every thought. When you look outside, at the endless cracked dirt, the tufts of grass stubbornly clinging onto life, the entire landscape waves in unison, swaying under the sun’s merciless pounding. And God forbid what would happen should you be outside.

Agatha kneels down by the bed, stroking her fingers across Dashiell’s brow. He is still very hot, though he seemingly feels otherwise. She would ask him, but it’s been several days since he was last capable of speaking. She isn’t even sure if he knows his mother is still with him.

* * * * *

The woman walks across the desert. One step at a time, the left then the right. Her shoes crunch down on the dirt and stones, burnt by the sun into dark reds and browns. From a distance, it looks like the earth is bleeding: up close, it looks the same.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

The woman keeps walking. She stumbles slightly, catching her foot on nothing, but she keeps going. Her tiny blue shoes have turned brown with the dust they kick up. They were made for walking through halls and houses, not deserts: her feet were hurting before, but now she can no longer feel them, so it’s fine. The bottom of her dress is also dirty and scuffed, where the lowest inch drags across the ground, but that too is no problem.

Just up ahead (maybe only a few metres away, but distances are so hard to gauge out here), there is what used to be an oasis. A small hollow in the ground, now empty, with three dead trees surrounding it. But in this endless nothing, where the mountains thousands of miles away look reachable, even a lifeless sight like this is interesting. It’s variety, if nothing else.

The heat. The sun beats down as hard as ever, and her thick cotton dress, a fine outfit carefully tailored to match the fine carefully-tailored shoes, all it can do is trap the rays inside it. On this walk, her organs have slowly cooked from the inside, and her dress has become itchy with all the sweat. Even her big umbrella, made especially for this climate, has done nothing to help.

But now, she is feeling much better. The sun still burns away, but she is feeling much cooler. She has stopped sweating, which is a merciful thing for a lady. She does not know why this is, why she has now adjusted to the unadjustable heat, but she is thankful.

As the woman walks past the hollow, she notices that there is actually some water left. It is about an inch of deep-brown muck, almost impossible to see under the carpet of thirsty flies, but she has heard tales of desperate people drinking far worse. Still, she doesn’t need anything right now.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

* * * * *

Agatha idly waves her umbrella, trying to swat away the flies buzzing all around her. It’s a futile task – kill one, and a million will take its place – but they’re too irritating to not try. Like the heat, flies are inescapable here.

She rather likes her umbrella. It’s pale blue, square and made of light cloth, styled like the new fashions coming out of China. The key word here is “like”: she is a rich woman, from a rich family, but the genuine Asian article is still far beyond her means. She is hardly Queen Victoria, after all.

Realising that someone has just said something to her, Agatha snaps back to reality. “Pardon?” she says.

“I’m sorry about your son.” the woman says, with her hand rested on Agatha’s arm in that supportive fashion. “Arthur was a good lad. He would’ve done well for this town.”

Agatha looks around her, at what is laughably described as a “town”. Really, it’s just a handful of ramshackle buildings – hotel, jail, butchers and the like – thrown at the endless desert like they’d ever seriously last. Sevenoaks is one of many such “towns”, built with the sole purpose of seeing what in interior of New South Wales has to offer. Many places have found gold mines, rich and plentiful ones, but this patch of desert just seems to have fuck all.

Well, not quite. The soil sprouts fields of dry grass here and there, enough to raise sheep. It’s barely worth calling a resource, but all the same, it lets the community get by.

Today, Arthur was supposed to ride out to the Ranges, helping the dozen soldiers here give the natives a friendly extermination. But instead, he is in the town’s makeshift cemetery, dead from poisoning. According to Dr Arzt, he’d been bitten by any one of Australia’s countless deadly creatures. Just one of those things.

It doesn’t help that Michael can’t be here for her. Her husband is the Captain of Sevenoaks’ token military presence, doubling up as what passes for police in these frontier regions. As befits his post, he’s had to go off and lead the attack on the Ranges. He doesn’t want to, but it’s what he’s paid for. It’s also the Morton family is here.

It’s best to just not think about these things. We break down, it all breaks down.

Agatha smiles as best she can. “Yes, he would have been. Thank you, Laura. How much is this steak?”

Laura presses the large parcel, the beef for tonight’s roast, into Agatha’s tiny hands. “I think this one’s on the house.”

* * * * *

Agatha steps from rock to rock, doing her best to climb the hill. She stumbles frequently, her shoes having little grip on the rough surfaces, but she still manages to keep going. She’s tired, very tired, after all her walking, and her balance has become precarious, but she can rest once she reaches the top of this hill. In the back of her mind, there’s the realisation that this, perhaps, is far enough.

There isn’t much to say about this hill. Isn’t really a hill, per se, just an uneven pile of rocks built up in the middle of the desert. At the summit, the highest and largest rock sticks out like the prow of a ship, giving the place a serene appearance entirely unlike anywhere else in this region.

Agatha doesn’t climb all the way to the top. She sits down on a small rock, a short way below the largest one. The hill isn’t huge, but it still took a while to climb: how long exactly, she can’t tell. Time is an irrelevance in this land. She rests her umbrella on another small rock besides her.

Tucking the edges of her skirt under her legs, Agatha sits and watches the sunset. It has the same unearthly glow and shiver as always, the one truly beautiful thing here. It helps that, when the sun goes down, it drags the flies with it. Only they love the day.

“Good evening, miss.”

The voice shocks Agatha to her very core. Jumping with fright, she turns to face her unexpected companion. Standing on the largest rock is a man, one of the Aborigines, with the white body-paint and a spear taller than he is. He seems to be about Arthur’s age, before he died: clearly not a child, but also not quite a man.

On her walk, Agatha has become used to being alone. She’d almost started to believe that she was the only person in existence.

She fixes the man with an unsteady gaze. Her voice is croaky, yet level.

“One of you killed my husband.” she says.

* * * * *

“The world was created long ago, in the Altjeringa, the Dreamtime. Our ancestors wandered the land, shaping the earth and creating people and objects to inhabit it. Vast serpents writhed around, their movements shaking the endless plains into mountains and canyons. Spirits came down from the heavens, making all things and naming them as they saw fit. They helped all animals and people into existence, giving each group their own territory, language and customs. Out of disorder, life was born.”

Agatha nods. “Go on.”

Noah is the Morton family’s servant, one of a surprising number of Aborigines who choose to aid the English settlers. He is a good man, not that Agatha would mind either way. Her family is gone – Dashiell still remains, but with Dr Arzt not being worth his extortionate fees, probably not for much longer – and she is willing to have anyone fill that space. Today, she has finally given into her curiosity about Noah’s life, about where he came from.

“It is important that you understand, Mrs Morton. You British think that humans are the masters of the earth, that we are above and beyond all others. But we are not. We are but a part of this land, exactly the same as any other part. We are in the land, and the land is in us. Only if we respect this land, treat it and the spirits who live within it with due deference, will we survive.”

Noah points through the open window. Outside the Morton residence, a storm has hit, the first rains in nearly a year. The sun is blocked by the black clouds, but the light remains. In this unearthly glow, lightning forks, somehow bringing sky and earth closer together.

Frankly, the feeling that the world is ending is an everyday occurrence here.

“The spirits, the ancestors who made the world, they still live on. Every animal, every tree, every pool, every rock, every cloud, a spirit lives within it and controls it. When the thunder cracks and lightning forks, this is just a demonstration of their power. The land around us gives us everything we need for survival, and yet also contains all the seeds of our destruction. We must forget neither.”

“The Rainbow Snake, creator of water. The Wawilak sisters, the first mothers. All the ancestors in the stars, sitting around their campfires. We cannot forget those who came before us, whose spirits still live among us. We tell our stories, we make sure our children remember these ancestors, we make sure they continue telling our stories. We keep on knowing that we never live alone.”

Agatha nods. “Go on.”

* * * * *

There’s something just ahead. A building, for lack of a better term. It’s a white block, no bigger than a house, a lump of brick and rough plaster dumped next to a few barely-living trees. A smaller building, still only one story, sits off to the side, a wooden stable for the horses of anyone insane enough to ride out this far.

The Tartarus Tavern. The marker for where the Outback stops being merely out back and starts being a whole other universe. Also the last refuge of scum and villainy, a City Hall for this region’s outlaws. Some are convicts Transported from home, escaping the penal colonies to hide out in the hills. Others come here freely, arriving in Australia and deciding that stealing from others is the best occupation.

Either way, if you drink here, it’s because more urban taverns are a no-go.

Agatha has heard of this place. But she never expected to stumble across it.

But she’s spared the worst of the Tartarus. Whatever it used to be, it isn’t anymore. Only a few beams and slats of the stable remain, the rest burnt to a blackened pulp. The tavern building is stained black, darkened by smoke that billowed from its glassless windows. Rubble from inside, from collapsed roof and interior walls, spills out through the open doorway. Corpses, at least a dozen, are scattered across the interior and the dirt outside. They’re all covered in flies, feasting clouds so thick you can barely see what’s inside. A few birds circle above, disturbed from their carrion by Agatha’s approach.

Each of these men, bandits and soldiers alike, has been killed by a spear. Sometimes several. As Agatha knows from experience, you don’t need guns in order to cause damage.

But Agatha doesn’t stop. She carries on walking, going past this tableau and further out into the desert. Wherever she’s going, this isn’t it.

* * * * *

There’s a tapping sound. Agatha looks up to see a man stood by the entrance to the house, politely knocking on the open door. He’s young, clean-cut, dressed in a suit that’s as neat and anonymous as he is.

“May I help you?” Agatha asks.

The man coughs nervously, holds his hands behind his back. “My name’s Norman Fletcher. I’m…I’m here to see Catherine.”

Agatha grins. “Ahh…so you’re the Norman I’ve heard so much about!”

She stands up, putting her half-darned sock to one side. She can’t sew to save her life, hasn’t ever been able to, but aside from gardening or cleaning, there’s precious little else to do round here. She walks towards Norman and extends a hand. After a few seconds’ nervous confusion, he shakes it.

“Catherine never stops talking about you, you know. Whenever she’s around, it’s always “Norman said this, Norman took me to do that”. If you want my honest opinion, I think she’s rather taken with you.”

Norman goes bright red, embarrassment red rather than heat red. Luckily, Catherine saves his blushes by choosing this moment to walk in the room. Like her mother when she was that age, Catherine couldn’t be anonymous even if she tried.

“Are you being embarrassing again, mum?” she says, walking over to Norman. She gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, anything more romantic to be avoided in present company.

“Well, that’s what mothers are for.”

“Aren’t they just?”

Norman looks over at Agatha, awkwardness written all over his already awkward face. “Umm….actually…I was hoping I could talk to you in private.”

Mother and daughter shrug. Like Catherine, Agatha knows what the question is going to be. Norman would make a good son-in-law. Heaven knows, the Morton family needs a decent source of income, with Arthur and Michael both gone. Dashiell won’t be earning anything worth earning for a good few years yet.

* * * * *

One step at a time, the left then the right. The woman keeps walking, pressing her feet one at a time against the scorched earth. The sun and the heat press down with an almost solid force, the sheer unbearable extremity of it causing her to sway and stagger with every step. It’s difficult to imagine such temperatures, the feeling that your entire body is boiling away, but here it is. The umbrella she brought with her only out of habit, the only thing it’s good for is swatting at all the flies with nothing else to swarm over. As she walks, bowed under natures’ might, she remembers a dream she once had. It was during her first night at Sevenoaks, when the heat finally allowed her to sleep. There was a desert, an endless nothing with stars brighter than the sun hanging all above. The desert contained nothing, even less than this desert. Aside from her, the only thing there was a man, an aboriginal man like Noah, though barely old enough to be called a “man”. He said his name was Nightingale, and they talked, talked about many things. They talked about past, about present, about future, about things that made no sense to her. As they talked, Nightingale drew pictures in the sand, though they only caused greater confusion. She didn’t understand any of what he told her, but she still knew, in a way she couldn’t define, that what he said was important. Though the woman thinks about this dream rarely, it’s still better to think about than the heat.

* * * * *

“Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday dear mummy!

Happy birthday to you!”

Agatha laughs and smiles. Her family are not good singers, Catherine excepted, but their enthusiasm and affection has a beauty of its own. She hugs and kisses them all in turn, reserving the longest embrace for Michael. He has been away for a month, meeting superiors in Sydney, and neither of them was expecting him to be home for today. They are both very grateful that he managed it.

There are two presents, both in small white boxes, bound in red ribbon. She takes the first, unties and opens it. Underneath some tissue paper is a pair of earrings, two silver suns only a quarter of an inch across. It is their smallness, their intricacy, that makes them beautiful. Though the thought is only half-registered in her mind, they also help remind her that, even though the sun is the defining cruelty of this merciless land, it can still be turned into something of grace.

In time, this thought will serve her well.

Agatha smiles. “They’re beautiful!” she says.

Michael smiles back. “I’m glad you think so. They took some finding.”

“Well, I appreciate the effort.”

Later, Agatha will gently enquire about the specifics. But for now, she turns to the next box, unties and opens it. Inside, under another piece of tissue paper, is not more jewellery, but something entirely different. She gently lifts up a tiny model of a rocking horse, no longer than two inches, its dark brown wood painted with obviously great care in a variety of whites, reds and blues. For half a second, she wonders why she has been given a toy, but then realises that a toy is the last thing this is.

“I like your thinking.” she says, laughing.

“That was my idea.” Catherine pipes up. “I saw it in Sevenoaks the other day. I knew it had to be done.”

Agatha laughs again.

* * * * *

Agatha leans against the tree, bends over and vomits by her feet. It’s a thick, dark-orange slime, with an acrid smell that burns at her nostrils. But there isn’t much, just an unpleasant mouthful. She keeps hold of the tree, feeling faint, black clouds billowing from the sides of her vision. Her head is pounding, much like it has for a while now, with an incessant throb like nails being driven into her brain.

She can give an educated guess as to what this is all about. Since she left her home, however long ago that was, she has not taken on any food or water. Her walk is intended to be one-way, so bringing supplies with her felt a little pointless, and she had long since learnt that this wilderness will not try to assist her. Regardless, she has been feeling hungry and thirsty (and especially the latter) for quite some time, and it evidently seems to have caught up with her.

Eventually, her vision returns to something near-normal, and the acidic feeling in her throat begins to fade. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, and dabs at her watering eyes. A blob of vomit has landed on her shoe, so she rubs it against the tree in a vain attempt to clean it. She gently pushes herself off the tree, wobbling a little as she realises her balance has not quite returned.

She is just about to walk off when she hears a screeching noise. She jumps a little, and looks up.

The tree is tall, at least twenty feet, yet spindly and weak. Its many branches are largely leaf-less, and stick out at all angles like stretching fingers. It is the only tree, or anything else of height, for miles around. Sitting on top of this melancholy perch is an eagle, huge and imperious, its wings outstretched as it surveys the endless cracked desert that is its domain. Agatha has seen a few of these in her time at Sevenoaks, and by its size and shape, knows it to be a Wedge-Tail.

The eagle turns its head and looks down at her. It is too far away for its gaze to be truly readable, but it seems to be dismissive. She gets the feeling, somewhere in her chilled bones, that it knows who she is and why she is here, and regards her as nothing more than a minor irritation, a fly not worthy of its concern.

The eagle turns back to its kingdom, and screeches again.

“Tell me about it.” Agatha mumbles, before walking away.

* * * * *

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Mrs Morton, I really don’t think you should be here.”

“Can a lady not visit her husband in his place of work?”

“Yes she can, but now isn’t a good time.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s police business, Mrs Morton. Not something you need to see.”

“Why? Has my husband been hurt? Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He isn’t here right now. I suggest you go home and wait for him there. This isn’t the best time for you to be here.”

“Where is he, then?”

“There’s some extra business he needs to sort out. Police things. Please, Mrs Morton, you really shouldn’t be here.

“Mrs Morton, please. You should go. Now.”

“What’s going on back there?”

“Police business, Mrs Morton.”

“Who’s that man on the table? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“It’s not your concern. And no, he isn’t dead.”

“Is that a spear? That is a spear. My God, he’s dead.”

“No. We’re waiting for the doctor. You really don’t need to see this.”

“Who is he?”

“No one you know. Now please, you sh-”

“Is he…? He is! He is! Oh God, he’s-”

“Please! You need to go!”

“No! I have to…I have to…I have to be…”

“Mrs Morton, there’s nothing you can-”

He’s my husband! Don’t you understand?! I can’t leave him! I can’t leave him! I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…Oh God…”

“I know, I know. But you can’t stay. There’s nothing you can do to help. I’ll escort you home. You’ll be better off there.”

“He’s my husband. I can’t leave him. Why didn’t you…why?”

“I know. I’m sorry. We couldn’t tell you here. We still don’t know what happened. It’s still too soon.”

“Oh God. I need to go home. I need to stay. Oh God…I don’t know…What happened to him?”

“We’re not sure. I’ll tell you what we know later. You need to get home.”

“I know…I know…Oh God, he’s dead.”

“It’s okay. I’ll escort you home. You need to look after your children.”

“No, it’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay.”

“Yes, it will. You’ll be okay. You’ll make it work.”

* * * * *

On the horizon ahead of her, the sun is beginning to go down. Its rays are still fiercely bright, but the dark orange of sunset is slowly creeping into the light. The daytime will be over in a few hours, or something approximate to that. She has long since adjusted to the fact that, in this landscape, time is not something you can entirely trust. This is why there are no longer any clocks in her home.

Then again, “home” is also something of a relative term out here.

There’s a rock not far from here. Guessing the distance in a world this flat is fairly pointless, but all the same, it shouldn’t be any more than a mile. From this viewpoint, the rock isn’t large, probably no bigger than she is. Nonetheless, it’s the only thing of interest for quite some way, so she turns a little to the left and heads towards it.

After spending all day walking into the sun’s intense glare, she is now beginning to feel cold. The throbbing in her head has also eased off, and she has long since stopped noticing her thirst and hunger pangs. Though she has picked up a new discomfort, her face and hands itching where the sunlight has burned them, she is feeling altogether less miserable than she did earlier in the day. She had almost started to believe that the day would last forever, so the simple promise of night-time is enough to raise her spirits.

The rock is much closer now, but she already knows that she will not stop. A black woman, a native, is sat against its base, dressed in a loose brown robe. She is holding a tiny baby in her arms, its skinny form wrapped in a brown cloth sling. Both mother and child are covered in blood, and though they are too far away to be absolutely sure, there are signs of a gunshot wound in each forehead.

She will not go any closer to the rock. This tableau is not something she wants to examine in detail. She has already seen more than enough times what this war between her people and theirs is all about.

She isn’t feeling so cheerful now.

Some way off to the left is a hill. It’s large, she isn’t sure exactly how big, with a large rock sticking out from the summit like the prow of a ship. She has been able to see it for some time, but has considered it too far away to be worth a detour. However, now it strikes her as a decent place to head for. It might well be her destination, if the term could be given such a specific meaning.

She leaves the rock behind, and starts walking towards the hill.

* * * * *

A cloud of dust in the distance signals that a rider is approaching. This is the only building for two miles, so Agatha knows that, whoever they are, it’s her they’re after. Though she is curious about their intentions, she also knows that it will be a few minutes before they arrive, so she goes back to her gardening whilst she waits.

She bends down, shears in hand, snipping off a dead flower from the rose plant. In a climate this unforgiving, dead-heading probably won’t help this spindly, miserable-looking pink thing, but still, the aesthetic value is worth a little something. But aside from this rider, she doesn’t get many visitors these days, so the work is for her alone. Still, that’s fine by her.

Mostly, gardening just fills in the hours. Like many women of her era, and especially ones of her upbringing, she has never had the chance to work a single day of her life. She has had over forty years’ experience of keeping herself amused, and by now, thinking up things to do, when there is usually nothing obvious to do, is almost second nature. Many women in her position like to sew, but that is not one of her talents, so she tends to her garden instead.

Not that there’s much of a garden. It’s a thirty-foot square, with a thin border running along all sides, and two small raised beds in the centre. The only plants are a selection of poppies and roses, the only things she’s been able to both obtain and grow out here in Sevenoaks. There’s arguably less life here than in the field of dry grass in which this house sits: certainly, not much distinguishes the two, save the waist-high white fence that surrounds the property. But, ultimately, Agatha has done the best she can with what she has, and she is not ashamed.

As she bends to dead-head another rose, she notes that this could be said of her wider life. It has been a few months since Michael’s death, and whilst the days have dragged by with a certain grim inevitability, she is still coping better than she feared. It helps that money is not especially tight: Michael’s former men supply donations as and when they can, and whilst Norman and Catherine are not yet married, her future son-in-law is living at the house and providing a decent income. He has joined the garrison here in Sevenoaks: a job with many ill omens, but it pays better than anything else in the area. The new Captain Granger has gone to Sydney to meet superiors, and they are both accompanying him on the coach. Noah is in Sevenoaks tending to his own business, so Agatha and Dashiell have been left alone in the house. Her son is off reading his books, content as usual.

They both just find ways to survive, and maybe find a little happiness whilst doing so. Under the circumstances, they can ask for no more.

Agatha does some more dead-heading, digs up a few poppies that don’t share her will to live, and eventually the rider comes to a stop just beyond the fence. It’s Noah, looking a little dishevelled. Whatever’s going on, it can’t be good. Agatha stands up, ready to hear his news.

He dismounts with his usual slowness, and opens the gate. He walks a few feet into the garden, staying a little distance from Agatha. The gate remains open behind him.

Noah takes a deep breath, then speaks. “The news just reached town, Mrs Morton. Captain Granger’s coach was attacked by bandits in the Blue Mountains. No one survived. I’m sorry, Mrs Morton.”

Agatha puts her hand to her mouth, the shears rubbing on her nose. Suddenly, mere survival doesn’t seem to enthralling.

* * * * *

One step at a time, the left then the right.

There seems to be a person up ahead. At the very least, it’s a black blob in a humanoid shape. Right now, the air is so hot that it shakes, warping everything around her into barely recognisable shapes and textures, like an oil painting smudged before it dries. It doesn’t help that her brain hurts so much she can hardly see.

However, whilst the person is indistinct, there a few other things nearby that are much easier to see. There are three large shacks, if such a term can be applied to what is no more than corrugated iron resting on four wooden poles. A variety of broken and rusted machinery is strewn around, both inside and outside the shacks: most of it is too blurry to make out, but one of the clearer items is a full-size traction engine. If it wasn’t for the lone person, then she’d have reckoned this place long abandoned.

She can give a decent guess as to what this place was. Whilst most settlers were willing to stay in Sevenoaks and other such towns, there were also plenty who weren’t content with such an existence, and struck out even deeper into the Outback in search of their fortune. No of them ever came back, which meant that they either found nothing, or found things too valuable to report. What this camp expected to get out of such a barren tract of desert – even the nearest trees were on the horizon – she has no idea, but they evidently didn’t get it.

Once she gets closer, the person gradually fades from a blur into a real, solid man. He is stood just outside one of the shacks, with a small wooden folding table in front of him, covered in an odd assortment of objects: an empty birdcage, a white cloth, three metal rings, several napkins and a deck of cards. The man himself is white, with a black cloak, black top hat and neatly-trimmed black beard.

“Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages!” he says in a rich, booming voice.

She stands a few feet in front of him, and watches as he picks up the bird cage and the cloth.

“See this cage! It is empty, is it not?” He spins it round a few times, just to demonstrate.

“Ah, but look again!” He throws the cloth over the cage, completely covering it, then pulls out a cheap-looking magic wand from his pocket. “I only need to give a few encouraging taps, and then…”

He gives the cage three taps with his wand, and then whips off the cloth. Inside the cage is a small yellow duckling, trying to hide under its wings.

The man puts his cage and cloth back on the table, and gives a deep bow. “I thank you! I thank you! And now, for my next trick…”

She stares at him, completely dumbstruck. She’s heard stories about mirages, that the desert makes people go crazy and see things. This is probably one of those. Though losing her sanity is not a comforting thought, it’s still less terrifying than the possibility that this man is real.

He is now trying to link together his three rings. Arthur had shown her that trick a few times, long ago, and she has no interest in watching magic she knows how to replicate. That isn’t what magic was for. She simply walks away, heading past the man and his table, and back out into the open desert. One step at a time, the left then the right.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

* * * * *

It feels like she had always been here, but she knows that, actually, she has only just arrived. She can’t say when, or even how, but all the same, she knows that she had once been somewhere else, and will some day return there. She can’t work out how she knows this, but she knows.

But where is “here”, exactly? She isn’t entirely sure. It is a desert, but entirely unlike those barren landscapes Australia has shown her so far: it is completely featureless, a pan of red dust and rock so flat that she can see the horizon’s curve. There are no objects on the ground, no trees or rocks or stones or anything. The only features of interest are in the night sky above, which is filled with myriads of stars that each feel brighter than the sun. It feels like a quilt, almost.

She knows, just like she knows all those other things, that this desert will not be found on any map. Maybe it isn’t so much a question of “where”.

“You’re dreaming, miss.”

The voice surprises her, but at the same time, she’s also been expecting it. She turns to see a man sat on the ground, using a stick to draw shapes in the dust. He’s an Aborigine, and about the same age as Arthur, that awkward point where boy and man became blurred. The shapes he’s drawing are odd: stick people, spirals, lines, squiggles. One image resembles a snake, a series of winding curves. She has no idea what it means.

Of course she’s dreaming. It makes perfect sense.

“Why am I here?” she asks.

The man looks up at her and smiles. “You’re clever. Most people just start with where. But you know precisely where you are, don’t you?”

She doesn’t, not entirely, but she isn’t about to puncture his optimism.

“My name’s Nightingale.” he says. “And you’re here because there are things you need to understand.”

He starts to draw a sun, though moving in a very staccato way, as if he doesn’t realise he’s drawing at all.

“What things?”

“Just things.” Nightingale shrugs, but continues drawing.

“The trouble is, if I tell you now, you won’t understand. Your only hope is if you learn for yourself. But you have to be ready. If you just sit around waiting, then by the time it comes, you’ll already be too late.”

“Of course.”

He smiles again. “Yes. You’re starting to get it already. But rest assured, there’s still a long way to go.”

Nightingale continues to talk, his discourse reaching into many more things, matters of life and love, happiness, wealth and community. But she never understands him as well as she does right now.

It doesn’t make any sense, but still, she knows.

She knows.

* * * * *

“One of you killed my husband.”

The man, the Aborigine, takes a while to reply. Agatha gets the sense that he’s thinking, making sure that what he says is exactly what he means. In her experience, very few people do this.

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.” he eventually says. “I’ve never killed anyone. Who was he?”

To her horror, it takes Agatha a few seconds to remember. Why memories burnt into her brain should so abruptly slip away is a mystery to her, and one she recognises will remain so. But, mercifully, she soon recalls what she needs to.

“He was Captain Michael Morton, of the Sevenoaks Constabulary. Three months ago, Aboriginals ambushed and killed him.”

“Was he a good man?”

“One of the best.”

The man nods. “In that case, you have my condolences. But how many husbands have your people killed?”

Agatha blinks. She knows full well what “her people” are capable of, but all the same, such a direct question takes her by surprise. She realises that an honest answer is needed, and there’s only one she can provide.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s probably for the best.” The man pauses, then smiles. “My name’s Nightingale.”

Agatha stares at him. Her day has been pretty damn strange, but this is not how she imagined it ending. She used to be believe in coincidence, but since she has come to Australia, such a simplistic view of the universe doesn’t quite stand up. Meeting this man, here and now, only confirms the error of her former assumptions.

“I’m Agatha.” she says, calmer than she feels. “I had a dream about you once.”

Nightingale laughs. “You did?”

“Yes. When I first came here. You wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t. I think you said I had to learn for myself.”

“And have you?”

“I think so.”

He nods and smiles. “In that case, I’m glad to be of service.”

There’s a short lull in the conversation. Eventually, Agatha realises something obvious, a reality problem that hadn’t occurred to her in their last meeting.

“You speak very good English.” she says.

Nightingale smiles, obviously proud. “I do, don’t I? An Englishman joined our tribe a year ago. His name is Will Hodgson. Do you know him?”

Agatha shakes her head.

“He’s a very wise man.” Nightingale continues. “He taught me your language, and learnt ours as well. He also gave me the name Nightingale. Apparently, there’s a bird in your native land that sings very well, and so do I.”

There’s another lull. Agatha looks at the ground, kicks at a few stones by her feet. She can feel the need to sleep encroaching.

“I forgot to ask.” Nightingale suddenly says. “What brings you out here? This is a bit beyond your territory.”

Agatha doesn’t reply immediately. She knows that Nightingale deserves a complete answer, but she is unsure how to provide it. Eventually, some words occur to her. They aren’t perfect, but they’ll do.

“I used to hate this place. I really hated it. I thought it was Hell on Earth. And in this back end of oblivion, there were only four things I valued. Four people, rather. They were my family, and I loved them. And, one by one, this land took them from me. I decided I should make my peace with it, before it took me too.”

Nightingale nods. “And what do you think now?”

“Now…” Agatha pauses, and sighs. “It’s somewhere. That’s enough.”

“Quite right.”

Nightingale turns to look at the sunset. It’ll be dark soon, but for now, the horizon is painted a deep, vibrant red. From where Agatha’s sat, the prow of this hill points right into the heart of the sun, as if it’s going to sail off into the heavens. She would once have wished it could take her along, but now she knows such wishes are unnecessary.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

Agatha nods. The Outback sunsets were always beautiful, even when everything else wasn’t. But only some things change.

“Yes, it is.”

She looks at Nightingale, and realises that this is the first time they’ve ever met. He already feels so familiar to her that the insight is something of a shock. But then she yawns, stretching her mouth so wide that it hurts, and she remembers that there’s something else she needs to do.

“If you don’t mind,” she says, “I’ve had a long day, and I need to rest.”

He smiles. “Of course. I’ll stay for a while, if you don’t mind.”

Agatha closes her eyes. She didn’t realise how much they hurt until now. The sheer relief is wonderful.

“That would be wonderful.”

She smiles too.

* * * * *

Agatha turns on the tap, and fills the glass up to the top. Unlike most other things here, the water is cold, but that’s precisely how she needs it. When he was last here, Dr Arzt advised her to give Dashiell plenty of water, to help manage his fever: not that she needs a doctor to tell her that, but advice is advice. She turns off the tap, and leaves the kitchen.

She re-enters the main bedroom, where Dashiell is lying on the four-poster bed, dragged out into the centre of the room. The sheets are soaked through with his sweat, but he has stopped shivering now. That seems to be something…well, it obviously is something, but it seems to be good too.

She puts the glass down on the bedside cabinet, and bends over Dashiell’s tiny form. Now that he’s still, his eyes closed, he looks so serene. She feels a touch of regret at giving him a gentle shake on his shoulders.

“Dashiell, you need to drink some water.”

No response. She shakes him again.

“Dashiell, wake up. You need to drink.”

Again, no response. She gives him a third shake, a little harder this time.

“Come on, Dashiell. You need to drink.”

Still nothing. And then she realises, with a clarity like parting clouds, that her efforts are pointless. He isn’t going to wake up, not now or ever. There was indeed a reason why he wasn’t shivering, but it wasn’t a good one.

Agatha gently strokes her son’s brow. It feels very cold. She bends down to kiss him, and then stands back up to her full height.

In the time it took for her to get a glass of water, her last remaining child died, and she wasn’t even with him at the end. Strangely, this knowledge does not hit her as hard as she’d been expecting: she has seen this coming for some days, and anyway, she has already lost enough people for the sensation to be familiar. The worst part is that, now, she is alone, here in this most unforgiving of worlds. There is Noah, of course, but he is not family: in that respect, her isolation is now absolute.

In some grim and horrible way, it’s actually a little funny. Ever since Arthur was killed by the insect bite, Dashiell has studiously avoided playing outside. But three days ago, perhaps galvanised by the knowledge of Catherine and Norman’s murders, he finally relented, and went out into the fields with his elder brother’s kite. And now, today, he is himself dead, victim of a force more primal than either beast or man: the sun.

That’s when another light bulb goes off in Agatha’s brain. She knows what she must do next, and she must not delay. The answer to all her problems is finally upon her. She picks up the glass of water, empties it in one go, and places it back on the cabinet.

“Good bye, Dashiell. Good bye, and good luck.”

* * * * *

Agatha walks out of the front door, and closes it behind her. Before she heads any further, she takes a few seconds to look out over her garden. It’s much the same as ever: in other words, nothing very much. But it is her garden, grown with the sweat of her brow, and she is proud of it. It is almost a shame to leave it behind…but only almost.

She has left a note for Noah, when he returns, giving her best explanation for where she is going and why. He left for Sevenoaks two hours ago, on a shopping expedition, and he won’t be back until the end of the day. That will give her enough of a head start, enough to ensure that being found will not stop her plans. The house is also now his, to do with as he chooses: if he has any sense, which he does, he won’t keep it. At the very least, he will understand her mission, and he will not be upset.

Considering that she is about to walk to her death, Agatha feels surprisingly relaxed. She has spent many months just drifting through life, so the distinct purpose she has now given herself is very liberating: she has something to do, something she knows how to do, that will achieve worthwhile things. She can dedicate herself to it, and know that it will not be a waste of time. She is beginning to understand that life has a point, if only because she has created one.

Agatha double-checks her outfit. Her dress and shoes – her finest ones, that she has only ever worn twice – are clean, neat and tidy. Her faithful umbrella, though it doesn’t match, is still in excellent condition, and ready for its purpose. And she is also wearing the earrings her husband gave her for her last birthday, those tiny silver suns: for a variety of reasons, most of them sentimental, she has always put off this first use. Again for a variety of reasons, it is fitting that they should see their debut today.

She takes a deep breath, and starts to walk. She leaves her garden, closing the gate behind her, and heads off into the desert. It is only a few hours past sunrise, but the world is already unbearably hot.

One step at a time, the left then the right.

* * * * *

The wheels of the coach pass over the hard dirt road, bouncing repeatedly as they struggle to cope with the uneven surface. The only sounds are the horses’ footfalls and their occasional grunting, and the grinding of the wooden coach as it shakes its way towards its eventual destination. Out into the endless horizon, the emptiness in which the only feature is dry grass, nothing else is insane enough to stir.

Agatha Morton stares vacantly out of the window, fanning herself with an equal absent-mindedness. The heat, the immense, almost physical heat, is driving her to distraction, but she has already accepted that her expensive, Sydney-bought hand fan will do absolutely nothing about it. Still, she waves it anyway, just to feel like she’s doing something.

Dashiell is sat on the bench opposite her, looking outside with wide-eyed fascination, already in love with the sheer otherness of this world. He is eleven years old, yet he still sees the world with a child’s eyes: Agatha is grateful that at least one of the family will be happy here. Michael, Arthur and Catherine are all asleep, despite the heat and the coach’s constant rattling.

Personally, Agatha just wants to go home. She has endured six months’ worth of cold, wet and stinking sea voyage, just so she can live in this arsehole of the universe, where grass counts as interesting scenery, the heat is a pounding iron fist, and flies outnumber humans a million to one. She has an almost physical longing for the shady clouds and rolling fields of England, but even if she had the money to go home, she knows she cannot. Her parent’s chorus of “I told you so” would be too much to endure, and anyway, she must stay here and support her husband: he considers it an honour to be in the colonies, to serve Queen and country in such a direct way. She can’t help but wonder if old Victoria would be willing to take her place.

It’s a few seconds before she realises that Dashiell is tugging on her leg. She turns to look at him, feeling a little out-of-focus.

“What is it, Dashiell?” she asks, voice equally bleary.

He points out of the window, up into the sky. “Look, mummy!” he says excitedly.

Agatha obliges, looking up into the infinite blue sky. If only for lack of other things up there, it’s obvious what he wants her to see: a huge bird, drifting in a slow circle, on wide-open wings. Her knowledge of birds is limited, but it is clearly an eagle, with a tail shaped in a diamond, almost like a spear-head. Flying way up high, almost too high to be visible, it is clearly and absolutely at home in this world, its own talon-forged kingdom.

She smiles to herself. There is at least something alive and thriving out here, and that alone makes her feel a little better about her situation.

“It’s very nice, Dashiell.” she says.

* * * * *

It is sunrise now. The belly of the sun is poking its way over the horizon, spreading its warm yellow fingers into the brightening sky. Another day is beginning, another beautiful and miraculous opportunity to live in the world.

Nightingale is sat on the rocky prow, right at its very tip, where he has been the entire night. True to his word, he has not abandoned Mrs Morton, and she in turn has also not left her seat.

Though he isn’t sure of the exact time, he knows that she died during the night. Once she went to sleep, she did not wake up again, and now her body has slumped forwards in the way of those who will slumber forever. As such exits go, it would have quick, and entirely painless. No one can ask more than that.

Nightingale gets up, and starts to climb down the hill towards Mrs Morton’s body. His first plan was to return her to Sevenoaks, but on reflection, he knows that going back to that world would not be her wish. So he will bury her here, at the base of this hill, and he will do it now. Being without equipment, he cannot dig a pit, but will instead use some of the many stones hereabouts to cover her: there is a chance that birds or dingoes will dig her out, but it’s no less likely than if there was a pit, and anyway, he shall just have to build a large enough mound. He can use a few branches to make a cross, as Will Hodgson once talked about, and use that as a marker. It is a simple burial, but he knows is the kind that she would appreciate.

He does not know her full story, the events that drew her to this place, but from what little he was told, this seems like the right place to end it.

As he gets closer to Mrs Morton, and her face finally comes into view, he notices something. Though she is long since dead, and the joke has long since been given its punchline, she is still smiling.

Nightingale laughs.

Everything is going to be okay.