Free Managing Death by Trent Jamieson Page B

an awful lot of those over the years. ‘They’re waiting outside, where I told them to wait.’
    Yeah, I might be RM, but in this room Brooker is king.
    I clear my throat softly. ‘Can I ask you something?’
    Brooker looks at me. ‘Shoot. No pun intended.’
    ‘Did Mr D ever talk to you about his dreams?’
    Brooker shakes his head; I can tell he thinks the question has come out of left field. ‘Steven, I hardly ever spoke to him at all. Don’t tell me you thought otherwise. He was a peculiar man.’ Brooker squints at me. ‘To be honest, I like you much more.’
    I don’t tell him that Mr D is still very much around.
    I remember how Mr D died. Bones crunching as the SUV rolled over him. He certainly ended up in a lot of trouble. But then again for the majority of us that’s all we can expect. Time and the world are hard and grinding. Bones and flesh are soft.
    ‘Now, these dreams … ’
    I sigh. ‘They’re nightmares really. Nasty as hell nightmares.’
    ‘Everyone has bad dreams,’ Dr Brooker says. ‘Particularly in your job, and mine.’
    ‘That’s not the problem,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just that I rather like them.’ My face flushes.
    ‘How much?’
    My face is burning. ‘A lot.’
    ‘Hmm.’ He squints at me like I’m some kind of thermometer. I don’t know what sort of reading he gets but after a while he turns away. ‘Don’t get caught up with dreams. Sometimes that’s all they are.’
    We both know that isn’t true. Brooker looks worried. ‘See me in a day or two – this really isn’t my specialty. Now isn’t the best time, you’ve been through a bit of trauma. And I’m sure that hasn’t helped.’
    ‘It’ll heal,’ I say looking at my foot.
    ‘I wasn’t talking about that. The way all this happened – the way you became RM, and the betrayals you faced – none of it was good. Steve, I lost a lot of dear friends that week. You lost more than that. It takes its toll.’
    But is that really a good enough excuse for the number of times I’ve shown up at work drunk? Or just not bothered to show up at all? When you don’t sleep there’s an awful lot of time you can spend drinking, even if it’s not filling up the hole left by all that loss, and the guilt that I’m letting those nearest to me, and equally wounded, down. Which, of course, leads to more drinking. It’s how I’ve dealt with all the major dramas of my adult life.
    Home and work, everywhere I look there are gaps. Reminders of friends and family gone, snatched away by the chaos of Morrigan’s Schism. And as for the work itself, I don’t know how to lead people. Where do you learn that? Where do you pick up all the arcane and complicated tricks required in the running of a business like mine? Despite Tim’s notes there’s no manual. I have Mr D, but I don’t know what questions to ask, and he isn’t that great at answering the ones I do. I’d suspect him of being deliberately evasive, except he’s always been that way.
    And Lissa. Where do you go after what we’ve shared? Surely happiness of the forever-after sort is deserved. I’d settle for a few years of it, but there’s no prospect of that. We’ve a dark god coming.
    Suzanne’s offer is looking very attractive. Maybe it’s not too late to fix this. To be what I need to be.
    Brooker works in silence for a while, cleaning then binding the foot. ‘All done,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll need to sit on your chair for a while.’
    ‘My throne?’
    ‘Don’t start putting on airs and graces. When I was a kid we called the shitter a throne.’ He sighs. ‘But that’s the one. It’ll heal you much faster than you can on your own.’
    There’s shouting outside. It’s an achingly familiar voice, an achingly familiar heartbeat, even if it is racing. My ears prick up. Dr Brooker grins. ‘I’ll just get her for you.’
    The door flings open and nearly bowls him over. Dr Brooker doesn’t even bother calling her on it. He knows better than to get