01 – The Specialist
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Matthias liked sunshine and rainbows. They made the abandonment of the cemetery seem deliberate.
Overgrown weed hid the base of the headstone, eating up the shriveled roses and rain-soaked tokens several months old. The name would have been obscured or eaten away, if there had been one there. Out of all the shades from the rows of pines, she got the dampest.
Not that she’d complain. It was an empty grave.
Matthias had a lily in his hand. He liked lilies. She would have liked them, too.
There was a proper way to do it, he was sure, but setting the flower on top of the headstone was good enough.
There was supposed to be something, wasn’t there? A pang of hurt, or regret, or bittersweet memories? But all he could think about was that the beautiful day was being wasted, and that the velvet of his suit didn’t do well in the drab.
Once a year, Matthias Söderberg tried to be human. But the sun was out, the sky clear after a light rain, and a sweet scent drifted on the wind.
His phone rang. The voice had an edge to it, barely concealed. “There’s a job for you,” said Sin.
“I’m off today.” It was barely nine in the morning, and he was already done. The sun held a promise.
“No, you’re not. Be at 342 NorthGhana in thirty—”
Matthias hung up. He got one day of the year off to grieve. It was basic human rights. He was thinking ice cream, then maybe seafood for lunch. Might even skip practice for the day. Fuck it. He was grieving. It'd be bad luck, getting your hands dirty on the anniversary of your daughter’s passing.
The ringtone cut through the quiet, shrill and insistent. Matthias turned without looking back, following the overgrown path leading out of the cemetery. The ringing persisted.
There was an envelope waiting for him at the front desk of the front mortuary. The receptionist jolted awake at the loud noise of the phone, scowled and put a hat over his head.
Clouds were gathering beneath the blue, only loose strands yet, but the western sky about ten miles off above the Siccili lake was crowding over. There might be more rain after noon. The seafood would have to be scrapped. Hot soup was more appropriate to watch the rain to. All the while, his favourite jazz song played.
He made it all the way to the curb in front of the bus station before answering, three notes before the end.
“You had thirty. Now it’s fifteen.” He didn’t need to see Sin’s face to imagine her fuming.
“Find Martin. He’s free, and he works for pennies.”
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The road was deserted, ghost-houses haunting a slum. Ever since the Outbreak three years before, real estate around the fringe districts had plummeted without a sign of recovering. That’s why he had found this phantom of a town to be a good resting place for Lily. It was peaceful, for one.
“Martin’s dead,” Sin answered.
Matthias paused. That was a good thing. Less competition in a less-than-competitive profession. But more work. Everything had its downsides, as usual. Still, a man needed to have principles. “Call me back tomorrow.”
His finger was a hairsbreadth from ending the call when Sin hissed, “An Apostle picked you by name!”
Fuck.
From across the street, a honk dragged his attetion up. An ugly, brown, flat-top car, the kind mass-churned-out during the rubber industry crash from the last century, flashed its headlights twice where it was parked by the road. Moron. It was a bright day, and the honking was already sufficient.
“I charge triple, today,” Matthias muttered.
“Fuck off. Get here,” Sin said.
Another ear-piercing honk. It wasn’t her in the car, just some muscle.
“Triple.”
Whatever patience she had left was evaporating quickly. “Do you want me to go down there and pull you off myself?”
Matthias couldn’t help but smile. “Tempting, but that’d be unprofessional, wouldn’t it?”
A long silence on the other side. Faintly, in the distance, tense whispers broke through. Then a new voice took Sin’s place.
“Mr. Söderberg. Get in the car.”
Male, mid to late thirty, North-eastern. Emotionless. The words resonated, not only with the booming depth of the vocal, but something else.
Get in the car.
The smile died on Matthias’ face. He jerked the speaker away from his ear. Something trailed through the motion—tiny specks of gold glinting, indiscernible sparks blinking out. The phone clattered to the pavement a moment before he stomped on it, hard. The dry sound resembled fingerbone snapping.
The Apostle.
The brown car had pulled to the curb in front of him. The driver, a stocky boy—years too young to be the hardened criminal he clearly thought he was—smiled at Matthias with crooked teeth. “For you, Mr. Macabre.” He held out a phone, already dialled.
Sin sounded less unhappy than before, but no less stern. “I didn’t him want to do that.”
“Neither did I.” Couldn’t get a break. He was looking forward to that ice cream. “But I wasn’t being coy. My rate is tripled, plus overhead and out-of-scope. It’s under article Seven in my contract with the Church.”
“What?”
Typical. She never bothered to read the Contracting Agreement, just like how she never bothered to look beyond her blind faith during the two years they were together. She didn’t even remember what day it was.
“Doesn’t matter.” And just like with everything else, she pushed on without much care for any agenda other than her own. “Get here, now.”
“I still need to pick up the case.”
“Already did.”
It was then that he noticed the black leather case half the size of the car’s trunk, sitting in the back of it. They already took the liberty. Or maybe she kept the key still.
“Why the hurry?" he asked."Who’s on the table?”
There was a deep breath before her answer came. “A God, Mat.” Then Sin hung up.
The driver had a smirk he no doubt thought was intimidating. “Nice suit. Why indigo? Shouldn’t you wear red?”
“For what?”
“You know, in case they bleed on ya.”
“They never do.”
Matthias Söderberg stepped off the sidewalk, and Macabre entered the car.