The leafy suburb was idyllic, dotted with rustic cottages that estate agents didn't need to talk up to rent out. It was equally suitable a place to grow up in as it was to grow old and die. A black sky.

Deadward chipped his bumper on the curb as he parked up. He killed the engine. The swirling of the breeze through the overhead maples did little to soothe his apprehension. It seemed to him they were rustling towards a vibrant crescendo, but as soon as he got used to the noise, the trees stopped dead, and there was only him in front of his coworker's house.

He rang the doorbell, holding the note. The note held. The note held. He listened for rumbling footsteps that never came. Glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, he crept across the lawn, leaves breaking under his shoes. The owner of the basement flat had drawn all the curtains, so all that peered back was a reflection of himself, stout and anxious Deadward. He rapped on the glass and pressed his ear to it. Nothing.

Why was his heart beating so fast? Just what was he worried had happened?

The address book on his phone told him, clutched between shivering fingers -- it had been a week since Nightshade turned up at his shift instead of Faust, and thus a week since Deadward's first call to his friend had been forwarded to a tense, silent voicemail.

"He could at least have come to say it in person," said Nightshade, pulling out a rope of intestines linked like sausages. "People are ghosting all the time, nowadays. Guy probably just found a better job."

Deadward wasn't so sure, which is of course why he kept calling. Just once a day, to see if Faust would pick up, because any more would be overbearing. Just enough to let the guy know his friends were there for him.

He sighed. Maybe turning up at his house was being overbearing. Faust's saloon was still in the drive, caked in a canvas of leaves. Nothing about this scene suggested the worst. And yet -- and yet -- he remained stout and anxious Deadward.

What if he was too late?

He returned to the doorbell, pressing it down like he pressed on migraines. The note held. The note held. He listened for rumbling footsteps that never came. His breathing quickened. Gripped by a sudden madness, he knocked on the door, scraping skin off his knuckles, the blows ringing like gunshots down the empty autumn close.

"Open up, Faust," he yelled, squashing down his embarrassment, because what if? What if he was too late?

"It's Deadward," he yelled. "Open up!"

The breeze picked up, roaring in his ears, and the cyclone of leaves would have swept him off his feet had he not grabbed onto the porch to steady himself. Wheelie bins threw themselves onto the asphalt. His cap flew off and became tangled in a tree.

After the wind passed, the first scouts of rain kissed Deadward's bare scalp. Inside the house, footsteps rumbled. Something was plodding, heavily and intently, towards the front door. Unease gripped him -- he suddenly felt as if he were intruding, that he should get away now before he discovered some awful truth. This wasn't the sort of weather to pry into others' affairs.

A woman opened the door in a dressing gown, smelling of fresh hot water. She lived in the upstairs flat with her partner, which Deadward wished he had known before he propositioned her at the end of one drunken soiree. As it was, he thanked his lucky stars for still being in possession of all his teeth.

She said, "What do you want?"

"I can't get through to Faust," he said. "I'm worried about him."

There must have been an uncanny desperation in his voice, because she stepped back to let him in. Adrenaline fuzzied his mind. Outside, it was pouring. The woman handed him the spare key and then she was off, back upstairs to the warm glow of halogen lamps and space heaters.

Faust's door loomed. The key felt heavy in Deadward's hand. He cupped his ear and pressed it to the wallpaper, unsure what he was hoping to hear, just hoping to hear something. Rain drummed on the window. He took a deep breath to psyche himself up, inserted the key and turned it.

The door creaked open, peeling back to reveal the dimly lit basement flat. Stepping forward over the clutter by instinct, Deadward entered, steeling himself to keep his eyes open no matter what he might see.

"Hello?" he called.

A loose curtain swayed in the wind like a noose. He turned the corner from the entryway and there, amidst an armada of suitcases and sports bags and pieces of paper, he saw Faust.

Deadward barely recognised him: he'd shaved his beard off and cut his hair to a neat trim. He wore the most generic designer t-shirt paired with jeans, and he was humming softly to himself under headphones as he packed clothes into the suitcase.

It was then that Deadward saw the clutter was wholly purposeful -- what he'd been avoiding was shopping bags, spilling over with gear for different weather and terrain. Everywhere else in the flat was cleaned, not so much as a crumb out of place. Up on the walls was a list of names next to a map:

LOUIS -- BARDEN CITY -- CHECK

CHIARA -- MILANO -- CHECK

ANITA -- BUMFUCK NOWHERE, SIBERIA --

BRUCE --

ESME --

JURE --

A journal lay on the desk labelled 'Letters to Connie'. Deadward didn't dare touch it.

"Ah!" yelped Faust, tearing off his headphones. "Jesus wept! If it isn't Deadward, in my humble abode! To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you no longer bound by locked doors?"

Deadward gestured vaguely. "What the fuck is all this?"

Faust stroked his ghost of a beard and mulled it over for a short while, as if even he wasn't quite sure of the answer.

"You quit your job," Deadward said. "You didn't even tell me. You just vanished.”

"Well, yes," said Faust. "I know that much, compadre."

"Who are you and what have you done with Faust?" Deadward picked up a beginner's Russian phrasebook. "You never wanted to come to language classes with me before. You said it wasn't you."

"Don't lay the blame at my feet, o dead one," said Faust. "They're the ones who are organising and scurrying away from me!"

"Who?"

"People who thought they'd be living a very different life right now. As it goes for us all, I suppose."

Deadward felt as if he couldn't emit more question marks. He stuck to what he knew.

"I thought you'd killed yourself," he said.

"Killed myself?" Faust laughed, picked up a sports bag, and patted him on the shoulder. "In a sense, perhaps, but here I stand nonetheless, reborn and with a duty to die at a specific age in a nursing home. Will you aid me in getting all this in the car?"

"Don’t tell me you're actually driving to Siberia?"

"I expect at some point I'll have to get out and walk. The winter will be cold."

Faust hefted up as much as he could carry, lost under an array of bags, and then he charged forth into the pouring rain. Deadward followed with a similar cargo, stammering and stuttering. It took them four round trips, and by the time they were finished the saloon was sagging.

"You can come with me if you want," said Faust. "As much as I like having time to sort out my thoughts, and I do have a lot of thoughts to sort out, mind you -- it would be fun to have a friend along."

"How could I just up and leave? How could you?" said Deadward.

"Suit yourself," said Faust, unfazed. "I'll hit you up in a couple of years or so, hopefully, and maybe then I'll have the time to tell you all about it."

Deadward couldn't find the words. He finally figured out what was so uncanny about his friend -- he was smiling! He was looking Deadward in the eye, and he wasn't mumbling. He seemed altogether present, rather than preoccupied.

"Look after the flat for me, alright? There should be just enough left in my account -- Deadward?"

Deadward could barely blink.

"Allow me to feed you a line," said Faust, stashing a longsword -- a fucking medieval longsword -- into a secret compartment in the boot. "Perhaps you want to ask 'What led to you changing so much?'"

"What led to you changing so much?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Death game."

He drove off.