Damned If You Do (11 page)

I nodded. ‘It hasn't felt right for a long time.'

Funny, the things you remember when you're dead.

*   *   *

Three short, firm knocks interrupted my thoughts.

‘Who is it?'

‘Death.'

‘Come in.'

He unlocked the door and entered, making sure he secured it again before approaching the bed. He was carrying a plate piled high with salted crackers which, briefly, uncomfortably, and inexplicably, reminded me of sex. He left them on the table by the window before settling into the Barca lounger.

‘How are you feeling?'

‘Better.'

He nodded. ‘I brought you some food. Pes says you won't feel like eating for a while – but just in case.' I thanked him. ‘We have a meeting tomorrow morning. Late. You should come along. See how things work.' I smiled weakly. ‘There's no rush for breakfast.' He stared at me in silence for a moment, then sat up and prepared to leave.

‘How did I do today?'

He paused before answering. ‘We're not sure if any infection actually took place. You were writhing around so much after your accident, our clients moved seats and left the bag behind. It'll be a couple of days before we know for sure.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Shit happens.'

He stood up.

‘Where's Skirmish?'

‘Out on the town with War. Probably trashing some restaurant.'

He walked towards the door, unlocked it.

‘Who's Hades?' I asked. The question escaped before I knew what I was saying.

Death turned casually, and pointed to the battered Bible on the writing desk. ‘Look him up,' he said. ‘Revelation. Chapter six, verse eight.'

 

 

Fat man, red beard

I see nothing.

I'm in a warm, dark, vibrating place. I hear a low, muffled hum.

My whole body is aching. My hands are tied behind my back with rope; my legs are tied to my hands. My mouth is stuffed with a rag that tastes of oil and grease, sealed in place by insulating tape. The tape winds three times around my head, biting into the skin on my face and neck, tearing my hair when I move. Sweat rolls into my eyes, runs down my cheek, drips onto the warm, dark, vibrating surface beneath me.

And I am screaming. But with the rag, and the tape, and the low, muffled hum, no-one can hear.

I might as well be a prisoner in a medieval oubliette.

*   *   *

I opened my eyes.

I saw a soft, white pillow, and a deep, white carpet, its thick threads almost level with my line of sight. I had a fleeting sense of the familiar once again. I released the pillow reluctantly and rolled onto my back, gazing sleepily at the wooden slats of the upper bunk. I rubbed my eyes and focused on the Artex ceiling: spatterings of stalactites frozen in mid-drip, white stars clustered in crazy constellations. I saw animals, and food, and faces, and the chaotic spinning of suns.

I saw nothing.

*   *   *

When I stood up my head was still weak from Pestilence's dubious remedy and I lost my balance on the way to the wardrobe, tripping over a particularly thick patch of shagpile and falling against the writing desk. The collision dislodged the vase of roses: I heard it roll, then watched it fall onto the carpet by my feet. I crawled over to the wardrobe and climbed it like a cliff face; but I opened the door too eagerly, and the edge struck my forehead just above the nose.

Groaning, I selected an orange T-shirt with the words
FRIEND OF THE SEVEN-EYED LAMB
™ across the chest, a random pair of floral boxer shorts, and some tangerine socks embroidered with red lobsters.

Zombie fashion!

After dressing I made my way to the dining room, unaware of the time, uncertain that anyone would be there. Having eaten very little the day before, I needed breakfast now. My stomach was riding a motorbike through a fiery hoop.

The door was closed, but I clearly heard Death's melancholic tones: ‘The things we do, I'm amazed that any of us can sleep at night. But I'm even more amazed that the Chief expects us to enjoy it. Why do we go on with it?'

The respondent's voice was loud, aggressive, and unfamiliar: ‘Things would be a damn sight 'cking worse if we didn't, that's why.'

Hunger, and a mild curiosity, pushed me through the door.

Death was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table. He was wearing a light grey kimono and black velvet skull-embroidered slippers. Next to him, in the chair I had occupied the day before, sat a sunburned giant with Ronald McDonald hair and a bushy, red beard.

Death turned around as I walked in. ‘Feeling better?'

‘Still groggy.'

‘How did
that
happen?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Your head.' He waved his hand in my general direction. ‘Above your nose. The red patch.'

‘It's nothing.'

He nodded, and indicated the fat man with the red beard. ‘This is War.' He pinched his ear and added confidentially, ‘He's a little deaf.'

The stranger paid him no attention; he seemed more interested in studying every aspect of my appearance. I returned the compliment. His fingers were the colour and thickness of traditional pork sausages. His eyebrows looked like dead caterpillars. He was dressed entirely in varying shades of red: a scarlet polo shirt with a large, golden sword embroidered on the breast pocket, wide crimson jeans with a salmon-coloured belt, maroon ankle socks, and bright ruby plimsolls. He filled every expanded inch of his clothes – a stockpile of muscle, blood and bone inside thick walls of flesh.

Death cut short our mutual scrutiny by introducing me: ‘This is my new apprentice.'

War looked me in the eye. ‘Don't you have a name?' he bellowed.

I shook my head.

‘Each to his own.' He continued to feast on the vast platter of cold meats spread before him.

I sat in Skirmish's seat, where a bowl of cereal and fruit were laid out for me. After sampling the first mouthful I couldn't prevent myself assaulting the rest. It was a strange experience. The sensation of solid food squeezing down my throat and creeping spasmodically through my intestines was still uncomfortable after so many years of digestive inactivity.

‘So what was the body count?' Death said, continuing a conversation the beginning of which I'd missed.

‘Thousands.' War slipped a slug of spicy salami down his throat.

‘Sounds like a good day's work.'

‘One of the best.'

‘Going back?'

‘No need to. The wheels are in motion. All the Agents know what to do. I might pop in for a special guest appearance in a couple of weeks, but that's just maintenance. I'm not due anywhere until Monday.'

‘But you can still help me out on Friday?'

War nodded. ‘No rest for the wicked.'

Death had already devoured two of his customary trio of white mice before I'd entered, but he delayed the third for several more minutes. As I finished off the last of the fruit, he opened and closed the cage door repeatedly and tapped his fingers against the bars. It appeared to give him some pleasure; but the mouse squeaked with fear.

‘Where's Skirmish this morning?' I asked.

‘Wasn't he in your room?'

‘Not when I got up.'

‘Skirmish!' War interrupted. Gobbets of boiled ham flew from his open mouth like missiles.
‘Skirmish!'
The second call nearly deafened me. Death continued to tease his prey, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Within seconds I heard heavy footsteps racing down the stairs and along the corridor towards us. Skirmish burst into the dining room looking as annoyed as anyone can in a pink, ankle-length night-shirt. His irritation relaxed into servility when he realized who had called him.

‘What is it?'

‘Come here, you 'cking bugger,' War commanded. No sooner had Skirmish negotiated his way around the table than War stood up, leapt upon him with a speed I would not have thought possible, and wrestled him to the ground. It was the most unequal contest I'd ever seen, and it was ended by the pair laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back.

‘Now that you're here,' said Death, flicking the roof of the cage, ‘there's something you could do for me.' He opened the door and dragged the mouse out by its tail. ‘The Chief has a message for today's meeting. I'd like you to collect it.'

Skirmish rolled his eyes and pointed at me. ‘
He's
your apprentice.'

‘But I'm asking you.' Death slipped the mouse into his mouth, crunched on the bones, sucked loudly, and spat out a small, white skull. It bounced along the table and came to rest by my left arm.

Skirmish stared at him angrily, then dropped his gaze and left without another word. A moment later Death rose, and bowed politely.

‘I'll see how he's getting on,' he said.

*   *   *

I was alone with War. His physical presence intimidated me more than that of anyone I had met since my death, but I have long since learned to disguise my responses. As he shovelled half a dozen slices of beef into his mouth, I quietly picked at the remnants of my breakfast. At last he looked up.

‘Nice suit,' he said.

‘Thank you.'

‘Apart from that, you look like shit.'

‘Oh.'

‘Like it here?'

I nodded.

‘Watch out for Pestilence,' he whispered.

Startled by his bluntness, I stared through the window and said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Is that your BMW?'

He turned around, chewing noisily. ‘Yep. You can't turn up at a battle looking like a sodding dog's breakfast.'

‘What was wrong with the horse?'

He pointed at the framed slogan on the wall beneath Death's portrait:
MOVE WITH THE TIMES
. ‘Too inefficient. I need to be anywhere at a moment's notice.' He folded his hands across his ample belly, pleased with himself. ‘Besides, have you ever
seen
apocalyptic horse shit?'

*   *   *

Death re-entered the room, sat down, stared at me. He had changed into his day clothes: Timberland boots, pale jeans, a cream T-shirt, and a black-and-white check lumberjack shirt.

‘The meeting is in five minutes,' he announced. ‘A prompt start will give us more time this afternoon.'

‘What've you got on today?' War asked.

‘Accidental death,' he sighed. ‘Unfortunate business.'

‘Always is.'

Death nodded. ‘It's rather apt, though. Our client's whole life has been a catalogue of accidents. He's got scars from shaving, from shark-fishing, from hacking away at frozen ice cream. Scars on his head and neck, scars on his knees. He spends his time lurching from one small tragedy to another.' He breathed deeply. ‘He even bumped into
me
a couple of weeks ago.'

He stared at the table with a look of such compassion, I was reminded of my mother's face when she found me again at the restaurant, five years after I had disappeared.

We left the dining room as a threesome and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The corridor was empty but I heard laughter from the first room on the left. War marched in without knocking and was greeted unenthusiastically. I turned around to see Death closing a door marked
THE CHIEF
– the same door I had seen on Monday, after my shower. I briefly caught sight of an iron spiral staircase leading upwards.

‘You can't trust Skirmish to do anything properly,' he said.

Behold a pale horse

The Meeting Room: a long, Formica-laminated table surrounded by six chairs, a flickering fluorescent light directly overhead, a coffee machine on a wooden stand in the far left corner, a photocopier in the far right. Death sat at the head of the table, Skirmish opposite him; to his left were Pestilence and Famine, to his right myself and War. The walls were bare but painted a lurid crab red, a shade which clashed violently with War's outfit. Since his outfit already clashed with itself, this caused no great anxiety.

The desk was covered with paper.

‘Morning, everyone,' said Death. He looked around the room for a response. No-one seemed interested. ‘Any questions before we begin?' Blank stares. ‘Then I declare this meeting open.' He coughed theatrically. ‘Today's session will cover the following subjects: updates from Pestilence, Famine, War and myself; a proposal for the new filing system; a review of our field Agents; any miscellaneous additional matters arising from the discussion; and a message from the Chief. Let's start with the updates – Pes?'

‘Well, there isn't much to tell.' Pestilence's tone was calm, confident. He established eye contact with everyone in the room, including me. ‘Batch 08/99 had a problematic release, but if it succeeds we're anticipating global contamination within three years. The contusions are slightly more enigmatic: after a promising initial spread the bruising seems to have dissipated. Most disappointing. I've reorganized the testing regime and expect more positive results soon.'