Damned If You Do (18 page)

‘Get a cleaner to sort it out. Tomorrow.'

As soon as he's left the room, she dry-retches against the bed, gathers up the sheet and uses it as a towel to dry her hair. She scrubs her head for a long time, but is never satisfied, trying again and again to remove the stain and the smell. Then, as if she has suddenly remembered she is being watched, she drops the sheet and walks quickly towards the camera. Her eyes are red, her face sags with disgust, but her mouth is twisted into a peculiar smile.

Her hand approaches the lens, becomes a blurred pink-and-white image, then white noise.

The rattling cyborg

It took fifteen minutes to walk from the Agency to the fair at St Giles, retracing the course we'd taken on Monday morning. The difference was, today we were dressed as paramedics. Death had selected two pairs of bright green overalls from the Stock Room and filled a small black medical bag with a variety of non-medical equipment. As we turned onto the road leading to my old burial ground, I revealed my feelings about some of the things I'd seen in the Chief's office.

‘All those people reduced to forms and files and numbers…' I began. ‘It's so depersonalizing. If everyone is reduced to a set of facts, and you can't distinguish one set of facts from another, then life means nothing.' Death studied me intensely, and I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, so I wound up the speech quickly. ‘I don't remember much about who I was when I was alive – but those memories I
do
have still mean something to me, even now. I'm more than a statistic.'

‘I agree,' he said, nodding in sympathy. ‘What's more, I find the detail of what we do to our clients increasingly repellent … Tonight's client is a perfect example. His termination just seems unnecessarily gruesome.'

*   *   *

A yellow glow hung over the houses as we approached the graveyard, and grew brighter as the crowd grew denser. People jostled for space or gathered in clumps of conversation, but all were sucked into the strobe-lit vortex possessing the main square; and we were dragged helplessly along with them. At the corner, the helter skelter loomed ahead of us like the spire of a sunken church. The wooden slide coiled from heaven to hell, carrying its helpless human freight endlessly downward. The owner, a walnut-faced, liver-spotted old man, innocently entreated passers-by to
have a spin.

‘Keep your eyes open,' Death advised. ‘He could be anywhere.'

I scanned hundreds of unfamiliar faces in the hope of recognizing only one. Some disappeared into
The Famous Rotor-Disco,
a two-storey mincer which processed individuals into a single writhing unit of flesh. Up on the viewing gallery, a circle of abusers – made devilish by multicoloured lights, thick puffs of steam and a hammering disco beat – gathered to bray at the bouncing bodies below. Other people were kidnapped by the scooping buckets of the big wheel, spinning and arcing away into the evening sky. Their desperate screams were softened by the juddering whine of an old generator, the murmur of the crowd, the incessant music. Still more were sucked into the Waltzer, a dizzying, shuddering maelstrom of light and sound. Hired hands whirled the seats at random, snapping necks, squeezing lovers together, making people sick with pleasure.

And at last, in the chaos, I saw him. A tall, tub-bellied, bearded man in a pink T-shirt and floppy green shorts, standing by a mobile snack bar, exercising his mouth on a steaming hot dog.

And the data from his file came to life in my imagination.

*   *   *

It's 1969. He is two years old. He is resting, half-asleep, on his father's lap, watching black-and-white images flicker on the television screen. The pictures show a space ship that looks like a metal octopus, and two snowmen running in slow motion over a dark grey desert. The snowmen are talking, but their lips don't move and their voices are unclear, like when the boy's father speaks to him on the telephone from a long way away.

But he is not interested in the pictures, or the sounds they make. He is not even interested in the thought that two men are walking on the bright circle that shines in the night sky. He just likes to stay up so late, and to lie half-asleep on his father's lap.

*   *   *

‘That's him,' I said, watching the father stroke the boy's head, as my mother had once stroked mine.

‘What's the recommended pursuit distance?'

‘Between two-point-one and nine-point-eight metres.'

‘Minimal intervention?'

‘So I'm told.'

The snack bar adjoined a huge diesel-powered wind organ, decorated with rough representations of square-jawed heroes, Amazon women, giants, unicorns, elephants, centaurs – all protected by a thick, yellow coat of varnish. The organ grinder stood idly by, as old and yellow as his whining machine, grinning toothlessly at his audience; a grizzled black bull mastiff guarded his feet, its body bloated by scraps from passers-by. As the music wheezed and groaned, animated toy soldiers crashed cymbals and bashed drums out of time. Our client and his hot dog had come to rest here, listening, watching.

Death instructed me to wait and observe, then headed for the snack bar himself, barging his way through the crowd and giving dissenters the evil eye. He disappeared briefly, and the next time I saw him he was standing at the front of the queue. The assistant who served him was dressed in a mauve and white striped blazer with matching straw boater. He stood out like a rat at a cat convention.

‘Yes?'

‘I'll have one of those.' Death indicated something behind the counter.

‘A doughnut?'

‘No. The round thing on a stick.'

‘Toffee apple?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Pound-fifty.'

Death patted the pockets of his paramedic overalls before producing a ragged note, then left before the bewildered assistant could hand over his change. When he returned, I asked him why he had bought the apple, suspecting that it would play some vital role in the success of our mission.

‘I was hungry,' he replied.

*   *   *

He is twenty-one years old. He is tall and handsome and proud of his new wife sleeping in the hotel bed next to him. She is already pregnant with their first child, a girl who will live for five years before leukaemia wrenches her from their lives. He strokes his wife's belly as she sleeps, as his father had stroked his hair on the night of the moon landing, and he thinks of the child growing inside whose sex he does not know, whose future he has already planned, who will one day grow up to be as tall and handsome as him.

*   *   *

He strayed from the wind organ, paused at a prize booth, then slipped into the crowd. We caught up with him again at the ghost train – a giant, black shed, drably decorated with puny fluorescent ghosts, pathetic pastel-coloured monsters and grandmotherly witches. The sidecar-sized carriages that clattered through the exit doors invariably carried laughing customers, and as the trains rolled to a halt on the narrow track a skinny actor in a black-and-white skeleton suit hammed his way through a moans-of-the-undead routine. He began to lose heart even as we waited, his shrill whines and violent gesticulations downgraded to disconsolate murmurs and a listless shaking of the arms.

The bearded man passed through the entrance and climbed into the front carriage of the next train. Death bought a couple of tickets from a man whose face resembled an Arcimboldo painting, and we pushed through the turnstile and settled at the rear. A sharp jolt set us in motion: I turned around to see the skeletal actor recovering from the push. He stepped backwards casually, then set about disturbing his audience once more. The train rolled forwards and banged through a pair of black wooden doors, which pincered the carriage as we passed.

Light snuffed out, sound muffled. Faint, strange echoes of music and voices, wheels rumbling and screeching. I'd anticipated rubber skeletons rattling in cages, severed heads dripping fake blood, Frankenstein's monster, leering vampires, howling wolves, revolving tunnels – even the odd joke corpse. But I saw only this emptiness, heard only this stifling silence broken by the train wheels and the far-off fairground attractions.

I waited for something to happen.

The train snaked to the right, turned left, rumbled straight ahead, turned left again, rolled right – then squealed to a halt. I heard nervous laughter from the carriages ahead.

Silence.

Quick footsteps in the darkness. A hand slapped my cheek, then something soft, stringy and damp brushed against my forehead. I flinched, but it was over as soon as it had begun. The train moved forwards, squeaking, grumbling and twisting along the track towards the exit. The leading carriage banged into a second set of doors and forced its way into the light. I turned towards Death to avoid the glare.

His seat was empty.

Travelling from light to light through darkness. Waiting for something to happen. Muffled echoes of life.

This is what it means to be dead.

*   *   *

A terrifying scream rose from inside the ghost train. Our client, who had been climbing out of the front carriage, stopped and turned around. He and the other passengers left slowly, turned sporadically, gazed quizzically at the swinging exit doors. They watched, half-hoping that the source of the scream would reveal itself, until they were absorbed into the body of the crowd. I followed them, still wondering about Death.

He was standing on the other side of the gate.

‘You took your time.'

‘Where did you go?'

He shrugged. ‘I just gave them a lesson in how to
really
scare people. It's the only fun I'll get all evening.'

*   *   *

It's 1982. He is standing by his grandfather's bed, fighting back the tears that seem to begin in his throat and push upward in hot, stinging waves to his eyes. The grandfather will not live to see his great grandchildren.

‘Happy birthday,' the old man says. ‘How does it feel to be fifteen?'

The teenager shrugs, choking on his misery. He is trying to grow a beard, but at this moment the soft down on his chin and cheeks strikes him as pathetic. The whole world is pathetic and cruel.

The old man nods. ‘Neither one thing nor the other, is it?'

*   *   *

And I could not distinguish my memories from his.

*   *   *

The sun cast long shadows on the few unpopulated patches of ground. The light was faltering, throwing the multicoloured fairground bulbs into sharper focus. The sky had deepened to a rich, dark blue. At length Death stopped me with his hand, indicating a ride we hadn't yet encountered. I heard the whining of a generator, the groans of onlookers, the shrieks of victims. I saw light reflecting from spinning metal cages, I watched our client join the queue.

‘This is the machine that will kill him,' he said.

It was a hideous, rattling cyborg. Its non-human components consisted of a dynamo, a strong metal web supporting a latticed steel tower, and a central revolving spar at the ends of which two cages spun freely. Its non-mechanical components comprised a live human being willingly restrained inside each cage, an operator, and two hired hands. The twin elements of metal and flesh were mutually responsible for the successful functioning of the apparatus. When the device moved, the caged people cursed, screamed, gesticulated and groaned, committed to their part in the performance. Once the ride was over they were free to leave, their roles readily filled by new players.

Death squinted at the signboard advertising the ride.

‘The Voyager,'
he read.
‘A one-hundred-and-eighty degree vomit comet.
Tasteful.
No wimps allowed.'

‘Are we going on?'

‘No.' He sounded disappointed. ‘But he is.'

Only two people were permitted per ride, and the queue shuffled forwards slowly. Our client was third in line. He seemed apprehensive, surveying the surrounding crowd and seeking approval of his dare-devilry. As we watched the Voyager's spin slowed to a stop. The cage doors were opened, two satisfied customers staggered free, and a new couple climbed inside. The hired hands bound them tightly with leather straps and closed the doors. Soon the squealing occupants were tumbling over like amateur acrobats.

In the distance a bingo caller announced random sequences of numbers. Near by, a white-faced clown was selling helium parrots and foam lizards on wire leashes. I watched the crowd, catching indiscriminate phrases from passers-by until the ride came to an end. The rotating arm decelerated, the cages spun to a stop, the metal base shuddered with decreasing violence. The assistants prepared to unlock the cages. Our client rocked on the balls of his feet and whistled.

‘Next.'

He handed over his money, passed through the gate and claimed the nearest carriage. The hired hands strapped him in, struggling to fasten the bonds around his chest, belly, thighs and ankles. Having mostly succeeded, they closed the door casually. The operator activated the revolving arm until the second carriage was level with the loading platform. The assistants secured the second customer as the bearded man swung idly in his suspended prison.

‘Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride,' said the operator.

He switched on the machine. It began to rotate, slowly.

*   *   *

He is thirty-two years old. He looks through the café window and smiles as he notices his ex-wife sitting at their old table by the stairs. He enters, sits down, and places his hand on her shoulder.

‘You're looking good.'

She turns and kisses him lightly on the cheek, and pulls a photograph from her bag. The photograph shows two children at a swimming pool. His eldest child, now dead, and her younger brother, who had just learned to walk. The boy visits him at weekends and during the holidays.

‘I thought you might like to see this. I found it at the bottom of the suitcase. Do you remember?'