Damned If You Do (2 page)

‘I don't understand—'

He held up his palm. ‘You don't have to … The thing is, we're offering you an opportunity. We're taking you on as an apprentice, and we're giving you a week to prove yourself. If you succeed – and there's no reason to assume you won't – you become a fully-qualified Agent, with all the benefits that guarantees: immortality, steady employment, freedom from boredom, and so on and so forth.'

‘What if I fail?'

‘You
won't
fail. Don't even
think
it.' He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Besides, you can't lose. If things don't work out, we'll just put you back.
And
you get to choose the manner of your own death.'

*   *   *

That settled the issue. To a corpse, precisely how you died is everything. It's the first question your neighbours ask when you arrive; and your answer can mean the difference between dignity and honour, or shame and scorn. So, even if I didn't know what the apprenticeship involved, it didn't matter; and when Death reached down and offered me his hand, I took it.

How could I refuse?

My zombie brain

The fact is, back then I had no idea how I died. The only concrete images I could recall were of a woman tied to a bed, a wet rooftop, and an oil-soaked rag. But things are different now. I already remember so much more, and I feel ready to reconstruct what happened. Piecing it all together shouldn't be beyond me, either. I had a strong investigative streak in my former life: I was always watching, always listening, always asking questions.

I didn't always get the answers I was looking for, it's true – but I learned to accept that some mysteries remain mysterious.

*   *   *

Death's thin, white fingers reached under my arms and dragged me, with difficulty, onto the soft, dew-dampened grass. He turned my head to the right, inspected my neck, and grunted; then he knelt by me and brushed loose lumps of earth from my body, working silently, tenderly. I lay motionless, passive, watching his wiry hands smear some of the dirt into muddy streaks on my legs and torso. The top of his head fascinated me: crescents of black hair uncoiled from his crown like the curling arms of a spiral galaxy.

‘Stand up.'

It was an encouragement rather than an imperative, and I obeyed. My senses crackled with the memory of life: the snake-hiss of wind in trees, the sweet smell of wet earth. Sharp air penetrated my mouth and lungs. A cold wind shrivelled the pores on my skin.

Death removed his coat and handed it to me.

‘Put this on.'

As I buttoned myself in, I noticed that several parts of my body were missing.

*   *   *

My grave lay by the thick trunk of an old horse chestnut tree, in the fork of two gnarled and mouldy roots. The headstone, like those of my three closest neighbours, was so thickly blanketed with moss its inscription was indecipherable. I would have liked more time to say goodbye to my neighbours – just a few words to explain what was happening, and to reassure them. But Death, who had spent the last few moments searching distractedly for a sheet of paper hidden in his buff chinos, snapped his fingers impatiently and summoned me to a low stone wall bordering the cemetery.

‘Right. Let's get down to business.' He unfolded the sheet and handed it to me. ‘This is your contract. Read it, sign it, return it.'

He removed a thin, black pen from his back pocket and tossed it in the air like a baton before handing it over. I studied the paper briefly, but the print was too small, there wasn't enough light to read by, and my feet felt like two chunks of ice. The promise of a shower and a fresh suit of clothes took on a new appeal.

‘What does it say?'

‘It's a standard contract.' He snatched the sheet and followed the text with his fingers. ‘Blah blah … Covenant between the Agency and the deceased, hereafter referred to, et cetera, et cetera … seven-day trial period … guaranteed employment … assessment at the end of the week, at which time … blah
blah
 … failing which, the deceased must choose one termination from a short list of seven to be witnessed during his apprenticeship … all files to be returned to the Chief by Monday morning at the latest…' He handed the paper back to me. ‘Just put your mark at the bottom. It'll make things easier for all of us.'

I signed without hesitation.

*   *   *

If you're wondering
how
I would have said farewell to my neighbours, and how the dead communicate with each other in general, the answer is simple.

Corpse code.

For example, the most basic response – a single knock on the coffin wall – means
No, Go away,
or
I'm resting.
Two knocks signify
Yes, Hello,
or
I'm ready to talk. Goodbye
is indicated by a long, slow scratch … And so on.

Don't misunderstand me: many corpses retain the ability to talk even when they are approaching the most advanced stages of physical decomposition. But there's no point in having a conversation when even your closest neighbour is separated from you by thick wooden walls and several feet of earth.

It's just not practical.

*   *   *

I returned the contract. Death thanked me, folded it three times, and slipped it into the top pocket of his polo shirt, where it competed for space with a pair of black plastic sunglasses.

‘Can you walk?' he said.

‘I think so.'

It was a small graveyard, perhaps only a hundred plots, most of them with worn, tilting, or mouldy headstones. Mine was one of the newer ones, and as we passed the open grave again, I wondered aloud if we shouldn't replace the huge mound of excavated soil.

‘Forget it,' said Death. ‘I can't be bothered.'

He skipped over the stray coffin lid, picked up the spade propped against the tree trunk, and headed for a narrow sandy path which bisected the cemetery. The path led from an iron gate in the south wall to a small, Saxon church dominating the northern end. The dawn illuminated clumps of trees on either side and the cluttered rows of tombstones sheltering beneath them. A few bouquets of withered flowers provided random splashes of colour. I was too focused on our journey to notice much else.

At the church we turned left and crossed a deserted main road before cutting into a narrow side street; then right, at the end, onto a long back road bordered by shops, houses, cafés, and a cinema. Finally, we turned left down a slope which curved towards a distant meadow. We saw no-one – not even a tramp, or a street cleaner, or a crook.

But the extraordinary experience of walking again, after lying still for so long, made me wonder how I could ever have enjoyed my time in the coffin. The powerful pull of gravity and the pressure of the pavement beneath my feet were like the sudden return of an exquisite memory. And as we reached the bottom of the slope, I was so preoccupied by the images and sensations of life stimulating my zombie brain that I tripped on the kerb, slipped face-forward, and landed on my chin.

Death picked me up, produced a black-and-white polka-dot handkerchief from another pocket, and pressed it against the wound. He squeezed my shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, then gestured to the building directly opposite.

‘Welcome to the Agency,' he said.

The four car drivers of the Apocalypse

If you're imagining a Gothic structure with dark towers, flying buttresses, leaded windows and iron-bound wooden doors, forget it. There were no horses champing at the bit and foaming at the mouth, and no lowering clouds or flashes of lightning in the background, either. Death's office was simply a two-storey corner town house with a converted attic and steps leading down to a cellar. Three unremarkable cars were parked outside, and the sun rising in a clear sky behind us suggested it was going to be a pleasant day. I registered my dissatisfaction.

‘Is that it?'

‘What more do you want? A fanfare? A great multitude in white robes? The whore of Babylon?'

‘I wouldn't mind.'

‘It is what it is. No more, no less.'

We crossed the road and climbed a short flight of steps to the only visible entrance: a black, oak door studded with iron rivets. Death produced a ring of keys and selected the largest, oldest, rustiest one. He turned it in the lock, then hesitated.

‘Before we go in…' he began. ‘In the main office there are four of us: myself, Pestilence, Famine and War. And there's Skirmish, of course – he's War's assistant. He used to be an apprentice, like you. Don't take him too seriously.' He pushed the door open and entered a gloomy, stone-tiled hallway, where he propped the spade against the wall and tossed his grey scarf onto a hook. Above the hook were five bold, black letters:
DEATH
. I noticed two jackets on adjoining hooks, marked
FAMINE
and
PESTILENCE
, and an empty hook marked
WAR
. ‘Our work here is different from what you might anticipate. Most of our practical business is sub-contracted to appointed Agents – former trainees like yourself.' He smiled, displaying twin rows of pointed, yellow teeth. ‘What
we
do here is mainly administrative, though we're obliged to exercise our skills on the local population once a day.'

I nodded absent-mindedly. ‘Keeping your hand in.'

‘
Precisely.
Until the first blast of the Last Trumpet!' He waved his long, bony arms in a ridiculous flourish, like an orchestra conductor assailed by hornets; then his whole body slumped suddenly. ‘Actually,' he confessed, ‘I'm rather bored with the whole thing. Nothing seems to make sense any more … My heart's not in it.'

*   *   *

At the end of the corridor there was a white panelled door. Death opened it to reveal a tall column of paper, wobbling precariously on a Formica-laminated desk: the top sheet almost touched the low, Artexed ceiling. He awkwardly side-stepped the pile and disappeared.

I followed him apprehensively. Things were happening so fast.

The office contained four similar desks arranged in a square: each faced a different wall, each bent to accommodate mounds of paperwork. There were sheets of paper scattered randomly on the floor, banks of paper leaning against the sides of filing cabinets, paper pyramids pushing against the windows and spilling from the sills, paper pinned to machines, paper blocking air vents, paper crushing shelves. The room was decorated from floor to ceiling with documents and files, contracts and memos, and in the midst of this paper world were three of the least normal people I had ever seen.

Death intercepted my approach and pulled me into the middle of the room. ‘Morning, all,' he said breezily. No-one paid him the slightest attention. ‘This is our new apprentice. He'll be helping me out for the next seven days.'

As if someone had flicked a switch, three heads revolved slowly and scanned me. This scrutiny was terrifying after the darkness of the coffin. It burned a hole through the thin layer of confidence I had created. It withered me. A wave of nausea spread from my stomach into my throat. I felt my jaw quiver, then drop – and I stood there with my mouth half-open, not knowing where to look or what to say.

*   *   *

Something about the intensity of their gaze reminded me of when I was alive, when I was a child.

I was often ill when I was young. My mother shielded me from contact with other children until I went to nursery school, and when she was finally, reluctantly, forced to let me mix with my peers, I spent two years reeling from one disease to another. Whenever I fell sick, she drew me back into the nest, and folded herself around me, protecting me until I recovered. For my part, I sought any excuse to return to her.

And though I remember one particular day and one specific memory so clearly, it could have been any one of a hundred such days and memories from my childhood. The picture is always the same. I am lying in my mother's arms on the sofa, dressed in my pyjamas, a soft, white woollen blanket wrapped around me. I can feel the warmth and softness of her skin against my head and feet. I have a fever, but the heat from her body penetrates the crucible of my disease. She strokes my head, so gently, so softly, that I never want to leave this moment, despite the sick feeling in my stomach. I never want to leave as she rocks me slowly in her huge, soft arms, her fine hair hanging over my hot face. I want to remain, frozen in this heat, as she lowers her head and – so tenderly – nibbles at my cheek and soothes me to sleep.

But I have a question which must be answered before I yield. I want to know when the fever will finish, when this pain and pleasure will end. I turn my face towards her, ready to ask; and she instinctively draws me closer, ready to listen. But as I look at her the question sticks in my throat. I cannot speak – because I am burned by the brightness of the light in her eyes, blistered by the terrible intensity of her power and love.

Immense power; unwavering love.

*   *   *

Standing alone while my new employers inspected me, something of that power and softness filtered through and brought me comfort even after death. But I remained gripped by a physical paralysis until the middle character in this eccentric trio shattered the awful silence.

‘Could be worse,' he said, licking his lips. He was a tiny, bald, sickly creature with string arms, stick legs and a head that resembled a pockmarked skimming stone. He wore black boots, black socks, black jeans and a black T-shirt embossed with a single white emblem: a pair of scales. On his desk, beneath a dozen documents all stamped
URGENT
, was a black flat cap.

Death patted me on the back encouragingly. ‘Considering how he died, we're lucky he's here in one piece.'

‘What's his name?' This was spoken by the youngest member of the party: a pimpled teenager dressed in a sharp pink suit and matching leather tie. He had the physique of a plucked chicken, and his voice was squeaky and irritating, like a child's toy. It was obvious from the groans provoked by his question that he commanded little respect, and even less affection.