Damned If You Do (24 page)

There was neither time to think nor protest. He would be at the door in seconds. I hurried to the round tower, cleared several rows of pornographic videos from the free-standing bookshelf, tested the strength of the supporting brackets, and began to scramble upwards.

‘Hurry. He'll go apeshit.'

As I climbed, my mind refused to think about practical considerations – such as what I would do if escape was impossible, or how I would negotiate the roof, or whether vertigo was preferable to assault and battery – and informed me instead that this was the first time I had ever heard Amy use that particular expletive.

I sat down on top of the bookshelf and glanced across at the skylight – two square panes of glass forming a single, rectangular opening the length of a small man. The catch was well out of reach, but before I could request assistance, Amy was below me, pushing against the window with a long wooden pole.

It opened three inches. I tried to widen the gap, but a pair of brass hinges prevented further movement.

There was pounding on the front door.

I had no choice but to break one of the panes. Gripping the top of the shelf tightly with my left hand, I pushed at the glass with my right, using the sleeve of my shirt as protection. The first attempt wasn't strong enough. The second was misdirected, and I struck the sloping roof instead, almost overbalancing. Amy saw what I was trying to do and gave the lower pane a tentative push, cracking the glass. She swore loudly and launched into a second, more violent attempt.

The window shattered.

Instinctively, I turned away to protect my face. There was a brief, surreal moment of silence between the shocking crash of the breaking window and the soft sound of splinters bouncing on the carpet below. The noise was answered with fists hammering against the door, and the same curses and threats I'd recorded on the micro-cassette now safely stored in a railway station locker.

Rain fell through the black, jagged hole. Amy smiled faintly at me and headed for the hallway, her shoes crunching against the glass on the carpet.

I pawed away the remaining fragments of the pane until a clear escape hole remained: a wooden frame two feet square. I felt a vague stinging sensation and examined my arm. There were a dozen tiny cuts on the back of my hand and some small fragments were lodged in the wounds. My shirt sleeve was shredded and stained. I ignored the tiny shards and concentrated on one large, irregular piece which had dug deep into the wrist. When I eased it free bright red blood, lurid in the moonlight, flowed over the wrist bone and down the side of my hand. The sight of it was nauseating, but I forced myself to ignore it. I raised myself into a crouch, shifted forwards slightly, then reached out to the wet, late evening sky until I caught the window frame. The rain turned the streaks of blood on my arm into pale, pink rivulets which dropped onto the carpet, but I was more alarmed by the sharp, persistent pressure of the water on my skin. I leaned further and poked my head outside.

A wet, tiled slope fell steeply from the skylight into the darkness. There, the gradient grew less dramatic until the tiles slanted gently to a thin, flat rim. I gripped the frame tightly, ignoring the spasms of pain shooting up my arm from the glass I hadn't cleared. As the key squeaked in the lock below, I launched myself forwards and swung free from the shelf. The frame sank into its closed position, almost shaking me loose – but with a quick push I manoeuvred the short, perilous distance through the gap and out onto the greasy tiles.

It was a cool, wet, windy evening. The sun had set, sinking the slant of the roof into deep, black shadow. I could barely distinguish anything in the gloom, and panic and fear welled up inside me, a dizzying combination of vertigo and blind terror. I took three deep breaths and eased myself down the slippery slope, holding onto the frame by my fingertips. Only when I felt secure did I look right to see where the round roof of the tower connected to the angled roof of the apartment. It was five yards, maybe more – and beyond it, a slightly greater distance to the raised aperture I hoped was the maintenance exit.

I felt sick. I knew that if I looked down, my head would spin, my grip would weaken, and I would fall. I realized only now, when it was far too late to change anything, that I had made completely the wrong decision.

*   *   *

I heard shouting from the apartment below.

‘What the fuck happened?'

‘A burglar,' Amy blurted, with convincing fear in her voice. ‘He tried to—'

‘Where is he? Did he touch you?'

Silence, broken only by the sound of sobbing. Whether she was indicating the skylight or not, my escape route was obvious.

‘Did he have a gun?'

The weeping intensified. I guessed it was accompanied by a shake of the head, though a nod might have been more useful to me at that moment.

‘I'll kill him.'

‘No!' she cried. ‘Call the police—'

‘
Fuck
the police.'

The conversation stopped. I heard the bang of a door being wrenched open and slammed shut; then the sound of clattering metal. I pulled myself upwards until my head was level with the frame, and peeked inside. Amy sat cross-legged on the carpet, her face covered by her hands. Her body was shaking. Brightly sparkling shards of glass surrounded her. Bizarrely, I remembered that she always sat in that position when she was upset … I looked up and saw Ralph approaching with an aluminium stepladder, as if he was about to tackle some unfinished DIY. He saw me staring through the window, and though I didn't quite hear his words because of the rain rattling on the roof tiles, I managed to read his lips.

‘Fucker,' he said.

I jerked my head away from the broken skylight, interested only in survival; but the sudden movement unbalanced me, and my hand slipped from the window frame. I started to slide, uncontrollably. Panic purged any remaining feelings of control.

I let out a long, loud cry of terror.

Famine

I finished my meagre dinner and put the plate back onto the tray. Death had invited me to eat in the breakfast room but I had refused, preferring to be alone. I had made myself a few slices of dry toast and returned to the bedroom, hoping the food would ease the sickness that swilled around inside me. But eating had only made me feel worse.

I moved the tray to the middle of the floor. The floor rose to meet it. Loud laughter echoed from the corridor. War's voice. On our way back to the car that afternoon he had bullied a small child into yielding a bottle of mineral water, which he had used as a temporary coolant in the Metro. The memory brought bile into my throat. I stood up, and the ceiling descended. I moved towards the wardrobe and four walls shifted slowly, inch by inch, pressing inwards; and before I could open the door to select my clothes for the next morning, I had fainted.

*   *   *

I was roused by a knock so weak I wasn't sure I'd heard it, until it was repeated a moment later. I didn't answer. I was lying on the floor in a foetal position. I had been dreaming briefly of today's deaths, and the memory lingered. I knew in my heart it would be an unsuitable climax to my employment with the Agency. My mind was whispering some vague, silly, metaphorical ideas about passion, and going over the edge, and self-destruction, but I had a much stronger reason for rejecting it. A powerful sensation that it was too similar to the way my life had actually ended many years before, and an overwhelming feeling that I didn't want to repeat the experience now.

A third knock.

‘Who is it?'

‘Famine.'

‘Hold on.' I raised myself to my knees, then stood up slowly. ‘Come in.'

He unlocked the door, opened it slightly and squeezed through the gap. ‘Everything OK?'

‘Fine.'

He responded with a pleasant smile. He looked like Nosferatu the Vampire on Prozac.

*   *   *

My childhood image of God was much like Famine. I refused to accept the classic picture of a senile codger with a fluffy white beard, wearing a long white robe and brown sandals. I preferred to think of him rather as a sophisticated, balding, intelligent gentleman with half-decent dress sense, a perverse sense of humour, and a slightly sinister side … But then, I've always had my own view of the world, and been unhappy when anything contradicted it.

As I grew older my image of God changed. Gradually, the face was concealed behind a mask. The mask had a hard surface and a fixed expression, and it was as big and powerful as anything I had ever gazed upon. Then, when I was about fifteen, I realized that I could no longer see God at all – only his unyielding disguise. From that moment until my death, I was never certain whether he had ceased to exist, or whether he was simply playing some childish game of hide and seek. My idle faith remained, because the image of the intelligent gentleman was so strong. But it was vulnerable; it no longer mattered.

Well. You live, you die, you discover the truth; and the truth is, I still don't know. Like everyone else, the dead have to wait for proof of the existence of God. There
is
an afterlife, of course, but whether it eventually involves a beard in sandals, I can't say.

What an anti-climax!

*   *   *

‘We'll be working together tomorrow,' Famine said at last. His face was so pale I suspected he applied white make-up to those areas which showed the slightest signs of rude health. ‘Thought I'd come and say hello.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Haven't been properly introduced.' He reached over and offered me his outstretched fingers. His grip was so feeble it was like shaking hands with a glove. ‘Truth is, I don't have many friends.'

‘That makes two of us.'

He laughed, but it was a truncated, pathetic effort, more like a sigh. ‘Hard being a zombie when you're used to the coffin.'

I nodded, and sat down on the bed.

‘How're you settling in?'

‘I don't know.' I fought off a wave of nausea. ‘Everything seems so … perplexing.'

‘Always happens. New apprentices. Understandable.'

‘The thing I find most confusing is why I'm here. I mean – why
me?
'

‘Pot luck,' he said. ‘Unholy Tombola. Your number came up.' He licked his lips with a thin, pink tongue, like a snake's. ‘And Hades, of course.' He studied me fleetingly, perhaps to gauge my curiosity.

‘So I've heard.'

‘Ripped apart. Guts torn out.'

‘Sounds horrible.'

‘Worse than that. One of the few ways an immortal can die.'

‘Unfortunate.'

He agreed, and sat down on the edge of the Barca lounger. ‘Suspicious circumstances, too. Looked like Cerberus' handiwork at first, but not so simple. Someone let him out.' He lowered his voice. ‘Death disliked Hades. Hated him always following him around … Skirmish made poppy and honey cake the same morning. Smell still on his breath, maybe … War didn't come to breakfast until ten-thirty. Cagey about where he'd been … Pestilence playing with Cerberus in the garden at eleven.' He spoke normally again.

‘Could have been anyone.'

‘Couldn't it have been an accident?'

‘Unlikely. Very few things are.'

I paused. ‘What were
you
doing?'

‘Preparing breakfast.' The question hadn't fazed him. ‘Hades was neither my enemy nor my friend. Same as everyone else.'

I wondered if I would ever discover the truth about Death's former assistant. I had my own suspicions, but the precise manner of his demise was still something of a mystery.

‘I see you've finished,' said Famine, indicating the tray. I nodded, and he picked it up. As he headed for the door, I felt an uncontrollable urge to share something with him. I sensed – without any logical explanation – a kindred spirit.

‘Do you want to hear my all-time favourite joke when I was alive?'

He stopped. Smiled. ‘Like jokes. What is it?'

‘It goes like this.' I coughed. ‘An alligator walks into a bar and orders a drink. And the barman says to him …
Why the long face?
'

I waited.

‘What's the punch-line?' he said.

 

 

Seven eyes for seven udders

When I awoke I was an ant.

I had been released temporarily from my sack. For a period of seven days I was free to move within the strict boundaries of the forest glade. I performed the Agency's work under Death's supervision.

If I disobeyed, I would be crushed.

I dressed and scurried along the corridor to the dining room, feeling like Gregor Samsa in
Metamorphosis.
When I reached the door, I heard no conversation, no movement. I knocked lightly on the wood.

No response.

I opened the door. The dining room was empty. My breakfast of cereal and fruit had been left at Famine's usual place, and a half-eaten bowl of yoghurt lay next to it. Famine had been reading the
Daily Telegraph,
whose second-page lead blandly proclaimed
Calls for fair-ground safety to be improved.
The
Oxford Times
rested on War's chair, with an equally mind-numbing headline on the front page:
Disappearing body baffles police.