Damned If You Do (9 page)

I was about to ask him who Hades was, and why I should keep away from Famine, when Death returned with our drinks. For a few seconds, the questions fizzed around the inside of my skull. But my brain just couldn't make the connection between desire and action – and before I knew it the moment had passed, and the conversation had whirled away from me.

*   *   *

An hour slid by, in much the same manner as it might have done when I was alive. With nothing to distract me, I ate most of an Emmenthal, tomato and mayonnaise sandwich. Pestilence selected a ripe Cheddar which he repeatedly maintained was ‘too fresh'. Death requested half a pound of roadkill as a joke, but settled for another juicy steak – this time bleeding between the two halves of a crisp, white baguette. Between mouthfuls he passed comment on everyone who entered and left the café, identifying precisely how long they had left to live, why they had to die, and which Agency department would be responsible.

‘That one, for example, is our client on Thursday evening.'

He indicated the bearded man, who was leaving hand-in-hand with his friend. They were both laughing.

I pushed the rest of my sandwich to the side of the plate.

Pestilence dominated the conversation for the remainder of lunch, pontificating through a second hour about ‘the illusion of choice', and using the bag of Revels (which I was required to produce) as an example. He pointed out that although every chocolate was different in shape and content, and each one appeared to offer something different, they all carried the same, equally deadly virus. His elliptical metaphorical excursions only ended when Death abruptly announced that he had spotted today's clients. I turned and followed his gaze. Through a dense crowd of cars and pedestrians, I glimpsed two people queuing outside a cinema. They fitted Pestilence's description perfectly.

The Seventh Seal

Death barged his way through the queue, not from habitual impatience, but because he had already reserved tickets for the matinée by phone. After paying for them in cash, he bought a half litre of Cola and a large tub of toffee popcorn, into which he greedily stuck his long, white fingers at irregular intervals. The three of us waited by the entrance as the crowd flowed slowly through the foyer.

I remembered the cinema too, of course: the Phoenix Picture House. The sign had been redesigned, the walls repainted, the advertising boards overhauled – but it was still showing the same art-house films. Today's presentation was
The Seventh Seal,
some black-and-white, angst-ridden gloomfest which I'd once endured with a girlfriend for an hour on late-night television. I'd reached the point where some actor got bumped off up a tree, and then I'd fallen asleep. I wasn't looking forward to repeating the experience.

‘This is one of my favourite films,' Pestilence declared to anyone who was listening. ‘It displays a profound understanding of existence.' He dipped his hand into Death's popcorn and munched his way through a sticky handful before continuing. ‘The plague scenes could be more authentic, and the animal theme is a little heavy-handed, but it contains some of the most striking images I've ever seen in Lifer art.' He nodded in complete agreement with himself.

‘I prefer
Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey,
' said Death. ‘The actor who plays me is infinitely more amusing. Bergman is such a bore.'

‘And you're such a philistine.'

‘Well, you're such a snob.'

‘My favourite film,' I interrupted. ‘When I was alive, I mean … It was
The Maltese Falcon.
' They stared blankly. ‘But now, I suppose, it should be
Night of The Living Dead.
'

‘Would you like some popcorn?' said Death.

*   *   *

Our clients collected their tickets and we trailed them through a set of glass double doors, down a narrow, sloping corridor into the lower cinema. The lights had already been dimmed. The audience wasn't huge, and we found spaces in the back row directly behind the couple. Death and Pestilence bickered about the seating arrangements as the adverts rolled, swapping places half a dozen times in the process, and didn't settle their differences until the opening credits. Even then they both leaned over to ask (again) if I had the bag, and I said (again) that I had; and the film, with its grim subtitles, and its opening scene where Death plays chess with a medieval knight returning from the Crusades, began.

At the first sighting of a hawk hovering oppressively, I sighed and glanced down at our clients. They were both staring blankly at the screen. Images from the film were miniaturized through the man's glasses. He rested his left hand on the woman's thigh, stroking it occasionally. After a couple of minutes he opened his rucksack with his right hand, reached inside, and produced a large bag of Revels. I felt a surprising surge of affection and regret.

Half an hour or so passed, during which I almost dozed off three times, only to be roused on each occasion by loud barks of laughter from Death, who was finding the whole experience hilarious. Realizing that I wasn't likely to get any sleep, I allowed my mind to drift.

It meandered again to the woman standing by my table at the bus station café; to her bobbed black hair and brown eyes; to the white crescent of moon reflected in her black pupils.

*   *   *

Her name was Amy. She was my first love, and the only one who really mattered. We had lived together for almost three years in the flat I rented in the east end of town, and for a while we floated happily on a calm sea. But it didn't last. I wanted what my parents had: stability, and a family, and a clearly defined future. But Amy had a zest for life and for experimentation which I didn't share. She wanted to explore every experience she could, to break through every barrier she encountered – and she soon discovered that the limits of my own territory were very narrow indeed.

So she left; and in the five years of numbness that followed I only allowed one painful memory of our relationship to surface.

We were lying in bed together one Saturday morning in winter. It was almost over – maybe two or three weeks before the end. But we were in a calm period. We hadn't argued for a few days, and we had even rediscovered some of our old affection. Amy was lying on me in her night-shirt, stroking my head and nibbling my cheek softly. I grew excited, and she felt me, and she rolled off.

‘Not yet,' she said, grinning. ‘I've got a surprise for you.'

I tried to pull her back but she was too quick. She crossed the bedroom and hurried into the kitchen. I lay there for a few minutes, listening for clues, but all I heard was the opening and closing of drawers. I began to feel increasingly apprehensive.

When she returned she was holding a plastic shopping bag and a large elastic band. She returned with these to the double bed, removed her night-shirt, slipped the bag over her head, and pulled the elastic band around her neck. She sucked the plastic into her mouth as she spoke.

‘Fuck me,' she said. ‘Take it off before I pass out. But fuck me first …
Do
it.'

I didn't reply. I just lay there, frozen. After a moment she removed the bag and the elastic band and tossed them aside.

‘Christ – you're so fucking boring,' she said.

*   *   *

And it was true: I was. I have the luxury now of finding the incident funny, though a little sad; but back then, I simply couldn't understand why she wanted to play games with mortality. And because I couldn't express this feeling, my inaction was humiliating for both of us.

It's no wonder she left.

After she had gone, I reduced myself to nothing and started again. I threw away all the moulds which had shaped me: my parents, my fear of experimentation, my history. I recast myself in my own image, and grew a hard outer shell … So when my mother found me and shouted my name across the floor of that restaurant, I had become a different person. And when I collapsed on the floor and wept, I wept for the corpse of my past.

The nature of my sexuality had altered completely, too. Like Amy had once done, I now wanted to explore the limits of my free will. I wanted to punish the innocence which had caused me so much suffering. I wanted to expose myself to new desires, so that nothing would ever hurt me again. At first, my appetite was conventional. I wanted a woman to dress up, or to undress slowly, or to masturbate in front of me. I wanted to watch her having sex with her other lovers, or to video us together so that I could replay it when I was alone. I wanted to tie her up, and to be tied up, and to feel the threat of pleasure and domination. But gradually, with each new relationship, the borders of my desire expanded. I could never cope with physical pain – nipple clamps, wax play, body piercing, whipping and maiming were a no-no from the start – but I developed a taste for PVC and leather, for sex toys and games, and for danger. Things I had once regarded as perverse were now drawn inside the borders of the normal.

I had created an adult version of my childhood inquisitiveness. How do you know what you want until you've tried it? But the more I experienced, the more I wanted – and the less I was satisfied.

Until I turned around at that table in the bus station café though, I never became emotionally involved with my work. Despite the temptations, despite what I photographed, filmed, tape-recorded, and noted down, despite the most intimate knowledge, I crushed any incipient feelings. But the sight of the crescent moon reflected in the deep, black pools of Amy's eyes was irresistible. It stimulated too many memories. It was as if someone had thrust a giant blow-torch into my face, and illuminated the darkness that shrouded my past.

*   *   *

‘Of course I remember.'

I nodded, and shook her hand, and she sat down. We spoke awkwardly for a couple of minutes, exchanging information and blandishments, and then she fell silent. She played with the buckle on her alligator skin bag, perhaps repeating words in her mind which she had rehearsed a thousand times already, perhaps thinking of something else entirely. I had no way of knowing what was going on inside her head; I never had. She only released the information when she was ready. So I simply waited for her to speak, studying her face for clues. She looked pale and tired, but in everything else she was composed, and smartly dressed in a crushed linen jacket and matching trousers. A heavy gold wedding ring mirrored the galaxy of ostentatious jewellery on the rest of her body.

‘I have to be rid of him,' she said at last. ‘I
need
to. But if I tried to walk out, he'd kill me. He'd track me down. And he'd do it without thinking.' She opened her purse, removed a passport photograph and placed it face down on the table, as if she couldn't bear to look at it. ‘He's a shit. I hate him.' She twisted her head in disgust. ‘He makes me
do
things.'

I pointed to her wedding ring. ‘Are we discussing…?'

She nodded. ‘And if I don't do it he dishes out threats. It's not just me – I've heard him talking about other people. He gets crazy.'

‘Why haven't you gone to the police?'

‘His word against mine.' She laughed bitterly. ‘Besides, he never leaves a mark.'

It was impossible to know exactly what had been happening, or even what her motives were in hiring me – but I didn't push for more information. She would produce it when she wanted me to hear.

‘How can I help?' I said.

She looked into my eyes for the first time since sitting down. ‘I need evidence. I
know
what he does. I can smell it on him when he comes home at night; I've seen it on his clothes.' She shuddered. ‘But I need proof. Real proof – as much as you can get.'

I still needed her, even now. I'd known it from the moment she sat down. I wasn't angry with her, despite the circumstances in which we had parted. Too much had happened since then. I wanted my past, and my parents, and to run my fingers over the velvet on my father's desk again – but most of all, I wanted
her.

‘I want you to get me something that he'll be afraid of,' she continued. ‘And I need somewhere to keep it safe.'

And even as her story unwound, I resurrected a sentimental cliché so out of context with my recent history that it hijacked my judgement. I remembered us walking barefoot in the meadow after a spring shower, wrapped around each other, needing the touch of each other's skin, wanting the atoms of our bodies to fuse together. I saw the sun sinking slowly behind us, one of a hundred different sunsets we would share, a thousand different skies.

And love began to infect me again. It swam in my bloodstream and infiltrated every extremity of my body, fire-cracking in the tips of my toes, hammering against the pads of my fingers, whirling around inside my head. It shorted every synapse and pierced every cell wall. It consumed me.

And instead of refusing the case, as every instinct screamed I should, I reached across the table and turned over the photograph.

*   *   *

Pestilence nudged my elbow and gestured towards the seat in front. I was still staring at the photograph in my daydream, and it was several seconds before I noticed that our male client had opened his packet of Revels and was offering one to his partner.

‘What do I have to do?'

He looked at me as if he regretted ever having advertised his department to such an imbecile. ‘Swap the bags. Obviously.'

I watched carefully as the woman deliberately selected three of the flat, plain chocolates from the packet, and the man grabbed an indiscriminate handful. I took the poisoned Revels from my jacket, broke the seal, removed a corresponding number and placed them in my lap. The chocolates hadn't melted: a zombie may have life, but he doesn't have warm blood.

As I waited for the right moment, questions fired inside my undead brain. How could I cause the death of people I didn't even know? Was it easier to kill someone for whom you felt no sympathy? Did I have any right to even consider it? With the woman's assisted suicide, there had at least been some sense, some desire on her part. But this was so random, and so meaningless. It depended on nothing more than luck.