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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgements
Dedication
It could be you
MONDAY: Death by falling from a great height
TUESDAY: Death by chocolate
WEDNESDAY: Death due to an incredible sequence of unfortunate accidents
THURSDAY: Death by machines
FRIDAY: Death by wild animals
SATURDAY: Death by asphyxiation
SUNDAY: Death by the scythe
It wasn’t you
Also by Gordon Houghton
Copyright
Thanks to Sarah Westcott, my editor at Anchor; Jonny Geller, my agent at Curtis Brown; and to Kati, my partner – without all of whom, no book. Thanks also to Liz Greenlaw for her suggestions for Death’s desert island discs; and belated thanks to Andy Bell, for inspiring Nigel’s finest hour in The Dinner Party.
For the first eight, who didn’t make it to the party, and for K, their mother
It could be you
Hades was dead – no doubt about it – and he wasn’t coming back this side of the Last Judgement. They found his body one bright Sunday morning in July, lying face-down in a thicket by the river. His Agency badge was missing. His face was unrecognizable. He had been eviscerated.
No-one could agree how it happened. Death blamed War, of course; and War openly accused Pestilence. Pestilence, for his part, secretly suspected Famine – and Famine believed the other three were engaged in a conspiracy against him. An early-morning jogger, who witnessed the crime from behind a mulberry tree, and barely escaped with his life, swore that he saw three wild dogs crashing through the bushes and bounding back along the track towards town. Only one person knew the whole story, and he wasn’t telling.
Whatever the truth, the fact remained – Hades was dead, and the Agency needed a replacement. An emergency meeting was held, a resolution was passed, and the traditional method for selecting a new recruit was agreed upon. In the converted attic of a two-storey town house overlooking the meadow, the Unholy Tombola began: Pestilence emptied a bag of coloured balls into a revolving wooden drum, Famine turned the handle, and Death removed the balls and read out the numbers.
‘Seventy-two … Eighteen … What’s this – a six?’ He showed the ball to Famine, who tutted loudly.
‘It’s a nine.’
‘Lucky bugger,’ said War. He was slouched at the computer desk, typing in the numbers as they were announced, his manner increasingly irritable. ‘Looks like it’s a ’cking local. Just down the road.’
‘Let’s hope it’s better than the last one,’ Pestilence remarked.
‘Couldn’t be worse,’ Famine concurred.
‘Do you mind?’ Death interrupted. ‘OK. Eleven … Twelve … Thirteen – what are the chances of that?’ Pestilence rolled his eyes and feigned a yawn; no-one else responded. ‘And finally, the bonus number … Forty-nine.’
Everyone turned towards War, who entered the last number with a listless tap, then nodded and mumbled to himself as he scanned the on-screen information. ‘Right … He’s a Code Four male. Twenty-eight…’ He laughed. ‘Bloody typical – no name, no family, and no friends … Interesting case, though—’
‘Just tell me where he’s buried,’ Death snapped.
War gave him his most apocalyptic glare, but spoke coolly. ‘St Giles cemetery.’ He paused. ‘Has the Chief done you a contract?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you got a spade?’ Pestilence sneered.
‘Obviously.’
‘Make sure you find the right grave,’ Famine added, weakly.
Death smiled at him, like an indulgent uncle with a Sabatier hidden behind his back.
The apprentice
I had been dead for countless years when I heard a knock on the coffin lid.
I didn’t answer immediately. If I’d known what would happen over the next seven days, I wouldn’t have answered at all. But, back then, my sole reason for not responding was a practical one – I wasn’t sure if I was still in one piece. Depending on luck and the amount of time you’ve been buried, you can be as firm as a belly of pork or as loose as a thick pea soup. And you don’t need me to point out that without lips, vocal cords and a tongue, the only role you’ll get in Hamlet is Yorick.
So I wriggled, and fidgeted, and gave myself a quick pat and rub to check that the important bits and pieces were still available – which they were – and I was just about to test my voice by calling out a reply, when I heard a second knock.
* * *
I should explain something first.
Most people are afraid of burial. It’s understandable: I even felt that way myself, once. But to a corpse, this fear is illogical. We can’t be afraid of death because we know what it is. We have no use for air or light, so we don’t miss them. Try as we might, we can’t move very far, so a silent space six feet long and two feet wide is our definition of home comfort. The very fact which terrifies the living – being nailed into a cramped wooden box with six feet of solid earth above it – is to us a reassurance. We are protected here. We are safe.
Security is vital to the dead. Inside the coffin there are no risks. No-one needs or wants you. Someone, somewhere, may remember who you are, but they don’t anticipate your imminent return. Outside, there is earth and sky, there are six billion people, there is danger. And there are strangers who rap their bony knuckles on your tomb and expect an answer.
* * *
My mouth opened before I knew what it was doing.
‘Who is it?’
These were the first three words I had spoken since my death, and they sounded like the dry-throated croaks of a crushed frog. In comparison, and though it was muffled by the coffin lid, the response was firm, high-pitched, and excited.
‘About time, too. I was beginning to think you were deaf. Or War had made another mistake … Can you hear me?’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘You’re all alike. Always the same questions. And you’re never satisfied with the answers.’ The intruder tutted. ‘It’s not as if it was my fault in the first place … Still, it can’t be helped. Too many mistakes already. No point in making any more.’ A third knock, this time above my head. ‘Solid wood. Lovely job. You must have had some money tucked away. Don’t worry, though – we’ll soon have you out.’
And the first nail squealed free from the coffin lid.
* * *
I heard a juddering rumble as the lid was prised away from the coffin case, felt soft showers of soil fall onto my chest, sensed a distant thump as the lid was tossed out of the grave and onto the grass. I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead, but it was too dark to see clearly at first. (If you should ever pass by an open grave, don’t be afraid: the corpse in the earth is as nervous as you are. Don’t expect him to leap out and scream, because he won’t – not unless you’re unlucky.) At length I saw a faint shadow moving against the grey background, increasing in size until it consumed everything I saw. When the intruder finally spoke, his voice was louder, closer, more alarming:
‘I love that smell.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Now, where’s your head?’
Before I could answer, two skeletal hands patted my chest, groped my neck, then gripped my cheeks. A moment later, an alien mouth was pressed against mine, generating a prickling warmth on my dry lips; a crackling, tickling feeling which fizzed
through my body like a firework. The sensation intensified until it filled me completely, recreating and redefining the physical frame I had abandoned to decay. Veins burst with new blood, old bones stretched and stiffened, muscles leapt into life like snapping traps. My reanimated suit of skin was cold, and naked, and shivering with new impressions.
It was the most exciting moment of my death.
* * *
The stranger pulled slowly away from my face and climbed out of the grave. I could still smell his carcass skin, taste his fetid breath, feel the offal warmth of his lips; and as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw him more clearly. He loomed over the high walls of the grave like a lighthouse perched on a cliff. His head was shaped like a giant butter bean with hair at both ends. Two crustacean black eyes peered from the cave sockets of his skull. The skin of his face and hands was pale, and seemed to shimmer like rocket flame in the gloom, now blending with the background, now a vivid contrast to the night sky. Above him, through the rustling leaves of a chestnut tree, a dozen white stars sparked into life.
‘You can get up now.’ When his mouth moved the jawbones pushed tight against his skin, like crabs in a sack.
‘Is it time?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Last Judgement. Is it time?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Look. I’ve got a job to do. I don’t have all day.’ He hunkered at the graveside. ‘It’s dawn. In a couple of hours it’ll be Monday morning. People will come here, stare at this hole, and wonder why a zombie is slithering about in the soil. I suggest we spare them the surprise. There’s a suit waiting for you at the office. You can shower there, too.’
I didn’t understand what he was saying – but my confusion was overwhelmed by a sudden and powerful sense of recognition. He was very tall, especially from my inferior perspective. He had neither a hat nor a hood, and the coconut fringe of his short, black hair contrasted violently with the general pallor of his complexion. His clothes were more modern than I would have expected, too: a light grey scarf was wound tightly around his neck, and his hands were buried deep in the pockets of a long, dark herringbone tweed overcoat. But when I saw the scythe-shaped gold badge pinned to his lapel, I realized it couldn’t be anyone else.
‘Are you Death?’
He nodded impatiently. ‘Let’s skip the introductions. We haven’t time. Right now I need you to stand up, get out, and follow me back to the office. We’ll get acquainted later.’
* * *
Abandoning the security of a coffin is never a simple decision for a corpse. We are incapable of flexing the smallest muscle until we have the maximum amount of information. I understood Death’s need for urgency, but I also had to ask:
‘What exactly do you want with me?’
‘Yes. Precisely.’ He nodded, as though addressing a different question. ‘It’s a complicated situation, but you have the right to know, of course…’ He tapped his forefinger against his chin. ‘This is how it works. One of our Agents – you don’t know him, he was my assistant – but, the fact is, he’s been relocated. Permanently. And we have a procedure, back at the Agency, for selecting replacements. Basically, your number came up—’
‘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.
Damned If You Do Page 1