We crossed the road and headed for a giant, cream-coloured stag beetle sheltering from the sun. The leopard approached its thorax and pulled one of the insect’s forewings aside, exposing a leathery interior. He held the wing back and beckoned me with his spotted paws.
‘Please. Just get in. And don’t touch either of us.’
I did as he requested, squeezing inside the beetle’s shell and settling in its soft abdomen. If the leopard or his tall friend had asked me to leap from a high tower, or a suspension bridge, or anywhere, I would have obeyed their command.
They were beautiful people.
I remember nothing about the short flight home which followed, except for this conversation:
‘I trust you haven’t told him yet?’ the leopard asked.
‘What about?’ the beanpole replied.
‘About the small print.’
‘The Chief’s instructions are very clear.’
‘But you seem to be growing a little soft.’
‘I think he has a right to know, that’s all.’
‘On the contrary. The dead have no rights.’
The rest of the time I swam quietly in the blue sparkling coves of my own mind, trying to shelter from the sun which had fallen from the sky.
The beetle landed by an immense two-storey nest, with a converted attic for the queen and a basement for the drones. Three other insects waited patiently outside: a black scarab shimmering in the heat, a white termite motionless as an unseasonable mound of snow, and a sleek and shining dung beetle, redder than a wet tongue.
‘Is that War’s new BMW?’ the beanpole asked.
‘Hmm,’ the leopard grunted.
‘He’s back early.’
‘Don’t expect we’ll see much of him tonight, though.’
‘Are he and Skirmish…?’
‘As usual.’
The leopard pushed aside the stag beetle’s left forewing and stepped onto the molten steel pavement. He firmly invited me to get out. I offered my hand, still driven by the promised glass of water, but he rudely refused it, and I had to crawl free from the insect’s belly on my own. He compounded his discourtesy by leaving me alone with the beanpole, skipping up the steps to the entrance to the nest and disappearing inside.
I felt very sick, as if I’d eaten a piece of hell. My stomach was flipping like a pancake. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know who I was.
‘Water,’ I whispered.
‘Come on,’ said the beanpole. ‘Let’s find a cure.’
* * *
‘How does that feel?’ Death asked.
‘My head,’ I explained.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s spinning. It won’t stop.’
I was lying in a dark corner of the Lab, drinking a glass of cold tap water. Pestilence had found a bottle of white pills for me in one of the wooden cabinets. ‘It’s still in the experimental stages,’ he had told Death. ‘And it’s designed for the living rather than the dead, so I can’t be sure of the side effects. But he should be fine.’
And now my head wouldn’t stop spinning.
Worse still: I felt an insistent pressure in my groin. The food I’d consumed yesterday had travelled the length of my torso and been processed by my resurrected stomach and intestines. I realized that I needed to urinate for the first time in many years. Death escorted me to the bathroom (still refusing to touch me in case any residual infection remained), and closed the door behind me.
I removed my trousers and boxer shorts and sat down on the lavatory, vaguely observing the avocado colouring of the bath and toilet. I was obliged to sit: my tiny stump of a penis was useless for directing the stream. At last I felt the pressure on my bladder easing, and a painful rush of liquid flowing the short distance down my truncated urethra. I heard the noise of my waste emptying into the bowl, and looked down briefly.
My urine was dark yellow, thick, and streaked with blood.
The journey back to my room felt like a rough ferry crossing. The first-floor landing heaved as I left the bathroom, and descending the stairs was like riding the down-curve of a sixty-foot wave. I stumbled at the foot, and the ground floor rose to meet my outstretched arms.
‘Careful,’ Death said pointlessly.
‘I am being careful.’
We turned right into the main hallway, right again into the narrow passage, right once more into the corridor where my room was. Death opened the door, and I staggered inside and collapsed onto the lower bunk. He remained in the doorway.
‘Would you like anything to eat?’
‘Not just yet.’ The thought sent my stomach into a fresh series of back-flips.
‘OK. Scream if you need anything.’
The door closed. The key turned in the lock.
Safe again.
Revelation 6:8
I remembered everything that had happened to me since I’d swallowed the poisoned chocolate, but the memories were dislocated, as if they belonged to someone else. I felt ashamed of what I’d done, and wouldn’t have been surprised to discover myself back in the coffin by morning. I felt so groggy, this wasn’t an unattractive prospect.
I sat up slowly, and surveyed the room. The television was switched off. The vase of dead roses and the typewriter still stood on the writing desk. The blue glass ornament in the shape of a swan had been turned around. For want of anything better to do, I stood up, walked to the desk and opened the left drawer. It contained an old Bible on top of an unopened packet of plain A4 paper. I removed the Bible and stroked the packet with the three good fingers on my left hand, momentarily mesmerized by its blinding whiteness. In the right drawer I found two more books. The first was entitled Coping with Death: A Handbook for the Recently Deceased, the second The A-Z of Termination. I didn’t bother opening either of them. My brain was wobbling like a decelerating gyroscope.
Sitting up had been a bad idea. Standing had been worse. I returned to the bed and lay down.
* * *
When I awoke it was dark, and there was a note on the carpet by the door. The writing was spidery and child-like: I’ll be back later with something to eat – Death. I had no idea what the time was. I removed my crumpled jacket and felt something rattle in the left pocket. Emptying it onto the bed, I discovered half a dozen Revels. The sight of them rocketed the sparse contents of Tuesday’s menu to throat level. I scooped them up with one hand and threw them in the bin.
They helped confirm what I’d been pondering all day: this particular mode of death was deeply unsatisfactory. Amongst corpses, certain diseases guarantee unquestioned respect, but if I was to fail in my apprenticeship (as now seemed likely), I couldn’t bear to repeat what my brief illness had exposed me to. The shame of it, the humiliation …
It just didn’t feel right.
Coincidentally, those are the precise words Amy used when she ended our relationship. She sat by the window in the Jericho Café and repeated what she had said only an hour earlier. ‘It just doesn’t feel right. Not any more.’
I nodded. ‘It hasn’t felt right for a long time.’
Funny, the things you remember when you’re dead.
* * *
Three short, firm knocks interrupted my thoughts.
‘Who is it?’
‘Death.’
‘Come in.’
He unlocked the door and entered, making sure he secured it again before approaching the bed. He was carrying a plate piled high with salted crackers which, briefly, uncomfortably, and inexplicably, reminded me of sex. He left them on the table by the window before settling into the Barca lounger.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better.’
He nodded. ‘I brought you some food. Pes says you won’t feel like eating for a while – but just in case.’ I thanked him. ‘We have a meeting tomorrow morning. Late. You should come along. See how things work.’ I smiled weakly. ‘There’s no rush for breakfast.’ He stared at me in silence for a moment, then sat up and prepared to leave.<
br />
‘How did I do today?’
He paused before answering. ‘We’re not sure if any infection actually took place. You were writhing around so much after your accident, our clients moved seats and left the bag behind. It’ll be a couple of days before we know for sure.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Shit happens.’
He stood up.
‘Where’s Skirmish?’
‘Out on the town with War. Probably trashing some restaurant.’
He walked towards the door, unlocked it.
‘Who’s Hades?’ I asked. The question escaped before I knew what I was saying.
Death turned casually, and pointed to the battered Bible on the writing desk. ‘Look him up,’ he said. ‘Revelation. Chapter six, verse eight.’
Fat man, red beard
I see nothing.
I’m in a warm, dark, vibrating place. I hear a low, muffled hum.
My whole body is aching. My hands are tied behind my back with rope; my legs are tied to my hands. My mouth is stuffed with a rag that tastes of oil and grease, sealed in place by insulating tape. The tape winds three times around my head, biting into the skin on my face and neck, tearing my hair when I move. Sweat rolls into my eyes, runs down my cheek, drips onto the warm, dark, vibrating surface beneath me.
And I am screaming. But with the rag, and the tape, and the low, muffled hum, no-one can hear.
I might as well be a prisoner in a medieval oubliette.
* * *
I opened my eyes.
I saw a soft, white pillow, and a deep, white carpet, its thick threads almost level with my line of sight. I had a fleeting sense of the familiar once again. I released the pillow reluctantly and rolled onto my back, gazing sleepily at the wooden slats of the upper bunk. I rubbed my eyes and focused on the Artex ceiling: spatterings of stalactites frozen in mid-drip, white stars clustered in crazy constellations. I saw animals, and food, and faces, and the chaotic spinning of suns.
I saw nothing.
* * *
When I stood up my head was still weak from Pestilence’s dubious remedy and I lost my balance on the way to the wardrobe, tripping over a particularly thick patch of shagpile and falling against the writing desk. The collision dislodged the vase of roses: I heard it roll, then watched it fall onto the carpet by my feet. I crawled over to the wardrobe and climbed it like a cliff face; but I opened the door too eagerly, and the edge struck my forehead just above the nose.
Groaning, I selected an orange T-shirt with the words FRIEND OF THE SEVEN-EYED LAMB™ across the chest, a random pair of floral boxer shorts, and some tangerine socks embroidered with red lobsters.
Zombie fashion!
After dressing I made my way to the dining room, unaware of the time, uncertain that anyone would be there. Having eaten very little the day before, I needed breakfast now. My stomach was riding a motorbike through a fiery hoop.
The door was closed, but I clearly heard Death’s melancholic tones: ‘The things we do, I’m amazed that any of us can sleep at night. But I’m even more amazed that the Chief expects us to enjoy it. Why do we go on with it?’
The respondent’s voice was loud, aggressive, and unfamiliar: ‘Things would be a damn sight ’cking worse if we didn’t, that’s why.’
Hunger, and a mild curiosity, pushed me through the door.
Death was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table. He was wearing a light grey kimono and black velvet skull-embroidered slippers. Next to him, in the chair I had occupied the day before, sat a sunburned giant with Ronald McDonald hair and a bushy, red beard.
Death turned around as I walked in. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Still groggy.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your head.’ He waved his hand in my general direction. ‘Above your nose. The red patch.’
‘It’s nothing.’
He nodded, and indicated the fat man with the red beard. ‘This is War.’ He pinched his ear and added confidentially, ‘He’s a little deaf.’
The stranger paid him no attention; he seemed more interested in studying every aspect of my appearance. I returned the compliment. His fingers were the colour and thickness of traditional pork sausages. His eyebrows looked like dead caterpillars. He was dressed entirely in varying shades of red: a scarlet polo shirt with a large, golden sword embroidered on the breast pocket, wide crimson jeans with a salmon-coloured belt, maroon ankle socks, and bright ruby plimsolls. He filled every expanded inch of his clothes – a stockpile of muscle, blood and bone inside thick walls of flesh.
Death cut short our mutual scrutiny by introducing me: ‘This is my new apprentice.’
War looked me in the eye. ‘Don’t you have a name?’ he bellowed.
I shook my head.
‘Each to his own.’ He continued to feast on the vast platter of cold meats spread before him.
I sat in Skirmish’s seat, where a bowl of cereal and fruit were laid out for me. After sampling the first mouthful I couldn’t prevent myself assaulting the rest. It was a strange experience. The sensation of solid food squeezing down my throat and creeping spasmodically through my intestines was still uncomfortable after so many years of digestive inactivity.
‘So what was the body count?’ Death said, continuing a conversation the beginning of which I’d missed.
‘Thousands.’ War slipped a slug of spicy salami down his throat.
‘Sounds like a good day’s work.’
‘One of the best.’
‘Going back?’
‘No need to. The wheels are in motion. All the Agents know what to do. I might pop in for a special guest appearance in a couple of weeks, but that’s just maintenance. I’m not due anywhere until Monday.’
‘But you can still help me out on Friday?’
War nodded. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
Death had already devoured two of his customary trio of white mice before I’d entered, but he delayed the third for several more minutes. As I finished off the last of the fruit, he opened and closed the cage door repeatedly and tapped his fingers against the bars. It appeared to give him some pleasure; but the mouse squeaked with fear.
‘Where’s Skirmish this morning?’ I asked.
‘Wasn’t he in your room?’
‘Not when I got up.’
‘Skirmish!’ War interrupted. Gobbets of boiled ham flew from his open mouth like missiles. ‘Skirmish!’ The second call nearly deafened me. Death continued to tease his prey, preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Within seconds I heard heavy footsteps racing down the stairs and along the corridor towards us. Skirmish burst into the dining room looking as annoyed as anyone can in a pink, ankle-length night-shirt. His irritation relaxed into servility when he realized who had called him.
‘What is it?’
‘Come here, you ’cking bugger,’ War commanded. No sooner had Skirmish negotiated his way around the table than War stood up, leapt upon him with a speed I would not have thought possible, and wrestled him to the ground. It was the most unequal contest I’d ever seen, and it was ended by the pair laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back.
‘Now that you’re here,’ said Death, flicking the roof of the cage, ‘there’s something you could do for me.’ He opened the door and dragged the mouse out by its tail. ‘The Chief has a message for today’s meeting. I’d like you to collect it.’
Skirmish rolled his eyes and pointed at me. ‘He’s your apprentice.’
‘But I’m asking you.’ Death slipped the mouse into his mouth, crunched on the bones, sucked loudly, and spat out a small, white skull. It bounced along the table and came to rest by my left arm.
Skirmish stared at him angrily, then dropped his gaze and left without another word. A moment later Death rose, and bowed politely.
‘I’ll see how he’s getting on,’ he said.
* * *
I was alone with War. His physical prese
nce intimidated me more than that of anyone I had met since my death, but I have long since learned to disguise my responses. As he shovelled half a dozen slices of beef into his mouth, I quietly picked at the remnants of my breakfast. At last he looked up.
‘Nice suit,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Apart from that, you look like shit.’
‘Oh.’
‘Like it here?’
I nodded.
‘Watch out for Pestilence,’ he whispered.
Startled by his bluntness, I stared through the window and said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Is that your BMW?’
He turned around, chewing noisily. ‘Yep. You can’t turn up at a battle looking like a sodding dog’s breakfast.’
‘What was wrong with the horse?’
He pointed at the framed slogan on the wall beneath Death’s portrait: MOVE WITH THE TIMES. ‘Too inefficient. I need to be anywhere at a moment’s notice.’ He folded his hands across his ample belly, pleased with himself. ‘Besides, have you ever seen apocalyptic horse shit?’
* * *
Death re-entered the room, sat down, stared at me. He had changed into his day clothes: Timberland boots, pale jeans, a cream T-shirt, and a black-and-white check lumberjack shirt.
‘The meeting is in five minutes,’ he announced. ‘A prompt start will give us more time this afternoon.’
‘What’ve you got on today?’ War asked.
‘Accidental death,’ he sighed. ‘Unfortunate business.’
‘Always is.’
Death nodded. ‘It’s rather apt, though. Our client’s whole life has been a catalogue of accidents. He’s got scars from shaving, from shark-fishing, from hacking away at frozen ice cream. Scars on his head and neck, scars on his knees. He spends his time lurching from one small tragedy to another.’ He breathed deeply. ‘He even bumped into me a couple of weeks ago.’
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