I discovered that the human body was more vulnerable than I had previously believed. I observed that its limbs can be bent as easily as plastic, its bones can be broken with the simplest of tools, its teeth can be removed by the blow of a fist. I learned that it is so soft, a knife can cut it with no more effort than the downward motion of an arm; so sensitive that the slightest excess of heat will send it into spasms. Subjected to enough force and will, it can be manipulated in almost any way you choose. Its life can be drained by a single stroke.
And I could not keep the pain outside me. It was too strong. It flew upward from the victim, pushed through the window, seeped through the lens, found a crack in my shell, and crept insidiously into my soul.
Where it remains.
Three heads are better than one
Death was waiting for me on the landing outside the Stock Room, holding what appeared to be a sado-masochist’s wildest dream: a long leather leash with three studded collars attached.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Follow me,’ he said mysteriously.
‘Hold on,’ I interrupted. ‘I need to know something first.’ He turned around, raised his eyebrows. ‘Tell me honestly: how do I look?’
He frowned. ‘Not great,’ he said.
We descended the stairs, reversed direction down the narrow passage, then turned right towards my room. At the end of the corridor there was a wooden door with a stained-glass window, incorporating a grinning skull motif. It opened onto a short flight of steps and a long, overgrown back garden. The steps doubled back to the cellar, mirroring the arrangement at the front of the house, but we continued along a narrow gravel path through the grass, towards what appeared to be a small shed in the distance. Death stopped me at a tall iron gate, which divided the garden from the road leading to the meadow.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘And whatever you do, don’t scream and wave your arms. He gets a little excited.’
He shimmied around an oak tree and disappeared into the undergrowth.
A dog barked. Then another. A third dog took issue with the first two, snarling, growling, snapping. I heard Death trying to pacify them. They continued to squabble violently.
The grass ahead rustled and bent forward, as if some powerful animal was pushing its way towards me.
An eerie silence followed.
I tested the gate. It didn’t move.
‘It’s locked,’ said Death.
I turned around to see him standing at the edge of the tall grass, brandishing a small, silver Yale key in his left hand. In his right, he held the leash – and at the end of the leash, was the most terrifying animal I had ever seen.
It was a dog, but bigger and stranger than any dog I’d encountered sneaking around the gardens of the corporate rich. It wasn’t a breed I recognized, either. Its body was sleek, black and muscular like a Rottweiler, but its legs were powerful like those of a Dobermann, and its facial characteristics had all the dumb appeal of a Golden Retriever. It was half as large again as the tallest Irish wolfhound, and it pulled on the leash as a suspension bridge strains against the wound steel cables supporting it. But the oddest and most monstrous feature of all, the fact which I had been denying because it could not possibly be true, was also the most obvious:
It had three heads.
‘This is Cerberus,’ said Death, rubbing the animal’s rump. ‘And he’s going to help us complete today’s assignment. Aren’t you, boy? Yes you are.’ The dog raised its two outer heads to Death’s outstretched hand and revealed a pair of slobbering red tongues dangling between thick black lips. The third head studied me and growled; then barked loudly. ‘Ignore him. He’s soft as a kitten inside. Watch this.’
As if he had read my mind and selected the Thing-I-Didn’t-Want-To-Happen-Next, Death detached the leash from the collars and released his pet. I acted like a corpse, and froze. The dog scampered towards me, crashed into my legs and rebounded against the gate; it scurried back towards the grass, claws scraping on the gravel, then switched course in mid-air and bounced first against the tree and then against the wall, like a crazed pinball. Its chaotic path ended at Death’s feet, where it sat obediently, scaly tail thrashing against an exposed root, heads panting in syncopated time, tongues pulsating like fantastic red jellies. Death reattached the lead and rubbed each skull in turn.
‘He used to belong to Hades – a long time ago. More recently, he’s been Skirmish’s responsibility. That’s right, isn’t it boy? Skirmish. Skirmish.’ The dog grinned three times over, then resumed the slobberfest.
‘And how is he – it – supposed to help?’
‘Cerberus is but a small part of the puzzle,’ Death explained, with rare affection. ‘There are many other parts but his role is perhaps the most vital.’ All three heads turned and barked.
As is often the case with people who can’t think of a sensible response to an inane statement – and zombies are as guilty of this as anyone – I opened my mouth without thinking.
‘Don’t you think Cerberus is a stupid name for a dog?’
Cerberus, three jaws slack, turned around and slobbered.
‘Look after him for a minute.’
A light rain began to fall. Death handed me the leash and unlocked the gate. The hellhound took my criticism of his name personally, straining against the leather and choking on his collars in a futile attempt to escape. As we left the garden and walked around the side of the house the drizzle grew heavier, and he pulled even harder. By the time we reached the cars at the front, big soaking drops were splashing on the pavement, Cerberus was writhing madly, and my arms felt as if they were being yanked from their sockets.
‘He doesn’t like the rain,’ Death explained. He opened the Metro’s boot, removed the parcel shelf and flattened the back seat. ‘Here, boy.’ To my relief he took the leash and encouraged the dog into the car. Once inside it calmed a little, reverting to its dual state of vapid curiosity and spittle production. He gave it a final pat on its huge panting belly before closing the door.
Death suggested I get in, then skipped up the steps to the front entrance and disappeared inside. I opened the passenger door slowly and sat down, watching the three sets of predatory teeth nervously. The outer heads studied me eagerly, happy to drool and grin without prompting; the middle one evidently had some kind of attitude problem. It kept its jaws firmly shut, but exposed its teeth and gums through curled lips, snarling quietly but menacingly. It felt like half an hour before Death returned wearing his herringbone overcoat and carrying a cassette box. He settled into the driver’s seat and slipped a tape into the cassette player. When he turned the ignition, some mournful classical tune I didn’t recognize pounded through the speakers.
‘It’s the finale from Don Giovanni,’ he shouted, putting the car into reverse. ‘The moment when he descends into hell. Cerberus loves it.’
I nodded and turned to the front. Almost immediately, two long, wet tongues began to lick the back of my neck.
* * *
Death drove calmly and carefully, explaining that he didn’t want to upset the dog. He was transformed into a model motorist, driving just within the speed limit, stopping at junctions, signalling at every turn. He even waved pleasantly at an elderly couple on a zebra crossing – but he could simply have been greeting them in advance of an imminent meeting.
We drove away from the town centre, crossing over the canal and passing under the railway bridge before turning onto a minor residential road. Death parked at the end, opposite a large municipal cemetery, and left the windscreen wipers running. He turned off the music then spent a couple of minutes checking his watch and verifying that there was no-one else in the vicinity. At last he opened the door and a cool blast of air filled the car. Cerberus shuffled across to the passenger side, the head nearest to the incoming rain whimpering pathetically.
‘What now?’
‘See that building across the road?’ He pointed to a glass-fronted shop which looked like a cross between a sto
ne mason’s and a massage parlour. I could just distinguish, in florid script above the door, the title Funeral Director, but the rain obscured the name of its owner. ‘That’s where he works. But first, we’re paying a visit to the cemetery.’
He climbed out, pushed the seat back and pulled on Cerberus’ leash. The dog resisted, but Death was stubborn and soothing by turns: claws scraping, jaws snapping, necks twisting and turning, it was finally dragged onto the tarmac. I unlocked my door and followed the pair of them across the road towards the cemetery. The animal was almost uncontrollable, leaping against Death’s legs, licking his hands, chewing on his coat, pulling ahead, racing behind, turning around, barking, growling, slavering, grinning.
‘He’s a little distressed,’ said Death as we reached the cemetery gates. ‘Apart from the rain, which always irritates him, we haven’t fed him for a couple of days. In fact, he’d probably eat anything right now – except for poppy and honey cake, of course.’ At the mention of this particular item of home baking, Cerberus growled and barked with all three heads.
‘What’s wrong with…’ I stopped myself. ‘That type of cake?’
‘Didn’t you learn anything when you were alive?’ He looked incredulous. ‘Cerberus had three mortal enemies before we adopted him. Listen…’ He leaned over and whispered the facts in my ear, so that the dog wouldn’t lapse into a frenzy. He explained how a muscle-head called Hercules had humiliated the poor animal by dragging him from the Underworld and letting him find his own way back; how some halfwit called Orpheus had lulled him to sleep with a lyre, causing him to forfeit his food rations for a week; and how some shifty bird called Sibyl had fed him on the aforementioned cake and knocked him unconscious. Any mention of these names – or the merest whiff of poppies or honey – had him foaming at the mouths.
‘Normally,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t subject him to this kind of treatment. But for today’s purposes it’s essential that he’s hungry, and that it rains. Otherwise the plan won’t work.’
And the rain fell. Water ran into my eyes, dripped into the pockets of my jacket, drenched my T-shirt, penetrated my spangled trousers, soaked my slip-on shoes and saturated my socks. I had forgotten how wonderful it could feel, how astonishingly different individual experiences could be.
Death appeared equally content in his long coat, happy to dispense advice as it suited him.
‘Keep back,’ he said. ‘Once we get inside, I’m releasing him.’
* * *
We passed through the gate into the cemetery. Ahead and to the left, a path ascended through a clump of trees to the graveyard; to the right was a modern, red brick church with a small lawn and a rash of ivy spreading over the porch. It didn’t feel like home – my real home was a coffin somewhere north-east of here, and the thick, warm walls of earth surrounding it – but I did give a fleeting thought to the bodies buried in front of us, out of the rain. I wondered what they were saying to each other, what the local news was. And I experienced a moment of nostalgia, a fleeting yearning to return.
It disappeared as Death closed the gate behind us. He walked a few yards ahead then unfastened the leash. I expected the dog to bound into the distance like an escaped tiger, but it sat still, red tongues dangling.
‘Go on, boy,’ Death encouraged it. ‘Go on.’
Cerberus sniffed at the gravel car park.
Death crouched down next to the dog, stroked its head and whispered something into its ear. It grinned with all three jaws and raced away up the hill.
‘What did you say to it?’
‘Woof. Woof woof woof. Woof woof,’ said Death.
* * *
We left the cemetery and crossed the road to the funeral parlour, which occupied two houses at the end of a long terrace. A collection of rough stone blocks and carved headstones lay in the paved front gardens, with a few crude tags indicating prices and possible inscriptions. The left-hand building was dominated by a large plate-glass window, through which I dimly saw a display of coffins, a few of them as opulent as the one I’d been buried in. On the right, the house front was relatively normal, with a living room, a kitchen and a couple of windows upstairs. The narrow concrete path leading to the front door on this side was stained with a thick and greasy patch of engine oil, in which heavy drops of rain were creating multicoloured eddies.
‘Looks like he’s a home mechanic,’ I observed.
‘He isn’t,’ Death replied. ‘But his neighbours are.’ He rapped his knuckle against a green water-butt to the left of the path. ‘Full. That’s good.’ He walked to the front door, turned around and scanned the horizon. ‘No obstacles, no people. Very good.’
‘What happens now?’
‘We go inside.’
In the distance, Cerberus barked.
* * *
Death produced a ring of skeleton keys from his overcoat pocket, selected one, unlocked the door – and noticed my hesitation.
‘It’s fine. He’s not due back for another five minutes.’
I followed him in. A long, narrow hallway ran the length of the house. Immediately to our right was a small kitchen, to our left a flight of stairs.
‘Come and look at this.’
I went into the kitchen where Death was bending over the hob and sniffing. ‘It’s gas, just as the Chief said it would be. And there’s a telephone in the hall. Did you see it? There should be another one upstairs.’ He pressed his heel into the linoleum, about a yard away from the sink. ‘The floorboards are soft here. Very soft. A little pressure and they’ll give way. We shouldn’t need them, of course – but if Plan A fails…’ He looked up. ‘And they’re directly below the smoke alarm.’ He clapped his hands, pleased by the preparation even if the execution itself held little appeal. ‘I think it’s going to work.’
‘What’s he like?’ I interrupted.
‘Who?’
‘Our client.’
He paused. ‘Short, bald, glasses—’
‘No, I mean: what’s he like inside?’
‘All I know is what I read in the Life File this morning. He’s forty-nine years old. He’s an undertaker.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing very relevant. He’s gloomy, a loner, an outsider. He smokes thirty cigarettes a day. He’s poor company, on the whole. And he’s accident prone – which is why we’re here.’
‘What kind of accidents?’
‘Oh, dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘For example, he wears glasses because he suffered from trachoma as a child. It’s extremely rare in this climate, but he managed to catch it. Very bad luck. Between the ages of three and fifteen he fell and cut his head nine times. You’d think he was cursed. He’s broken his left arm three times, his right arm once, and both legs twice. He’s been knocked down by cars on six separate occasions. He’s caught three colds every winter for the past forty years. But that’s not the end of it. He was once struck by lightning twice in the same evening, and on his way to the hospital the ambulance was hit by a truck. Yesterday morning he narrowly missed being electrocuted in his bath. The first time he went ice skating he broke his nose. He was dropped on his head as a baby.’ He sighed. ‘The list goes on and on.’
I looked through the kitchen window. A small, bald man in a funereal suit slowly approached the house from the adjoining street. He was carrying two shopping bags filled with food. He rolled along the pavement like a huge, sad, marble.
‘Is that him?’
Death glanced through the window and nodded.
‘Shouldn’t we find somewhere to hide?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s extremely short-sighted. The Chief said if we stay at this end of the kitchen, he won’t even notice us. I’ll believe that when I see it.’
* * *
In the couple of minutes before his arrival, Death told me that our client’s major concern was whether or not he had led a good or a bad life to this point. Specifically, he only had three concrete reasons for considering himself good:
He experienced sporadic bouts of affection towards strangers. Sometimes this resulted in resentment and rejection, but mostly it made him feel happy to be alive.
His professional life was a success. He always paid due respect to the solemnity, formality and ritual of burial, and was often thanked by relatives of the deceased for his care and attention.
As an adult, he had never killed anything.
Against this, there were five reasons why he considered himself to be truly evil:
As a child, he had separated frogs from their legs, flies from their wings, ants from their heads, fish from their fins; and newts, gerbils, tadpoles, rabbits and cats from their tails.
He drank, smoked, gambled and ate too much.
He had used what he called the f-word as a limited-strike weapon against the following people: his mother and father, his aunts and uncles, both of his friends, his landlord, his underlings, people in the street, churchmen, door-to-door salesmen, tramps, farmers, bankers, lawyers, and almost everyone who appeared on television. He had also once severely abused a rock that had caused him to stumble, on a walk with a woman he admired.
He was notoriously avaricious. He had only ever bought a drink for his colleagues on one occasion, and that was due to a verbal misunderstanding. He often sat in his car in public car parks to use up the time remaining on his ticket. He refused to give money to any charity. Unless he was indulging his vices, he withdrew a maximum of ten pounds from cash tills.
He lied often and without good cause.
‘And this rather minor Good-to-Evil Ratio of 3:5’, Death continued, ‘has been enough to convince him that he leads a life of sin second only to Satan. As a result, he regards his accidents as just punishment.’
Our client ambled along the path to the front door, narrowly avoiding the oil patch but bouncing off the water-butt. The rain had stopped but his suit still glistened and steamed, and his glasses were spotted with raindrops. He put down his shopping bags and searched for his keys. He found the front-door key but dropped the whole bunch as he lifted it to the lock. They landed an inch away from the drain. Trying to pick them up he edged them closer to the grate. Realizing that disaster was about to strike, he carefully plucked the keys from their precarious resting-place and cautiously opened the front door. He tripped as he entered the house.
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