Damned If You Do

by Gordon Houghton

  You’re fucking sick.

  I stared at the mound and imagined her deep in the soil below. Her face stretched tight, turned blue; her mouth gaped wide as she gasped for air; her hands curled into claws, twitched. I didn’t need to picture any more details: Death and Famine provided a running commentary.

  ‘Struggling for breath,’ said Famine, unemotionally. ‘Chest heaving.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Veins swelling on neck. Starting to writhe. Should speed up the process.’

  I couldn’t move. I stared at them, flicking back and forth between the two. I had to do something. Do something now. Just do something. Move. At least move. Just an arm, or a hand. A finger. Some evidence that I lived and breathed and could move. My gaze froze, fixed on Death. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t decide what to do. Death looked mournful; Famine waited impassively. She was suffering a slow, suffocating end. And I couldn’t move. She didn’t deserve to die this way. She had no enemies, she’d done nothing wrong. Move. Could she believe what was happening? Or was everything drowned by the terrible, wheezing, wasted agony? I knew her agony. Just the tip of a finger. Her breath was being endlessly reprocessed. She was inhaling the past, exhaling the future. The more she wanted the less there was. And I couldn’t move. The more she wanted the less – I couldn’t. The more the less. I wanted to move, scream, move, shout, curse, move, move, move.

  You’re useless, Amy said. You’ve never done anything right.

  ‘Knocking on the coffin lid,’ Famine observed nonchalantly. ‘Using her knuckles. All classic signs.’

  I listened. It was all I could do. I couldn’t even watch. Through the pipe I heard a faint rapping sound, rapid at first, then rapping more softly, more slowly. The feel of her skin beneath my fingers. My mouth opened. The way she could make anyone laugh with a single word. My tongue sank to the base of my mouth, receded. Her eyes. I felt a tightening in my throat.

  ‘Can’t?’ I gasped.

  Death turned towards me, puzzled.

  ‘Can’t you help her?’

  He removed his glasses and placed his hand over the pipe.

  I wanted to free her from the terrible moments of dying. I knew her. I could still feel her. Some residual memory in my nerve endings. A distant pulse from a well-worn pathway. I wanted to scrape at the ground with my hands, scoop away the soil, dig her up. You’re useless. But only my eyes responded. Fucking sick.

  ‘She’s bleeding,’ Famine announced, indifferently. ‘Only the fingernails – but a start. Scratching at the wood. Slapping it. Head rolling.’

  I couldn’t listen and couldn’t act. I wanted to tear the bank apart. Whirl against it like a terrible storm. And dig down into the warm earth. Bring air, like a gift. But I was a zombie, still clinging to the corpse within me. The dead have no desire, and do nothing. And there was a terrible deadness inside me. Useless.

  ‘Stopped pounding,’ Famine said. ‘Tearing at herself now. Typical behaviour. Clawing at her face … Arms … Stomach. Hitting herself on the chest.’ He paused. ‘Biting has started. Chewing at the back of her hand.’

  I shook my head involuntarily. I could move to shake my head, to deny. I was only capable of denial. Not one positive movement escaped me. I had to move, or I would break.

  ‘Thrashing now.’ His speech quickened. ‘Not much air.’

  I shook my head. I imagined her, flipping like a beached fish, straining for breath, finding none.

  ‘Bruises on her face. Cuts on her neck and arms.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Stopped breathing.’

  I shook.

  ‘Unconscious.’

  * * *

  Death knelt down next to the mound and pulled hard on the pipe until the entire length was removed. It looked like a scythe without the blade. He tossed it into the water, watched it float gently downstream, then spoke to me.

  ‘In seventy years the river will erode the last traces of soil on this part of the bank. What remains of the coffin and her body will be exposed. No-one will know that the man we saw on Tuesday buried her here, or why he did it. He will not be punished for his crime, or any others he commits. It’s not our business to judge.’ He turned towards Famine. ‘Is the heart still beating?’

  ‘For now.’ Famine looked at me. ‘Suffering is over.’

  ‘How long?’ I whispered.

  ‘Varies. Any time.’ He studied the mound of earth. ‘Heart is … slowing. Faltering.’ He waited with an open mouth. ‘Slowing.’ I heard birdsong in the trees, the soft slaps of the river against the bank. ‘Stopped.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Death asked, checking his watch.

  Famine nodded.

  * * *

  I couldn’t move. My eyes were hot, my throat tight. Something was irritating the skin on my face, on both sides of my nose. Move. I raised a hand to scratch the itch, then pulled it away, surprised. The tips of my fingers were wet.

  I was crying.

  The last thing I saw

  Lying on the edge of the roof, I opened my eyes and squinted against the rain. I avoided the temptation to turn my head and look down, but tried to imagine the precise shape of everything around me. I was several yards below the skylight, on the rim of the round tower. Behind me, the wet, black tiles curved away until they joined the main roof of the apartment block – a steep, straight, sloping section of tiles incorporating the maintenance exit.

  I moved my right arm further away from my body for greater balance and, using my feet, pushed myself a couple of inches towards the relative safety of the main building. My left arm was twitching erratically, but I managed to control it long enough to shift my elbow along the gutter, first sliding the raw, rough skin along the trough of slime, then pressing down hard to gain a hold. I arched my spine and slithered backwards with the rest of my body. I repeated the process – balancing and gripping with my right arm, pulling with my legs, sliding with my left arm and moving the bulk of my weight with my back – until, inch by terrifying inch, I was wedged in a small trough between the base of the main roof and the cone of the round tower.

  ‘Well fuckin’ done.’

  I turned my head to the right and saw a dark shape against the brightness of the skylight. I couldn’t distinguish his features clearly, but I had his picture in my jacket pocket – the photograph which Amy had given me seven weeks ago.

  ‘Let’s see how far you get.’

  ‘Help me,’ I said.

  ‘Help your fuckin’ self.’

  I turned my head back slowly, and caught a glimpse of the fall that awaited – my first mistake. The rain guided my gaze downwards, every drop dragging me to the square below. I closed my eyes and waited for the weakness in my limbs to pass, waited for the spasmodic shivers to cease. It was a long time before I raised my head, forced my eyelids open again, and scanned the rest of my rooftop environment.

  The gutter that had saved my life was a plastic half-pipe. Apart from a wedge of black slime, it contained the loose tile that had almost killed me. Behind me the main roof sloped upwards, gently at first then at a frighteningly steep angle, until it reached a raised maintenance exit below the ridge. In front of me I saw the nose cone of the tower, and the skylight from which I’d emerged a few minutes before. Even if I’d had the courage to make such a journey again, it would still have been a terrible mistake. Below me, to the left, the pale expanse of the square, luminous in the light of the moon and the storm, seemed tiny. And it was deserted.

  ‘Nowhere to go…’ He laughed. ‘’Cept down.’

  ‘I can’t move,’ I said.

  ‘Better stay where you are, then.’

  He disappeared from the skylight.

  The rain lashed against my head and bounced off my wet clothes, driven by sporadic gusts of wind. The noise of the storm was echoed by shouting from within the walls of the tower itself: Amy’s voice, somewhere between pleading and self-defence. I realized that I would have to do something.

  The alternative was unthinkable.<
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  I rolled onto my front and raised myself slowly into a squatting position. Then, without giving myself any time to ponder, I stood up quickly and ran a couple of yards up the greasy slope of the main roof. Almost immediately, I felt my grip slipping, and threw myself flat against the tiles. My heart was beating rapidly, and I could barely see through the driving rain. I couldn’t do it. I would fall. You’re useless. But I didn’t want to die.

  Slowly, and without once looking down, I inched upwards. When I raised my head I could clearly see the maintenance manhole, only five yards away. I clawed with my hands, pushed up with my knees, gripped with the sides of my shoes, trying not to breathe too hard in case the movement of my chest unbalanced me. But the closer I came, the harder the rain seemed to fall, and the more unreachable my goal seemed.

  Three yards. I was a long way from the edge of the roof, but any slip, however slight, would be fatal. My clothes had saved me before, by slowing my descent from the skylight; but there wasn’t a single dry spot on my body now. I felt as if I was holding onto the steep incline by my hands alone.

  One yard. The angle of the roof was greater than forty-five degrees; the rain and the wind tried to prise me off the slope; the tiles seemed to be covered in a thin, black film of oil. I couldn’t move any further. I wouldn’t make it. I reached out briefly to grab the metal handle of the manhole, but pulled back when I felt myself beginning to overbalance. I couldn’t do it. But I crept upwards, more slowly than before, shifting in eighths of an inch, realizing that I had no choice but to try and survive. I saw only the wall of slate in front of me; imagined nothing but the final slip, and the fall that would follow.

  I almost made it. My head was level with the exit. I was clinging to the roof with the tips of my fingers and the weight of my body. I had one chance to grab the handle and pull myself upwards. I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to do anything other than hang there, delaying my fall – but I knew I had to try. How could I die so young? It seemed so random, so stupid, so unlucky.

  And I wouldn’t let it happen.

  I felt sick with fear. The borderline between life and death was so fragile. It depended on the tiniest adjustment, the most minor coordination skills, the speed of movement of a hand. It depended on the people around you, on the impulsive decisions you made, on a sequence of circumstances so commonplace that no-one could predict the outcome. It depended on the stupid games my father played when I was a child, and on the career he had chosen. It depended on an old love affair, and a chance encounter. It depended on the weather.

  I tried to imagine reaching for the handle, grabbing it, pulling myself up.

  But the manhole opened before I could make the attempt.

  * * *

  It was the first time I’d seen Ralph face-to-face. His photograph had flattered him, the video had smoothed out his rough edges: a thick neck red with rage, square jaw tightly clamped, slick black hair spotted with rain. The scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth was pink and gruesome. His broken nose was bent at an unbelievable angle, as if he’d been struck sideways with a mallet. And in his small, deep-set eyes I saw nothing but hatred and triumph.

  He grinned, flashing me a gold front tooth.

  ‘Goin’ somewhere?’ he said.

  And I fell.

  I slipped down the slope, kicked against the tiles, rolled sideways. I screamed with terror, lashed out with my arms for one last hand-hold … But nothing could stop me falling. I experienced an instant of bliss when the roof ended and there was only air beneath me: a powerful and liberating sensation that I could fly. But it was only fleeting – and the last thing I saw before my death was the green-and-white striped awning of the bus station café, rising rapidly to meet me.

  The magic potion

  I sat at Skirmish’s writing desk, staring through the window at the street below. There were no houses on the opposite side – just a brick wall and a towpath running along the canal. Every organic and inorganic surface reflected the yellow glare of the street lamps. I stretched forwards and peered to the right, where the road crossed a long bridge over the canal and railway line, before petering out into the dry, stony track which spanned the meadow. It was the same route I had often followed with Amy – and presumably the same one Hades had taken on a bright Sunday morning seven weeks ago.

  I had wept uncontrollably on the walk back to the car. I hadn’t cried for so many years. Not since my mother had found me at the restaurant, two years before my death. And the misery had returned in short spurts and sobs throughout the return journey, until my face felt like a swollen water bomb, ready to burst at any moment. I could still taste the salt on my face, feel the heat and wetness. The experience had left me drained.

  Death had escorted me back to the room, but hadn’t locked the door; as if he’d sensed my new mood. I wasn’t going anywhere, of course – but I no longer felt the corpse’s need for confinement.

  I’d been staring through this window ever since, observing the darkening of the sky, watching the lamps fizz and glow, following idle passers-by with my gaze. In truth, I saw very little of what was happening outside. I was too busy contemplating my future.

  I knew that death by premature burial would not be my preferred exit tomorrow evening. It’s true that in the corpse community it’s one of the most highly regarded ways to end your life. A cadaver who claims to have been buried before his time – especially if he still occupies the coffin in which he was originally interred – commands respect from everyone. It’s almost as if he’s been chosen. But for me, it was deeply unattractive. In fact, I could think of few worse ways to die.

  More importantly, I had a single, overpowering wish which rendered all other decisions irrelevant; a wish that had caused me to sit here for the whole evening, wondering how I could achieve it.

  I wanted to live.

  But I couldn’t see a way out. I was bound by contract and the options were clear: apprenticeship (unlikely), termination (undesirable), or storage (unknown). For four hours, I’d been trying to think of a plausible alternative. But there wasn’t one.

  Skirmish was my last hope.

  * * *

  There was a polite knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Pestilence.’

  ‘And Skirmish.’

  I remained seated. At the bottom of the deep well inside me, a drop of water fell. If you can’t move, open your mouth.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened. Pestilence entered, supporting War’s assistant by the arms. Skirmish looked slightly drunk, heaving into the room and flopping onto the lower bunk, laughing all the while. It was only when he finally managed to keep still for a couple of seconds that I saw the huge, strawberry-coloured abscess on his forehead.

  ‘My friend here,’ said Pestilence slimily, ‘has been helping with a little experiment. He should be fine by the morning – though you can never be sure, of course.’ I had a question gnawing at the back of my mind, but it refused to emerge from its hiding place, and I decided it could wait until tomorrow. ‘It’s a new range of boils,’ he continued, ‘caused by a new strain of staphylococcus. The details are absolutely fascinating – but I’m afraid I don’t have the time to discuss them right now.’

  He stared at me briefly, perhaps anticipating that I would ask him anyway, or (better still) beg him to tell me. When I offered no response, he tutted loudly, turned sharply, and left.

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Skirmish, when the door closed. ‘They all are. People’s lives are in the hands of morons.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like shit pushed through a mincer.’ He touched the boil and winced. ‘He sneaked up on me in the office. I was on level nine on Tetris, so I didn’t pay him much attention. Bastard stuck a needle in my arm, and then apologized. Said the element of surprise was vital.’ He stroked his forearm absent-mindedly. ‘Worst thing was, I’d almost beaten my high score.’

  I stood up, walked to
the table by the rear window, looked down at the canal. I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Do you remember what we were discussing this morning?’

  ‘We talked about a lot of things.’

  I turned around. His face was serious. I couldn’t decide if he was being deliberately obtuse, or had simply forgotten.

  ‘I need to get out of here,’ I said.

  He smiled, approached the table, and for one brief, bizarre moment I thought he was actually going to kill me. Instead he asked me to stand aside, picked up the blue glass ornament in the shape of a swan, and turned it over. With his thick thumb and forefinger he reached into the hollow base and plucked out an ampoule of clear liquid. He placed it on his palm and offered it to me.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Batch zero-three-stroke-ninety-nine.’ He closed his palm, teasingly. ‘I borrowed it from the Lab a few weeks ago. It’s powerful stuff.’

  I looked at him questioningly. ‘And?’

  ‘It’s the Chief’s finest achievement. Just one drop will kill anything – alive or undead – in seconds.’ He tossed it into the air over his shoulder, and deftly caught it behind his back. ‘We mainly use it on our own Agents. Sometimes they get rebellious, or start itching to live again, or they just turn bad and go on the rampage. There are many temptations when you’re out in the field.’ His expression turned sour. ‘But the consequences can be disastrous for the Agency. And rogue Agents need to be put out of action.’

  ‘I don’t see your point.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Let me make it clear. What I’m asking you for is … a favour. And in return, I can do one for you.’ He opened his palm again, this time letting me take the ampoule. I realized, belatedly, that it matched those I had seen on Tuesday in the Lab. ‘Tomorrow, when Death delivers his appraisal of your performance, he’ll share a drink with you. It’s tradition.’ I studied the liquid: it looked completely harmless. ‘All you need to do is break the seal, empty a little liquid into his glass, and you’re free.’