Damned If You Do

by Gordon Houghton

  I tapped his right hand.

  ‘Lucky you,’ he said, revealing a white pawn.

  * * *

  As he placed the board on the table and set up the game, I realized that I had no prospect whatsoever of winning. On Thursday, when I’d discovered in the small print of my contract that a challenge was possible, it had seemed a credible option; but at the very moment I suggested it to Death as a concrete proposition, I knew it was futile. That was why I had poisoned his drink as soon as he’d left the room: I was desperate. It was my life all over again – I had acted on a whim, and because I could think of nothing better to do.

  I’d told him on Tuesday that I had never explored chess in any depth, and at the time I’d believed I was being modest; but when I looked at my opponent I knew I had actually overstated my abilities. Compared to him, I was little better than a novice, with only a rudimentary knowledge of tactics and no grasp whatsoever of strategy. If I was fortunate, I might last twenty moves.

  ‘This is pointless,’ I said. ‘I don’t stand a chance … Why don’t you just finish your wine and get it over with?’

  ‘I never drink during play,’ he replied. ‘Bad for the concentration.’

  I stared blankly at the thirty-two chessmen facing each other across the battlefield, and finally understood the awful significance of this one game. The pieces were no longer simple wooden figures, but representatives of a symbolic conflict which had become terrifyingly personal. The more I considered the consequences of failure, the more I recognized what was truly at stake in the next few minutes: my feelings, my freedom, my future, my existence.

  I began to wish I’d taken the poison myself. Even if Death eventually took a sip from his glass, and Skirmish’s plan worked in precisely the way he had predicted (which I doubted), I knew that my liberty would be destroyed by a terrible burden of guilt. But if I didn’t finish the game, my options would be even narrower.

  I made the first move, my hand shaking: e2–e4.

  Death answered immediately: e7–e5.

  We avoided each other’s gaze – but in the middle of the board our pawns were locked in an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation.

  As I contemplated my next move, I attempted a crude diversionary tactic.

  ‘If you don’t like what you’re doing, and everything you do is meaningless, why don’t you just resign?’

  ‘How can I?’ he replied, focusing intently on the centre squares. ‘I’m Death. It’s a huge responsibility. I might be unhappy, I might even be disillusioned, but I couldn’t possibly trust anyone else to do the job half as well.’ He looked up briefly. ‘I’m trapped … Just like you.’

  ‘But if you could leave … if you could do anything else – what would it be?’

  He turned his attention back to the board.

  ‘I’d go surfing,’ he said at last. ‘And, please – stop trying to distract me.’

  I moved my bishop on f1 to c4. Death mirrored the manoeuvre by advancing his bishop on f8 to c5. The two men of God smiled obsequiously at each other, face-to-face on the c-file.

  ‘But if I beat you at chess,’ I continued, ignoring his request, ‘right here and now, in this game … then I can forget my contract and carry on living?’

  ‘In the unlikely event that you manage to defeat me,’ he said, frowning at his position, ‘you’re free to leave here and take your chances … But living isn’t quite the right word. You’re a zombie, so the best you can hope for is to remain undead.’

  ‘Better a zombie than a corpse in the coffin,’ I replied.

  I marched my queen from d1 to h5, where, in alliance with my bishop, she threatened one of the pawns guarding black’s king. It was a naive mode of attack and Death’s response was instantaneous – but also profoundly stupid. Maybe the music had affected his judgement; or my conversation; or the client he hadn’t killed. More likely his problems with the Chief had distracted him: it was the end of a week in which he had continually ignored protocol, been criticized for his performance, and questioned the very meaning of his work. Whatever: in a moment of absent-mindedness or shameless generosity, he advanced his knight on b8 to c6. I didn’t hang around: my queen captured the pawn in front of the powerless king and, supported by the bishop, forced check-mate.

  He realized his mistake immediately, but seemed more embarrassed than surprised. His butter-bean complexion glowed a kidney-bean red.

  ‘Scholar’s Mate,’ he said. ‘What a bummer.’ He shook his head, bit his lip, and stared at me. ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me take back that last move?’ I politely declined. ‘How about best of three?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘Shit happens,’ I said.

  * * *

  ‘I need a drink,’ Death said, raising the glass to his lips.

  I had to think quickly. If my idea of poisoning him had plagued my conscience before the game, now that I’d won it would be nothing less than a disaster. I had to stop him, but I didn’t know what to do.

  ‘How about a toast?’

  He smiled. ‘Anything in mind?’

  I poured myself some more wine, and considered the options.

  ‘To life,’ I said.

  As our glasses touched, I knocked the poison from his hand. The wine sprayed onto the chess board and Death’s polo shirt; his glass shattered on the stone floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been having accidents all week.’

  I cleaned up as much of the debris as I could, the fragments of glass which caught in my hand reminding me of the broken skylight in Amy’s apartment. When I’d finished, I carefully scraped the shards into a small pile on the table. Death, not wanting to be deprived of his drink, accepted the offer to finish mine, then petulantly threw the chess pieces back into the brown box.

  ‘I just have one more thing to do,’ he said resignedly. He removed a small, scythe-shaped silver badge from his chinos: the same design as the gold one pinned to his shirt. ‘This is the symbol of my authority. If your apprenticeship had been successful, you would already be wearing it. As it is – which corpse were you talking to before?’

  ‘Over there.’ I indicated Thursday’s client.

  ‘Seven weeks of trainees is enough for me. It’s time to make a decision.’ He strode to the corner and slid out the shelf containing the bearded man. ‘I have a suspicion that this was all part of the Chief’s grand plan anyway … It’s certainly the most efficient selection method.’

  ‘Who’s the Chief?’ said the corpse.

  Death ignored him, but pinned the silver badge on his T-shirt, just above the word COFFINS. The cadaver had a voice, but made no complaint; he heard what was happening, but didn’t open his eyes to see. His employer slapped him affectionately on the left shoulder, and ordered him to stand up.

  The Agency had a new Agent.

  Death opened the front entrance to the cellar and indicated that his assistant wait outside. The corpse wandered idly by – his mouth open, his eyes staring into space – then collided with the stone steps, and tripped over.

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Have you decided what you’ll call yourself?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  He tapped his chin. ‘Pestilence would insist on Antonius – after Antonius Block in The Seventh Seal. But that’s a stupid idea. War would undoubtedly suggest one of the great generals, such as Alexander.’ He looked me up and down, shaking his head. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You look more like one of the great losers. Famine would probably recommend something short and to the point – which happens to coincide with my own preference … How about Bill? Or Ted?’

  I remembered The Maltese Falcon. ‘How about Sam?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I’ll amend the files first thing tomorrow morning.’

  We briefly discussed what I would need to survive in the outside world: a job, a supply of make-up, maybe even som
e corrective surgery. Death said he’d talk to the Chief and sort things out.

  ‘And you’re welcome to visit us any time you like,’ he added. ‘We’ll take a stroll in the garden, and we’ll talk, and you can say hello to Cerberus again.’ He nodded, pleased with the idea. ‘We’ve got another ten years on the lease before we have to move on. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it…’ He glanced around the cellar and grimaced. ‘The worst part will be shifting all these bodies.’

  * * *

  Outside, a warm breeze was blowing: the heat of the day dying, the cold of the night beginning. I felt a shattering, shimmering starburst of freedom – as if I had swallowed the future, and let it filter through the walls of my stomach into my bloodstream.

  I walked towards the emerald meadow in the twilight. As I crossed the canal, I briefly wondered how long I had left to live. At the railway bridge, I asked myself what I would do next. But as I moved further away from the Agency, all the questions disappeared, and I picked up pace, and started to run.

  I ran towards the dark river on the horizon, where I lay down on the bank, and gazed at the emerging stars, and thought of nothing.

  It wasn’t you

  It was Monday morning, seven weeks and a day since Hades’ murder. In the dining room War, Pestilence and Skirmish were eating their usual breakfasts as Famine watched dolefully. The newspapers were late, no-one felt like talking, and nothing at all remarkable occurred, until – at nine a.m. precisely – Death breezed through the door and announced a hearty hello. He was followed by a sickly and rather clumsy companion, dressed in surfer’s shorts and a T-shirt.

  ‘Who the bugger is that?’ said War.

  ‘This is Hell,’ Death replied, pushing the corpse into the room. ‘He’s my new assistant.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Famine.

  ‘This is something of a surprise,’ Pestilence added. ‘I presume you cleared it with the Chief?’

  Death ignored him. He seemed to have more pressing business with Skirmish, to whom he spoke firmly: ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat elsewhere from now on … Until we find a larger table, of course.’

  Skirmish, too shocked by Death’s continued existence to argue, picked up his food and retreated to the corner stool, where he spent the rest of his meal scowling and sulking.

  Hell was invited to sit down in his place; and after a little confusion and a great many questions, he did so. Death selected a white mouse from the customary trio and offered it to his assistant. Hell seized it by the tail, positioned it carefully on his plate … and began to stroke it softly.

  Then he fell off his chair.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, the new Agent’s intelligence and coordination skills showed no signs of improvement. During several meals he was observed playing with the saloon doors, walking into walls, and trying to eat his plate. In the office, he managed to knock over every column of paper on three separate occasions, and put his elbow through the window twice. Taking Cerberus for a walk on the meadow, he annoyed the animal so much that it savaged him – and he had to be reassembled again, this time with stitches.

  Most importantly, during working hours his good-natured incompetence caused many of Death’s clients to cheat their fate, at least temporarily … And for a very short while, a very few people lived a little longer.

  But it didn’t last.

  Also by Gordon Houghton

  The Dinner Party

  DAMNED IF YOU DO. Copyright © 1999 by Gordon Houghton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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  First published in Great Britain under the title The Apprentice by Anchor, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

  First Picador USA Edition: July 2000

  eISBN 9781466890589

  First eBook edition: January 2015