Damned If You Do (10 page)

At the sight of his namesake appearing on screen, Death released another long, loud, laugh. Our male client carefully placed his bag of Revels on the armrest and turned around slowly, his eyes wide with the annoyance of a professional aesthete whose weekly culture banquet has been poisoned.

‘Please. If you can't control yourself…'

Like many irked intellectuals he failed to complete the threat, but his anger provided a window just large enough for me to exchange my packet for his. Ignoring all my doubts, I fulfilled my obligation.

*   *   *

And then I did a rather foolish thing. Perhaps I wanted to see what it was like, and to feel what the living must feel. Perhaps it was because I hadn't eaten much all day, and the atmosphere in the cinema caused me to lose concentration. Perhaps I was too pleased with my first active contribution to my new employer, or simply confused by the pointlessness of it all. Whatever. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I reached down, picked out a Revel from the pile in my lap, and popped it into my mouth.

The worst thing was: it was coffee-flavoured.

Zombie in la-la land

This is how the disease spreads.

It begins with an introduction, a polite enquiry, a suggestion that we meet. Neither of us has anything to fear. We are free agents, without obligation or pressure. So we meet, and the encounter passes without incident. But at the end, as we are about to part, the disease asks if it might stop awhile. I refuse, of course. It asks again a moment later, when it considers me to be a little more accommodating – but I sense its trickery, and I refuse again. It asks a third time, immediately after, catching me off my guard. This is how diseases work. They are insidious.

And I say, ‘OK. Stay. But you leave when I say so.'

And it replies. ‘That's fine by me.'

Of course, it's lying. Of course, it takes control. It doesn't leave until it's exhausted you with its sick little games.

This is what diseases are like.

*   *   *

‘How are you feeling?'

I looked up to see a thin, pasty-faced beanpole in a black polo shirt and pale chinos. His rubbery lower jaw was limber as an eel, and his pale lips shimmered as he spoke. Flecks of popcorn nestled in his black beard.

‘Who are you?' I asked.

‘Is he all right?'

The beanpole's companion was shorter. He had yellow, glazed eyes like a dead cod. His neck was stained golden and black like an eclipse of the sun. His skin was cratered with spots, as if he were some new species of leopard.

‘I don't think so. What do you suggest?'

‘Just let it run its course.'

‘Who are you?'

‘Friends,' said the beanpole.

‘I have to leave now,' I told them. ‘I have work to do.'

I was lying on the soft, blue carpet of the foyer. A crowd queuing for tickets regarded me as the supporting feature. I stared at the two people closest to me: a snow-haired middle-aged man, and a younger, snow-white woman. I thought I recognized her, but she stared as if she was afraid of me – or as if she needed help. Looking closer, I saw that she was not so pure after all. The whiteness of her face had been spoiled by a black bruise on her right cheek, and a red cut on her lip. And when I returned her stare she looked away quickly.

‘We should all leave together,' agreed the leopard.

I reached up to touch him, but he pulled away, protecting his precious leopard hide. I began to wonder if he was my friend after all. I much preferred the idea of the snow people; they were infinitely more interesting. I said hello to them. They ignored me, but I was not to be deflected. I repeated the greeting – a little louder this time, since it's often the case that the first attempt at communication is simply misheard. The snow-haired man looked at me for a long time with deep, black eyes.

‘Try to keep him quiet,' said the beanpole. ‘He's attracting attention.'

I looked around the room to see if I could guess who they were talking about, but there were no obvious candidates.

‘What do you suggest?' the leopard replied.

‘How should I know? It's your disease.'

‘Oh. So it's
my
disease now, is it?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I think you know exactly—'

‘Excuse me,' I interrupted, ‘but I'm trying to talk to my
real
friends.' I smiled at the snow couple. ‘Thank you. Now, if you would kindly keep quiet while we make our introductions…'

‘Just relax,' the beanpole said.

‘Calm down,' echoed the leopard.

I tried to rise but felt my face was aflame. When I lay down again the fire was snuffed out.

‘How long does he have?'

‘I don't know. An hour. A day. A month. It differs from one host to the next.'

The virus fizzed and coiled inside. A gang of snakes had built a nest in my stomach, and a box of fireworks had been lit inside my skull. I felt as if I was about to vomit, then explode.

‘I think we should give him the cure immediately.'

The leopard looked puzzled. ‘What cure?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean: what cure? I didn't bring a cure.'

The beanpole was outraged. ‘Well, where is it?'

‘Back at the Lab.'

I extended a hand again, but they darted away like frightened fish. I would have repeated the attempt, but someone was stuffing my arms and legs with sea urchins.

‘We'd better get him out of here.'

The leopard nodded.

‘Can I have some water?' I asked.

‘A whole pitcher full,' said the beanpole, smiling kindly. ‘Just follow me.'

I rose very slowly, with plenty of verbal encouragement, noting that my two helpers remained at a safe distance. My limbs were generating enough heat to melt Pluto, and my spine was a perch for a maniac woodpecker, but the promise of refreshment spurred me on. I felt a brief and uncontrollable urge to say goodbye to the snow couple, but could no longer see them. The rest of the crowd retreated from my approach – some with the aid of the beanpole's elbows – and I staggered onto the street without incident.

The outside world was a cauldron of searing heat. The pavement burned like molten steel, the road flowed like lava, the buildings shimmered and melted in the burning air. And I was assaulted by a kaleidoscope of blinding colour. Red shirts, green blouses, pink T-shirts, blue singlets, black summer suits, blue cotton jackets, khaki shorts and lemon trousers, peach skirts and purple dresses, brown sandals, orange deck shoes, white slip-ons, black pumps. I squinted for protection and inched forward, following the leopard, followed by the beanpole. I wanted to touch everyone, to embrace all these hues, to share my scorched skin; but my companions were watchful, and they pushed aside anyone who advanced on the borders of my viral kingdom.

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.'