Damned If You Do (13 page)

*   *   *

My brief was not to find reasons but to gather evidence. I didn't know why Ralph had come to this deserted warehouse. I didn't know the name of his companion, or the precise nature of their relationship. And I had no idea why the two of them had brought a tall, thin, smartly dressed man to this place, tied a rope around his wrists, and suspended him from a roof beam.

I screwed on the zoom lens and took the first photograph: a picture of Amy's husband driving his fist into the man's stomach; the accomplice standing a couple of yards away, smiling; the victim's head bowed. The camera distanced me from the scene I was witnessing below. I told myself I had a job to do.

But as soon as I put the camera aside, I felt sickened – by the victim's pain, by Ralph's violence, by my own powerlessness. So I focused on the details of the scene, trying to maintain a sense of equilibrium, registering bald facts. A powerful overhead lamp described a circle of light on the warehouse floor, creating a small arena on the concrete. Ralph stood in the penumbra on the edge of the circle, smoking a cigarette. His accomplice, a much shorter and stockier man with a balding crown, orbited his captive, pausing only to gesticulate or to throw a punch. He held a bright green document wallet in his right hand which he tapped with his stubby forefinger and waved sporadically in the victim's face. Muffled echoes and the movements of his head told me that he was shouting, but I heard nothing clearly; my tape recorder was useless. At last I saw him toss the wallet aside, its contents scattering over the concrete like a sudden splash of white paint. Then he removed the man's shoes and socks, disappeared into the shadows, and returned with a heavy iron bar.

The second photograph: the accomplice swinging the iron bar against the naked feet of his captive; the victim arching his back and lifting his head in agony, revealing the gag taped over his mouth.

Ralph appeared inside the circle, laughing. I felt a rising tide of horror and humiliation and fear. I took the third picture a moment later: Ralph stubbing his cigarette on the back of his victim's left hand.

I took a dozen photographs, changed the film, and took a dozen more. I didn't allow myself to watch what was happening unless it was through the lens of the camera. I needed that barrier against the suffering.

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 stone 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.
'