Damned If You Do Read Online Free

everyone. This is Pestilence.’ He gestured towards the bruised disease-monger. ‘We call him Pes, for short.’ Pestilence smiled sarcastically. ‘This is Skirmish.’ He indicated the pimpled teenager, who forced a sheepish grin and offered a tentative handshake. ‘And this is Famine.’
    â€˜I prefer Slim,’ Famine quipped, bowing his bald head.
    No-one laughed.
    â€˜OK,’ Death announced cheerily. ‘Any mail?’
    â€˜The usual,’ Pestilence answered, handing over a raft of envelopes. ‘Your schedule for the next three days, as discussed on Saturday. The Chief’s assessment of your reports from last week – it doesn’t look good, I can tell you. And precise instructions for today’s client: a rather easy number down at quadri furcus  … Not even you can mess it up.’
    Death gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘Any postal chess?’
    â€˜Seven games.’
    â€˜Excellent!’ His face brightened, and he brushed several sheets of paper from the desk in front of me to reveal a chess board in black and gold. Impatiently, he tore open one of the envelopes, read what it contained, then stared at the empty squares. For a few seconds he was utterly absorbed, recreating complex moves in his mind, tracing the paths of invisible pieces with his fingers. Finally, as if struck by the solution to a problem which had momentarily perplexed him, he nodded slowly to himself, dismissed the imaginary battlefield, and smiled kindly. Then, with an air of business-like efficiency, he tossed the remaining mail onto the board, removed my contract from his polo shirt and offered it to Skirmish. ‘Stick this on the pile in the Chief’s office, will you?’
    Skirmish tutted, stood up slowly, and stuffed the contract grudgingly in his pocket. ‘I suppose you want me to put it in a folder?’
    â€˜Of course … And after that, put the spade in the hall back in the Stock Room … And make sure you wash it first.’ At last, Death turned towards me. ‘Now. How about that shower?’
    Terminations for special occasions
    Death directed me back along the entrance hall to the first opening on the right. It was a flight of stairs leading upwards.
    â€˜As I said, it’s mostly administration now. It used to be more of a challenge. We had stimulating conversations with the clients, several terminations a day, everything seemed fresh and varied. It was exciting back then. But now, the only thing I find interesting is the preparation.’ We reached the top of the stairs: a long, narrow corridor, with a floral burgundy carpet. ‘OK. A quick run-through. On your left, the Meeting Room; on the right, at the end, is the Lab. Behind us is the Stock Room…’ He waited for me to turn around. ‘… and down there, straight ahead, is the bathroom. Come back down to the office when you’ve finished.’
    â€˜What about clothes?’
    He barked a short, loud laugh. ‘There should be a suit hanging on the back of the door.’
    *   *   *
    The suit was electric blue, heavily spangled, and at least two sizes too small. I also found a pair of dark green, floral boxer shorts, a tight, lime-green T-shirt bearing the words RESURRECTION – IT’S A WAY OF LIFE , a pair of light green knee-high socks decorated with smiling flatfish, and a pair of white, slip-on shoes. The shoes fitted perfectly, and were easily the most comfortable footwear I had ever worn, alive or dead.
    The shower washed the corpse smell from me. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I’d become to the sweet odour of dirt and decay until I stepped from the cubicle and dried myself. My new smell was alien, unwelcome. No cemetery in the land would have taken me in.
    One more thing: as I dressed, I inspected my body more closely. I was missing three fingers (including one thumb), two toes, and one