Gordon Houghton attended Oxford University and currently lives in England. He is also the author of the novel, The Dinner Party. Dammed If You Do is his first book to be published in America.

It could be you

(2)

MONDAY

(42)

Death by falling from a great height

TUESDAY

(44)

Death by chocolate

WEDNESDAY

(42)

Death due to an incredible sequence of unfortunate accidents

THURSDAY

141

(42)

Death by machines

FRIDAY

183

(40)

Death by wild animals

SATURDAY

223

(38)

Death by asphyxiation

SUNDAY

261

(40)

Death by the scythe

It wasn't you

301

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Excerpts

Chapter One

It could be you

Hades was dead -- no doubt about it -- and he wasn't coming back this side of the Last Judgement. They found his body one bright Sunday morning in July, lying face-down in a thicket by the river. His Agency badge was missing. His face was unrecognizable. He had been eviscerated.

No-one could agree how it happened. Death blamed War, of course; and War openly accused Pestilence. Pestilence, for his part, secretly suspected Famine -- and Famine believed the other three were engaged in a conspiracy against him. An early-morning jogger, who witnessed the crime from behind a mulberry tree, and barely escaped with his life, swore that he saw three wild dogs crashing through the bushes and bounding back along the track towards town. Only one person knew the whole story, and he wasn't telling.

Whatever the truth, the fact remained -- Hades was dead, and the Agency needed a replacement. An emergency meeting was held, a resolution was passed, and the traditional method for selecting a new recruit was agreed upon. In the converted attic of a two-storey town house overlooking the meadow, the Unholy Tombola began: Pestilence emptied a bag of coloured balls into a revolving wooden drum, Famine turned the handle, and Death removed the balls and read out the numbers.

`Seventy-two ... Eighteen ... What's this -- a six?' He showed the ball to Famine, who tutted loudly.

`It's a nine .'

`Lucky bugger,' said War. He was slouched at the computer desk, typing in the numbers as they were announced, his manner increasingly irritable. `Looks like it's a `cking local. Just down the road.'

`Let's hope it's better than the last one,' Pestilence remarked.

`Couldn't be worse,' Famine concurred.

`Do you mind?' Death interrupted. `OK. Eleven ... Twelve ... Thirteen -- what are the chances of that?' Pestilence rolled his eyes and feigned a yawn; no-one else responded. `And finally, the bonus number ... Forty- nine .'

Everyone turned towards War, who entered the last number with a listless tap, then nodded and mumbled to himself as he scanned the on-screen information. `Right ... He's a Code Four male. Twenty-eight ...' He laughed. `Bloody typical -- no name, no family, and no friends ... Interesting case, though--'

`Just tell me where he's buried,' Death snapped.

War gave him his most apocalyptic glare, but spoke coolly. `St Giles cemetery.' He paused. `Has the Chief done you a contract?'

`Of course.'

`Have you got a spade ?' Pestilence sneered.

`Obviously.'

`Make sure you find the right grave,' Famine added, weakly.

Death smiled at him, like an indulgent uncle with a Sabatier hidden behind his back.