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test if it was supervised by a police bloodhound and a qualified stinkologist from Smellwrong University. I know mine wouldn’t. Parents are as on the nose as a 3-year-old cheese, they can’t appear to help it, and Mr Grim-Reaper was no exception.
    He chose his moment carefully. Nathan was hanging in his room. He’d just completed level five of Grand Theft Auto: Holy Orders on the PS3, and was crowing about running a busload of nuns off the highway into a swamp full of crocs just as the level finished.
    The timing was perfect.
    â€˜Come into my study a moment, son,’ Mr Grim-Reaper hissed gently, ‘I want to give you something.’
    When they’d both settled into comfortable chairs in the study, Mr G-R began hisbig suck-up speech. He chose his words carefully.
    â€˜I know I’ve been behaving rather … oddly … of late, and haven’t exactly been an ideal role model. Let’s just say I’ve been working through a few issues of my own, issues that a man can’t avoid as he starts to get …’
    â€˜Old?’ offered Nathan, and watched his father wince as though taking a bullet in the bum.
    â€˜Well, not old , as such, just – old er than he used to be. I mean, 50,000 years isn’t old these days, not with modern medicine and Botox and such. A bloke doesn’t even retire from my game until he’s at least 75,000 years, so let’s have no more talk of old. But certainly, as a man reaches the prime of his life, there are certain readjustments to make. And I realise in retrospect that I may have handled these readjustments quite poorly.’
    â€˜Like ditching Mum and shacking up with a tart only a few years older than me?’ offered Nathan helpfully. It didn’t appearto help. The old man dropped his head into his hands.
    â€˜I’m sorry, son,’ he moaned through clenched fingers. ‘It’s the biggest mistake of my life. I want to make it up to you.’
    â€˜How?’ asked Nathan eagerly, sensing the advantage. ‘By letting me have a scythe?’
    â€˜No,’ replied his father. ‘By letting you have something even better.’ He opened his top desk drawer and carefully retrieved a thick, leather-bound, ancient looking book. He stared fondly at it for a few seconds before leaning over to drop it in Nathan’s lap.
    â€˜This is your ancestral legacy, son. This is the Grim-Reaper family book. It is older than Time itself, and immensely powerful when used properly. Traditionally it’s handed from father to son on their 18th-century birthday, but in your case I’m making an exception. This is your birthright, my boy.’
    Nathan stared at the front cover, disappointed. A book? What use was a book? He wanted a scythe. He examined the cover,fighting hard to disguise his disinterest. Embossed in heavy gold-gilt, gothic lettering was the title The 101 Damnations . The illustration on the cover showed two adult dogs, white with black spots, surrounded by puppies the same colour.
    â€˜That,’ hissed Mr G-R pointing at the cover illustration, ‘is the King and Queen of Bohemia with their family. They were the first people to fall foul of your ancestor, Count Augustus Black Grim-Reaper. The barking of the palace dogs used to keep him awake at night. He tried complaining but the Queen told him to stick it – said they were royalty and their hounds would howl as they wished.
    â€˜Count Augustus Black Grim-Reaper used the book to transform the royal family into a pack of spotted dogs. The pups ended up at the pound and the royal couple scavenged scraps from the bins around town, until they were trapped by the dog catcher and minced into dogwurst. Hee, hee, hee,’ he finished, the hissing laugh like a slow tyre puncture.
    Now a surge of energy coursed through Nathan. He peered sideways at his father, grinning maniacally. Suddenly he understood precisely what it was his trembling self