and then looked again – and then possibly commissioned some sort of risk-assessment report. Caution was as much a part of him as Margaret or Jamie or a jam sandwich.
But finally he had called Elspeth. I’d like to be an Exiteer, he’d said, feeling as if he were applying to be Batman. But Elspeth hadn’t laughed. She’d told him where to meet her, and by the end of a civilized tea in Banbury’s he’d been approved. By what formal psychological standard, he had never been sure. He suspected it was none. But Elspeth seemed to be a very intelligent woman, and he’d had confidence in her good judgement.
Felix hoped that somebody like Elspeth had checked Amanda out properly, but, really, somebody should have warned him that she was quite so young.
‘Have you done this before?’ he said as soon as the waitress walked away.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Have you?’
He nodded. ‘Many times.’
‘How many?’ she said. ‘Times. I mean, how many times?’
She was nervous. He’d been nervous too, before his first time.
‘Twenty-seven.’
She widened her eyes at him. ‘That’s a lot.’
She made it sound as if he were some kind of serial killer, and she must have realized that because she blushed, making her look even younger than she already did. He estimated twenty-five, even allowing for an exaggerated judgement of youth from his own remote perspective of seventy-five.
‘It becomes easier,’ he said. ‘Not that it ever becomes pleasant.’
Amanda nodded at her hot chocolate going cold in its tall glass. Most of the cream had already sunk into the muddy liquid.
‘Do you mind my asking,’ he said, ‘how old you are?’
‘Twenty-three,’ she said. Then, anxiously, ‘Is that OK?’
‘Of course it is,’ he said, although it was even worse than he’d thought. ‘All you need to remember is that ours is a passive role, not an active one. The most important things we can offer our clients are kindness and calmness. We give them the support to leave this world without pain or fear. When we do that, we have done all we can.’
She nodded, then frowned and said, ‘What if I panic?’
Felix appraised her. She had straight, dark eyebrows that made her look sensible, so on the basis of her brows alone, he said, ‘You won’t.’
‘What if I get . . . emotional? What if I cry?’
‘Is that likely?’
She frowned, although her forehead was still so new that the lines it made were shallow and fleeting. ‘If I feel sad I might.’
‘Well, it’s all right to feel sad,’ said Felix, ‘but I’d strongly discourage any overt display of emotion while we’re actually with the client.’
‘Like what?’
‘Wailing,’ he said. ‘Rending of garments . . .’
She surprised him by getting the joke. When she laughed her whole face lit up and she barely looked twenty.
He really hoped Geoffrey knew what he was doing.
‘Why do you . . . do this?’ she asked.
Felix took the lid off the pot and peered at his tea. He stirred it a little and replaced the lid. ‘I think everybody has their own reasons.’
‘My nan died of cancer,’ she said, as if he’d asked her. ‘First one kind and then another, and then another after that. It took her two years and the last few months were just, like, totally horrible.’ She stopped and looked at the people bustling past, shopping, chatting, walking dogs. ‘I wish I’d known about this then.’
She dropped her spoon in her chocolate with a dull tinkle and he could tell she wasn’t going to finish it.
Felix nodded. He felt a bit better about her now.
‘Shall we go?’ he said.
He insisted on paying, and left a tip on his saucer. Twenty per cent. Margaret had always over-tipped and he’d always been irritated by it, but he did it now in her memory, and always enjoyed his own mini-largesse.
‘OK,’ said Amanda, and suddenly looked older again. As she reached for the bag slung over the back of her chair, Felix noticed her hand was trembling.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said kindly.
She gave a smile, but it was small and tense and didn’t linger.
The key was under the mat.
Of course it was.
Felix thought sometimes of the living he might make if he were a burglar instead of a retired accountant.
Inside, a small black-and-tan dog yapped at them, then stopped and smelled Mabel on his trouser leg.
‘Good boy,’ said Felix, and the dog wagged and trotted into the front room.
‘This feels so wrong,’ whispered Amanda, looking around nervously.
Felix nodded. Letting himself into a stranger’s house always did. Although he found the frisson of risk not unpleasant.
There were photos on the wall of the stairwell. Old black-and-white ones. It always made Felix sad to see photographs of people he didn’t know, and to wonder where the pictures – and the people – went after they were forgotten.
The house didn’t smell of pill bottles, but it was a bit of a mess. Not dirty, but untidy. There was a man’s sock on the floor.
‘Hello?’
The dog gave a single yip but there was no human response.
They went to the bottom of the stairs and immediately Felix could hear the laboured breathing – like a marathon runner trying to suck air through a straw.
People who were dying made all kinds of noises – grunts, farts, groans – but the fight for air was the one that always stuck with Felix. The one that invaded his dreams, and woke him, sweating and gasping.
This was as bad as he’d heard.
‘Mr Cann?’
No answer. Only that dreadful gasping.
He looked at Amanda. She had gone pale. ‘I don’t . . .’ she said. ‘I don’t . . . think I can do this.’
‘Of course you can,’ said Felix. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He gave her a reassuring smile, gripped the banister, and led the way before she could argue. He didn’t look back, but he could feel her follow his lead.
The gloom deepened as they climbed, and as Felix’s head rose above the level of the landing, he could
