were drawn.
Before he’d mounted the last step, Felix could see the man in the bed.
He walked quietly into the room. ‘Hello, Mr Cann?’
The dying man looked bad. He was propped up on his pillows, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed and his teeth gritted with the effort of staying alive long enough to die.
‘Mr Cann?’
There was no acknowledgement. Felix bent closer and could see that despite the struggle of breathing, Charles Cann was asleep. Whatever illness he had, it had shrouded his true age in mystery: he could have been fifty or eighty. His face was crumpled paper, his hair grey and straggly, his body painfully thin. There were dark smudges under his eyes and, even by the meagre light, Felix could see that his skin and lips had a blue mottle to them which spoke of a lack of oxygen. He looked as if he was slowly suffocating in his own bed.
Felix glanced down at the big old-fashioned dresser. It wasn’t covered with the usual detritus of pills, tissues and books. Instead there were cigarettes, with a photo on the pack of tarry black lungs. People never thought it would happen to them.
The brushed-steel cylinder of N2O had pride of place.
Good.
And held down by a small gold carriage clock was a form. The standard waiver.
I, Charles Cann . . .
Felix knew what the rest of it said by heart.
. . . being of sound mind but terminally unsound body, do hereby declare my intention to take my own life to avoid a painful and undignified death, as is my right under British Law. I further declare that, in order to relieve the burden on my loved ones, I have enlisted the services of the Exiteers, who will witness my death, but who solemnly undertake not to encourage or assist my demise in any way – or to provide the instrument of death – as to do so is unlawful. I have given attending Exiteers permission to remove all evidence of my suicide in order to spare my family the trauma of the choice I am making by signing this document. In the unlikely event of an official investigation into my death, I hereby absolve the Exiteers of any culpability.
The signature was spidery. Frail.
‘Charles?’ said Felix gently. ‘Mr Cann?’
Then he said it more loudly, and the man opened his eyes groggily and raised a weak hand.
‘Mr Cann, we’re the Exiteers. I’m John and this is Amanda.’
Amanda was at the foot of the bed now, and raised a hand in a small salute at the man, who half returned it. He frowned and opened his mouth and then closed it again, apparently too exhausted by the effort.
‘Don’t speak if it’s difficult,’ said Felix. ‘We’ve just come to sit with you.’
There was a small armchair next to the dresser, and an uncomfortable-looking stool propping open the door. Felix gestured Amanda to the chair and picked up the waiver and put it in his briefcase. There was an envelope too, with WILL written in the same watery handwriting. He didn’t open it, just put it in his case with the waiver, and snapped it shut.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now, there’s no rush, all right? You take your time.’
He put his briefcase at the end of the bed, and perched on the stool. It was as uncomfortable as it looked, but Felix had a hunch that this wasn’t going to take long. Charles Cann looked as if he would soon be gone, with them or without them. His bluish eyelids drooped, then he coughed and opened his eyes and scanned the room as if looking for something important.
He cupped his hand over his nose and mouth and whispered, ‘Plea—’
He wanted the mask.
Felix looked at the dresser and frowned. He couldn’t see the mask. It should have been around the man’s neck or in his hand before they even got there. Geoffrey always explained that very carefully to the clients, but Felix couldn’t see the mask at all.
He looked at the N2O cylinder and followed the clear plastic tubing from the valve as it ran across the walnut top of the dresser . . .
Then his stomach flipped nervously.
Mr Cann had dropped the mask.
When Felix leaned to one side he could see it dangling between the bed and the dresser, twisting gently a few inches above the carpet.
Out of reach.
‘Plea—’ Mr Cann grunted. Then again – the word becoming high and thin as it squeezed from his airless throat. ‘Plea—!’
Amanda looked at Felix, but he shook his head. There was nothing they could do. Nothing legal, anyway. She flushed and bit her lip. Felix’s fingers knotted together in his lap. Uncomfortably so.
Mr Cann’s pale, veined hand flapped at his side on the bedspread, seeking the mask that should be there. His breathing was a squeal now. His head twisted and his chest started to pump up and down out of all proportion to the amount of air getting through to his lungs. It was horrible to watch and Felix wished fervently that Amanda’s first job was not so hard.
She might not come back.
It’s not always like this, he wanted to tell her. But it would have to wait. First they had to get through this. All three of them.
Mr Cann looked at Amanda, and then at Felix, as if wondering why they weren’t helping him. Felix gritted his teeth. He was here to help the man; the man needed his help; but he couldn’t help him. Not with this. This, he had to do himself.
And Mr Cann tried. Hard. He grunted. He strained. He gasped. He reached and reached and flopped back on his pillow as if exhausted. Then he made one last effort and his desperate fingers hooked the tubing . . .
It pulled the gas cylinder on to its side with a clunk. Then it rolled off the shiny wooden surface.
With the reflexes of the young, Amanda caught it before it hit the floor, and lifted it up, mask swinging beneath it—
‘No!’ Felix stumbled off the stool and she flinched.
‘What?’
But it was too late and Felix bit back his warning. Mr Cann had caught the mask as it dangled over him, and clamped it hard to his face. Now he sucked greedily at the gas as if it were saving his life, instead of ending it.
The agonized breathing stopped almost immediately. His eyes closed . . .
Another deep breath.
‘What?’ said Amanda again, panicking. Felix put his finger to his lips to silence her. Hearing was the last sense to fade, and he didn’t want Charles Cann dying to the sounds of a squabble.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he murmured calmly. ‘Everything’s just right. Everything’s wonderful.’
Mr Cann’s hand twitched twice on the mask, then loosened a little and – after a moment – lolled on to his chest, his fingers curled like those of a sleeping baby. Felix and Amanda stood either side of the bed, silently united in the anticipation
