by Robin Byron
In the meantime Marianne had slumped back into the armchair and shut her eyes. A few minutes later Helen arrived back with another woman; not, it appeared, a doctor or nurse but some other functionary of the clinic.
‘Mrs Davenport, good morning. If you wouldn’t mind just stepping in here for a minute,’ the woman said, indicating a small room off the reception. This time Helen was allowed to accompany Marianne; she helped her to her feet and they moved into the room and took a seat around a conference table. ‘In a few minutes,’ the woman said, ‘you will be going to see the doctors but, assuming that all goes to plan…’ (plan… my God, what is she talking about?) ‘we need to make arrangements for your final appointment.’ Well, she’s got that one right, I suppose, thought Marianne. It will be final.
‘There are a few things we need to note down,’ and the woman got out another standardised questionnaire. ‘I see you have paid the deposit. The rest of the fee is payable three days before the final appointment. Will you be paying that yourself or will your family pay?’
‘I will pay it myself.’
‘If it would be easier…?’ said Helen.
‘I’ll pay it.’
‘Fine, if there are any problems please don’t hesitate to telephone. Now, how many will be in attendance?’
‘Two.’
‘Would you like some food prepared?’
My God, is this some kind of last supper? she wondered. ‘No, no food. Perhaps a drink,’ Marianne said, surprising herself.
‘A drink?’
‘You know, a gin or whisky if someone feels the need.’ The woman looked up wondering if Marianne was serious.
‘Yes, I see, yes, I think that’s possible. We’ll organise a trolley.’ Marianne smiled at the thought. Perhaps one trolley for the lethal stuff and one for the not quite so lethal booze. ‘Now, music,’ said the woman. ‘Any particular requests?’ This was becoming too much for Marianne. Music to die to. A complete sense of unreality gripped her. She looked at Helen who seemed thoroughly ill at ease. She felt that she was planning a party or social event. She had no sense that it was her own death they were discussing. The woman tried to be encouraging. ‘Some of our patients like to have a particular piece of music playing. A favourite classical piece, perhaps, or maybe a hymn?’ So, Mahler’s Fifth, she thought, or perhaps I should die to Jerusalem. She remained silent. ‘Never mind,’ the woman said. ‘We have every type of music available and you can choose something at the time. You will find that our suites are very well appointed. There is a large screen on which you can chose to see a familiar film or just some restful scenes if you prefer.’
Fortunately for Marianne’s composure, the telephone rang. The woman answered it. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘the doctors are ready for you now. I think we’ve covered everything we need. We have to go over to the lifts and up to the second floor. Will you walk or would you prefer a wheelchair?’ Marianne opted for the wheelchair. The woman with the clipboard disappeared and a male orderly arrived and wheeled her to the lift and up to the waiting doctors who had to approve her decision to end her life.
This was the critical interview. The doctors introduced themselves; friendly but serious. There was an older one, tall with grey hair and half-moon glasses over a prominent nose, who greeted Marianne with a firm handshake. The second doctor was younger and dark skinned. He didn’t look quite so committed to the process.
‘Mrs Davenport,’ the elder doctor began, ‘we have examined your answers to Mrs Singh, the nurse you have just seen, but we need to be certain that you have a firm and settled intention to end your life with our assistance at this clinic. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘And is it your firm intention to end your life when you return to the clinic at the time of your next appointment?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘We see that you went through stage one about two years ago. Why have you chosen to ask for an assisted death now?’
‘Well, I am two years older now. More pain, less mobility, things getting worse. It’s not a decent life anymore.’
‘So you find your life intolerable?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Is this entirely your own decision?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has anyone else sought to persuade you to seek an assisted death?’
‘No, they have not.’ More questions followed on a similar theme. The consultant’s report on her hips, her back and her arthritic hands were commented on. Marianne felt exhausted and in a slight daze, but eventually it seemed she had said the right things as their questions came to an end.
‘Well, Mrs Davenport,’ said the senior doctor, ‘we are satisfied that you qualify for the right to choose an assisted death and are of sound mind and have made this decision of your own free will. We would ask you please to sign this form. You should have already received a copy of it to study in advance.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Very well. Please sign the form, but please note what it says here in bold. You are, of course, absolutely free to change your mind at any time. Just ring the clinic or ask someone to call on your behalf. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Marianne said, as she signed the form. She noted that the doctors didn’t mention the small print about the cancellation charges which would apply – but of course that would be far too grubby.
‘Thank you, Mrs Davenport. You will be asked to sign a final consent form next time. Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’ The doctors stood up. ‘Just remember that if you have any questions you want to raise or any concerns please telephone your nurse, Mrs Singh, and she will be able to help you.’
‘Thank you,’ Marianne said, and waited for the orderly to come and take her back down in the lift. Back at reception she was met by the same woman.
‘Everything alright?’
Marianne mumbled an assent.
‘Good. We just need to fix a date then. As you know there has to be a gap of three weeks after stage two,’ she said, looking down at her electronic diary. ‘That would take us to Wednesday 23rd or Thursday 24th?’
Marianne shrugged and looked at Helen.
‘Actually, I think Thursday…’ Helen began.
‘Thursday, then,’ said Marianne.
‘Excellent. I’ll put you in the diary for Thursday 24th November. If you’re here about ten o’clock that would be perfect.’
22
Jake was crossing Clapham Common for the fourth time on Sunday morning when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. The marathon season was now over but he was determined to keep fit over the winter months. He had completed London in three and a half hours that spring and shaved nearly ten minutes off that time at the Berlin Marathon in September. Breaking the three-hour barrier now seemed a realistic objective.
The call was from Leah. There was something she urgently wanted to discuss with him – and not about work, she emphasised. Leah had now been at the Chronicle for nearly two months as an intern and Jake saw her almost every day. Having secured her the position, she had become his responsibility, and they were currently working together on a story about electoral corruption in the use of postal votes. He was surprised – but not displeased – that she wanted to see him on a Sunday and agreed to meet her in St James’s Park.
It was early afternoon when Jake emerged from Westminster tube station and began walking up towards the park. A weak sun shone through the London Plane trees which now seemed to have finally succumbed to the approaching winter and were shedding a blizzard of yellow and brown leaves. He spotted her immediately, sitting on a bench near the bridge, her head bent over her mobile phone. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down beside her.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘What do you know about assisted dying?’
‘AD? W
ell, it’s been legal now for ten or fifteen years. It’s getting to become quite common, I believe. Why?’
‘Dad told me that Gran is thinking of having an assisted death.’
‘Auntie Manne, really? You mean sometime in the future – or, like, soon?’
‘I got the impression quite soon. Dad was very vague – but I felt I was being softened up. I asked Mum and she confirmed it – in fact, she was keen to tell me it was all for the best. But the thing is, she doesn’t seem to have any particular illness. I mean, don’t you have to be terminal or something? Mum says we must respect her decision when the time comes, but it just seems so fucking wrong. I mean, how can they even think about it with someone as brilliant as Gran?’
Jake was silent for a while, trying to formulate his response and absentmindedly tearing small strips off a fallen leaf. He watched while some fat ducks waddled past, lured by a woman throwing bread into the water.
‘Jeez, Jake – are you getting this at all?’ said Leah. ‘This is my family we’re talking about,’ and she reached out suddenly and flicked the remains of the leaf out of Jake’s hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jake, resting his hand lightly on Leah’s for a few seconds. ‘My family too – and yes, it is surprising, and sad, but…’
‘Sad? Is that all you can say? It’s fucking criminal. You don’t understand. I love Gran – she’s, like, so inspirational. It’s Gran who really motivated me to work hard these last two years – and to apply to Cambridge. She’s just… talked to me about so many things. And I have been reading her novels set in Russia – I’m on the third one. God, they’re just brilliant…’
‘Yes, I’ve read them – they are very good. But look, maybe this is all a bit premature. Maybe she is just thinking about it for the future – or maybe there is something we don’t know about. I’ll talk to Mum – or Claire, she knows everything.’
‘No – you mustn’t talk to them. Dad said he wasn’t sure he should have told me and I absolutely wasn’t to say anything to anyone.’
‘OK. But I’ll make discreet soundings and I may hear something. And you try to find out more from your parents.’
‘OK, sorry for getting cross. I just wanted to tell you ’cos, you know, I’m away for most of next week. God, I still can’t believe it…’
‘Let’s walk for a bit,’ said Jake.
They set off on a slow amble around the central lake, talking about Marianne and the merits of assisted dying.
‘Do you believe in anything?’ Leah asked.
‘Believe? Are we talking religious belief?’
‘If you like.’
‘No, I can’t say I do. I suppose most people get their religion from their parents. My parents are pretty much atheists; they tend to regard all religions as a bit like a nasty virus – something they hoped their children wouldn’t catch.’
‘I was interested in Buddhism for a time.’
‘Not now?
‘No. It appealed to me when I felt I was suffering – teenage angst, I guess. You know, the Buddhist concept of dukkha. You have to accept suffering in life; part of the Karmic Cycle.’
‘Did you meditate?’
‘I tried. I liked the idea of trying to separate mind and body – to disregard all the bodily senses, to let your mind drift apart. For a time, I got interested in suicide from a Buddhist perspective.’
‘Buddhism doesn’t encourage suicide, does it?’
‘Not exactly, but it doesn’t condemn it like Christianity. It’s regarded as, like, a negative thought – and so against the path of enlightenment. But since the whole point of Buddhism is not to be attached to life, it seems to me that suicide might seem quite logical.’
‘To me the whole idea of Nirvana is pretty close to being dead,’ said Jake, kicking out at a pigeon in his path. ‘You know, having no desires, no aversions. Freedom from suffering, freedom from individual existence.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s the antithesis of the life of feeling, the life force which we tend to value: the great object of life is sensation – to feel that we exist – even though in pain…’
‘Who said that?’
‘I can’t remember – one of the Romantics, I think.’
‘I like it – pain is then, like, intensifying life, it can be an upper, not just to be endured.’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
As they crossed the bridge for the second time, a shaft of sun light emerged from a bank of cloud over Buckingham Palace, shimmering on the water and lighting up the roofs of Whitehall. ‘I love this park,’ said Leah. ‘I feel I’m in the heart of London – the centre of my world now.’
‘Australia…?’
‘I’m in no hurry to go back.’
As they turned and walked beside the lake, past Horse Guards Parade, there was a sudden gust of wind and a shower of leaves began to fall around them, dancing and jerking in the breeze. Jake held out his hand to catch a dark red leaf but just as it appeared certain to fall into his hand it made a sudden swerve and his fist closed on air.
‘Missed it,’ said Leah, laughing.
‘OK, quit laughing, it’s not so easy.’
Leah focused on a leaf spinning in the low autumn sunlight, flashing its orange wings like a summer butterfly. ‘Shit,’ she said, as at the last minute it spun out of her reach. While she spoke, as if to compensate for her previous miss, a large lazy leaf, shaped like a child’s fan, wafted gently into her arms.
‘Look,’ she said, holding up the perfect, butter-yellow specimen. ‘I got one. What is it?’
‘It’s a Ginkgo – Chinese.’
‘How come you know about trees and stuff?’
‘My mum…’
‘Of course, Aunt Julie. It’s exquisite – reminds me of a scallop shell, a golden scallop.’
‘Yes, and now you will have good luck.’
‘I already have,’ she said, touching Jake on the arm.
Before he realised what he was doing, Jake found himself moving his head down towards Leah, while at the same time she looked up into his face, her lips slightly parted. In that split second he realised he was about to kiss her – he badly wanted to kiss her; he could smell her hair and felt the scent of her breath on his face – but a warning bell had rung somewhere inside him – she’s your little cousin, just out of school – and he turned to brush his lips against her cheek.
To hide their mutual confusion, he squeezed her hand and said, ‘You’ll be back by Saturday won’t you? Shall we go for a meal, or maybe take in a movie…?’
For a moment Leah looked irritated and disappointed, then she shrugged and said, ‘Sure, if you like.’
‘Any preferences?’
‘Why don’t you surprise me.’
Back in his flat Jake went straight to his laptop. Closing some personal writing, he clicked on ‘Assisted Dying’. He realised he knew almost nothing about the topic. He began by looking at the original legislation. Lots of safeguards, two independent doctors, a review of the patient’s physical and mental state, a sound mind, ‘a voluntary, clear, settled and informed wish’, a cooling-off period between the expressed intention and the assisted death itself. It seemed, as far as Jake could understand it, that the original proposal of an assisted death for those with a terminal illness had been rejected as discriminating against those with chronic long-term conditions, and the final formula talked about ‘intolerable physical or mental suffering brought about by a medically serious somatic condition’.
So, Jake thought, no AD if you lose your mind but if your ‘serious’ physical condition causes unbearable mental suffering, that would be enough.
In so far as Jake had ever thought about the issue before, it had always seemed eminently sensible. After all, it was more than seventy years since suicide itself had ceased to be a crime. It was surely necessary that assisted su
icide, or assisted dying as it was now called, should also cease to be a crime. Looking back to social commentators, writing before the law had been changed, Jake noted with approval the prescience of the fantasy writer Terry Pratchett, who had written in 2011: ‘The truth is that assisted dying in the UK will happen sooner or later, because it is how the world works: eventually the unthinkable is the everyday, quite often for the best.’
The low hum of conversation around the open-plan office reverberated in Jake’s head that Monday morning as he tried to finish a short piece on homing pigeons. Wakefield Council had ordered a Mr Ted Burrows to get rid of his pigeons. He had tried to get rid of them, Mr Burrows explained to the magistrates, but they had merely done what they were trained to do, which was always to return to the same place. Pressing the send button and rubbing his eyes, Jake got up to stretch his legs. What a load of crap, he thought, as he walked slowly to the coffee machine and pushed espresso twice. Passing a colleague on his way back to his desk he said, ‘Hi, George – do you know if we’ve ever done anything on AD?’
George looked up, surprised. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Heard? Nothing – what do you mean?’
George looked around. ‘I need a coffee.’
Jake followed him back to the coffee machine.
‘So what’s your interest in AD?’ George asked.
‘One of my rellies. Rumoured to be contemplating an assisted death – that’s all.’
‘OK, I thought you might have picked up some gossip somewhere – Charlie is terrified we may be scooped but he’s got some deep throat at one of these AD clinics. Thinks it all smells a bit. We’re planning an exposé – but I don’t know too much about it. If you’re interested, you should talk to Mills.’
Bringing his coffee back to his desk, Jake put his head into a small glass office where Mills was working. ‘George tells me that you’re doing an investigation into AD?’
‘Correct – but keep it to yourself.’