‘When can I see my family?’ George asks the carer, his voice trembling. ‘You said I could see them now and stay with them all evening.’
‘Of course you can, George, don’t worry. But first we just need a minute of your time.’
We listen intently, peering through the gaps in the bushes.
‘Where are we going?’ George asks the carer, who turns around, gently directing him towards the entrance of the T-wing.
‘This is purely protocol. It’ll only be a few minutes. Then I’ll bring you back to the Salon to see your family.’
‘Where are they? Are they here?’ George looks around in panic, desperately hoping to catch sight of his family.
‘Of course, they’re all here, waiting for you in the Salon.’
‘Are we going there then?’
‘Yes, but we’re going back to the T-wing first then we’re going to the Salon to meet them.’
‘Why can’t I see them now?’
Seemingly out of nowhere, two other carers appear. One of them, a robust man with tattoos on his hands and wrists, grabs George by the arm.
‘Mr Dimitriadis, let’s not waste any more time,’ he says brusquely. ‘I thought you wanted to see your family as soon as possible. You’ll see them once you’ve made the Farewell Video.’
‘I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to lie to people.’ George’s voice is breaking up, his chest heaving rapidly.
‘Sir, you have to calm down,’ the carer says and puts a hand on George’s shoulder. ‘Unfortunately, you won’t be able to see your family until the video is made.’
‘You can’t force me to say things that are not true.’ George raises his voice. ‘I’m not leaving with pleasure. I want to live longer, I don’t want to die without seeing my grandchild’s first steps, without hearing their first words.’
The carers exchange glances like he is a halfwit. One of them, a young, wiry man represses a smile.
‘You confirmed yesterday, sir, that you were ready to go, and signed the papers,’ says the tattooed carer to George.
‘Because I have to, for God’s sake. If I don’t go today I have to within the next three weeks anyway, because I don’t want the drug therapy. I said I was ready to go now because it feels I have a choice.’ He wipes the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. ‘If I wait till the very last day, I won’t have a choice. I will be dragged to the slaughterhouse, like an animal.’ I suppress an urge to run to George and embrace him. As if sensing this, Philip grabs my arm and doesn’t let go.
‘So you’re ready to go, then,’ the carer says to George. ‘I promise you it won’t hurt. You’ll just peacefully slip into unconsciousness.’
Other carers and security arrive from the T-wing. They quickly surround George. We can’t see him now, we can only hear his muffled voice.
‘I’m not going to do that video.’
‘I’m afraid, you have to, sir. You signed the contract.’
‘I had no choice, did I?’ It’s clear he’s trying to force back tears. ‘But it’s not in the contract that I can’t see my family if I don’t do the video.’
‘But this is how things work, Mr Dimitriadis,’ the young carer says officiously.
‘It’s not in the contract, you bastards!’
‘Unfortunately, sir, you won’t be able to see your family if you don’t do the video.’
‘Fucking murderers!’
Now we hear a screeching female voice. It’s almost painful to the ears.
‘Mr Dimitriadis, I really can’t see what the problem is. You’ve had a wonderful stay here, you’ve seen your family every day, you signed the contract gladly. The magical place you experienced during De-bodifying sessions is waiting for you over there. What else do you need?’
‘I don’t want to die yet. Not like this.’
We hear a commotion and a door slams loudly. Then there’s quiet. I stand up cautiously. The white-painted wooden door of the T-wing is shut. There’s absolutely no sign of life.
‘Did you see that?’ I ask Philip when he scrambles to his feet, brushing grass off his sweater.
‘It must be the drugs,’ he says. ‘George is usually a very tranquil person.’
I stare at him, struggling to believe what I’ve heard.
‘George has been tranquil; all he wanted was to live. And those beasts pushed him into the T-wing.’
‘He was being very difficult; you have to admit that. If it’s your time, you have to go with dignity. He seems to have forgotten that.’
I stop and face him to see if he’s joking, but he’s deadly serious.
‘Are you out of your mind? How can you blame George for–?’
‘I don’t blame him. But you could tell he hadn’t learned anything at the sessions. He still can’t cope with death. He could have just agreed and done the video, said farewell to his family and accepted his termination. That’s the only way.’
I’m aware that arguing with Philip will make the whole situation even more absurd, so I bite my lip and pray his attitude is down to tiredness. He asks me to take a walk up to the hilltop from where we can see the sea. Arriving up there, I turn my back to the Dignitorium. I sit down on a sunny spot next to Philip, watching and listening to the waves. I think about the fragility of the human psyche. I have no idea what Philip is thinking about.
Half an hour later, back inside the main building, we’re walking down the corridor towards the Salon when we bump into the tattooed carer. He gives his usual grin to us and continues on his way but I block his path. I tell him we witnessed the scene with George. I ask what’s happened to him.
‘We had to calm him down as he started fighting after the video was made,’ he says in a very professional manner. ‘He practically attacked us. Now he is deeply sedated.’
‘When will he be executed?’ I ask.
‘What are you talking about?’ He looks at me, bewildered. ‘No one is executed here, only terminated on request.’
‘But you heard how he feels about his fucking termination, didn’t you?’
I can feel Philip putting his hand on my shoulder.
‘Oh, it happens,’ the carer says with the arrogance of an all-knowing professional. ‘Old people often don’t know what they want. This is part of the deterioration process. But he signed, he enjoyed the services, and now he has to keep to the contract like everyone else.’
We enter the Salon. I grind my teeth and keep praying it’s just a nightmare from which I’m soon going to wake up. Either it’s me who’s gone mad or everyone else around me. I feel as if I’ve been living in a dream, protected, like a child. Now that the real world has shown its true colours, I am finally an adult, but not in a way I ever wanted to be.
In the Salon, George’s family, people of all ages, are sitting around a low coffee table in silence. Devastation casts a shadow over their faces and they hold each other’s hands. Philip makes his way over to them. A plump lady with dark circles under her eyes, probably George’s wife, stands up and gives Philip a hug.
‘How are you, Helen?’ Philip asks.
‘I don’t know how long I can bear it,’ the lady says, wiping the corner of her eye. ‘We’ve been waiting all morning, but now they’ve told us to come back tomorrow as he’s not in his right mind.’
‘It’s not that bad, then. Tomorrow you can say a proper farewell.’ Philip says in an optimistic tone, but the woman’s face remains dark.
‘They said he attacked some carers during the making of the Farewell Video so they had to sedate him. But we don’t believe it; George would never do that. Not without good reason.’
At this moment Edith enters the Salon and makes her way over to George’s family.
‘As I said earlier, there is no reason for you to stay here any longer today. Please don’t torture yourselves, I must ask you to go home and ret
urn tomorrow. After Mr Dimitriadis wakes up, you will be able to spend the whole evening with him and say goodbye properly.’ There’s a bite to her otherwise smooth and soft voice that tells me this is not a request but an order.
Edith waits as they file out, staring at each other in confusion. Once they’re gone, Edith leaves, too.
Philip sits down next to me. I don’t know what to say, my mind is still revolving around his change of personality. He couldn’t have been serious. He must be fooling himself, too. Maybe even now, as he’s sitting quietly to my right, doubt and dread are running through his mind, half-covered by a blanket of denial. Finally, when a nurse comes to collect him I feel a flush of relief. When I leave the Salon, heavy with grief, I’m so buried in my thoughts I hardly remember to breathe.
In the atrium my eyes are drawn to the dozens of screens on the wall. On one of them a miniature version of George Dimitriadis is speaking, with his familiar cheerful tone. He’s wearing his favourite crisp white shirt. I move closer to hear him better. He says he is ready to go. He thanks his family; he thanks his carers. He is just like the others on the Farewell Videos, looking relaxed as he sits comfortably with his arms linked in front of him. Through the sash window behind him, poppies, cornflowers and daisies in the meadow are gently swaying in the light summer breeze.
six
I didn’t sleep a wink, haunted by the image of George Dimitriadis pleading for his life. I managed to drift off at dawn but was awoken by the usual nightmare in which I see Dad lying face down, Mum leaning over him, crying and then screaming. This time the image was clearer. A woman with Sofia’s features, but even paler and thinner, was peeking in through the window. When I woke, I was soaked in sweat. However, the idea was already perfectly formed in my mind and now I know this is the only option I have left. All I have to do is make sure it is what Philip wants, too.
It’s after lunch when I arrive at the Scarborough Dignitorium. Somewhere in the distance Tara’s laughing out loud, her booming voice followed by giggles of others. In the Salon, while waiting for Philip, I find George’s family. The women’s eyes are red and puffy; they hang on to each other and weep. The men stare ahead with a look of disbelief on their gaunt faces. I hesitate over whether to approach them. Maybe it’s not the right time. A minute later, Philip enters the room, escorted by a carer, and after we greet each other, he goes over to George’s family. George’s wife, fighting back her tears, tells him that by the time they arrived this afternoon, George was pronounced dead.
‘The carer said that after sobering up from the sedation he requested instant euthanasia, not wanting to cause pain to his family. But …’ She can’t continue, she’s choking on her tears.
‘I’m so sorry, Helen, I really am.’ Philip is stroking her arm.
‘We’ve been married almost forty years.’ She cries. ‘George would never do anything like this.’
‘He wouldn’t have missed it for the world, saying goodbye to us,’ a young woman, probably his daughter, joins in. ‘Something is just not right here.’
‘Have you mentioned this to the management?’ Philip asks.
‘Yes. We demanded proof that he wanted to be terminated immediately,’ she says. ‘But all they kept showing us was his Farewell Video, which is an entirely different thing.’
‘I know, Helen, that he loved his family more than anything. Maybe he really didn’t want to cause you pain,’ Philip says. ‘Maybe after the sedation he wasn’t really himself, and he didn’t want you to remember him like that.’
Philip pats Helen’s shoulder, then, not waiting for her reaction, he takes my hand and leads me out of the Salon, heading for the terrace where streamlined luxury loungers are lined up in the shade of the surrounding trees.
‘You don’t actually believe what you just said, do you?’ I glare at him.
‘Why not?’
‘You know better than anyone else that George has been murdered.’
‘Shush. Don’t allow such terrible thoughts even to cross your mind.’ He leans back on the lounger, closes his eyes and a look of bliss settles over his features.
‘I don’t know why you keep fooling yourself, Phil. What’s the point–’
‘I knew George better than you, Ali. His family meant everything to him. I can understand he didn’t want them to see him in that state.’ He pauses. ‘They are not murderers, the Dignitorium staff. They are good, compassionate people.’
I will go mad if I have to stay sitting so I ask him to take a walk.
The slight breeze reduces the otherwise fatiguing heat, making the temperature ideal for light outdoor activities. Other residents must have realised this too, as they are out on the tennis courts, golf courses and bike tracks. With their suntanned limbs shiny with sunscreen, in snow-white T-shirts and shorts, they could be advocates of a fit and healthy lifestyle. Who would think that in nine months all that will be left of them is dust and ash? Philip is visibly irritated by the proximity of so many people. He takes my hand and leads me to the back of the garden. I know where he wants to go. We walk up the hill path, as if pulled by a magnetic force to the place he is so fond of. As we climb higher, the blue of the sky is outgrowing the green of the grounds and the little white figures of residents below, like ants, cease to trouble him.
At the top of the hill, I lie down with my head in his lap. He’s watching the vapour trail of a plane high above us with indifferent eyes. Once , when we were in the little countryside area in Somerset, Philip said that he would like to be a bird for a day, just to see the world, the covered, hidden, fenced-off parts of the world belonging to Owners, where the wolves run free. Although Philip was free then, he longed to be even freer. Now, he is a prisoner, locked in a golden cage, and not once has he mentioned the desire to fly. What have they done to him in the Dignitorium?
‘Are you thinking of George?’ Philip asks.
‘You, too?’
‘His video was up by yesterday afternoon, and I watched it all over again.’ He gently strokes my hair.
‘You shouldn’t have upset yourself with that,’ I say.
‘There was nothing upsetting about it. It was reassuring to see how peacefully it ends for all of us.’
‘How can you say that?’ I lift my head up, trying to catch his eye.
‘I have been preparing well,’ he says. ‘I really enjoy the Death Taster sessions. And I attend the Soul River session every day. Sometimes even twice.’
My insides are in shreds. I hold back from screaming at him. I want to ask him where my Philip is, the Philip who prides himself on seeing through lies and deception, systems and propaganda, and who used to mock everyone who didn’t share his vision. I remind myself again that he asked me to support him. It must be terrible for him, trying to rationalise his death. I let him believe. But does he? I almost think he does, but the odd twitch in his eye, the way he diverts his gaze, could mean that he doesn’t, he is just desperate to do so.
‘I’m glad you have calmed down and are ready to grant me my wish,’ he says with childlike innocence.
He sounds so grateful, how could I have the heart to disappoint him?
‘It’s not easy, Phil.’
‘I know. But let’s just stay like this. It’s a blessing.’
The pale face from my dream reappears in my head, like a reminder not to lose track. I can’t bring myself to ask Philip’s opinion about my plan. The last thing I want is to upset him. It would take him out of his fragile peace and raise false hopes that he has already put aside. I so want to tell him there is a way out, but I can’t. What if my plan doesn’t work?
I take a deep breath, trying to speak tenderly, for fear that he will crack otherwise.
‘If you had been Milan, would you have returned home?’
The question clearly surprises him, and he takes a moment to think before answering.
‘Milan was not going
blind, Alice.’
‘Yes, but…if we could – let’s assume – pay the money that buys you out of the Dignitorium and pays for your eye surgery, would you come home with me?’
For a moment it looks as if he is considering it. Maybe he’ll ask me to borrow. But he doesn’t know that I know the exact fee. Nor that such an exorbitant amount cannot be borrowed. Now he sighs, with evident disappointment and anger. It’s too late to take my question back.
‘It was just an innocent question, my love. I was just asking.’
‘Why? What good would it bring to know that if I had wings I could fly when I have no wings and never will have?’
‘I see.’ My voice is very gentle. But I know I’ve gone too far.
‘Can I ask you to go home, Ali?’ he says with a hint of impatience.
‘But we still have twenty minutes.’
‘You’re upsetting me.’
‘I’m not going to say a word.’
‘You upset me with your presence, with your false expectations, with your restlessness.’
‘I won’t bring it up again.’
‘Can you really not grant me my last wish, for God’s sake? What I’m trying to do is incredibly hard, but the only way I can make it worthwhile is to accept the unacceptable.’
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