The Last Weekend

by Julie Morrigan

  ‘Thanks,’ said Glasgow, as he took the key. ‘Do you mind if we just wander round ourselves?’

  ‘No problem. You just take your time; I’ll be in the front parlour if you need me.’ He indicated the first door on the left.

  ‘We might as well start there, ourselves,’ said Philip, and Glasgow nodded.

  The room was spacious, and furnished with sofas and chairs arranged in groups around occasional tables. The estate agent selected one, sat down and got out some paperwork. Philip nodded to him as he and Glasgow left that room and went into the second reception room. It was of equal size and similarly furnished.

  The dining room was opposite the first reception room. It held a large table, surrounded by chairs, a sideboard and various other bits of furniture. A door led through to the kitchen – the next room along – which could also be entered from the hall.

  ‘Does all the furniture and everything come with the house?’ Glasgow asked, as they walked through into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘I thought that would be a big plus – there should be no outlay other than the rent and utility bills.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ And no delivery vans and workmen turning up, either, he thought.

  ‘You can see there’s already everything we need, here,’ Philip said, as they walked through the kitchen. ‘Ovens, hob, utensils and machines. The cupboards are full, too. We have all the necessary crockery and cutlery.’

  Glasgow nodded, and Philip continued through into the storage area. ‘There’s ample space here, too, should we need it.’

  ‘Very roomy,’ said Glasgow.

  ‘And there’s still the basement.’ Philip returned to the kitchen and turned a key that looked as though it was just sticking out of the wall. It opened a door, beyond which was a staircase, leading down.

  ‘I didn’t even know there was a door there,’ said Glasgow.

  ‘You could easily miss it,’ said Philip. He led the way downstairs and then opened a door to a walk-in cold room with slatted shelves. ‘I thought we could store our clients in here, between death and collection to be taken home.’

  Glasgow looked around. ‘There’s certainly enough space,’ he said. ‘I reckon it should do nicely.’

  ‘The cold storage upstairs is amply big enough for our food and drink needs, so there’s no reason for anyone but us to come down here. I thought we could maybe get a padlock put on it, though, just in case.’

  ‘Or we could just leave the door at the head of the stairs locked,’ said Glasgow.

  Philip laughed. ‘Good point, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.’ He shook his head. ‘Occam’s razor.’

  Glasgow didn’t know what he was talking about, but didn’t care.

  ‘There’s a lift and a separate staircase for when we want to be down here,’ said Philip, and he showed him. ‘The staircase is concealed in the walls between the rooms in the floors above, so quite private.’

  ‘A hidden staircase?’

  Philip nodded. ‘There are a few hidden passageways, too, according to the estate agent. Something to do with hiding contraband whisky.’

  Glasgow smiled; the house just got better and better.

  ‘I’ve got someone to help with recruitment,’ Philip said. ‘My sister, Valerie.’

  ‘I take it she appreciates the need for secrecy?’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely. She’s on her own now, too, so there’s no one to quiz her or for her to answer to.’

  ‘That sounds ideal.’

  ‘And you still want us to look for people who are mobile, this time round?’

  Glasgow had taken time to explain the necessity for that to Philip in terms of providing a better service to the distressed, rather than the truth – to provide a bigger challenge to the hunter or hunters.

  ‘Yes,’ Glasgow said. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought. When we get better equipped and have nursing facilities, we may be able to take those who are bedridden or severely debilitated, for now we need … walking wounded, shall we say. And let’s get them on tape. Their stories, their reasons for wanting to do this. I want to be confident we take people who are serious about it. I don’t want us to make any mistakes.’

  ‘Oh, you’re absolutely right to be cautious. I’ll tape the interviews and I’ll get them to sign a consent form, as well, so we and they know exactly what will happen and everyone agrees to it.’

  Glasgow nodded, then said, ‘Do you think your sister would be prepared to come and help on the Monday, when we’re taking everyone out to return them to their homes? It would be useful to have another person involved, to make sure we don’t miss anything and to check the right possessions go back with each body.’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense. I’ll have to ask her, but I should think it’ll be fine.’

  ‘One of my lads will be driving the van; he can pick her up at the airport and bring her here.’ Not that any of the bodies will be going home, Glasgow thought. They’ll be going in the body pit, at the lodge, along with their possessions, but I don’t want any loose ends.

  As for the ‘arrangement fee’ people would be paying, the money would be sitting in Glasgow’s bank account, but only traceable to Philip, and by then Philip and his sister would have simply disappeared.

  Glasgow planned to run an online auction for the event. He’d already sent email invitations to the people he thought would be most interested in his new venture and who had the kind of money required to purchase such a rare opportunity to kill. It was, after all, the ultimate in trophy hunting. Things were coming together nicely.

  ***

  Later that evening, Glasgow used a disposable mobile phone to discuss the details of the killing spree with interested parties, via conference call.

  ‘There are eleven lives to be taken between Friday evening and Monday morning of the last weekend in January,’ he said. A distorter changed his voice so it sounded robotic. ‘I’ll take bids from individuals or groups. It’s your choice how you want to handle this.’

  ‘It’s a uniquely personal kill zone. How much will we know about the prey?’ asked a similarly robotic voice.

  ‘As much or as little as you like. We’ll have full details of each of them and we’ll share whatever you want to know.’

  ‘What are the chances they can escape?’

  ‘Next to none. We’re using a detached house that’s entirely surrounded by a high wall. It’s in the middle of nowhere – it’s reached by a scrappy single-track road and there’s nothing else around for miles – and they won’t even know where they are. They’ll just be sitting waiting for you; you can pick them off at your leisure.’

  ‘Sounds good. How will this auction work?’

  ‘Well, I appreciate some people will want to talk things over with other hunters and maybe to band up, or will want to check to see if the dates are suitable, so I’m taking fixed e-bids up until midnight, Christmas Eve. Highest bid wins.’

  Chapter 6

  In mid-December, Jimmy was on a train bound for London. He was excited, anticipation quickening his heart rate and making the blood sing in his veins. His train had left Newcastle Central Station at seven that morning and was due in at London King’s Cross about ten o’clock. He glanced around at his fellow passengers and wondered if any of them were headed for the same place as him.

  Anyone who was would be travelling alone; it was a condition. That ruled out the harassed-looking woman with the two bickering children at the far end of the carriage. Further up from her a bunch of suits was seated at a table and, judging by their conversation, they were going to a sales conference. Other than that, a couple of commuters dozed fitfully while a couple more tapped away on laptops. Jimmy couldn’t be certain, but thought it unlikely that any of them were heading for his destination. The woman in the far corner, however, was a possible. She had the pallor of someone used to the indoors and a slackness in her face that suggested a lack of interest in the world around her.

  Jimmy had followed M
ayfly’s example and got in touch to find out more about The Last Weekend. They had both successfully completed the subsequent stages of selection and he knew that people from all over the country were now heading to London for the same reason he and Mayfly were going: to meet Reaperman for the final stage of the selection process.

  As the train neared King’s Cross, Jimmy took his phone out of his pocket and checked the details once again.

  Dear Indigo, he read, I am pleased to inform you that you have been shortlisted for The Last Weekend. I would like to invite you to attend an interview, after which the final selection process will be completed.

  The email went on to explain that although the initial invitation had appeared on the Internet for just twelve hours, it had attracted hundreds of applicants. Numbers had been whittled down through a series of elimination rounds to a shortlist of twenty. Out of the twenty who had each been invited for interview, ten were to be selected for The Last Weekend.

  Jimmy had been instructed to go to the Grosvenor Hotel and wait in the reception area. His appointment was scheduled for ten forty-five. He caught the Tube from King’s Cross to Victoria and was there in good time. He found a seat in reception and waited, as directed. At ten forty-five, he heard a page that could only be for him:

  ‘Would Mr Indigo please come to the reception desk. Mr Indigo to the reception desk. Thank you.’

  Jimmy stood and approached the desk. He saw a man in a dark suit, and headed towards him. He was about to introduce himself when someone else caught his attention.

  ‘Indigo? Mr Indigo?’

  Jimmy turned to see a woman who was perhaps in her mid-sixties standing at his shoulder. She was tall, slim and elegant, and she was looking at him intently.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I have something for you.’ The woman handed him a small Jiffy bag. ‘This tells you what you have to do next,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Don’t be. Open the bag and follow the instructions. All will become clear.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’ She patted his arm. ‘Goodbye, and good luck.’

  ‘Bye,’ said Jimmy. He watched as she walked briskly out of the hotel and jumped into a waiting taxi. Bemused, he opened the bag. It contained a plastic card, the size of a credit card, and a slip of paper bearing the message: Claridge’s, Room 343, 11.15. He realised that the card was a key, no doubt the one that opened the door to room 343 at Claridge’s.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the receptionist, who was watching with thinly disguised curiosity. ‘Could you call me a cab, please?’

  ***

  A short while later, Jimmy took a good look at the man who had been waiting for him in room 343 at Claridge’s. He was tall, probably early sixties, and he looked very respectable; establishment, even.

  ‘Hello, Indigo, I’m Reaperman,’ the man said, as he offered his hand. ‘I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, but needs must, I’m afraid.’ They shook hands, then Reaperman ushered Jimmy over to a table and two comfortable-looking chairs by the window. ‘Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Black, one sugar.’ Jimmy sat down in an armchair. Reaperman sorted out the drinks and placed them on the coffee table, then took the chair opposite.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘You’re welcome, Indigo.’

  ‘Please, call me–’

  Reaperman held up a hand. ‘We don’t ever use proper names,’ he said, before Jimmy could go any further. ‘We have to be extremely careful. While you and I don’t believe that we’re doing anything wrong, we are nevertheless breaking the law even by having this conversation.’

  ‘One thing I’ve never understood is why, in such an overpopulated world, so many people insist that life is sacred; no matter how miserable, painful or unhappy that life may be, no matter how little the person living it wishes to continue.’ Jimmy picked up his coffee cup. ‘I find it baffling.’

  Reaperman nodded. ‘It’s true there’s more understanding for those with a terminal illness, but even they face only obstacles if they wish to end their days on this island. And not everyone is able or willing to travel abroad to die.’ He switched on the small recording device that sat on the table between them and regarded Jimmy. ‘Having said that, you look like a healthy young man in the prime of life. Tell me, Indigo, why is it that you wish to end your life?’

  ‘You’re right, I am healthy. Healthy and cowardly. As much as I want to die, I’m struggling with the method of departure.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘Although I haven’t always felt like this.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It was the school dance. End of term, year ten.’

  Chapter 7

  It’s now or never, Jimmy thought. He looked over at Emily Miller, gave her a shy smile and knew immediately that had been a mistake. It signalled his intentions more clearly than anything else he could think of, other than perhaps a marching band or a Red Arrows fly-past.

  His mate Pete had just been bombed out in spectacular fashion by Trish Morrison. Jimmy couldn’t understand what Pete saw in her anyway, with her dyed-blonde hair, stuck-on nails and affected posturing. The pout had become so extreme that she looked like she was permanently sucking on a lemon.

  Trish had been dying for one of the boys to invite her on to the dance floor, confident one of them would ask, rightly believing it to be just a matter of waiting it out to see which one of them got his nerve up first. And it had been Pete. Poor, love-struck, gullible Pete, who had thought that her encouraging glances meant that she would say yes. He had been like a lamb to the slaughter.

  And now Jimmy had set himself up in the same spectacular fashion. He fidgeted, wondered if it was worth it, wondered also if the smile he had shot Emily meant he was irrevocably committed to action. He looked over and saw Emily watching him. The corners of her mouth twitched up and she moved her head as if to say, come on, then! and then looked at her shoes. Girls could commit social suicide too, Jimmy realised, despite their seeming to be so far ahead of the game. He felt that not going over to ask her for a dance now would be the same as telling everyone who would listen that he thought she was a right minger. Which he didn’t; far from it.

  Emily was waiting for him. She had shaken her hair so that her fringe hid her eyes, but he could feel her watching him. She was the complete opposite of Trish Thompson, he reckoned. For a start, she wasn’t in the company of a gaggle of grinning girls just waiting to see one of the boys humiliated. She was there with her best friends, Carol-Ann and Joanie, and so far as Jimmy had ever seen, none of them got off on that sort of cruel one-upmanship. They had all been part of the crew that had dressed up the sports hall in preparation for the dance and Jimmy had to admit, they had done a pretty good job.

  Emily had blue eyes and long, dark hair, and was wearing just a bit of mascara and lipstick. Just enough, in Jimmy’s opinion – not that she needed it. She had on jeans that weren’t new and a top that was, and what she wore suited her, even if it might not be what passed for the height of fashion.

  Jimmy took a deep breath and set off on the long walk around the dance floor, aware that many pairs of eyes were upon him. The DJ was playing golden oldies and he had just introduced ‘Oliver’s Army’ by Elvis Costello and the Attractions; Jimmy reckoned that would be good to dance to. Carol-Ann and Joanie nudged each other and took a step back, leaving Emily on her own, pretending that she didn’t know what was going on. Jimmy stopped in front of her. She kept her eyes on her shoes. He cleared his throat. She looked up. She had gone pink, he saw, and he wondered what that meant.

  ‘Do you want to—?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, too quickly. Joanie and Carol-Ann giggled. Jimmy took Emily’s hand and they joined the others on the dance floor, self-conscious at first, knowing they were being stared at, but feeling better as people got bored with them and looked elsewhere for amusement. Was it the amount of time the
y spent in front of the television, he wondered, that made some of the kids he went to school with happy just to watch other people living their lives?

  After the party, Jimmy walked Emily home and gave her a chaste little kiss goodnight. By the end of the summer, they were a couple, and their kisses weren’t so chaste.

  Time passed and they made their plans for the future. They ended up at different universities, Jimmy at Edinburgh and Emily at Durham. Friends on both sides predicted problems, believing that the relationship would falter as they each met new people, had new experiences and made new friends.

  However, the journey between Durham and Edinburgh took less than two hours on the train, one of the considerations they had taken into account when they had chosen where they each would go. Jimmy and Emily introduced each other to the new friends they made, told each other all about their new experiences and got together whenever they could.

  Once they had graduated, they got jobs and a mortgage on a flat. As they earned promotions and pay rises, the financial strain eased and they had money for luxuries and holidays. On one of their holidays, a long weekend in New York City, Emily spent much of the time throwing up. It was worst in the mornings; she was pregnant.

  Once they had got over the shock, Jimmy and Emily were ecstatic. They told their families and they were just as excited. Jimmy’s friends, however, couldn’t even begin to understand.

  ‘You’re mental, mate,’ Frankie had said, in an outburst that was now deliciously ironic. ‘If it was me, I’d leave the country so the CSA couldn’t get at my beer tokens.’

  The last thing any of Jimmy’s mates wanted back then was a regular girl, a mortgage and a sprog. They were young, they were having fun, there was just no hurry for that kind of thing. All Jimmy wanted was to make a safe, warm home for his wife and child. He and Emily had decided to get married after the baby was born and things had settled down a bit, but as far as Jimmy was concerned the commitment was made; the ceremony would be a mere formality.