Dignity

“Now, Margaret, if I may I’ll just confirm a few details with you.” Craig had established acceptance of first-name terms, which some at the office would forget to do. Yet so important, especially with a voluntary termination. Manage the feelings and you’ll do the business.

He eased open the notebook, maintaining eye contact with the prospect as he keyed the password. “Would you have your birth certificate to hand?” “We’ve got it,” murmured the female NOK, passing it to the nurse. Glancing at the movement, Craig pinged the laptop on the old lady’s bureau; the integral camera was running. Best way to handle that: you’ve seen nothing. Play to a prospect’s recording and it becomes your evidence. He also noted that the NOKs, like Sandra, were being calm and silently supportive. But the couple’s body language didn’t rhyme; interesting. Had they argued about the money?

Not that the estate was worth a fortune. That and Mrs Thing’s physical problems put her in the Pink zone; but clearly she’d be high dependency sometime. When that happened and her cash ran out and the benefits hit their limits it’d be Red Card and we wouldn’t need the NOKs. So she was jumping the gun for their sake. And mine: five years’ medical costs plus State Pension plus extras, discounted at six per cent p.a., times five per cent... good bonus this month. Nurse Sandra here must be thinking the same; she’s the type you notice when they want you to. His eye flickered at her. Fair dos, I don’t mind. Sandra’s a babe.

Dirty little dog, thought Margaret, catching the look. And she’s no better. But trot on. She began to give background. Widowed young, Harry uninsured, children to support, had to continue at the lab, hadn’t joined the pension scheme in the first year, then the trustees wouldn’t allow (restrained sympathy from the People’s Health reps). Constant pain a nuisance. Health going, bound to worsen – no polite reassurances, please. Malcolm a good son (male NOK’s face relaxed) but has his wife Jane and the children to care for (female remained composed); Monica couldn’t help - settled in New Zealand, raising her brood, health problems of her own. One never had the time to build close friendships, bit late now. Keeping busy, of course – e-correspondence on penal reform, that sort of thing – but eventually one has to make a decision about quality of life, others’ as well as one’s own.

The pieces were falling into place. Craig had clocked her straight bearing and posh voice straight away, and hadn’t squared it with the small flat; she was obviously a crusty, not a crumbly. Now he got it, and the mandatory boxes were ticking themselves. Compos mentis; rational grounds; no duress. Tough-minded bird: “Religious objections? Of course not. I’m a scientist and I don’t believe in fairy tales. Do you? Awfully sorry, I should have asked.” No, they didn’t hold those sort of views either.

But even an unbeliever likes ceremonial, and this one had style. While Sandra coolly prepared syringes, phials and monitor, out from Margaret’s little fridge came champagne, no less. Craig looked at the label: Krug Clos du Mesnil 1995. God, that was old. Saved for a wedding anniversary that never came, said Margaret , explaining as she poured that the right vessel was an ordinary wine glass, not a coupe or flute. She handed them out: lead crystal, each a different hue. The toast was to Life, and somehow it seemed right. They turned to the laptop to drink; it was filming the event for her grandchildren, when they were old enough to understand.

She waited amid the bodies for her solicitor to arrive; a very punctual person, and she counted on him to be there before the official driver downstairs got restless. The dried coatings in the colour-coded glasses had worked perfectly: Malcolm and Jane had passed out fast, preventing complications as the State’s killers died. She looked at Craig and Sandra: putting down her husband’s hounds had been harder.

The camera would prove her guilt, and Craig’s little catechism had established her sanity. She would be safe in prison: no capital punishment, no parole (she would see to that) and she now knew enough law to enforce her right to protection while in custody. Jane will simply have to stop sulking and manage on Malcolm’s income: the estate will fund Monica’s MS drugs until her children are safely married. Best of all, the State must pay for a prisoner’s treatment; the angioplasty, the hip replacements, all of it. I’m good for another twenty years. She emptied her glass: to Life, indeed. She was looking forward to those wedding pictures.