‘Definitely,’ said Helmand. ‘Under-tens, as well. We just need to work out how to get stock without drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘London, maybe?’ said Glasgow. ‘Loads of people living rough there that nobody would miss.’
‘I’ll do a recce next week,’ said Sunderland, ‘see how things are looking.’
Helmand pointed to the paper on the table next to Basra. ‘Shame we can’t advertise for those buggers,’ he said, indicating the front-page story. ‘We could save them a lot of effort.’
Glasgow looked and saw it was about a group suicide: half a dozen people had got together to kill themselves because they didn’t want to die alone.
Talk moved on. The men finished their food and opened a bottle of whisky. A little later they heard the hunters shout their goodnights and clatter up the stairs to bed, the large meal, drinks, and the comedown after the adrenaline rush making them sleepy. Not long after, the four hunt organisers – each known by the name of the place he had made his first kill – followed them. Glasgow’s mind kept returning to the suicide story in the paper; an idea was beginning to form.
Chapter 3
‘Philip, how are you doing, mate? It’s Jed, Jed Pike.’ Glasgow hadn’t used his real name in a while, it felt strange saying it.
‘Jed! Hello there, it’s been a long time …’ Surprise was evident in Philip McGregor’s voice.
‘Couple of years, for sure. How’s things?’
‘Oh, not so bad. I’m glad to be out. My son had looked after the house for me, so at least I had my home to come back to.’
‘It was a harsh sentence. You were just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Well, not everyone saw it like that. But there’s a lot of attention being given to right-to-die campaigners; I like to think I helped get things in the spotlight.’
‘I’m sure you did. In fact, that’s why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have an idea that’ll help people in that situation. Can we meet up and discuss it?’
‘Yes, of course. Bearing in mind the subject matter, would you like to come here, to my home, so we can talk in private?’
‘Good idea. What’s the address?’
***
Next day, Glasgow drove to a village near Inverness and parked up outside of his old cellmate’s house. He got out of the car and stretched, looking at the house as he did so. It was bigger than he’d expected. He wasn’t surprised Philip’s son had been happy to look after it; he was just protecting his inheritance. No doubt the death of his father, when it came, would be softened by the financial benefits. If Philip had been Glasgow’s dad, the house would already be his.
He rapped on the door and it was opened almost immediately by a man who stood around six-foot tall, lean, and with a military bearing. His hair was short and grey, and he wore jeans and an open-necked blue shirt.
‘Jed, it’s good to see you again,’ said Philip.
‘You, too.’ The men shook hands.
‘Come on through, the kettle’s on.’ Philip led the way through to the kitchen, at the back of the house, where a kettle was just beginning to boil. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, and Glasgow sat at the scrubbed pine table. It was already set with mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, and once Philip had scalded the grounds in a cafetière he put that on the table, too, then took his own seat. ‘How have you been?’ he asked.
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘Are you working?’
Glasgow nodded. ‘I fell on my feet, as it happens. I’m doing okay.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m running a hunting lodge not too far from here. It’s a good little business.’ He didn’t mention that he and Sunderland had bought the place outright with the proceeds of criminal enterprise that hadn’t been discovered by the police. He was happy to let Philip think he was a small-time crook who’d turned his life around.
‘Good for you.’
‘It’s nice to be in the open air after being locked up. I’ve been out nearly two years, but I still can’t abide being cooped up.’
‘Aye, I’m the same, son, I’m the same. I go out every day, even if I’ve nothing to go out for, just because I can.’ Philip depressed the plunger on the cafetière then poured for them both. ‘Can I get you a biscuit?’
‘No, not for me, thanks.’
He sighed. ‘If Ellen were still alive there’d have been a homemade cake.’
‘You must really miss her.’
‘Yes, I do, but it’s a comfort being here. She’s everywhere in this house. We built a real home together, chose the furniture, decorated the rooms, brought the children up … I feel her presence around me all the time. Not like in the jail. That was awful.’ He wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee. ‘Damn cancer …’
‘At least you helped her when it got to be too much.’
‘Oh, if you’d seen her … she begged me to help. She couldn’t do it on her own, and she couldn’t bear the pain any longer.’ He shook his head. ‘It was heart-rending, absolutely heart-rending.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone to prison for it; that wasn’t right.’
‘I broke the law, Jed. The law’s wrong, but it’s still the law. I broke it and that’s why I was punished.’
‘Do you remember when we were talking, inside? You said there should be a way for people who wanted to end their life to do it, legally and painlessly.’
‘Yes, I believe there should be. So many people suffer unnecessarily. The letters I got in prison … dozens of people wrote to me. People should have … a way out. Yes, there need to be checks, so that some greedy person doesn’t just bump off their granny for the inheritance, but life and death are personal choices.’
‘If I said I was thinking of trying to establish something like that, would you be interested?’
‘More than you could imagine.’ Philip rubbed his eyes. ‘I’ve recently been diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s.’
‘That’s rotten news; I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, it is that. I’m okay for a while yet, but I’ll be bowing out before I lose all my faculties.’ Philip took a drink of his coffee. ‘I’ve actually been looking into suicide recently. There’s a surprising amount of information online, but what stands out is how many people try and fail.’
‘Cries for help, you mean?’
‘No, I’m talking about people who really and truly want to die. There are websites telling you the various options, the pros and cons of each method, the length of time death will most likely take and the level of pain you can expect to experience. Apparently setting fire to yourself is the most painful way to go.’ He looked at Glasgow. ‘I can’t imagine doing that, though, I just can’t.’
‘It sounds horrific.’
‘What’s worst is the failure rate. Even shooting yourself in the head is no guarantee of success. Can you believe that? People have actually shot parts of their face off, destroyed chunks of their brain, and lived. There are some horrific stories of failure all over the Internet. The forums are hives of activity.’
‘Forums?’
‘Oh, yes, there are lots of discussion forums. I’ve joined a couple, myself.’
‘Aren’t you worried you might be recognised?’
Philip shook his head. ‘No one uses their real name. They only know me as Reaperman.’
‘And these sites encourage people to top themselves?’
‘No, it’s not like that. People swap their life stories and share their tales of attempts and failures. Where there’s information, it’s presented very rationally. Most sites encourage people to think twice, if not thrice, before attempting suicide, they urge them not to act rashly, and at the very least to sleep on it, especially if they’ve had a drink.’ He sighed. ‘And especially if it’s the weekend. A lot of people are distracted by work or education through the week, but the weekends can hang heavy.’
‘I can see how that would be the case.’
‘
Can I ask you, Jed, why you want to get involved in a venture like this?’
Jed had anticipated the question and had his answer ready. ‘It was my auntie, my mum’s sister. She went through hell when she got sick. She kept saying she just wanted to end it all, end the pain, end the suffering, but there was nothing we could do. I felt … helpless. It was awful.’ He sighed, eyes on the tabletop.
Philip patted his arm; it was a familiar story. ‘Sounds a lot like what I went through with my Ellen,’ he said.
Jed knew; it was why he had come up with that particular tale. His mother was an only child. He raised his eyes and looked directly at Philip. ‘Mum made me promise I’d do something to help if she was ever in that situation.’
Philip nodded. ‘It’s traumatic for everyone, a situation like that. If you want to check out the forums I mentioned, I can recommend End of Days and Hope Has Flown. Google them. There are very many people making requests for information about the least painful and most certain methods to use.’
‘Incredible. Shows the need, I suppose.’ Glasgow had no idea such things existed. It solved the biggest problem his new scheme presented: how to hook up with people who wanted to die and would pay for the privilege.
‘So, you see,’ Philip said, ‘if there were a guaranteed way for people to die painlessly, when and how they chose, for all it would have to be an underground operation, there would definitely be a demand for the service.’
‘And you’d be interested in helping me find people who had made an informed decision and were serious, people who weren’t just looking for help or attention?’
‘Well, yes, I think I would. What would I have to do?’
***
Later that day, Glasgow told Sunderland how things had gone.
‘We’re on to something here. Philip reckons the world is full of people who want to die but haven’t got the guts to top themselves. They’re scared in case they fail.’
‘And he reckons they’ll pay for the peace of mind of being topped properly?’ Sunderland scratched the side of his crooked nose.
‘Yes. And he’s totally up for it. We’re going to make a packet out of this.’
‘Make a killing, eh?’
Glasgow barked a laugh.
‘I love it,’ said Sunderland. ‘They pay us to help them die and we charge some other fucker to kill them. Oh, the irony!’
Chapter 4
Jimmy Wilson let himself into his flat, shut and locked the door, then heaved a sigh of relief. Going out had been a mistake. Going out was always a mistake these days, just like coming home was always a reminder of everything that had changed. He shrugged out of his black leather jacket, hung it up and went into the kitchen. Ten minutes later he was in front of his computer, a mug of whisky-laced coffee at his elbow, The Sisters of Mercy playing in the background.
He fired up his web browser and got straight on to the End of Days website. He was spending a lot of time on there, lately.
Jimmy clicked the ‘Arrivals and Departures’ tab to see if there were any new names there. A couple of newbies were listed under ‘Arrivals’; he reckoned he’d probably run in to them on the forum at some point. There was just one new name under ‘Departures’ and Jimmy felt simultaneously elated and saddened to see it there. Elated because another of their strange tribe had achieved their goal, and saddened because he had grown fond of DarkSoul during the time they had both spent on the site. He knew DarkSoul was a young man, just twenty-three, even younger than Jimmy, himself. Scanning the brief details that had been posted, he learned that DarkSoul had hanged himself; he remembered having a conversation with him about how drugs and drink were in no way guaranteed to work and that hanging could be either quick or result in slow strangulation, but one way or another it was generally effective. Jimmy hoped it had been the former; he hated to think of people who had already suffered more than they could bear having to suffer even more.
Jimmy had discussed very personal things with DarkSoul, things he couldn’t – and wouldn’t – discuss with his friends and family. He realised that he’d considered DarkSoul to be a friend, even though they’d never met in person, hadn’t known one another’s real names and had only known each other virtually for around six weeks.
That’s how it went on End of Days, though. The site was for people who were quite genuinely sick of their lives. Which made it just another thing that Jimmy’s family wouldn’t understand, just one more reason why he and his friends had so little in common any more. They seemed to be permanently out of step.
Take tonight. Apart from Jimmy, they’d all been on the pull, designer shirts and aftershave used as bait to lure similarly intentioned women. These days, most of them were serious about finding someone and starting a relationship, they weren’t just looking for a quick shag. Not that they’d necessarily turn one down, but what they really wanted was to be one of a pair, half of a couple, to make a home and settle down. Frankie was even talking about kids since his sister had made him an uncle; he was getting broody, for Christ’s sake! Jimmy felt like he was on the far side of an ever-widening chasm, the gulf between him and his friends not one that he knew how to bridge. Because while Frankie, Mark and Pete were looking for someone to live with, Jimmy dreamed of someone he could die with.
He entered the chatroom and was spotted almost immediately.
Mayfly: Hey, Indigo, where you been?
Indigo: Hi Mayfly. Hi all. Met some mates, went out for a drink. Bad move.
Mayfly: Wanna talk?
Indigo: Sure.
He and Mayfly transferred into a private room to continue their conversation.
Mayfly: So … how was it?
Indigo: Oh, you know how it is. They’re always so full of plans for the future, what they’re going to do, where they’re going to go, jobs, homes, partners …
Mayfly: Yeah, I know. Like we’re all into that shit. Like it’s so great on planet Earth we want to stay forever.
Indigo: Exactly. I mean, I know I used to want that stuff, before, but now it’s like they’re talking in a foreign language.
Mayfly: I know, I know. My mates have started dropping sprogs, and the ones who haven’t talk about it non-stop. Like breeding is their only purpose in life. Fucksake! As if anyone with a conscience would bring a child into this world!
Indigo: I’m so sick of it all. If I were less of a coward – or more of a bastard, I can’t work out which it is – I’d end it all tonight. I really have had enough.
Mayfly: Here’s something you might find interesting – www.thelastweekend.info – check it out. I’ll hang on here.
Indigo: Okay, ta. Back in a mo.
Jimmy copied and pasted the link into a new tab in his browser, then watched as the screen unfolded before him. It was a simple enough message. There were no links to other pages, it was all there to see on the single black-edged home page.
THE LAST WEEKEND
Put your things in order, then spend your last weekend with us
Dignified, safe, discreet
Success guaranteed
[email protected]
Jimmy read it, then returned to the private chat room.
Indigo: Interesting. What do you make of it?
Mayfly: I think it might be exactly what I’ve been looking for.
Indigo: Are you planning to contact them?
Mayfly: I already have.
Chapter 5
Glasgow answered the phone on the third ring.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hello, Jed, it’s Philip. I think I’ve found the ideal house.’
‘Excellent! Tell me more.’
‘Well, it was previously a country house hotel, so for all it’s been empty for a while it has everything we need. It needs a little updating here and there, but nothing major and nothing urgent. It’s within budget, and it’s not far from you, which is a bonus.’
‘Sounds great. When can I see it?’
‘Are you free on Thursday?’
‘I can be.’
‘Good; I’ll set up a second viewing with the estate agent.’ Philip drew in a long breath, then let it go. ‘It seems perfect. It’s almost as if this was meant to be.’
***
Two days later, Glasgow followed the estate agent’s Golf along a single-track Highland road, tyres crunching over the heavy November frost. He saw the indicator come on, followed by the brake lights, and he followed suit, then turned off the narrow road and guided his four-by-four between two brick pillars. He drove up a long, tree-lined driveway and into the grounds of a large detached house. He pulled up alongside the smaller car, killed the engine and got out of the vehicle.
‘Hi,’ he said, as Philip and the estate agent got out of the other car.
‘What do you think?’ said Philip. ‘First impressions.’
Glasgow looked around. The house and grounds were enclosed by a high brick wall, and the pillars framed wrought-iron gates. ‘First impressions, it looks very promising.’
The estate agent jangled the keys. ‘Come and have a look inside. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’
He unlocked the sturdy front door and they followed him into a large oak-panelled hall. The floor was laid with coloured quarry tiles set in a geometric pattern, and a carpeted staircase climbed up from the centre to the first floor.
‘Here, on the ground floor, there are two reception rooms, to the left,’ the estate agent said. He pointed to the two doors. ‘To the right, you’ll find the dining room and the kitchen, plus there’s a storage area that’s accessible from the kitchen. There are stairs from there to the basement, where there’s an office, laundry, and more storage space.’
A reception desk stood between the doors to the dining room and the kitchen, a relic from the house’s days as a hotel.
‘There are ladies’ and gents’ toilets right at the back, there.’ He pointed to the far wall, beyond the staircase. ‘The staircase leads to eleven en-suite bedrooms on the first floor, and there are a further four, plus two bathrooms and a large storage area, on the second floor.’ He pointed to the far corner, along from the ladies’ and gents’ toilets. ‘There’s also a lift to all floors.’ He produced a key from his pocket. ‘You’ll need this to use the lift to go to the attic or the basement.’
The Last Weekend Page 2
