‘It’s fine but there are a lot of forms to go through.’
Helen looked relieved. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked.
‘I have to see the two doctors who must approve my decision.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Helen. ‘There was someone else who wanted to talk to both of us together when you were finished with the nurse. I’ll see if I can find her.’
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.