The woman hesitates. “I must go upstairs.”
The man’s unhealthy face — he is a candidate for a stroke, if ever I saw one — creases into a frown. He throws me a doubtful glance. “I’m not sure…”
I nod towards the staircase, encouraging her. “Why not? You wish to share a precious moment.”
She scuttles off, heels clacking on the treads. Her lover ventures a rueful smile.
“She’ll be all right, Doctor. It’s just nerves, that’s all. This is what she’s wanted for years.”
“I understand.”
And naturally I do. This is a pleasant house, on the outskirts of the village, its value inflated by the promise of a soon-to-be-built bypass. Who would not wish to own it, and to have that ownership unfettered by obligation? My gift to them, as to all my clients, and all my subjects, is freedom.
The man seeks to engage me in conversation, embarking on a story about his ill fortune in business during the years when he managed a public house. I reply in monosyllables. My priority is to compose myself and prepare my heart and mind for the task that lies ahead.
Soon the woman is back with us, head bowed. Is she murmuring a prayer?
The man claps her on the back. He has decided that contrived jollity is the right note to strike. “Well, then. We’d best be off.”
“Yes.” It is barely a whisper.
Suddenly she glances at me and I see dread in her eyes. Dread of what is to happen. I have seen that look before, on other faces where previously I had seen nothing more than greed. But this is not a greedy woman. She is weak, that is all. The man in her life has cajoled her into doing something against her better judgment. Not for the first time, I suspect.
“Everything is going to be all right, isn’t it, Doctor?”
I am a model of calm and goodwill. “As I explained when we reached our arrangement, my method is tried and tested. I need not trouble you with details, but you may rely on me.”
“The laws in this country are an absolute disgrace, anyway,” the man says. “In a civilised society, what we’re doing would be applauded.”
“What the doctor is doing,” the woman says hastily.
He offers me his hand. It is large and sweaty. “Well, I’ll say it straight. I couldn’t do what you do. You deserve a medal.”
The woman twitters to the same effect, pays me fulsome compliments. As she runs out of breath, she adds, “I’ll never forget the help you have given us, Doctor.”
“And to…” I begin.
“Yes, yes!” Her eagerness is pathetic. “That’s what matters most, of course. We aren’t thinking of ourselves.”
“Well, then.” The man hands me the copied keys. “You will… dispose of these?”
“As we discussed.” I cough discreetly. “If I might ask you for the envelope?”
Slowly, as if hypnotised by my expression, he takes a fat envelope from the pocket of his tweed jacket and hands it to me.
“If you don’t mind…” I tear open the envelope and flick through the fifty-pound notes. The final installment, paid in full. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least we can do,” the woman says. “We owe you so much.”
The man’s face is flushed, irritable. Despite all that we have said, he is far from certain that I shall keep my word. But he has no choice but to trust me. I am anxious for them to be away now. I need time alone.
“Goodbye, then.”
To my surprise, the woman steps forward and presses cold lips against my cheek. A kiss of gratitude. Then the man takes her hand and within moments they are gone.
As I hear their rusty little car sputter down the drive, I help myself to a nip of brandy from my flask. Only one, mind. I have no intention of repeating the mistake I once made in the hospital ward.
I allow myself an hour of quiet reflection. For all my experience, each case for me is special. Unique. This is the difference between my past and present careers. One operation is, frankly, much like another except in those frightening instances where an error is made. Nowadays, however, each assignment feels like the first.
I consult my watch. The sedative will be wearing off. This is one of those little details that mean nothing, in truth, to my clients, but everything to me. It is time to pick up my case and climb the stairs.
The room has that musty smell so familiar to me. It clings to the old and infirm. Outside, rain is slapping against the windowpanes. Within, the only sound is a hoarse rattle of breath.
Silently, I move to the bedside and open my case. The subject’s eyes are closed. I bend over her.
“Molly,” I whisper.
I touch a fleshy shoulder through the thin cotton nightdress. She is by no means reduced to skin and bone. No wonder the GP said she was good for a few years yet.
“Molly, look at me.”
No response. I pinch her shoulder and she gives a little moan. Her eyelids flutter. Yes, she can see me. I hear a stifled noise. Is she calling the woman’s name? It is impossible to make out the syllables.
I shake my head. “Just you and I are in the house. They have left you in my care. You are… mine.”
This is the moment.
I lift the small, rose-scented pillow from the case and hold it a couple of inches from Molly’s nose. All the time my eyes are fixed on hers. They are grey and rheumy and filled with incomprehension. Also with terror, of course, there is no disguising the terror.
She knows what is about to happen, her mind is not dull. And she knows that there is nothing she can do.
“I am about to set you free,” I whisper. “Free from care, free from pain.”
All too soon it is over. I do what I always do. I have perfected my method over the years, though I cannot bring myself to describe my ritual in words. Some things must remain private, they are so special.
When I have tidied, I pat the envelope in my pocket. The man assumes that this is all about money, but he is as wrong as the woman who regards me as a candidate for sainthood. As wrong as my former colleagues, whom I baffled because they could never understand the thoughts rippling through my mind. No doubt they were afraid to understand; perhaps I was not so different from them as they liked to believe.
The truth is, we all have our little frailties. My weakness isn’t anything so crass as greed. I first succumbed in my original career, but only now am I able to indulge myself to the full and luxuriate in this exquisite, this matchless pleasure.
Death on the Mountain
by Nessa Altura
Nessa Altura, who lives in Southern Germany, began writing fiction in 2000. Her publications since then have included two volumes of short fiction, many stories for anthologies, and the novel Die 13 Klasse (Grade 13). She is a recipient of the Friedrich Glauser prize for short crime fiction and the short story prize of Historica, the annual meeting of Quo Vadis, a group of historical writers. Since 2009 she has also authored a popular blog featuring observations and commentary on the literary market.
Translated from the German by Mary Tannert.
Death on the mountain. Good grief, I can think of all kinds of things! You could freeze in a ski lift that someone shut down too soon, starve in a crevasse. Maybe someone cuts your mountaineering rope by accident. Or you drown in a dead-ice hole or get struck by lightning, or torn apart by a Canadian grizzly…
I racked my brains wondering how to get rid of Anton, or maybe I should say Bud, because that’s what everybody calls him. He and his jealousy were driving me crazy. But I couldn’t think of anything that was workable. He’s too fat to climb mountains, too lazy to ski, he’s afraid of thunderstorms, and we don’t have grizzlies here. Nothing dangerous wandering around this valley as far as you can see.