David Holroyd had never liked lawyers. Too clean round the nails, too polite with the clock. But desperate times, etcetera.
Ron Futson’s office sat above a vape shop and an estate agent, the stairwell smelling faintly of both. On the door: Futson & Blythe, Solicitors & Legal Advisers — Legacy Specialists. The “& Blythe” had long since retired, but Futson had kept the name for ballast.
He was waiting behind his desk, mid-fifties, thinning hair, tie like an old bookmark. He gestured for David to sit, and David, jittery from caffeine and fear, lowered himself into the chair like a man boarding an uncertain vessel.
“Well, Ron,” he began, “you might want to sit down for this one. Because this is hilarious, in a way. Hilarious and terrifying. I seem to have signed up for a contract that ends my life, and apparently I can’t back out of it.”
Futson smiled the patient smile of a man who’d heard stranger openings. “Go on.”
“I just took another call from the company — Exitus — and they tell me that even if I pay a quarter of my net worth, I still might not be able to cancel. Because the government has already spent or ‘earmarked’ the savings they’d have made by me not wasting away in a hospice. Do you follow? They’ve spent my death, Ron. In advance.”
“Mhm.”
“And I said to them, ‘What happens if I don’t want this? You going to send a couple of goons round with needles?’ And do you know what he said? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Silence down the line. And I reminded him, I said, I have the right to defend my life if anyone comes round. I’ve read the law. Self-defence. Still applies, doesn’t it?”
Futson’s pen stopped moving. He looked up, blinking slowly. “He’s right, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The consultant. He’s right.”
“What, in God’s name, are you talking about?”
Futson sighed, sat back. “David, I’m sorry, but it’s true. Since the Dignity Management Act came in, the government’s been using what they call ‘mortality projections’ as part of the national accounts. Your death date isn’t just symbolic — it’s in the budget. Hospitals, pensions, social care — they’ve already ring-fenced the money they save by your, ah, early departure. Backing out would create what they term a continuity deficit. That’s technically a breach of fiscal law.”
David stared. “You’re telling me… that I can’t not die because the government’s already spent my non-existence?”
“I’m afraid that’s the practical interpretation, yes.”
David laughed once, too loud. “I’m sorry, Ron, but that’s insane. Have I gone mad? I’ve not hallucinated this, have I? This isn’t a side effect of the medication?”
“I wish it were.”
“So what are you saying? You can’t help me?”
Futson spread his hands, palms up — the international gesture for don’t shoot the messenger. “David, I always help my clients. But I may not be able to help you in the way you want.”
“And how exactly do I want help, Ron?”
“You want to live.”
“Exactly!” David slapped the desk. “I just want to live. Is that too bloody much to ask? I’m not asking for tax evasion, I’m asking for existence!”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because I’m starting to think nobody does. You understand that I want to live — you actually said that out loud. Don’t you want to live, Ron?”
The lawyer smiled, wanly. “Of course I do.”
“Right! Most people do! So why the hell am I the one in breach of contract for it? You know what the clause says? It says I can’t live beyond another six months without incurring penalties. Penalties, Ron! Like overdrawing a bloody bank account!”
“Try to stay calm, David.”
“Calm? What am I supposed to do — sleep with a gun under my pillow in case some lad from Exitus turns up with a syringe?”
Ron Futson looked down at his notes, underlined something twice, and said quietly, “I wouldn’t advise keeping a firearm, David. That might complicate things further.”
“Complicate—? Jesus wept.”
There was a long silence. Outside, the street hummed with mid-morning life: buses sighing, gulls fighting over a sandwich wrapper. David looked at his trembling hand and thought, not for the first time, that the shaking wasn’t half as frightening as the stillness that waited on the other end of the line.