Read by Camila Fiori
I only went to The Lodge for the money, nothing else. It wasn't ideal, but it was something.
From the outside, if you ignored the protesters' camp, with all those tents and banners, it looked like a five-star hotel, or somebody's stately home. On the inside things weren't so high class. It smelt strange, like a cleaning cupboard or hospital hallway. The strongest scented candles couldn't mask it.
Most of the workers there were women – aside from two or three feminine men. Together, we spent most of our time in a place called The Meeting Room, a bare windowless area with stark white walls and the most uncomfortable chairs you can imagine – all to stop anyone falling asleep between jobs. To us it was known as The Holding Pen, where we waited for clients to come for a viewing; waited to be picked.
Out of everyone who worked there, Princess was by far the most popular choice: a feathery girl who cried on command, her skin as pale as a white marble tombstone. She sang opera, which must have helped. The majority of the clients were middle-aged men, see. Divorcees, usually. Roberts, Pauls, Martins. They weren't really cultured people – I doubt that any of them really liked opera – but even in their final moments, when only the strangers looked on, they still wanted to seem like they knew their stuff. Like they always had oysters and caviare for tea.
At the start – before Gillespie – I was surprised at how many clients kept coming, so, out of boredom, I pinched a fancy brochure from reception. Then I got an idea of how The Lodge made so much money. You never saw death look so appealing.
There were photos: a gorgeous lady, reclined in a bath of melted chocolate; a man on top of a pile of pillows, women entirely naked around him; a young guy in a boat, with a boy playing harp at his back. They all looked asleep: hard to tell if it was real – posed by models or the genuine deceased. Unsurprisingly, the motto at The Lodge was 'No Limits'. Lots of it was showbiz. Ex-West End designers worked there: they built themed rooms; hired out costumes, orchestras, lighting, audiences. They'd organise afters too – the funeral, that is. Even bring in celebrities when they could. If the client didn't have the money, they would just buy his house and snip out the fancier frills.
No one ever mentioned the big D though. We were banned from using the word. Instead it was special endings, final moments, crossings over. Poisonous tablets were 'oral prescriptions'. Lethal gas was 'treated air'. Even I was taken in, for a time. A few days in I wrote a plan of how I'd like to die – the meal I'd have beforehand and the music I would want – while my five-year-old played with his cauliflower cheese.
Gillespie was my first.
In some ways he was just like the other men: older, balding, trying to grin out his nerves. When he picked me, I smiled in spite of myself, briefly forgetting what I'd have to do. It had been two weeks without being chosen. Like the others, I thought of the cheque.
Gillespie's Lodge Supervisor was a woman they called The Reaper, so successful was she in enlisting her clients. She was neat. Controlled. Gold watch, pink nails, wide mouth. Soon as Gillespie singled me out, she gave us permission to hug. I could feel his ribs under his jacket. Heaving, they were, like he might be sick. I hoped he had something terminal.
Rumours always flew round about people who died out of spite, see; who paid The Lodge to kill them when their lives were still all right. There were people who wanted their families to watch, helpless behind a two-way mirror. Gillespie, I hoped, would be more like a charity project – a man who had suffered for years with leukaemia, maybe. Then I could say I had done something good.
As soon as he left the room, my colleagues followed. The Reaper gave me a briefing alone. My hands were shaking. Princess had told me about injecting clients, about tying silk scarves around their necks, about having to comfort grown men as they wept. I hoped Gillespie would be brave.
The Reaper must have noticed my expression. 'Don't worry,' she said.
I told her it was my first time.
'You'll get used to it.' She scraped her hair behind her ears and opened up a folder on the table. 'The client requests you to dine with him, then hold him while he dies. Is that something you can do?'
I said it was.
'The tablet will be dissolved in red wine,' she went on. 'Please don't drink it yourself. He wants you to pour it straight into his mouth.' When I didn't reply she looked up from her folder. 'You get extra for the minor involvement.'
I asked her why he wanted to die.
'It's none of your business,' she said.
Gillespie's slot came later that week, after his papers were sorted. The night before, I barely slept. In the morning, my son saw me crying. 'Are we moving again?' he asked. I fobbed him off; told him I'd stubbed my toe.
At The Lodge I went straight to the costume room where they gave me a long white dress. It was pretty – studded with sequins – but tight around the hips and slightly high above my ankles. In make up, one girl readied my face, while the other curled my hair. They talked to each other like I was invisible. One told the other to hurry. 'Four today,' she was saying. 'Princess is coming in twice.'
More than once I thought I'd faint, but everything happened so fast. The Reaper met me when I was done. 'He's waiting,' she said. 'Quickly. Your dinner's getting cold.' I told her I was ill and she grabbed me by the shoulder. Her breath smelt like wood smoke. 'You agreed to the terms, remember? If you pull out now we won't use you again.'
I hesitated. I'd signed forms days before and remembered mention of legal action. I just couldn't afford the risk. I said I was fine. I said, 'I'll do it.'
Gillespie's room was decked out like a restaurant, purple fabric across the walls and ceiling. There were candles everywhere and huge gilt mirrors, making the room look bigger than it was . The man himself was on a chaise longue, bony hands sandwiched between his knees. As soon as he saw me he smiled.
'Here she is,' announced The Reaper. 'Enjoy your experience, Sir. And the best of luck for your journey.' She shut the door – I swear I heard it lock – and Gillespie stood to shake my hand. His skin was clammy and cold.
'Would you care to sit at the table?' he asked. 'Dinner is ready.'
He pulled out my chair and I perched in front of a well-done steak. The bottle of red wine caught my eye, but I didn't have time to dwell on it then. He wanted to talk. 'You look stunning. Like an angel.'
I thanked him and he told me the dress was his mother's. Again, I felt sick. Fighting my instinct to run, I picked up my cutlery.
He said, 'Good idea,' and copied me, cutting off a chunk of meat and popping it into his mouth. I could see it was too hot for him – he pursed his lips and winced – but he was far too polite to spit it out. Cheeks firing up, he grabbed a glass of water and finished it in seconds. The silence started to bother me: I didn't know what to say.
Luckily he spoke first. 'Do you like steak?' he asked.
'Yes,' I lied. I chewed on a piece and again there was silence.
'You must get some lovely meals here,' he said.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, 'I haven't done this before.'
'Really?' There was a long pause. 'Me neither,' he said. For a moment I didn't know how to react. Then a smile broke out on his face. I laughed in relief.
After that, our conversation came more easily. He told me his age – only fifty-three – and that he had spent all his life in computing. It turned out he lived down the road from me, in a house next to my little boy's nursery. All the while my nausea came and went. Sometimes it was gone for a minute or more, and I started to enjoy myself.
I couldn't stay calm, of course. When I placed my cutlery on to my plate, the laughter and jokes dried up.
Gillespie looked at the bottle of wine. 'I suppose it's time,' he said.
I was panicking. 'Does it have to be?' I said. He looked surprised. 'But this is why we're here.'
'Why though?' I asked, without thinking. 'Why don't you just go home?'
'I've sold my home,' he said. 'To pay for this.'
My heart was thumping. 'What about your family?' I asked. 'Your friends?'
'They're expecting it.'
'What?'
'My ex-wife's waiting just outside. She's watching through that mirror.'
I felt disgusted. Used. I told him he was sick. And then I heard his reply.
'She asked to come,' he said. 'It's what she wanted.'
What could I do? I tried not to look in the mirror. I tried to talk him out of it. I tried, but it didn't work. 'There's no other option,' he said. 'It's been a tough life.'
In the end, Gillespie poured his own glass of wine. I couldn't, because I was shaking too hard. He held the poison high in front of him, shut his eyes, and took a deep gulp. For minutes, we waited. Nothing happened. I started to think they'd got it wrong; given him a normal drink. My breathing calmed. Then he started gagging. I helped him to the chaise longue and held him in my arms. There was nothing else I could do.
I cried when the gagging stopped: his chest was no longer moving. Eventually, I remembered to check his pulse. Gone. I laid his body down. It was the signal. In seconds, The Reaper came in with a handkerchief. 'Take this,' she said, 'then gather your stuff and go. This isn't the place for questions. This isn't the time.'
Even my grief for Gillespie disappeared after two or three days. The grief for the job that I'd lost took so much longer.
I still got my cheque, but the money didn't last.
Nothing does.
© Georgie Codd, 2012
Since
flying the UEA nest in 2010, Georgie Codd has written
two-and-a-half novels and gorged herself on pudding for a blog. She
was awarded the Seth Donaldson Memorial Bursary in 2009 and is
currently the chief UK contributor to the interactive story-based
app, The Silent History.
Camila Fiori's Stage and screen credits include at the Leicester Square Theatre, Royal Opera House and an Audience Award winning feature (New Orleans Film Festival.) Camila’s performed her written, devised and cross-disciplinary works at places ranging from London’s Jazz Café to the Whitechapel Gallery and the National Theatre.
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