Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘I’m Chris Jackson,’ she said, then smiled sympathetically. ‘How are you?’

Susan shrugged and gave a wan smile. ‘Not great, if you want to know the truth.’

There was a brief moment of hesitation and Susan felt awkward, sensing something bad was coming.

‘Could we have a chat for a few minutes, Mrs Cooper?’ the nurse asked. ‘If I’m not interrupting anything, that is.’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘Perhaps we could go into the quiet room. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you.’

‘How do you take it?’

‘Milk, no sugar.’

A few minutes later Susan was seated on a green chair with wooden arms in the windowless quiet room. There was a corner table with what looked like a bedside table lamp with a fringed shade on it. A small mirror was mounted on one wall, a print of a dreary landscape on another, and there was a tiny fan, switched off. The atmosphere was oppressive.

Chris Jackson returned with two cups of tea and sat opposite her. She smiled, pleasantly but awkwardly.

‘May I call you Susan?’

She nodded.

‘I’m afraid, Susan, it’s not looking good.’ She stirred her tea. ‘We’ve done everything we can for your husband. Because of who he is, and the affection the staff have for him, everyone has put in even more effort than normal. But in five days he has not responded, and I’m afraid there has been a development this morning.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The frequent check of his pupils reveals that there’s been a change in the brain consistent with raised pressure.’

‘His pupils have blown, right?’ Susan said.

Chris Jackson gave a grim smile. ‘Yes, of course. With your background, you’d understand.’

‘And I understand the severity of his brain damage. How much longer do you – do you think – you know…’ She started choking on the words. ‘That he’ll be with us?’

‘There are more repeat tests to be done, but it’s looking conclusive. Is there anyone you would like to call? Any other family members you would like to be here, to say goodbye to him, and to give you support?’

Susan put her cup and saucer down, dug in her handbag for a tissue, then dabbed her eyes and nodded.

‘His brother – he’s on his way down from London anyway – he should be here soon. I – I-’ She shook her head, sniffed and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself while fighting back tears. ‘How sure are you?’

‘There was a rise in his blood pressure to 220 over 110. Then it plunged to 90 over 40. Do you understand the significance of that?’

‘Yes.’ Susan nodded, her eyes becoming a damburst of tears. ‘Nat has effectively died. Right?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Chris Jackson very quietly.

Susan nodded, pressing the tissue hard against each eye in turn. The other woman waited patiently. After a few minutes, Susan sipped some tea.

‘Look,’ Chris Jackson said. ‘There is something I’m going to talk to you about now. Because your husband is in here, and his body is intact, to a large extent, you have the option of donating his vital organs to help save the lives of others.’

She paused, waiting for a reaction.

Susan stared silently down into her cup.

‘A lot of people get comfort from this. It means that the death of their loved one can at least help to save the lives of others. It would mean that something positive comes out of Nat’s death.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. ‘I’m carrying his child. He’s not going to see it now, is he?’

‘But at least something of him will live on in this child.’

Susan stared at her tea again. It felt as if there was a band of steel tightening around her gullet.

‘How – I mean, if I – he – donated organs, would he be – you know – disfigured?’

‘He would receive the same medical care as if he was a living patient. He wouldn’t be disfigured, no. There would be just one incision down his chest.’

After a long silence, Susan said, ‘I know Nat always supported the concept of organ donation.’

‘But he didn’t carry a donor card? Or join the register?’

‘I think he would have done, in time.’ She shrugged and dabbed her eyes again. ‘I don’t think he expected to – to…’

The nurse nodded, sparing her from finishing the sentence. ‘Not many people do,’ she said.

Susan laughed bitterly. ‘That fucking motorbike. I didn’t want him to have it. Right? If only I’d put my foot down.’

‘It’s very hard to stop strong-minded people from doing things, Susan. You cannot blame yourself, now or ever.’

There was another long silence. Then she said, ‘If I gave consent, would you give him an anaesthetic?’

‘If that’s what you want, yes. But it isn’t necessary. He can’t feel anything at all.’

‘How much of him would you take?’

‘Whatever you wanted.’

‘I don’t want you to take his eyes.’

‘That’s fine, I understand.’ Her pager bleeped suddenly. She glanced at it, then put it back in its holster. ‘Would you like another cup?’

Susan shrugged.

‘I’ll make you another cup and I’ll get the consent forms. I will need to go through his medical history with you.’

‘Do you know who his organs will go to?’ Susan asked.

‘No, not at this stage. There’s a national database for organs – kidneys, heart, liver, lungs, pancreas and the small bowel – with over eight thousand people waiting. Your husband’s would be allocated on a match and priority basis – finding recipients who would have the best chance of success. We would write to you and tell you who has benefited from his donation.’

Susan closed her eyes to stop the tears.

‘Get the forms,’ she said. ‘Just get the sodding forms before I change my mind.’

The Denarii Collection Agency, for whom Lynn Beckett worked, was located on two floors of one of Brighton and Hove’s newest office blocks, close to the railway station in the trendy New England Quarter.

The agency, named after the ancient Roman coins, had customers from the full range of companies providing consumer credit – banks, building societies, mail-order catalogues, stores which supplied their own credit cards, hire purchase companies – and in the worsening economic climate, business was booming. Some of their business came from simply chasing bad debts for specific clients. But a big part was bad debt portfolios that they purchased in bulk, taking a gamble on how much they would be able to recover.

At a quarter past five on Monday afternoon, Lynn was seated at her ten-person work station. Her team was called the Harrier Hornets. Each team was identified by its name, which hung above it on a board suspended from the ceiling. The other, fiercely competitive teams in the huge open-plan office were called Silver Sharks, Leaping Leopards and Denarii Demons. Over on the far side of the office was the litigation department, beneath a sign which said Legal Eagles, and beyond them was the dialler management team, which monitored the calls the collection agents made.

Normally she liked being here. She liked the camaraderie and the friendly rivalry. This was fuelled by huge flat screens around the walls constantly showing bonuses to be won, which ranged from a box of chocolates to outings, such as dinner in a posh restaurant or a night at the dogs. The screen in her line of view currently depicted an animated cooking pot filled with gold coins, together with the words THE COLLECTED BONUS POT £673. Often, she felt, the atmosphere was akin to being in a casino.

By the end of the week that would have grown even larger, and either one of the collection agents in her team or one in a rival team would be taking it home as a bonus. She could do with that right now, she thought, and it was still possible. So far she was having a good start to the week, despite the interruptions.