Atlantic Monthly Press

      New York

      Copyright © 2020 by Belinda Bauer

      Jacket photographs: Man © iStock; Exit sign © iStock

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      First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishing

      Typeset in 11.75/15pt Minion by Jouve (UK), Milton Keynes

      Published simultaneously in Canada

      Printed in the United States of America

      First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: February 2021

      ISBN 978-0-8021-5788-1

      eISBN 978-0-8021-5790-4

      Atlantic Monthly Press

      an imprint of Grove Atlantic

      154 West 14th Street

      New York, NY 10011

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

       groveatlantic.com

      To Sarah Adams – my kind, clever, patient, one-in-a-million editor.

      Part One

      The Job

      The key was under the mat.

      As usual.

      Felix Pink found the predictability comforting – even if the predictable outcome was death.

      ‘Here we go then,’ said Chris, putting the key in the lock.

      Chris talked too much but Felix never said anything about it. He imagined it was nerves. He himself had stopped being nervous a long time ago. Now he cleared his throat and adjusted his cuffs, and followed his accomplice inside.

      The house smelled of the dust that coated the inside of pill bottles. They often did.

      They stood in the hallway and Chris called, ‘Hello?’

      There was no sound apart from a clock ticking somewhere. Not a real clock, Felix could tell, but some battery thing that ticked a small, fake tick to make people think they were getting olde worlde value for money.

      He noticed a piece of paper on the third stair, folded into a little tent, like a place card at a wedding.

      UPSTAIRS

      He picked it up and showed it to Chris, who started up the stairs. Felix took a moment to fold the paper several times and put it in his briefcase, then he gripped the banister. He was naturally cautious but, when there was a job to be done, it became a conscious effort.

      Chris was waiting for him on the landing.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hello.’ The answer was small and weak.

      In the big front bedroom there was a man in bed. He was propped upright by pillows and facing the bay window, which revealed a view of a similar window across the road.

      ‘Rufus Collins?’ said Felix.

      The man in the bed nodded weakly.

      ‘I’m John and this is Chris.’

      Mr Collins nodded again, as if he knew why they were there – and then closed his eyes.

      Felix had chosen the name John because he thought it sounded competent. Margaret had had a doctor called John Tolworth who had seemed competent for quite a long time. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been beaten by death.

      In the end, it beat them all.

      He didn’t know Chris’s real name. It was for the best.

      There was a chair beside the bed and Felix sat in it and put his briefcase on the floor beside him. There was no room on the nightstand, what with all the pills and tissues.

      The cylinder was already there. Dull grey metal, like a little aqualung, attached by a length of clear tubing to a plastic face mask that lay under the man’s chin. A tired-looking piece of elastic looped from the mask around the back of his neck and over his ears, making them fold down a little. One bony hand covered the mask protectively, as if someone might steal it.

      ‘I’ll get another chair,’ said Chris and left the room.

      Felix looked down at Mr Collins. He was old, but probably no older than he was, which was seventy-five. But this man was sick, and that made all the difference, and he looked a hundred. His yellowy skin so stretched across his cheeks and brow that it looked ready to split. His breath rattled in his throat as if he needed to cough but just didn’t have the strength.

      Chris puffed in with a small wooden armchair and put it down at the other side of the bed with a loud clump.

      Mr Collins’s eyes opened and his hand clutched at the mask.

      ‘Sorry,’ said Chris.

      The sick man closed his eyes again.

      And then they waited.

      The house was so quiet that Felix could hear the clock fake-ticking downstairs. Now and then cars shushed by outside, and Mr Collins breathed. Every breath was different from the one before, as if he was discovering breathing each time anew and trying to work out which way was best. Some breaths were short and gaspy, some long and wheezy. The little rattle was the only constant.

      Felix folded his hands in his lap like a priest, and waited.

      ‘How long have we got?’ said Chris, and looked at the door.

      Felix had a watch but he didn’t look at it. ‘There’s no rush,’ he said.

      It was true. It was often like this. It rarely happened fast. Occasionally it didn’t happen at all . . .

      It would or it wouldn’t.

      They could or they couldn’t.

      The ultimate outcome was, of course, inevitable, but in the short term an Exiteer had to learn to be patient.

      Felix had always been a patient man. He had actually toyed with calling himself Job instead of John, but Job would have invited interest in a way that John never did. And interest was to be avoided at all costs.

      But, like Job, he waited. They both waited.

      An hour.

      Two.

      Felix had to guard against sleep. He found it hard to