How are you feeling?
I think I might have the same thing you had. All I want to do is sleep. And I ache all over. Like my whole body is being squeezed in a vice.
Well just rest and you’ll probably feel better tomorrow. Lucian leaned into the room and placed a cup of herbal tea at the head of the daybed where Michael lay prone. Have you taken any aspirin?
Yes, thanks. Sorry about this. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking after you.
Nonsense. I can still take care of myself.
I’ll get up and do some work in a couple of hours. All I need is a little more sleep.
Forget the work. Just get better and we’ll catch up over the next few days.
Michael nodded, pulled the blankets to his chin and shut his eyes.
Lucian closed the office door and returned to the sitting room where Sadie dozed in front of a cheerful fire, and everything needed for an extravagant spliff had been arranged on the table between the two armchairs. Lucian knew he should probably eat lunch first, but all he wanted was to wallow in his thoughts while watching the flames grow animated. No music. No reading. Snow lay thick on the ground outside and more was forecast for later that evening. The roads would be closed for at least forty-eight hours. No cars or newspapers. No need to step outside except for a breath of fresh air. As he assembled his joint Lucian noticed the skin of his fingers was dry and thin; growing translucent so he could watch his life force slowly draining away. Though his sprained ankle had healed enough for him to walk, it still hurt most days, and Lucian could tell that his balance would never be the same again. So he willed it to become even worse as he inhaled deeply on his spliff. The task for the afternoon was to discover just how high he could become. An idea so enticing that Lucian considered rolling a second joint even as his respiration grew constricted and his blood pressure stepped off a cliff. Fortunately he was already sitting down so there was nowhere to collapse except further into his chair. It reminded Lucian of the day Maureen had found him face down in the backyard. Despite his veneer of indifference, her departure from Wood Green had left an ache inside his chest that he could neither dismiss nor ignore. The decision to end their affair had been necessary to protect Maureen from the calamity of what he was about to go through, but sometimes the misfortune of not meeting her earlier in his life felt too cruel to bear. If only he had had a few more years then Lucian was certain he would have proposed. But to burden such a bewitching beauty with an old man whose memory was disintegrating felt immoral. The fortifications of Lucian’s reality began to crumble and his thoughts wandered to Grace and the question of whether she still lived in Pisa. Or had she returned to Galway to look after her ageing parents? More than likely they were dead by now, along with Patricia’s mother and father. A fraternity Lucian would be joining in the not too distant future. It was not so bad, he thought. As long as he managed to finish his latest book he did not really want for much more. And even if he did, he would not allow childish longing to undermine the pleasure of his remaining days. He had recently arrived at the reassuring revelation that the world did not depend on him to exist. In his absence, all the things he loved in life would continue to flourish. And it made his approaching departure feel more tranquil. It had been a strange life. And at no point could he remember ever feeling in control of it. It had never been boring. There had been plenty of laughter, ample love, and though writing had exacted a terrible price, Lucian could think of no occupation he might otherwise have dedicated himself to. Unwittingly, he realised that he was content, and his traditional bag of worries were not worthy of further consideration. After all of life’s struggles and sacrifices he was able to sit on top of a mountain, or on the side of it at least, and have a happy death. The idea caught him so unawares that he wondered if he was merely being frivolous. Would he have felt an equivalent epiphany without a skull full of THC? He reminded himself that he still had a book to finish. That it was necessary to maintain the fire in his belly right until the end. But he could not deny the interior transformation that had taken place. At last he felt ready to take the next step without regret or despondence. What was there to fear? The others had done it this way, and now it was his turn. And anyway, how could he avoid it? Why on earth would anyone wish to do so? At this stage, dying was what he was meant to do. And it felt closer to living life to the full than some strange wish for immortality in a world that was done with you. Twenty years was twenty years, and this was just part of the bargain. A necessary process for things to move forward. The most logical progression.