It was always there, when she stood and when she sat, a reminder that the days she had left to her could be measured.

Everyone was going to die, but ignorance meant that the inevitable could be processed as an abstract concept.

She didn’t have that luxury.

Beatrix’s previous career had made her more familiar than most with the certainty of death, and she had been sanguine about the possibility that it might end with a bullet or the point of a knife. She could fight those. She could pit her skills against those seeking her end, and so far she had found that she was the equal of them all.

But this assassin couldn’t be fought.

It had crept into her body when she was too broken and beaten to fight it. Now that she had something to live for, and the money to treat it, it was too late. The cancer sat there, deep inside her cells, mutating. They could slow its progress, but they could not stop it.

Lévy had estimated that she had a year. The way she was feeling now, she wondered whether that was optimistic.

The receptionist smiled politely at her and said that the doctor was ready.

She went through into the consulting room. It was tastefully and expensively decorated, a reminder that the bill for even this visit would be for three hundred dollars.

“How have you been feeling, Beatrix?”

“Not great.”

“The pain?”

“Bad. Worse.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

The usual question. “Seven.” Her answer was usually four or five.

“We might need to look at the pain relief plan, then. How are you getting on with the morphine?”

“I’m nearly out. I need more.”

Lévy frowned and looked at his screen for her records. “Really? I gave you enough for a month ten days ago. How many have you been taking?”

“Enough so that I can cope.”

“Two or three a day?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t. You can take too much, Beatrix.”

“Does it matter?”

“There are side effects. Dizziness. Confusion. Mood changes. Low blood pressure.”

She laughed bitterly. “That would only be relevant if I had a future to worry about.”

He looked at her with disapproval. “We need to have a look at how we are managing the pain.”

“The morphine works. Just give me some more.”

“No, I don’t think so, Beatrix. I’d rather we have a look and see if we can’t find something more suitable.”

“I don’t have time to do that today.”

He sighed. “Then we need to fix a time when you do have time.”

“I’ve only got two more tablets. I need something now.”

He frowned again. “I’ll give you a script to get you through the next few days, but I want you to come back in so we can talk about this properly. I’m not comfortable with the amount you’re taking, Beatrix. Not at all.”

He printed out the prescription and passed it across the desk.