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Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. CONTACTS
  3. Dedication
  4. PART ONE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. PART TWO
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. PART THREE
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. EPILOGUE
  42. AUTHOR NOTE
  43. Keep Reading …
  44. About the Author
  45. Also by Mark Watson
  46. About the Publisher

James looked out at the thickening signs of life, the gradual build towards the city. The weekend. People would be carrying out the modest plans they’d made. Walking by the river, cycling. He saw an elderly fellow down on hands and knees in his garden. This was all going to carry on without him. Not only was he untroubled by the thought: it was pleasing. Good luck to them all. Good luck with their March 9th and all the other ones.

His brain went mischievously round from this proposition to the vision of his contacts, receiving the news. It had been harder than he’d imagined to switch off that mental pathway, in these final few hours. The phone was probably to blame. It was good he was rid of the phone.

If they do genuinely miss me, maybe they’ll learn from it.

The thought took him by surprise; yet, really, it felt as if it had been there all along. And it made sense. If he was going to leave a lasting taste, if perhaps people really did miss him and wished they had priced him more highly – well, that would be good for them. They’d get other opportunities. They would go on to make kinder decisions, enrich the lives of others. His net impact, as a reminder to do better, as an open sore, remember what happened with James: it was a legacy better than anything he’d managed to build by actually being around.

I’m worth more dead than alive. It sounded ghoulish, the same way the word ‘suicide’ did, because it felt like something to be screamed down from a ledge at a would-be rescuer. But there was nothing dramatic about it as an idea; there was no self-pity in the way it nestled in his brain. It was a calculation, and James found it quite a cheering one. He was going to give people something they’d remember, act on. A harsh way of doing it, perhaps. But life was harsh, wasn’t it? Life was harsh, that was why he was here.

He was doing people a favour. It didn’t matter if they understood it straight away.

*

His last attempt at dating, on the last weekend of January, had been what had decided him. Since then, he’d just been counting down.