“Passively Suicidal People are now our greatest resource,” came the familiar honeyed tones from the grainy TV before them, that voice that seemed to hit the nation like one giant valium – it must’ve won him 30% of the election, at least. “All of us would give our lives for our loved ones, but when you draw back the emotions, what purpose would our sacrifice serve? Would you trade a grieving mother for an orphaned child? Could you save one child, only to lose the next? The LifeSwap technology has been groundbreaking in the medical field, but it is they, the PSPs, to whom we owe the greatest debt.”
“And what about the allegations of corruption?” came the nasal disapproval of the interviewer. “The rumours that the mental health field is deliberately failing people, in order to fuel the market in PSPs?”
That honeyed-valium best-buddy voice laughed gently – “A conspiracy, though an understandable one. There are still strides to be made in mental health, as we all know, but do you truly think a therapist, seen once a week, could have enough impact on a person’s wellbeing to pass the rigorous LifeSwap scans?”
“I think,” the interviewer rebuffed, “the number of ex-combat veterans now being funnelled into the LifeSwap programme is a concern, constituting 18% of utilised PSPs, yet just 7% of the US population. Would you care to comment?”
“They were sent into an unwinnable war, by my predecessors – predecessors who then extracted all troops at the very second the country was unstable enough to fall to our enemy. The hopelessness our vets feel is understandable, and as you know, we are conducting a thorough enquiry into the corruption of the prior government. The message I would like to give is that PSPs are our greatest resource. As a country, we are humbled by their sacrifice. Thank you – one and all.”
“You hear that?” Joe mumbled, through the joint gripped between his teeth, “Fuckin’ President just thanked us personally. Do you give a shit? Any shits to give?”
Marley snorted a cloud of bong smoke, and replied, “Severely lacking shits, Joe. Why do you think I’m here, with you, amidst…this?” She gestured round the smoky, dirt-coloured living room at the crumb-strewn floor, piled-up plates caked with food residue, and the ancient one-eyed dog sprawled in the filth like a snoring grey pancake.
“Oh, ‘cause your place is so much better! Remind me again why you’re still alive? For how many months now?”
“Ah, fuck you, Joe. How was I to know my junkie brain gets that turned on by online shopping? I was a solid seven-percenter at the Will To Live test reading, and it’s outright bullshit that a single item of mail boosted me up to eleven-point-eight. Will To Live, my ass – I just wanted to try that dress on, I reckon, but not enough to still be alive FOUR MONTHS FUCKIN’ LATER!”
The dog opened its single eye at this outburst, sighed its ennui-laden disapproval, and closed it again.
“Still not heard from them, then?” Joe asked. Marley shook her head – “You?”
“As if,” Joe grumbled, rolling another joint with nicotine-stained fingers. He’d taken to smoking weed the European way, with tobacco, four years ago, figuring it might kill him quicker. That was before LifeSwap came along and made his unwanted life into vital currency, but it was a hard habit to kick. “Still in the queue, date unknown.”
“Isn’t it crazy?” said Marley, putting down the bong and picking up her phone, skinny fingers flicking hungrily back to the online shopping, more clothes, more makeup, more jewellery – more shiny crap to give her miserable life five seconds of fleeting joy. “There are so damn many of us desperate to get off this godforsaken rock now, they had to put us in a queue. A queue that lasts months… You know someone was in the paper this week, for doing it the old way?”
“What – suicide?” Joe asked, looking up from his joint-rolling. “Seriously? How? Why?”
“Hung herself,” Marley replied, with a grimace. “Real old-school stuff. The paper ripped her to shreds – she was on the PSP payroll, just like us, then she – in their words – ‘ruthlessly stole a fresh chance at life from an infant, a mother, a cancer patient, along with thousands in taxpayer’s money’. And nowhere, no-where, in that article, did they mention the fact they keep us kicking about in fucking misery for months on end – is it any fuckin’ wonder, seriously?”
“D’you ever think…” Joe mused, as he got the joint lit, “That maybe the infants don’t even want another shot at this shitty-ass life? Like, doesn’t it seem kinda violating to you, when they dump more life on some poor fuck who can’t even consent?”
“I think it all the time, Joe. All the damn time. But it’s another thing you can never say out loud, along with “you lucky rat bastard” whenever someone dies young, and the rest of the world are wailing on about their stolen chances and bright futures and all the rest, and I just think…you lucky, lucky sonofabitch. I mean, I did everything, right? Didn’t I do everything, Joe? Fuckin’ everything they tell you not to do, I’ve done it, I did it, I did it while you were still snoring in bed, and somehow, for some godforsaken reason, I am still here breathing, and that is not fair, Joe. That is not fuckin’ fair.”
“You are the Cockroach Girl,” Joe conceded, glancing across at the shiny purple welts of gaping self-inflicted scars that adorned Marley’s near-skeletal forearms – the only skin left unscathed was Vein Access Territory, as she liked to put it, the crooks of her arms dotted instead with pitted lines marking a thousand or more needle marks. He wondered what her insides looked like by now, then abruptly wondered what his looked like, black and foul and dripping with tar… “Whoever you give your life to, they better be prepared to live to a hundred and six…”
She smirked – “Or my ‘luck’’ll finally run out, and they’ll kick the bucket the very next day. Right, check this out – what d’you think?”
She shoved her phone under Joe’s nose, and he squinted through the smoke –
“Honestly, Marley, it looks like it was dragged off a hobo, kicked down the stairs, pissed on by seventeen angry cats, mildly shredded, then draped over a skinny Native chick with…admittedly great tits. Is this designer, again? You know I don’t speak fashion. Whenever you come round looking like you fell straight out the trashcan, you’re usually wearing at least two thousand dollars worth of labels. It’s insane. If we had any plans to stick around, I reckon we could easily start a business selling pissed-on thrift store garbage for thousands of dollars…”
“That’s garbaaahj, to you,” she retorted, snatching the phone back. “And this piece of ‘pissed on hobo trash’ is worth eight hundred dollars, so shut your trap. I’m buying it.”
“Have you even bought groceries yet?”
She snorted. “Less I eat, sooner I’m dead. Best diet advice I could give anyone.”
“Marley, if you keel over before they get to you, you’ll be trashed in the papers too. People will shit on your tombstone, I’m not even kidding. Don’t you care at all, about passing the torch?”
“Who the fuck are you, my mother?!” she demanded, eyes narrowing, “I have been waiting eight months, in all – eight fucking months to get out of here, and still no end in sight! If I was at seven percent WTL eight months ago, I reckon I’m running on three by now, and there is no space in my brain to care about ‘passing the torch’. I literally can’t understand why anyone even wants it.” With a final derisory glare, she went back to purging the contents of her bank account.
There was a slightly tense silence, ’til Joe’s phone vibrated loudly on the crap-strewn coffee table. He picked it up, and groaned.
“Fuckin’ Facebook with the memories again. Living in the present’s unbearable enough – living in the present juxtaposed with the past is hell on Earth…”
“Do you…even remember a time when you were happy?” Marley asked, flopping back against the couch and laying her phone down. “To be here, I mean? When was it, for you?”
Joe had to think about that one – long and hard.
“I reckon I was just a kid. I still believed in Santa. All I cared about was trips to the zoo on the weekends, and our dog Stevie, and fishing trips up at the cabin. It wasn’t real life. The minute real life set in, I didn’t want any part of it…”
“Even with Melinda?”
“Aww, fuck’s sake, Marley! Why’d you have to go there? Why the fuck you have to bring her up every damn time? Facebook’s bad enough – you’re worse!”
“Because you were happy, with her – you never shut up about the woman when you’re drunk. And I can’t see anything that special about her, so I don’t see why you don’t just go find a new Melinda, like fuckin’ everyone else does.”
“Are you serious right now? Marley, I was with her five goddamn years ago! This ain’t the breakup blues over here. And for the record, for the fuckin’ record, I was only happy with Melinda for four months anyhow. The minute all that oxytocin wore off and we were back to real life, I hated it again. Why in hell d’you think she left?”
“I think she left ‘cause you fucked someone else, Joe, I think she got pretty damn—”
“Yeah? Well why d’you think I went and fucked someone else if we was so damn happy together, huh? If she was the miracle cure to it all, d’you really think I’d go stick my dick in some drunken chick I don’t even remember the name of? Fuck you, Marley! As if you’ve got a leg to stand on – your happiness comes in little vials at the hospital, and you’d still rather be dead than take it…”
Marley gasped at that one, launching abruptly into a volley of flailing punches to Joe’s head, which Joe largely managed to fend off, while she shrieked,
“YOU THINK I’D STILL BE SITTING HERE, WITH YOU, GETTIN’ READY TO DIE IF THEY’D ACTUALLY GIVE ME THE STUFF?! D’YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE WHEN YOUR PERFECT WORLD IS HALF A MILE AWAY 24/7, BUT IT’S SURROUNDED BY ARMED GUARDS? FUCK YOU, JOE, FUCK – YOU!”
She ran out of breath and flopped back, bony chest heaving. Joe brushed the hair out of his eyes, straightened his mildly ripped t-shirt, and muttered,
“Jesus… You’re the one that brought up happiness… And Melinda. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”
“Yeah? Well maybe I’m just being an actual friend, Joe. Maybe I’m just making sure you really want this. You’re only twenty fuckin’ seven, your body still works – if I was you, I wouldn’t be in the goddamn death-queue. That’s all I’m saying.”
Joe watched her quizzically, then asked,
“Are you seriously suggesting I go out and get addicted to junk, because that’s what you’d do in my place?”
“It’s a fuckin’ option, ain’t it? You read too much trash in the papers about junk – I did my fuckin’ college degree on that stuff – aced it, in fact, had the happiest years of my life, didn’t want for nothin’. You can be functional, you know, as a junkie – functional and in heaven. And you’re giving up your whole damn twenty-something life without even trying it once!”
“Marley, if it’s so fuckin’ harmless, what happened to you? How come your body got so fucked up you couldn’t take the stuff no more? And you’re still in mourning, what, nine years later? That’s a whole shitshow you can keep – I’m taking the shortcut.”
“Oh god, Joe, you know damn well it’s nothing to do with the heroin, and everything to do with illegality. If that fuckin’ prick in the Whitehouse would just legalise, give it to us pure, I’d sign off of PSP tomorrow. I’d be the happiest motherfucker you ever met in your life.” She irritably re-loaded the bong, muttering, “You cannot imagine what it’s like watching all the dope fiends stumbling round the streets, knowing they’ve still got your perfect heaven spurting through every stupid vein, while you’re locked out in the cold because your SHITBAG BODY got a bug up its ass about stupid contaminants, and—”
“WILL YOU KEEP IT DOWN UP THERE!” came the warbling voice of Mrs Yates, punctuated by the hammering of her broom handle hitting the ceiling below.
“SELL ME YOUR FUCKIN’ MEDS, OLD LADY!” Marley barked back, “AND I’LL BE QUIET AS DUST!”
“Aww Christ, Marley – I have to live here, y’know!” Joe intervened, slapping a hand over her mouth before the outburst could continue. “Take a chill pill! I mean literally, you’re being fuckin’ awful tonight.”
Marley scowled at him, shoved his hand away, then delved in the oversized hobo-sack worth most of a baffling thousand dollars, and produced two medicine bottles.
“Fuckin’ pointless horseshit…” she muttered, cracking one open and drinking its contents with a grimace, then shaking four pills from the second bottle, shrugging and adding four more, then gulping the lot in a single practiced swig. “I’ll have eight then, since I’m being awful. Bet you I don’t feel a thing. Bet you anything I don’t feel a fuckin’ thing.”
Joe kept his opinions to himself. All he knew was that Marley was considerably less bitter about life once she’d taken an increasingly reckless dose of whatever prescription crap she was on these days. It never made her happy, but at least it sent her to sleep – that was about as close as Marley ever got to happiness.
“It’s gonna kill you one of these days,” he said, finally. “It was four last month, then five, now it’s fuckin’ eight – there has to be an edge somewhere, and one day you’ll fall right off of it. Then people will shit on your grave for not passing the torch. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, all I’m saying is I hope it’s today. Manure makes the flowers grow. Bring it on.”
They kept up their bickering for nearly half an hour, until Marley’s responses became increasingly incoherent, and she lapsed into soft snoring. Joe was always half relieved, half depressed, when she conked out on him. Watching her sleep, it was a brutal reminder that one day she would be gone – for good. Marley was months ahead in the death queue, and eleven years older to boot. That was how they’d met – Joe’d been signing up as a brand new PSP payee, and Marley was signing back on after being rejected over that Will To Live reading a measly 1.8% too high. Joe’d made the mistake of asking to borrow a lighter – if anyone in that place looked like a smoker, it was Marley’s wreck of a carcass – but she’d almost punched him in the face before informing him that her ‘shitbag body’ couldn’t handle nicotine no more, so unless he had weed in his pocket he’d better fuck right off and live, which to Marley, was far more of an insult than ‘die’. Joe did, however, have weed, and since Marley seemed to need it more than he did, they got to talking.
Her name wasn’t really Marley, she informed him, and as much as she loved weed, it didn’t stand for Bob, neither. “Marley’s Ghost,” she said, through a cloud of bong smoke. “Y’know, the one that’s lingering about the place forever, all wrapped in chains, never getting any fuckin’ peace no matter what happens? That’s me, Joe – Marley’s fuckin’ Ghost.”
Ever since that day, Joe had become Marley’s favourite ‘Unemployed Friend’ – the one unbound by work schedules, the one who could be there for you, with you, any time of the day or night. Marley herself wasn’t strictly unemployed – she made a reasonable sum drawing sarcastic, nihilistic cartoons for magazines, but Joe had packed in his admin job the second he’d cashed his first PSP cheque – Marley’s visits were the only reason he got out of bed, now. On the days she didn’t come, he just stayed put, lying limply in the dark and pissing into nearby soda bottles. His Will To Live reading had come out at barely 5%, and Marley was a goddamn cautionary tale, in Joe’s eyes – if a fleeting shopping high could push her out of range, keep her rotting on Earth for four months and counting, what on Earth was the point trying to improve his life now? He might get really hooked on some TV show, shoot up to 10.2% WTL, then end up hanging himself when the final season ended. And that would be unacceptable, in Joe’s eyes – unlike Marley he felt strongly about passing the torch, doing it properly, not dying for nothing…but there was only so much a man could take. And when Marley went, when she really went, what the fuck would he have? None of his other friends understood his decision to sign up as a PSP – if they came round now, all they ever talked about was antidepressants, therapy, all that shit he’d been trying his entire goddamn life, and it’d only ever made him worse. Marley was a pain in the ass, sure, but she got it. She really got it, and sometimes, just sometimes, when they were both stoned or drunk out of their gourds, there were rare moments of genuine, if fleeting happiness.
But Joe hated the times like this – times when Marley was as good as absent, the only sound the chatter of the TV and the wheezing snores of his ancient dog, who was every bit as close to the edge as they were. These past two months he’d watched the weight fall off Marley’s stringy frame at an alarming rate – whenever he ordered in food, she’d eat two bites, then this glazed look would hit her, she’d grimace like she was about to throw up, and the rest of the takeout would be shoved firmly across the table.
“What?” he’d demanded, after witnessing this for a third time. “What is it with you and food these days?” Marley had pulled a face, and told him, “Whenever I look at that shit, all I see is life – endless, godforsaken, unbearable life. It’s been months, Joe – I don’t trust LifeSwap to come through for me, not ever – I need a backup plan. So I figure, if I don’t eat, I’m gonna die eventually…and that’s comforting. Oh, what, Joe? Some people comfort eat, I comfort starve. None of your damn business! It’s not even hard, these days – I don’t want that shit, great greasy mouthfuls of life, goddamn cheese-dripping Years of Torment…”
There hadn’t been much Joe could say about that. Was he really any better, staying in bed ‘til 5pm next to clustered bottles of his own piss? They both avoided life in whatever ways they could…
He glanced over at Marley’s sleeping face, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken, and she looked peaceful, for now. It was a good fifteen seconds before he realised she was far too peaceful – there was a faint blue tinge to her lips, her body so still he was sure she wasn’t breathing – the snoring had stopped dead.
“Marley!” he said, poking her in the ribs. “Hey, Marley, snap out of it!”
Nothing happened. Heart pounding, he grabbed her bony shoulders, shook her until a single rasping breath rattled in through her parted lips, but there was no further response. Joe cursed under his breath, and wondered what the fuck to do. Marley wanted to die more than anything, but she was a goddamn PSP, signed and registered, and she knew what that meant – if there was any chance of saving her, she still had to pass the torch. He knew she was going to kill him for this, but he dialled 911, put it on speaker, and went back to rattling Marley’s limp carcass.
The ambulance arrived rapidly – an overdosing prescription junkie wouldn’t have been high priority in the old world, but since LifeSwap came along, a PSP in dire circumstances was treated like a drowning child – like the child they may yet end up saving. All the same, as Joe was shoved into a corner, a syringe of Narcan stabbed into Marley’s thigh, followed by oxygen pumped into her failing system when it had little effect, Joe got the sense Marley wasn’t really a person to these men; she was a vital cargo of organs – nothing more…but wasn’t that the contract they’d both signed?
In the stark fluorescence of the ambulance, Marley’s eyes occasionally flickered half open, her scarred hands jerking to brush the mask from her face, but before they got there, they’d fall back limp at her sides. Joe heard the driver speaking over the radio, reporting the imminent arrival of one critical PSP female. The fuzzy reply came – “We can use her. We can use her now. Bring her on up to paediatrics.”
“What?” Joe blurted out. “You’re gonna LifeSwap her, right now, when she isn’t even conscious? For the scan, I mean – she has to be awake, right?”
“We’ll run tests. If she’s gonna wake up, we have to wait. If she’s comatose, the scan is waived – it’s all in the paperwork. Turns out your girlfriend’s had a DNR in place for three years anyhow – if it weren’t for her PSP status, we couldn’t have touched her.”
“She’s not my girlfriend…” Joe mumbled, taking Marley’s limp hand. He never knew she’d signed a Do Not Resuscitate order three fucking years ago, but it didn’t surprise him – the way she talked, Marley’d been praying for death by any means for nearly a decade. The few times he’d been crazy enough to get into her car, she’d driven like a maniac, and the time they narrowly dodged getting T-boned, she’d cursed her head off, not in fear, but in fury that it hadn’t been the fatal collision it could’ve been…
It wasn’t meant to go down like this though, Joe thought. The whole beauty of a PSP death, to him, was that you got your summons two weeks before the LifeSwap. There’d be time to set your affairs in order, tick off some bucket list items, say your goodbyes. Marley always said there was nothing on her bucket list she could actually do – the only things that had ever made her happy were the drugs that just made her sick now, and with the amount of medication she was on, she didn’t have the energy to travel to all the places she wished she’d seen in life. Marley was so ready to go, she didn’t even have a bucket list…but all the same, they’d both looked forward to that final fortnight, to the richness it must bring, knowing it was all finally, fucking finally, coming to an end. It was the one and only time Joe had expected to see her happy – now she wasn’t even being granted that.
He sat in the harsh brightness of the waiting room while Marley was dragged off for tests, apathetically chewing Reese’s cups and wondering what he’d say, if they offered to take him too – tonight. He’d always thought he wanted those final few days, but who knew how far off those days might be? It could be months before they got to him, and the idea of spending that long without Marley was too much to bear…
Deep in contemplation, he hardly registered his name being called, until the nurse was standing directly in front of him.
“Mr Evans? Your friend is awake. We’re about to scan her – if she passes, she’ll be taken for the LifeSwap directly. You should say your goodbyes.”
Joe stumbled to his feet, half-hoping Marley would fail the scan again, stay with him…then hating himself for wishing that on her. He followed the softly squeaky tennis shoes of the small nurse to a room down the corridor, and she held the door open, informing him the scanner was en route.
Marley didn’t look awake, lying flat on her back, oxygen mask over her face, but as he got closer, he realised her eyes were half open, and when they focused on his face, she clumsily brushed the mask aside, and asked in a slow-motion slur,
“Wha’the fuck’s goin’ on, Joe?”
He frowned. How could she be minutes away from her LifeSwap, and none the doctors had bothered telling her? “They’re about to scan you. For the LifeSwap? Jesus, is it even ethical when you’re this wasted? Marley, you should tell them not tonight – not ‘til you’re—”
“I’m…gonna die? Now?”
“Well…yeah – if you pass, they’re taking you right now, but—”
“Wooo-wooo! The death train’s finally leavin’ the station! Iziss a hospital, Joe? Thought you’d took me to a nice motel…”
“Oh, fuck me…” Joe muttered. “Marley, I am not ok with this. You’re in no state to say whether—”
“Three – percent,” she enunciated, firmly. “Betchoo I come out three percent. Fuck this fuckin’ awful place…”
“You just dropped eight hundred dollars on a hideous coat, Marls – don’t you even wanna try it on?”
“Low blow, Joe. Ha. Made a rhyme… Why you tryin’a stop me, anyhow? You an undercover agent or somethin’?”
“Marley, I just want you to wait ‘til tomorrow morning. Can’t you do that – for me?”
“Go ask the Magic 8-Ball. Betchoo three percent. Betchoo.”
The door opened behind him; Joe whipped round to see two doctors and the nurse wheeling in the device he’d only ever seen on TV, or in those romance films Marley fucking loathed, where the Manic Pixie Dream Girl saved the PSP at the last minute, sometimes by dying herself when it would cost the life of someone who deserved it more. The machine looked like a slick black Dyson vacuum, except its hose attached to a structure not unlike a stripped-back motorcycle helmet. Joe blocked the way, arguing,
“She’s really out of it – I think this should wait ‘til morning, she can’t consent to—”
“Patient is a substance misuser, yes?” said the nearest doctor.
“Yeah, but she’s not generally—” Joe began, but Marley sang out,
“Guilty as charged! I’m ready for this, docs – real ready, what if I’m so excited to die the scan comes out happy and I fail? What then? What then?”
“Scan doesn’t read your happiness, ma’am, it reads your will to live. Are you ready?”
Marley just beamed. They dropped the helmet onto her head.
“I’m going to ask you three questions,” the doctor informed her.
“I know, I know, get on with it!”
“Thank you. Do you, Jean Malone, consent to this process with full knowledge of what comes next?”
“I fuckin’ do!”
“Are your affairs in order?”
“Fuck my fuckin’ affairs.”
“Imagine you are going to live for another thirty years. How does that make you feel?”
There was a long silence, then Marley whispered,
“Take it away… Take it all away…”
The machine beeped two long beeps – the lurid green numbers flashed up on its glossy black screen –
“3.2% WTL”
Marley was peering anxiously towards it, demanding,
“Am I going? Are you letting me go?”
“Three point two percent, ma’am. You’re definitely going.”
Marley flopped back on the bed, a contented smile on her lips. She didn’t even rub it in, the fact she’d won that bet. Joe felt his heart begin to race – she was really going. She was really leaving him – forever…
“Scan me, too!” he said, clutching his suddenly clammy fingers together. “I’m a registered PSP, four months and counting. I’m ready to go now – I want to go tonight, with her.”
“Aw Joe, you fuckin’ don’t,” Marley butted in, “You want your final weeks, you fuckin’ know you do!”
“I did, but I wasn’t ready for this! I’m not ready to be without you for fuck knows how long! Scan me. Now!”
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s a waitlist, there’s protocol to follow, we can’t just—”
“I’ll stay here,” Joe persisted, “All night, right here in this room – you can use me for anything, anyone who comes in critical tonight – I’ll be here, ready. Wouldn’t that help?”
The doctors looked at each other. One of them subtly shook his head.
“I will fucking hang myself tonight if you don’t take me!”
The doctors stared at him. The head-shaker sighed, then said,
“Thank you, sir. That’s exactly what we needed to hear. Active threats of suicide enable us to use you as an emergency PSP…assuming you pass the scan. Sit down, please.”
Joe sat on the edge of Marley’s bed, gripping her hand as they confirmed his identity, put the helmet on, and asked him the same three questions.
The machine beeped its long beeps.
“Two point one,” the doctor said, with a low whistle. “That’s about the lowest I’ve seen.”
“He beat me?” Marley cut in, struggling to sit up. “He beat me? Is he goin’ first now? That ain’t fair! I got us here!”
“No ma’am, your LifeSwap is to commence momentarily. Your friend will wait in this hospital until a receiver becomes available, and the transfer is set up.”
“How long does that take?” Joe asked, chewing his lip. “How long might I be here for?”
“24 hours is about the maximum we’ve had to keep a donor waiting.”
“Need to phone the neighbours,” Joe muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “They’ll have to take Cyclops…”
“Aww hell,” Marley slurred. “I never said bye to that fuckin’ fleabag. I’m gonna miss him…”
“You gonna miss me?”
“Not for long, now you’re comin’ too. I like that. All worked out perfect…”
“Don’t say that ‘til we get there. What if it is reincarnation, Marls, like we talked about? What if we just get out of this hell, and pop straight up in another, in a tiny baby body that can’t even control its own bowels?”
“Nah…” said Marley, smiling up at the ceiling. “I felt it, ‘fore they dragged me back here. It was peace, Joe. It was peace…” A single tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
“Are you coming with her?” the doctor interjected. “We’re going now.”
Joe nodded, mute and tense, as they pulled up the sides of Marley’s bed, and began wheeling her out of the room.
No one spoke, all the way through the elevator ride, but Marley was smiling.
Marley never smiled, unless she was drunk, high, or asleep. She certainly never smiled without an element of sarcasm, but now, she seemed peaceful – serene. Something about her reminded Joe of his old dog, the one he’d had before Cyclops. He’d just known it, the night Geezer would fall asleep for good; there’d been this tangible sense of peace in the room, the old dog resting his nose quietly on his paws, huffing the occasional long sigh, and as the sunset shadows lengthened, Joe’d known it was time – Geezer was ready for whatever came next. That same peace was in the elevator now – the doctors didn’t seem to feel it, but Joe could. It seemed like Marley did, too. Did some extra sense come with carrying a death-wish for so long, making them more receptive to Death’s presence? And was Death even a presence – an anthropomorphic creature? Joe guessed he’d find out soon enough. He really hoped the hood and scythe weren’t real. They were too creepy for his tastes…
The elevator spat them out in the paediatric ward, colourful landscapes and cheerful bunnies painted across the walls, and Joe walked behind Marley’s funeral procession, ‘til they turned into a brightly lit room. A blonde girl of about five lay weak and pale, IV tubes attached to one arm, more snaking up the sleeve of her nightie, a heart monitor beeping erratically.
“Rare heart condition,” one of the doctors informed them in an undertone. “Her life expectancy, without this, is only another three weeks, best case scenario.”
“Good luck then, kiddo,” Marley slurred. “Hope you don’t live t’regret this…”
The girl on the bed just stared dully past them. Her sleeping mother stirred in the bedside chair, then sat up straighter, eyes widening.
“Is it time?” she asked. The nearest doctor nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, looking to Marley, tears rising up to gloss her eyes. “Thank you for this, you don’t know how much it—”
“Hey,” Marley cut in, “You’re the one doin’ me a favour. She’s gonna live to a hundred ‘n six now – ain’t nothin’ could kill me.”
“Well…thank you, anyway,” the mother said, rather less effusively.
The machine was already set up on the side of the little girl’s bed, large, white and ominous. They parked Marley on its other side, then the large oval pads were affixed – one in the centre of Marley’s chest, another over the child’s.
“Any final words?” the doctor asked.
“Wait for me?” Joe blurted out, grabbing Marley’s hand. “Whatever happens, you wait for me on the other side, so you’re the first thing I see, if there’s anything to see at all?”
“Ah don’t be stupid, Joe. It’ll be fine. I’ll wait if I can, but I don’t know the fuckin’ rules, do I? Final words, then – hear me now! I, Jean Marley Malone, would like to declare that this ain’t a LifeSwap, nor a suicide, it’s a god-damned government assassination in the name of the War on Drugs. My blood’s all over that Whitehouse, and I am goin’ to haunt that fucker inside soon’z I get the chance. Let it be known I am goin’ out bitter, just like I bin bitter for nine fuckin’ years over what they did to me, an’ to every other junkie behind bars. My prison bars are these ribs, and I can’t wait to escape ‘em. Thass all. Now take me on home…”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the doctor, flatly. “Back away please, sir. Commencing LifeSwap in five, four…”
“Thanks for everything, Marls,” Joe whispered, standing back from the bed. “I’ll see you soon. I’ll see you real—”
The doctor jerked the lever down; brilliant white light flashed through the cables and into the paddles on both their chests. Marley jerked on the bed, eyelids fluttering, then she let out one long sigh, and was still. The little girl burst out laughing, squeaking, “It tickles – it tickles!”
Joe backed out of the room. The happiness of mother and child were too much to bear, right next to Marley’s used up body. He wondered if her spirit was in the room, watching him; did she feel relief? Or was he deluded to believe there was anything after this life anyway? On his darkest days, Joe had tried to be an atheist – he yearned to believe everything would just stop, forever; nothing but blackness and oblivion…but somehow, he could never quite believe that; it was another thing he had in common with Marley.
It was barely a minute before they wheeled out her bed, a sheet covering the body from head to toe, transforming Marley into a long series of bony lumps. Disposable, thought Joe. She’s just refuse to them… He guessed that made him nothing more than a one-use commodity too, but the comparison didn’t sit uneasily: it was almost pleasant, being a single use item. Purposeful, brief, with a designated end date, so unlike the amorphous, treacle-slow hours of his usual existence, writhing in the knowledge that these days of futile misery could go on for decades. If they saw him as no more human than a toothpick or a stick of gum now, so much the better. Brief, he thought. Useful…
Joe refused the chance to linger with Marley’s body – he’d seen her so zonked out she was practically dead a thousand times before, and every time it had only been lonely and depressing; how would this be any different? He’d be with the real Marley again soon, wouldn’t he? Catching her up wherever she’d gone – wherever everyone went, in the end…
He nodded his agreement as they read him the fresh terms, officially upgrading him to an emergency PSP, then he gratefully accepted the room they installed him in. He used the time to phone his neighbour about taking in Cyclops. They’d discussed it the day Joe first signed up as a PSP – the dog had been his only sticking point, but Trev had agreed to take him. The dog liked him, and Trev worked from home; he’d always be around, for however many weeks or months the antiquated Cyclops lingered on this Earth. Tonight though, Trev was every bit as probing as Marley had been, about this being The Right Thing To Do – whether Joe wasn’t rushing into it out of pure grief. All he could say in response was,
“Trev, don’t start. Don’t. Me and Marley been talking about this for four months now. We’re prepared – I’m prepared. Cyclops is the only thing I have left to worry about. I’m sad I didn’t get to say goodbye, but he was asleep anyhow…and I’ll see him soon – he’s on his last legs. The dog food’s to the left of the fridge, treats above. Give him whatever he likes, Trev – spoil him rotten. I loved that goddamn mutt, ok, so just…just keep him happy?”
“Will do, man. I still think you’re rushing this through, but what can I say? You’re grown, I ain’t your father, it’s your life to flush away, I guess. Hope I’ll see you again someday…but not for a few decades, given I ain’t going your route no matter what. Damn, man…I don’t even know what to say – you and Marley gone in one night? S’gonna be quiet round here…”
“I know. Mrs Yates’ll be thrilled. Oh, Trev, Marley’s stuff’s still on the floor – great big oversized bag, colour of a mouldy tombstone. Her keys are inside. She’s got no relatives she’s in touch with, no one, so she kept her address on a tag with the keys, like this fuckin’ anarchist move. She’s got a lot of valuables, and she’s leaving them to whoever loots the place first – I reckon it should be you. That place is a dump, I warn you, clothes everywhere, and they look like garbage, man, you know her style, but she’s – was, an absolute label whore – the stuff’s worth thousands if you’ve got the patience to sell it. It’ll cover Cyclops’s vet bills, and maybe get you a vacation to boot. If there’s any cash left over, give it to someone homeless, and tell ‘em to spend it on whatever the fuck makes ‘em happy. Marley’d like that.”
Trev sighed. “She was one of a kind, Joe. I’ll do what I can. Hope it goes over easy for you…if that’s the right thing to say.”
“Thanks, man. See you in sixty years…”
Joe hung up, and the silence of the little room rose up around him. This is it, he thought. My final moments… It was weird, but right, this giant building spreading out like a maze around him, babies being born in the maternity unit, tiny little fresh lives only just beginning, while his was tapering to its end, the final grains of sand slipping from his timer. It seemed like an ok place to die – he certainly wasn’t alone. Even if Marley’s spirit couldn’t hover near, there must be people dying in this place every few minutes. It hadn’t even looked painful, what happened to Marley. That was comforting. Joe had never seriously attempted suicide, no matter how low he got. That bloody ‘gas smells awful’ poem was far too true – death wasn’t easy, death was brutal. However much the mind wanted it, the body still clung to life – killing it singlehanded was the hardest thing on Earth. And so it was that, too afraid of heights to jump, too scared of suffocation and brain damage to hang, too unnerved by blood and tendons to slash his wrists, Joe had remained in the realm of the living, through no choice of his own.
Tonight, he was actually starting to feel good. Him and Marley, they’d finally taken charge over the untamed beast that was life – no more would that wild horse drag them through nettles and razor-wire…
Joe lay down on the hard hospital bed, and waited.