Dead Tomorrow

donation.’
    ‘But he didn’t carry a donor card? Or join the register?’
    ‘I think he would have done, in time.’ She shrugged and dabbed her eyes again. ‘I don’t think he expected to–to…’
    The nurse nodded, sparing her from finishing the sentence. ‘Not many people do,’ she said.
    Susan laughed bitterly. ‘That fucking motorbike. I didn’t want him to have it. Right? If only I’d put my foot down.’
    ‘It’s very hard to stop strong-minded people from doing things, Susan. You cannot blame yourself, now or ever.’
    There was another long silence. Then she said, ‘If I gave consent, would you give him an anaesthetic?’
    ‘If that’s what you want, yes. But it isn’t necessary. He can’t feel anything at all.’
    ‘How much of him would you take?’
    ‘Whatever you wanted.’
    ‘I don’t want you to take his eyes.’
    ‘That’s fine, I understand.’ Her pager bleeped suddenly. She glanced at it, then put it back in its holster. ‘Would you like another cup?’
    Susan shrugged.
    ‘I’ll make you another cup and I’ll get the consent forms. I will need to go through his medical history with you.’
    ‘Do you know who his organs will go to?’ Susan asked.
    ‘No, notat this stage. There’s a national database for organs–kidneys, heart, liver, lungs, pancreas and the small bowel–with over eight thousand people waiting. Your husband’s would be allocated on a match and priority basis–finding recipients who would have the best chance of success. We would write to you and tell you who has benefited from his donation.’
    Susan closed her eyes to stop the tears.
    ‘Get theforms,’ she said. ‘Just get the sodding forms before I change my mind.’

43
    The Denarii Collection Agency, for whom Lynn Beckett worked, was located on two floors of one of Brighton and Hove’s newest office blocks, close to the railway station in the trendy New England Quarter.
    The agency, named after the ancient Roman coins, had customers from the full range of companies providing consumer credit–banks, building societies, mail-order catalogues, stores which supplied their own credit cards, hire purchase companies–and in the worsening economic climate, business was booming. Some of their business came from simply chasing bad debts for specific clients. But a big part was bad debt portfolios that they purchased in bulk, taking a gamble on how much they would be able to recover.
    At a quarter past five on Monday afternoon, Lynn was seated at her ten-person work station. Her team was called the Harrier Hornets. Each team was identified by its name, which hung above it on a board suspended from the ceiling. The other, fiercely competitive teams in the huge open-plan office were called Silver Sharks, Leaping Leopards and Denarii Demons. Over on the far side of the office was the litigation department, beneath a sign which said Legal Eagles, and beyond them was the dialler management team, which monitored the calls the collection agents made.
    Normally she liked beinghere. She liked the camaraderie and the friendly rivalry. This was fuelled by huge flat screens around the walls constantly showing bonuses to be won, which ranged from a box of chocolates to outings, such as dinner in a posh restaurant or a night at the dogs. The screen in her line of view currently depicted an animated cooking pot filled with gold coins, together with the words THE COLLECTED BONUS POT £673. Often, she felt, the atmosphere was akin to being in a casino.
    By the end of the week that would have grown even larger, and either one of the collection agents in her team or one in a rival team would be taking it home as a bonus. She could do with that right now, she thought, and it was still possible. So far she was having a good start to the week, despite the interruptions.
    God, I want to win that! she thought. It would pay for the car, and a treat for Caitlin–and help with her mounting monthly credit card payments.
    There was a fine view across Brighton, now in winter darkness, from the office, but when she was at work she concentrated so hard she rarely had time to appreciate it. Right now, she had her phone headset on, a mug of tea cooling in front of her, and was focusing as best she could on working through her call list.
    She stopped, as she did every few minutes, and looked with a heavy heart up at the photograph of Caitlin that was pinned to the red partition wall, directly above her computer screen. She was