The Least Painful Way to Die

What's the least painful way to die?

The cursor pulses behind the question mark in the search bar. Of course, I'm not really going to search. Not here on my work laptop, not anywhere. I push the backspace, watching the words disappear in reverse.

Kill me, kill me. Come on and kill me.

My phone trills, an obnoxious electro thing by an untalented popstrelle.

"I didn't even search it, " I hiss at my phone.

I hate that you can't even choose your own ringtone now. They play what they want you to hear.

Karen.

On second thoughts, kill me, kill me is more than appropriate.

"Karen."

"Rory."

The way she says my name drips with disapproval.

"I'm nearly finished. I'll be an hour."

Karen sighs. "Bean’s asleep. I was calling to say don’t come. "

"What? I'm away tomorrow. I'll miss him. He's going to wake before bedtime, right?"

"Don’t come. I won't feel comfortable."

"Seriously?"

I rub the back of my palm across my eyes. She's never said she's uncomfortable with me before. Okay, if either of us had the choice, we would not be co-parenting, but we both love Bean and we’ve been doing okay, so far.

"Look, when you back?"

"Thursday."

"Thursday. We can do Thursday." I hear diary pages flick, old school pen scratches on an otherwise blank page. "Come for dinner at 6:30? You can put Bean to bed."

Oh, Christ, no.

A year ago, she decided we should be a couple and invited me for dinner where she clumsily seduced me with statistics about psychological issues for children of 'broken' families. The kiss that followed was horrible and the end of that idea.

I'm about to offer an alternative suggestion when she says, "Jared will be there."

"Jared?"

"My boyfriend, Rory. Keep up." Her voice is pinched. "I've talked about him."

You haven't.

I picture the heat flushing through her neck as she lies.

"All right," I say. "Thursday. Dinner. Jared. Lovely."

I don't mean to sound sarcastic. She hangs up without saying goodbye.

##

I'm flicking through the Timeswipe app, beer in hand, half eaten box of Singapore noodles growing globby in my lap.

Ads for erectile dysfunction pills pop up every thirty seconds, as do Meet busty singles in your area.

I'm hunting for Jared, grasping at strands in Karen's network to find him. She's not linked to a Jared, neither are any of her friends. A Jared Bacchus, cousin of a friend of a friend, is a fat dad of four with a receding hairline and fluffy moustache.

“Not him.”

I’m annoyed that I can't find him. Then I’m annoyed that I'm annoyed I can't find him.

"My boyfriend Rory. Keep up," I mock, bringing my beer to my lips.

I'm about to click on Karen’s hot cousin, when an ad fills the screen.

Henry De Ath Associates it reads. An attractive lawyer-type woman holds a clipboard in a courtroom.

We take the 'sue' out of suicide.

I roll my eyes.

Ever since they downgraded 'assisting suicide' to a civil rather than criminal offence, there has been a speight of suings from family members of the deceased. The courts have been swamped, the fines astronomical.

"It may as well still be criminal," grumbled a woman on the news who'd helped put her ailing grandmother out of her misery. "My cousin suing me over this means there's very little of my inheritance left. This is not what Granny would have wanted."

"Why the Hell am I getting this ad? I didn't even search the death thing."

No, but you thought it.

I switch off my phone.

##

It's a crispy night, and the moon is an indolent copper penny casting a rusty glow on Karen's Street. I shiver and tap my foot on the step, noticing as I do, the big hole in the side of my Converse.

I check Timeswipe and see that three people liked my Grim Reaper joke.

Come on people! It's funnier than that!

Ah, and there's that annoying suicide ad again. This time, it shows an old man sitting in bed, a classily attractive nurse tending him. They're both smiling far too much under the circumstances. A banner asks "Bedside Suicide?"

I shake my head. They've obviously found some kind of loophole. I click ‘report this ad’, but the door opens before I can choose a complaint. I shove my phone in my pocket.

In the doorway, stands an extremely attractive man I'd guess to be in his early thirties.

"Jared?"

"Rory." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his flinty grey eyes. "Please come in."

I step past him inhaling sandalwood. My crumpled Grateful Dead t- shirt brushes his neatly pressed Ralph Lauren and I curse my "life's too short to iron" standpoint. Then I curse myself for caring.

Bean is in his high chair banging a Peter Rabbit spoon on his cup.

"Daddy!" He flings out his arms. I pluck him from the chair and swing him around.

"I've missed you, Butterbean."

I feed him spinach and pumpkin pasta while Karen and Jared sip Tempranillo in the kitchen. We read Dinosaurs Love Underpants while Karen annihilates mashed potato. I bath my sticky little boy while Karen and Jared speak in hushed tones in the kitchen. And I snuggle with my little Bean until his dark lashes flutter to a close.

#

On the table lumpy mashed potato and broccoli sweat in tureens that belonged to Karen’s grandmother.

“I’m doing steak,” says Jared, waving cooking tongs.

“Rory likes his rare,” Karen tells him with a pointed look that I can’t read.

I sit at the table and pour myself a wine. “Well,” I chance a smile, “this looks lovely.” I don’t know what Karen has told Jared about me, but I’m determined to prove her wrong.

She’s tense, turning her glass stem between her fingers to the soundtrack of sizzling meat.

“How’s work?”

She sighs. “Fine.” She shrugs, sips.

I wait for the returned question, but it doesn’t come. “Sooooo, I’ve got a new manager,” I try. Nothing, not even a glance in my direction. “Yeah, Kelly. She’s so great.” A raised eyebrow. “Smart, funny,” I’m looking at her sideways, “attractive.”

She twists her head.

“Kelly who?”

She’s going to look her up on Timeswipe, I’m sure. “Kelly Adikari. Know her, do you?” Good luck spelling that!

“Ta da!”

Jared comes into the dining room, a plate in each hand, balanced like the scales of justice. He places one in front of Karen.

“Medium.” He plants a light kiss on her head. “And rare for Rory.”

It’s beyond rare. Blood pools around the flesh, and when I add my tepid potato, a pink stain creeps across it. Jared watches me as I saw into it, stares as I push a cube into my mouth.

"Mmmm," I say, gristle nestling between the pillars of my teeth. "Delicious."

There's a look then, between Karen and Jared.

"So Jared." I wash the flabby meat down with a gulp of Espagna's finest. "You haven't made it official yet. This." I point my fork back and forth between my ex and her boyfriend. "What's the cut off again? I haven’t had to register a relationship for a while."

Jared pats the corner of his mouth with a neatly pressed napkin - did he iron those as well? - and strokes Karen's arm.

"The cut off, Rory, is two months. We're further in. And registered in other ways."

"But not on Timeswipe? How?"

He looks at Karen, who stabs a stalk of broccoli with her fork.

"Well," he grins. "Certain… factions are exempt from Timeswipe."

"So you’re government then?"

Jared shrugs, a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

You have three months after the birth of your child to set up their Timeswipe profile. It then functions as everything, from your bank account, criminal record, voting history to all of your social media in one place. Potential employers can see that you were fired from Cafe Tasse when you were fourteen; interested lovers that you rated 2 Fast, 2 Furious as an eight out of ten; universities can judge whether you voting for the Labour Party in the last election aligns with their values. Relationships, even illicit ones on the side, must be registered, although the sideline mistresses won't show up on your profile.

"So, what do you do?"

That smirk again. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Right," Karen stands. "Let's get to it shall we." She folds her arms across her body. "We need to talk to you."

My body stiffens as Jared stands and holds her hand. They stare at one another.

"Thing is," says Jared, "Karen and I want to be a family."

"Lovely."

"So we think, and step in if I'm out of line here Karen, that it's for the best if I adopt Ben. Take over parental responsibility."

"What?" Now I'm standing. "You can't do that! I'm Bean's dad! He loves me, I love him."

"He's young enough to forget you."

"What the Hell, Karen?" I take a step towards her. "This has got to be some sort of sick joke, right?"

She places her fingertips on my arm. I jerk it away violently.

"I'm a good dad. You say so yourself. I'm a good dad. "

She sighs. "It just might be better for him, you know, in the long run." She starts pacing. "Jared has his own home, a permanent contract and excellent credit rating." She is counting things off on her fingers. "A degree in psychology, first aid training and football coaching experience." She grins at him. "Plus, you know, we're very in love and all that."

I push my hands through my hair. "This is insane, Karen. Insane!" I shake my head, but the soupy fug of surreality remains. "You can't. I won't let you."

Karen turns to Jared. "See. I told you he'd react like this."

Jared nods and sits back down. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this." He reaches into a bag propped against the dining table and pulls out a large manila envelope.

"What's this?"

He slides it across the table. My hands quiver as I reach inside and draw out a thick bundle of paper. I leaf through. Screenshot after screenshot are captured in bright coloured printouts. There is a picture of me smoking a bucket bong at a uni party; an argument I had online with a man called Scratch Parry in which I called him "a fucking mong", and oh, God! A photo where I'm pretending to throw Bean off a balcony.

"He's laughing," I protest.

"A judge won't see it that way," says Jared, almost sadly.

My Grim Reaper joke that I posted this afternoon is there too, a scrawled annotation in Karen's writing "obsessed with death."

"This is ridiculous!" I push the papers from the table, watch them scatter to the floor. "I..I…Bean's my everything. He's my world! Karen, you can't do this."

She clears her throat. "Dessert?"

"Screw you both." And I'm out in the night air sobbing.

##

I move as though through treacle all weekend. I watch some bad films, eat some worse food and trawl, trawl, trawl the rabbit hole of doom that is Timeswipe. I don't know what I'm looking for but that fucking ad keeps coming back.

Exit with style, says one of the ads. Talk to one of our creative consultants about the right package for you.

A pop up video shows a youngish man stepping onto a plane, assisted by an Amelia Earhart-esque pilot. He drinks champagne, toasts the camera and then we're taken to a long shot of the plane plummeting from the sky, the pilot floating gracefully on a parachute.

"Ridiculous."

At work on Monday, I ask Kelly what she thinks I should do.

"You've got to kidnap your kid," she says. "Fight fire with fire."

"But he's in the government."

"Ah. Well. I got nothing, then."

My mum suggests that she goes round there.

"Are you kidding? Karen hates you!"

"News to me,"she huffs.

I get an email at work.

Rory,

The paperwork is attached. All you have to do is sign, and we can move on. Stop thinking about yourself for once, and think about Bean.

Karen

I click to block the ads, but it's bloody Henry De Ath Associates again.

"This is stupid."

It's a picture of a chef standing next to the Grim Reaper and they're cutting up carrots together. Underneath, it says Don't Dice with Death! Die on your own terms.

"So crass."

"Some woman in the news had always wanted to try diving. These guys took her down to fifty metres and disconnected her scuba tank. Instructor said she looked like a joyful mermaid, hair all splayed out surrounded by fish. Took some nice pictures."

“I’m not interested,” I say. “I’m sick of these suicide ads.”

“Maybe you should reset your password.” She shrugs.

"Thanks Kelly."

##

I'm summoned to the office on Wednesday.

"I'm sorry, Rory. We're going to have to let you go." On the desk in front of Milton Hargreaves are the printouts Jared gave me last week. Milton, at least, has the decency to look sad.

Mum calls as I'm heading home, box of desk crap tucked under my arm. "Karen called. Asked me to have a word with you."

"You hate Karen!"

“This sounds like you can't win, Rory."

The court summons arrives on Friday.

##

I'm two thirds of the way into a bottle of whisky and I've got pizza topping all over my bare chest. Timeswipe is on my TV screen, and I'm searching for "how to kill a government worker."

Killing a government employee is ill-advised, Timeswipe tells me.

"Killing a government employee is ill-advised," I parrot in a stupid voice. "I miss my Butterbean!"

The eighteen lawyers I've contacted won't touch me. Whether it's my unemployment or Jared, I don't know, but I'm going to have to self-represent.

I sigh and take another gulp of whisky.

We put the dye in dying!

On the screen, a woman sits in a hairdressing salon having her hair done by a smiling hairdresser.

"Fuck off Henry De Ath! What are you doing? Poisoning her follicles?"

I lob my shoe at the screen. Sadly, my drunk aim is much more accurate than sober, and I manage to click open a video in the ad.

Soft, melancholy music plays and I'm alarmed to feel a prickling in the back of my eyes. A kindly looking man, not unlike my lovely grandad appears, sitting by a fireplace.

"Is life getting you down?" He asks.

"Yes!" I yell. "So down."

"Does it feel as though you've no way out?"

I nod, and the tears start to come.

"Here at Henry De Ath Associates, we take the fear out of ending it all. Leave as a hero, be remembered as a saint."

Would Bean appreciate a saintly father?

"Click the red button to arrange your free, no obligation consultation today."

A red button flashes at the bottom of the screen.

"What are you waiting for?"

It's as though he's talking specifically to me. He's so kind, I think. Look at his gentle jowley smile. It takes me seconds to cross the floor.

"That's right," encourages Henry. "We're here for you."

##

"Listen, please stop calling. It was a mistake."

Last night, I planned an elaborate suicide with a consultant called Deborah, involving a lion and a coat made out of devilled ham.

"I was so drunk," I explain. "I mean, don't you screen for that?"

There are four more calls before I throw my phone on silent and wrestle some mum-ironed clothes on. I still look shocking, gravelly eyes rimmed red, hair like an exploding mattress factory.

Huge statues flank the front doors of the courthouse where Mum and I wait in line to be screened. Ahead, I see Karen’s jaunty ponytail, and wonder who’s looking after Bean today.

I turn out my pockets but the guard prods my phone.

“Check into the courthouse on Timeswipe and give a brief description of why you’re here.” I tap on the check in icon and select the courthouse. When it asks me for a description of my purpose today, I write clearly, to keep my beautiful son from being taken from me.

“Ooh, isn’t it pretty?” remarks Mum as we walk into courtroom nine. She’s met with a withering stare. “Sorry.”

I’m shown to a seat across from Karen. Jared drapes a proprietary arm around her shoulders and gives me a grin with all the warmth of a jailer’s keys.

“Rory Pope?”

The judge is disturbingly young. She gestures for me to take the stand and nods to the video cameras to start rolling.

I walk slowly.

“State your name please.”

“Rory Eldred Pope.”

Someone sniggers.

“And you are the father of Ben Pope, informally known as Bean?”

“I am.” The tears come. “I just love him so much, your honour. Please…”

The judge raises her hand. “Just a few questions, Mr Pope.”

She is flicking through the pile of paperwork that, I assume, is what Jared gave me. “It’s not great, is it? Are you in the habit of using sexually aggressive language towards women?”

“No! I…” I remember an online exchange with my cousin. “We always call each other ho’s, Mandy and me.”

The judge frowns. “Mr Pope. Did you, or did you not have a thirty seven minute ‘steered suicide’ consultation with a Deborah Bakrie last night?”

I freeze. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Someone unzips a handbag.

“Um,” I clear my throat. “I didn’t really…I mean, I did, but I don’t want…”

The judge shakes her head. “Suicide risk. Bad character. Parental responsibility revoked.”

“What!? No! You can’t do this.” I’m shaking. “Karen! Tell them!”

But Karen won’t look at me. She’s looking instead at Jared.

“Application awarded to the petitioners, Ms Karen Cannon and Mr Jared Hess, Senior Algorithms Manager at Timeswipe.”