The Duel

"I won't come if you don't want me to," she snapped back. "But don't pretend this is anything to do with me and Clifford. I met him once in five years because he needed a friend. Big deal. Don't try to make a drama out of something so banal."

"Infidelity is banal. It's about selfishness and people who can't control their greed and who lie when they think it's the easiest course. If they want something they have it and everyone else can fuck off. I understand. Now get out." Suzie left for work holding back her tears. His outburst made Stan feel a little better.

Alone in his little room, Stan was gripped by the urge to take charge of the remainder of his life. It was a mistake to let the medical people decide what to do. Before he could act on this thought, a young man in a white coat came in, read his notes and looked at Stan as if he was a truant schoolboy.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for some blood tests."

"You shouldn't be hiding. What's your name?" He looked at a file in his hand and said with forced jocularity, "Get a grip man. You should have been in pre-med an hour ago. We're waiting for you."

"I was told you have to complete some tests before the surgery is confirmed."

"Rubbish. Nobody said such a thing. Get along there now and don't hang about."

The doctor left and Stan got up, his decision made. Life couldn't get any worse and it was time to stand up for himself. He wasn't beaten yet. He walked back through reception and his pain and weariness vanished as he left the cancer ward. By the time he was in his car he knew he was right to trust his instinct. He could hope for a few days or weeks of reasonable life followed by a rapid decline. However long, it must be better than spending his last days on the operating table drugged to the point of insensibility. He'd enjoy himself while he could; and then he didn't want to hang about.

He stopped for coffee and a Danish pastry before driving home. He arrived about three hours after he had watched Suzie leave for work and was surprised to find her car on the driveway. Beside it, blocking his place, was an unfamiliar black BMW soft top. He parked in the road and wandered round the strange car hoping to discover the owner. Not in the mood for visitors, he followed the path along the side of the house to the back and took the spare backdoor key from the flowerpot in the greenhouse.

The door opened into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was brewing on the filter machine and he stopped, uncertain what to do. Then he heard voices in earnest conversation from beyond the hall – Suzie's voice, then a man's. Instantly he knew it must be her lover, Clifford. In spite of everything, he was unprepared for his wife's deceit and cynicism. Her lover must have been waiting for him to leave.

His healthy instinct would have been to rush in and confront the liars and cheats but his anger had let him down, undermined by illness. He was bewildered, unable to make sense of what had happened or how he should react. It struck him that eavesdropping on Suzie's conversation with her lover was ridiculous. He must confront them. His rational mind reached this conclusion an instant before a violent impulse. Why be polite when what he felt was disgust at her lover's violation of his home? He retreated to his little study off the hall and shut the door to block out the conversation, sat down and gradually mastered his fury.

One thing shone through his anger: he shouldn't allow his final days to be monopolised by his wife's betrayal. There were more important things. He closed his eyes, trying to gather the strength for a decision. His eyes went round the room, his sanctum where he had spent many hours, the shelves stacked with books going back to his childhood, the hi fi bought piece by piece when he found a bargain, the battered computer. He would get his bag with his walking clothes and leave, this time for good.

The bag was upstairs and he'd have to pass the open door of the sitting room. As he stood up, his eye fell on a loosely wrapped parcel lying along the books on the top shelf. He lifted it down, unwrapped the brown newspaper and took out two dress swords in battered leather sheathes. The swords had belonged to his grandfather and came to him when his father died, naval dress swords with steel blades and lots of tarnished silver at the hilt, pommel and guard. His grandfather had been an officer on a battleship at Scapa Flow and had been on the hunt for the Bismarck. He had worn one of the swords when presented with the Distinguished Conduct Medal at Buckingham Palace after an Arctic Convoy to Murmansk in 1942.

Of the two swords he had a favourite. His grandad had told him how he'd worn it once for a reception aboard HMS Hood and had let him help clean the silver filigree on the pommel. It was a ceremonial sword, but enough of the real thing for Stan as a child to clasp the grip and imagine he was boarding a French three-decker with Nelson, scything down the defenders as he swung into the lee rigging. Now he balanced the sword, hand wrapped round the grip, and knew what to do. If Clifford and Suzie's defence was that they had responded to the natural force of love, he had a surprise for them. Clifford was about to meet his nemesis.

He heard someone walk from the sitting room to the kitchen and when he peered into the hall, saw Suzie collecting the coffee. Quickly he stepped into the hall, shut the kitchen door and pushed home the bolt on the hall side, installed as extra security after a burglar had forced the back door. Then he walked into the sitting room. Clifford stood with his back to the fireplace and his smile froze as he found Stan before him, a sword in each hand. They stared at one another in silence. Then Stan tossed a sword to Clifford. It hit his chest and clattered against the furniture as it fell.

"I'd take it if I were you. You know who I am, so don't look surprised. I'm giving you more of an even chance than you gave me. Did you think you could take my wife without having to fight? Did she tell you I was already dead? You've made a bad mistake and now we'll see how much you love my wife. Will you fight, or do you care for her only if you can steal her for nothing? Be warned. This is a duel to the death. I have nothing to lose. Only one of us leaves this room on their feet."

'This is ridiculous." Clifford's look combined fear and dismay. "Where's Suzanne? Look, you misunderstand. Put that thing down and let me explain. There's no need for theatricals. I've not come to take her away."

Stan lifted his sword, the point towards the chest of Suzie's lover. "Where's your pride? Do you mean you're happy to steal, but not fight? Let me put it this way: if you don't fight you'll die anyway. I'll put you down like a mad dog. No seconds. No mercy."

"Please. Let's get Suzie. She'll explain."

"It's a duel. Be a man and don't try to hide behind a woman. I don't fancy your chances with my rusty blade in your ribs."

"No. Believe me. This is not the way. Nothing deserves this."

"It's up to you whether you use the sword. You have thirty seconds to prepare and then we fight."

"No. Suzie asked me to come here. She's upset. She said you're ill and had to go to hospital. I only came over to help her."

"And take advantage of her weakness. My wife's not so good in bed you'll fight for her? Shame on you. Ten seconds."

Stan's features were rigid and Clifford must have realised he wasn't bluffing. He snatched up the sword and lifted the blade in front of his face to parry a gentle thrust from Stan. The sound as the blades clashed was satisfyingly dramatic. Stan paused to balance himself. The tarnished silver scroll work weighed down the sword. Maybe it wasn't really intended for use as a weapon. Stan had fenced epee at school but he was now weak from his illness and knew he couldn't hold the sword for long. He raised it high and scythed at Clifford. He really didn't care who won, but he would make it a good fight. It felt good. Pistols would be better but swords were fine. They should be evenly matched.

"In case you don't understand," he gasped with effort. "We're fighting for Suzie. Let's see how much you really want her. And whether you'll die for her."

"Let me go and I'll never speak to her again."

"Coward. Be a man."

He lunged again and Clifford ducked, almost cowering. One way or another, the fight could not last long. He was distracted by the sound of blows from the kitchen. Suzie wanted to get out.

Their blades clashed again as Clifford parried Stan's next lunge. Now Clifford fought back. He gathered himself and lifted his sword, point towards Stan. Then he leapt forward in a desperate lunge and ran onto Stan's blade. The sword broke at the hilt and Clifford fell to the carpet, two feet of rusty steel sticking out from his chest. Stan dropped the hilt and looked down at the growing patch of blood on the carpet before turning away and unlocking the kitchen door.

"Stan, what have you done?" Suzie rushed past him into the sitting room. He followed and saw her cradle her lover in her arms.

"Too late," he said. "Your lover paid the price for your bad choices."

Nine: Keep on walking

Stan didn't need much of a plan. He was thinking in days, even hours. Suzie was still in the sitting room when he got his bag and he didn't bother to check that Clifford was finished. He'd seen enough blood to know that with beginner's luck his sword had gone through the heart. He examined his feelings and was surprised by how little he felt. Clifford deserved to die but he felt no satisfaction at having destroyed his enemy, no guilt at taking a life, even though he had solved the wrong problem. Clifford's death took nothing from his wife's betrayal and about Suzie he could think nothing.

He was in his car and ten miles from home before he decided where to go. Keep on walking, he decided. Keep going till you drop. Wear yourself out and don't think. He drove all afternoon, stopping at every service station to buy non-prescription painkillers, which could only be bought a few packets at a time. Suicide wasn't his plan; there was going to be a lot of pain and he needed the medication for its proper purpose. It wasn't hard to imagine that if he went to a doctor's to renew his prescription medication he would be picked up by the police. By now he must be a wanted murderer and he kept off the motorways to avoid the number plate recognition systems.

He ate dinner in a pub near Kendall and found a farm track screened from the road by trees and spent the night there, sleeping soundly in the car. The next morning he started early for St Bee's Head, the start of the long-distance Coast to Coast footpath across the north of England. He ate breakfast in the seashore cafe in St Bees and set off with a light bag with a waterproof, chocolate and a water bottle. At first he was on his own, but his pace was so slow that many walkers passed him making better time. They'd chat, exchange tips about the route and the weather and occasionally meet up at a pub at lunchtime or in the evening. It was hard going but a peaceful life. Nobody asked if he was the mad sword-murderer whose picture was in the paper. Stan guessed he no longer looked much like the healthy, happy man in the picture Suzie must have found for the police.

He managed maybe ten miles a day. On some days the pain grew to the point where it was unbearable, on other days it was fine. Each time he came to a low point he was saved by his fellow walkers. There was no point in hiding that he was seriously ill, but each time he came to a halt people stopped and refused to leave him alone. Each time he had to persuade them not to call for the mountain rescue or the air ambulance and more than once he came to day's end surrounded by helpers more or less carrying him. Each morning, to his surprise, he found he had a few more steps left in him and he started again. It would have been therapeutic if it wasn't killing him.

More than a week went by and there was a rhythm to his efforts, but the miles travelled were fewer each day and he knew he would never reach Robin Hood's Bay, the end of the path. Mostly he walked in a daze, numbed by painkillers. Each step caused a sharp pain in his hip. A day came with a sharp wind and a bright sky. He was plodding across featureless peat moorland on a steep rise to an escarpment where boulders had been raised like giant warriors looking down on the slopes up which he climbed: Nine Standards Rigg. The sky darkened and without warning the wind rose and a hailstorm blinded him. He turned his face from the wind and tried to continue, wandered from the path and sank into the peat bog. After an extreme effort he got free and struggled back to the path. He carried on a few more steps, saw a wall of rock and decided to shelter beneath its overhang. His boot skidded on the wet rock, he tried to get his balance and went over on his back. For once there was nobody around to see. He'd no idea how far he fell. He could smell the peat and icy water trickled under his collar; then there was nothing.

Ten: The end

Suzie arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night. She'd got the call when she was at home eating dinner. After such a long silence she'd given up expecting to hear from Stan or the police. Most of the time she was numb – deep in shock and unwilling to think about anything. The police didn't give her much information. Stan was in a critical condition and had been flown to a hospital in Yorkshire. He was in police custody but would remain in hospital.

Suzie washed up her dinner things trying hard not to think, filled a thermos with coffee and dressed in her warmest clothes. Stopping in town to fill the car with petrol, take out cash and buy sandwiches from the all-night supermarket, she set out on another long night drive. Her sat-nav said it would take four hours and she was grateful for the time to prepare herself. She wondered if her life could get any worse and decided that it probably would.

She parked near the accident and emergency entrance to the hospital, finished the coffee and found her bottle of water. Then she set off. A sleepy policeman sat by the entrance to the ward, but she gave her details to the reception and was allowed in to see her husband. Stan had been found on the moors by walkers, unconscious and injured from a fall. The air ambulance brought him out. He'd not been conscious since admittance to the hospital.

Stan was in a side ward on his own and lay on his back asleep. His eyes had sunk further into his colourless face and he was breathing with the help of oxygen. It was obvious to Suzie that he was very ill. For what seemed like a long time she sat and stared at her husband, trying to make sense of her thoughts. Eventually she bent and kissed his cheek. To her amazement he stirred, eyes flickering, hand reaching out to grip hers.

"Get them to stop the pain," he wheezed, still holding her hand. When she bent over him to see whether he was properly conscious, his eyes opened and he smiled. After a moment, he added. "I'm glad you've come Suzie."

He seemed to fall asleep once more and she sat in the chair beside the bed, her hand still gripped in his. She was in shock. Stan looked far worse than she expected and she struggled with desperate feelings of love, panic, despair and horror at the recollection that this was Clifford's murderer. Above everything, she felt guilt at Stan's hopeless state, his devastated body a reminder of her destructive actions. She stroked the back of his hand and, when he released his grip, found a nurse to ask about pain medications. It seemed Stan had a broken pelvis. He was too sick and the cancer had done too much damage for them to repair the bone. They would keep an eye on his pain medication to find what suited him best, but he was already on the highest dose of morphine she was allowed to give.

"Talk to him. Divert his mind. Get him to hang on," advised the nurse.

"Hang on for what?" wondered Suzie. Prison couldn't be a good place to be critically ill. She went back to the bed and sat down again, trying not to disturb Stan while he slept. Minutes later his eyes opened and he was watching her. She reached out and stroked his hand.

"I'm sorry Stan. For all this. I've fucked everything up. I wasn't there when you needed me and I'll never forgive myself for that. I won't leave you now."

"Everything's fucked up Suzie. It's not your fault. You're here now and I'm grateful for that." He was speaking slowly and she had to strain to make out his words, even though he'd pulled aside the oxygen mask. She stood up and leaned over so that she could hear better and he touched her face with his hand. "I'm sorry I killed your friend. He deserved it but it's not fair that I took him away from you. You need somebody to care for you."

"I want you," said Suzie. "This isn't fair."

He was silent and watched her steadily as she tried to read his eyes which, dulled by drugs, were the only part of him which seemed alive. Eventually he said. "This is how it should end. We had something once. Better to have loved and lost, as they say. It's not all been in vain. I need you to help me die. Then I want you to get on with the rest of your life, find someone to care for you and forget about me and all this mess."

"Don't talk like that Stan. I'm here now and I'm here for the long term. I never stopped loving you."

"You don't understand. The pain is too bad. I can't deal with this. Not even I deserve this torture. We must say goodbye, then I want you to stop the pain for good."

She knew he was serious. What was she supposed to do?

"Stan, I can't help you die. You know that."

"You will if you love me."

It would still be murder if she found a way to speed up death. Was this Stan's final test – to see whether she cared enough to murder for him? Her tears flowed freely and she wished she had the strength to work out what to do. To add to her misery she could see another spasm of pain grip Stan. It began with a twitch. He snatched at the bedclothes and closed his eyes, remaining rigid and impervious to the world around him. She stroked his face and wiped away the sweat and whispered like a mother does to her baby, but she was helpless. After a bit she went to demand help and eventually a young doctor came by and looked at the medical notes at the end of the bed. He wouldn't look at Stan.

"He needs something for the pain," said Suzie.

"We're doing all we can," said the doctor. "Trust me. More than he's getting is too much of a risk. The consultant will review the pain medications later this morning."

"You're not dealing with the cause of the pain. It'll only get worse. What are you saving him for? More pain? Please deal with the pain he's in now."

The doctor shook his head. "I do what I can. You're upset. He's out of it for now. Much better go and get a cup of coffee and save your strength."

Furious, Suzie bent over Stan and put her hand on his face and kissed his lips.

"I'm sorry Stan. I tried to help."

He reached out with his hand and pulled her head closer.

"Don't give in Suzie. You can do it. Do it now. I love you. I guess I screwed up biggest of all. Now please let me go."

The doctor had gone. Suzie looked round the ward, went to the door and looked round the outer ward. It was still dark outside and the lights were low to let patients sleep. Stan lay motionless, eyes closed.

In the bedside locker she found a cotton and wool shirt Stan had been wearing when admitted. She folded it into a pad a foot square and soaked it in the sink in the corner of the ward. Bending down, she whispered in his ear: "I love you Stan." Then she removed the oxygen mask and put the pad over Stan's face. Pulling the pillow from under his head, she put it on top of the pad, then lay across the pillow with the full weight of her body, feet off the ground. Twisting her head so that she could see her wrist watch, she watched the second hand circle. Ten minutes passed and she heard nothing from inside the room or outside. She felt Stan's wrist for his pulse. There was nothing, but she couldn't be sure, and she stayed on top of him for another five minutes.