In Northern Ireland, James Anchor was also going through the motions of dying. He had not been having a bad day, really, all things considered. Plenty of paperwork, of course, and the odd meeting with officials seeking his views about this and that, but nothing really taxing for a man of his capabilities. He had lunch at his desk, because there was no official luncheon for him to attend that day, and he preferred his own company anyway. If he hadn’t been divorced, he might have been able to slip away home for lunch, like most people who lived within range, but there was nothing in his flat, comfortable though it was, to attract him there for lunch on his own. So he stayed where he was, making the best of a sandwich from the canteen that his secretary had fetched for him, and read the Times.
Later that afternoon, he had to chair a rather irksome meeting with a dozen or so officials, all of whom had a view and wanted to make sure that everyone else knew what it was. Housing policy was not his favourite subject, but the people before him were being paid to take an interest and to ‘do something’ about it. So he listened patiently, rather wishing he’d had a better lunch. Sandwiches two days running were probably not a good idea. Which was really why he had already taken two glasses of water, and had surreptitiously rubbed his chest a couple of times. Eventually, he excused himself from the meeting, his right hand firmly clasped to his left rib cage.
He returned a few minutes later, full of apologies. Yes, of course he was all right, really - kind of you to ask. Touch of indigestion, he was sure: nothing more than that. Too many sandwiches for lunch, probably. He took another glass of water, and sat under the worried gaze of officials, still clutching his chest.