The first thing Arthur Bell did every morning was check how much of his life he had left. He did this before getting out of bed, before opening the curtains, before looking at the weather and certainly before answering his phone. He would lie perfectly still in his flat in London, put two fingers against the screen of his watch and wait for the number to appear.
43 years, 7 months, 12 days, 4 hours and 19 minutes.
Arthur preferred minutes. Years were too comforting. Years made a person think they had plenty of them.
He had been doing this for eleven years.
Arthur wasn’t depressed and he wasn’t frightened of death. He thought death was probably the most honest thing in existence. He simply believed that knowing how much time remained was the sensible thing to do. Arthur was a sensible man.
He had a spreadsheet for his savings, another for his investments and a third spreadsheet containing copies of the first two because he had once lost the second one and had not enjoyed the experience.
He lived alone in a flat in London which was expensive enough to make him work hard and small enough to make him wonder why he bothered. There was a photograph of his mother on the kitchen shelf. He had not spoken to her in four years. He kept the photograph because throwing it away would have taken less than a second and somehow that seemed too easy.
At 7:12 each morning he left his flat and walked to the station.
At 7:24 he bought a coffee.
Then at 7:31 he boarded the train.
At 8:16 he arrived at the office
Arthur worked for a company called Bell & Price, which was not related to him despite the name. The company specialised in helping wealthy people purchase additional years of life. It did not describe its business this way. Its official description was Life Extension Finance, which Arthur thought sounded like something invented by a man who had never been alive.
The work was simple. People with money gave some of it away and received time in return. The company handled the calculations, contracts and transfers. Arthur handled the people who complained about the price.
He was very good at this.
He could explain to a seventy-year-old millionaire why six additional years would cost him £3.2 million without making it sound like a particularly unreasonable amount of money. And he could explain to a thirty-year-old banker why selling four years of his life for £180,000 was a terrible financial decision while knowing perfectly well that the man would sign the contract anyway.
Arthur hated the work.
He also loved it.
This was not a contradiction he had ever managed to resolve.
Every month his salary bought him a little more freedom. He kept the figure written on a yellow card beside his monitor.
£8,400 bought him eighteen days.
He had calculated it carefully.
If he continued working until he was fifty-eight, saved everything he could and avoided any serious illness, he would have enough money to stop working permanently. He had checked the figures seventeen times. The result was always the same.
At 58, Arthur Bell would be free
He liked the sound of that.
There was only one problem.
Arthur had never decided what he would do with the freedom once he had bought it.
The problem became slightly more serious at 9:03 that morning.
Arthur was halfway through his second coffee when Margaret Price came into his office and closed the door behind her. Margaret was fifty-six years old and had been working at Bell & Price since before Bell & Price was called Bell & Price. She had a habit of standing in doorways as though she had been placed there by an architect.
“New client,” she said.
Arthur looked at the clock. “At nine?”
“That’s generally when people start having problems.”
She put a folder on his desk.
Arthur looked at the name. Daniel Mercer. Twenty-nine years old.
He opened the folder and read the figure at the top of the first page.
£1,200,000.
Arthur looked at Margaret.
“He’s selling seven years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s twenty-nine.”
Arthur waited for the rest of the explanation.
There wasn’t one.
He looked back at the folder. Daniel Mercer had no criminal record, no serious medical conditions and no outstanding debts. He worked as a software engineer in a company Arthur had never heard of. His salary was good. His projected lifespan was slightly above average.
There was nothing obviously wrong with him.
That bothered Arthur.
People usually came to Bell & Price because something had gone wrong. Cancer. Debt. Divorce. Gambling. A daughter who needed an operation in Switzerland. Once, a man had sold twelve years because he wanted to buy a football club and thought that was a reasonable thing to do.
Daniel Mercer simply wanted the money
Arthur picked up the phone.
“Send him in.”
Daniel arrived two minutes later wearing a dark coat and carrying no briefcase. He looked younger than twenty-nine. Arthur disliked him immediately for this, although he wasn’t sure why.
“Mr Bell?”
“Arthur.”
“Daniel.”
They shook hands, and Daniel sat down.
Arthur opened the folder again. “You understand what you’re selling?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven years of projected lifespan.”
“I know.”
“Once the contract is completed, they’re gone.”
“I know.”
“You won’t be able to buy them back.”
Daniel smiled. “I know that too.”
Arthur looked at him for a moment. Most people became uncomfortable when Arthur said that last part.
Daniel didn’t.
“Why seven?” Arthur asked.
“Because that’s what I need.”
“For what?”
“A house.”
Arthur leaned back. “A seven-year house?”
Daniel laughed. “No. I’m going to buy a house, then I’m going to work for another few years, then I’m going to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Everything.”
Arthur looked down at the folder.
Daniel continued. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. I’m tired of it. I want to have enough money that nobody can tell me where I have to be.”
Arthur almost smiled.
That was exactly what he had wanted.
He looked at the young man sitting opposite him and suddenly felt as though he were looking at an old photograph of himself.
“You think the money will make you free?”
Daniel looked confused.
“It will.”
Arthur didn’t answer
Outside the office, somebody laughed. A printer started making a noise that sounded like it was dying.
Daniel pointed at the contract. “So, can I sign?”
Arthur pushed the papers towards him. “Not yet.”
Daniel looked up.
Arthur turned to the page explaining the financial implications of the transaction. “You should know what seven years actually means.”
Daniel smiled. “I’ve already worked it out.”
“How?”
“Twenty-five thousand five hundred and fifty-five days, give or take.”
Arthur stopped.
Daniel continued. “Seven years is less than eight percent of my life if I make it to ninety. I’m exchanging less than eight percent of my life for enough money to own the rest of it.”
Arthur stared at him.
It was a good argument.
That was the problem.
Arthur had spent eleven years trying to make exactly the same argument. He had simply never heard it spoken by somebody else.
“Sign here,” Arthur said.
Daniel signed
Arthur watched the pen move across the paper.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, he looked at the clock. 9:17.
He had been in the room for fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes he would never get back.
The thought annoyed him.
Then it frightened him.
He looked at Daniel.
“Do you know what you’re buying?” he asked.
Daniel stood up.
“Freedom.”
Arthur watched him leave.
He remained at his desk for several minutes after the door closed. Then he opened the spreadsheet containing his retirement calculations.
He looked at the number beside the word FREEDOM.
58.
He had never questioned it before. He had never needed to. For the first time in eleven years, Arthur wondered whether fifty-eight was an age or merely a date.
He stared at the screen until the numbers became difficult to read.
Then Margaret knocked on the glass.
Arthur closed the spreadsheet.
“You’ve been promoted,” she said.
He looked at her.
“How much?”
Margaret smiled.
“Enough.”
A Man Called Nobody (Ⓒ J.P. 2026)
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