Once a month, on a Thursday though that’s irrelevant, I go to the Bridge Club, meet up with old friends, talk, and play cards. A few months ago, I noted that Bob was missing. I asked after him, to be told he had passed away. Would his children move into his house, or try to sell it I wondered? Apparently, Bob had taken out a Retirement Mortgage and a life insurance policy, and upon death, the house and monies from the policy revert to the bank. His family must have been devastated, in more ways than one.

The following month, Pete was missing. I asked after him, and again, was informed that he had died; the funeral was the following week. A few of us oldies attended, and chatting afterwards with his remaining family, gleaned that he too had the same mortgage plan. This was starting to seem suspicious, but my friends just laughed it off; you’re so paranoid they laughed.

Last month, Beryl wasn’t at the club. Her husband had passed away some 8 months earlier and she wasn’t in the best of places though always seemed to enjoy the company at the Bridge Club. It was good to get out, she’d often said. Later, I phoned her family and they confirmed my darkest fears; she too had passed away. By the way, was I aware that she’d taken out a new mortgage? I knew she was having some money problems, and that the house needed some work that she couldn’t afford, and out of the blue, the work had been done though she hadn’t asked her family for any financial help. They also discovered that the house would now not pass to them. Why had she done that? They couldn’t fathom it. She was missing her husband, that was for sure, but she wasn’t that old and had seemed in relatively good health and good spirits.

I was starting to think that maybe the bankers, desperate for their cash, were killing off old folk who’d taken out the new mortgage; not only would they get the house, but the life insurance money too. No. It couldn’t be. Bankers wouldn’t do that, would they? Would they?

Feeling unease in the pit of my stomach, I made my way home from the club only to have some youth barge into me. It left me winded and feeling out of sorts. I struggled the rest of the way home, banged on the front door, and was let in by Fiona, my wife. She helped me to the kitchen table, made me a cup of tea, and started prattling on about how we would have some spare money soon; she’d taken out a mortgage on the house, and some new life policies, and wasn’t it wonderful? We could stay until we died with no worries about money. The dread in the pit of my stomach rose and made its way to my left arm where a dull ache, and pain like I’ve never known settled on my chest. I could feel a cold sweat starting, felt dizzy, a heavy boot was on my chest. Fiona called for an ambulance, but I knew they wouldn’t get there in time. What had that youth done to me? I tried to warn her, tried to tell her about my missing friends at the club, but instead I slumped onto the table and felt my brain fizz as the lights started to go out…