Frère Jacques

James Pascal MP hit send on his final tweet, watching the engagement numbers climb in real-time. Seventy-four per cent public support for the Assisted Dying Bill. The Lords would cave by teatime, and his political legacy would be sealed in compassionate legislation. Three years of careful orchestration, media management, and moral positioning had led to this perfect storm of righteous inevitability.

His phone buzzed. Helen: Emergency at theatre. Take Ollie to school. Nanny's flight left early—family crisis.

James stared at the message, his meticulously planned morning dissolving like sugar in rain. Ollie. Brilliant, unfiltered, magnificently autistic Ollie, who treated social conventions like optional software updates and had memorised the Google Translate shortcuts for seventeen languages. Today of all days, when every word would be dissected and every moment recorded.

"Merde alors," he muttered, then caught himself. Even French wouldn't fool Ollie anymore.

Twenty minutes later, James found himself getting into the back of a government car alongside his eight-year-old son, who was arranging his school books by publication date whilst humming something that sounded suspiciously like a funeral march. The driver was ancient—impossibly ancient—with hands so liver-spotted they looked like maps of forgotten empires.

"Change of plans, I'm afraid," James announced. "Pembridge Academy first, then Westminster."

"Of course, sir." The voice was warm honey over gravel, with the faintest trace of humming beneath it. "I'm Bill Fletcher. Haven't had the pleasure of driving you before."

Ollie looked up from his books with the clinical interest he usually reserved for specimens under microscopes. "You look very old. Are you going to die soon?"

"Ollie!" Heat flooded James's cheeks. "You can't just—che cazzo—you can't ask people that."

"We all die, young man," Fletcher chuckled, his fingers drumming a gentle rhythm on the steering wheel. "The only question is whether we choose the when and the how, or let nature take its brutal course."

He began humming again—something light, almost childlike. James recognised the melody but couldn't place it.

"My father's making it legal for doctors to kill people," Ollie announced matter-of-factly. "He says it's compassionate. Mum says it's his 'signature policy,' which is strange because he can't even choose what cereal to have for breakfast."

"Ollie, it's not about killing—"

"But you said Mrs. Henderson next door would be better off dead because she forgets things. You said watching her 'deteriorate was painful for everyone involved.' Then you laughed."

The car hit a pothole, and James watched Fletcher's eyes flick to the mirror. There was something in that glance—not surprise, but recognition. Like a chess player seeing an opponent's strategy laid bare three moves too early. Fletcher's humming grew slightly louder.

"I never said that exactly," James protested weakly, though his chest tightened with the memory of that phone call with Richard, the casual cruelty of his own words.

"You did. Tuesday evening, 7:23 PM. You were in the kitchen making coffee. You used those exact words."

Fletcher made a soft sound that might have been approval. "Sharp memory, your boy has. Sees things clearly, doesn't he? No filters to muddy the waters."

They turned onto a route James didn't recognise, narrow streets that seemed to curve back on themselves like a labyrinth. Fletcher drove with the confidence of someone who'd navigated these paths for decades, but James was certain he'd never seen these terraced houses before, these peculiar lamp posts that flickered in broad daylight.

"Are we going the right way?" James asked.

"Oh yes, sir. Sometimes the direct route isn't the quickest." Fletcher's humming had resolved into something more distinct now. A children's song, James realised. French. "Young man, do you know any French songs?"

Ollie perked up immediately. "Frère Jacques! We learned it at school. It's about a monk who sleeps too much."

"Clever boy. And what happens to monks who sleep when they should be awake?"

"They miss morning prayers," Ollie said solemnly. "They fail in their duty."

"Precisely." Fletcher's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Dormez-vous, Frère Jacques? Are you sleeping, Brother James?"

The use of his name—his actual name, not the formal 'sir'—sent ice through James's veins. "How did you—"

"Curious thing about sleep," Fletcher continued, his humming weaving between words like smoke. "People think it's peaceful, restful. But sometimes when you're asleep, the most important things slip by. Bells that need ringing. Duties that need attending. Consequences that need considering."

They passed a street sign James couldn't read—the letters seemed to shimmer and rearrange themselves. "Driver, I really think we should—"

"Dad, why do you look scared?" Ollie's voice cut through James's rising panic. "You've gone all white like when you watched that horror film and had to leave the room."

"I'm not scared, I'm just—porca miseria—I need to get to Westminster."

"Language, Dad. That's Italian swearing."

Fletcher's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "Your boy keeps excellent track of things, doesn't he? Very... organised. Very precise. Must be exhausting sometimes."

The comment hung in the air like a loaded question. James found himself studying the back of Fletcher's head, noting details that seemed wrong somehow. The way his hair grew in precise patterns. The way his neck had no visible wrinkles despite his apparent age. The way his humming never seemed to require breathing.

"It's not exhausting," James said defensively. "Ollie is brilliant. He just sees the world differently."

"Oh, I'm sure he does. Different can be... challenging, though. For families. For society. All those special needs, special schools, special considerations. Such a burden on resources."

James felt his pulse quicken. Something in Fletcher's tone—still warm, still grandfatherly—had acquired an edge like a blade wrapped in silk. From somewhere in the distance came a rhythmic sound, steady and mechanical, like a metronome counting down. "He's not a burden."

"Of course not," Fletcher said smoothly. "I wasn't suggesting he was. Merely observing that your bill—your beautiful, compassionate bill—offers such elegant solutions for quality of life issues. When life becomes... too difficult. Too painful. For everyone involved."

"That's not—my bill isn't about—"

"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques," Fletcher began singing softly, his voice surprisingly melodious for someone so old. "Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?"

Ollie joined in automatically, his young voice bright against Fletcher's weathered tones. "Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines."

"Din don don," Fletcher concluded, then let silence settle like dust. "Lovely song. Very French. Very... practical."

They were driving through what looked like a forest now, though James was certain they'd been in central London moments ago. Ancient oaks pressed close to narrow road, their branches forming a canopy so dense it blocked out the morning sun. In the green-filtered light, Fletcher's reflection in the rearview mirror seemed to flicker.

"Where are we?" James asked.

"Taking a scenic route," Fletcher replied. "Woods can be so peaceful, don't you think? So removed from the noise of the city. The demands of... difficult cases."

"Stop the car."

"Nearly there, sir. Just through these trees and we'll be out in the clear."

But they weren't emerging from anything. If anything, the forest was growing thicker, older, more primeval. James could smell something sweet and cloying through the air conditioning—not flowers, exactly, but something that had been flowers once. That rhythmic pulse echoed again, more insistent now, cutting through the forest sounds like a machine keeping time.

"Dad, are we lost?" Ollie's voice was smaller now, uncertain.

"Of course not," Fletcher said, his eyes meeting James's in the mirror. "We're exactly where we need to be. Your father has some very important work to do today, doesn't he? A vote that will change so many lives."

"Make them better," Ollie said, but it sounded more like a question.

"Better," Fletcher agreed. "Shorter. More... manageable. Less of a strain on the system."

James's hands clenched into fists. "Stop the car. Right now."

"But we haven't finished our conversation yet," Fletcher said reasonably. "About quality of life. About dignity. About the burden—forgive me, the challenge—of caring for those who require constant attention. Who will never contribute meaningfully to society. Who drain resources that could be used for more... typical individuals."

"Santo cielo, you sick—"

"Dad, you're doing the angry voice," Ollie observed with clinical precision. "The one you use when people disagree with your bill. Your face goes red and you make fists."

Fletcher laughed—a sound like autumn leaves crackling. "He knows you very well, doesn't he? Sees right through the performance to the man beneath. That's the thing about conditions like his—no social filters. No polite deceptions. Just truth, raw and uncomfortable."

"Don't you dare talk about my son like that."

"Like what? I'm simply using your own words, your own arguments. Everything you've said about dignity, about choice, about the right to end suffering. Surely that applies to all forms of suffering? Even the... developmental kind?"

The car was slowing now, pulling into a clearing James didn't remember entering. Other vehicles were parked there—black cars with tinted windows, all empty, all somehow familiar. Fletcher put the car in park but didn't switch off the engine.

"You see, Mr. Pascal," Fletcher continued, turning in his seat to face them both, "your bill is quite remarkable. So comprehensive. So... applicable. Once we establish the principle that life can be too difficult to continue, well... the applications are limitless."

In the clearer light of the clearing, Fletcher looked different. Younger somehow, despite the ancient hands. His eyes were the wrong colour—not brown or blue or green, but something that shifted like oil on water. When he smiled, his teeth seemed too numerous.

"Who are you?" James whispered.

"I'm exactly who I said I was," Fletcher replied, his voice now carrying harmonics that hadn't been there before. "Bill Fletcher. I've been driving for the department for a very long time. Much longer than you might imagine. I help facilitate... transitions."

He began humming again, but the melody was different now—still Frère Jacques, but in a minor key that made James's skin crawl.

"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques," Fletcher sang, his voice weaving through octaves no human throat should reach. "Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines..."

"Dad," Ollie said quietly, "I don't like this song anymore."

"Neither do I," James breathed.

"But you should," Fletcher said, his smile widening impossibly. "After all, you wrote it. Every verse, every chorus. Every beautiful justification for why some lives are worth preserving and others... aren't."

The other cars in the clearing began starting their engines, though James could see no drivers. The sound rose like a mechanical choir, harmonising with Fletcher's singing.

"Din don don," Fletcher concluded, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the entire forest. "Din don don."

He turned back to the steering wheel and put the car in drive. "Well then, gentlemen. Shall we proceed to Westminster? I believe you have some very important votes to cast."

As they pulled away from the clearing, James caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. The other cars were following them, forming a procession through the impossible forest. In the rearview mirror, he could see other passengers now—shadowy figures in the back seats, all staring forward with empty eyes.

"Frère Jacques," Fletcher hummed contentedly as they drove deeper into the woods. "Dormez-vous?"

And James realised, with crystal clarity, that they were very definitely not out of the woods yet.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

James Pascal MP came round to the steady beep of medical equipment and the antiseptic smell of hospital air. Helen was beside his bed, still in her theatre scrubs, her face streaked with tears and exhaustion.

"Thank God," she whispered, gripping his hand. "James, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

His throat felt raw, his head heavy with medication fog. "Hospital?"

"You've been unconscious for six hours. The crash—" Her voice broke. "They said you drove straight into a tree on Hampstead Heath. No braking, no attempt to turn. Like you just... nodded off at the wheel."

"The vote," James croaked. "The bill—"

"Passed," Helen said quietly. "Seventy-three to forty-seven. It's done, James. Your bill is law."

He tried to sit up, but dizziness crashed over him. "Ollie. Where's Ollie?"

Helen's grip on his hand tightened. "James, you were alone in the car. Ollie's at school. He's been at school all day. The nanny never cancelled—her nan is perfectly fine. I never rang you to take him anywhere."

"But Fletcher—the driver—"

"There was no driver, love. They found you behind the wheel. Alone."

James stared at the ceiling, fragments of memory swirling like leaves in an autumn wind. A children's song hummed in a voice like honey over gravel. The smell of flowers that had been flowers once. Questions about sleeping, about duties, about the weight of difficult choices.

On the bedside table, his phone showed seventeen missed calls from journalists, all wanting statements about his triumph. The Assisted Dying Bill was headline news. History had been made. Lives would be changed.

"Frère Jacques," he whispered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing." James closed his eyes, but even in the darkness behind his lids, he could hear it—that gentle, inexorable humming, weaving through the hospital's mechanical sounds like smoke through trees. "Just a song I can't get out of my head."

Outside his window, Westminster's towers gleamed in the afternoon sun, and somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing.