GOD SAVE THE KING

As I cross the courtyard to the execution shed I pass a tangle of bloody feathers. They appear to be the remains of one of the resident corvids, which surprises me because I thought they were already dead. Ravens are powerful and frighteningly astute birds, but they're no match for the tentacled dragonspawn that the New Management has brought to the Tower of London.

These are strange days and I can't say I'm happy about all the regime's decisions — but one does what one must to survive. And rule number one of life under the new regime is, don't piss Him off.

So I do my best to ignore the pavement pizza, and steel myself for what's coming next as I enter the shed, where the client is waiting with the witnesses, a couple of prison officers, and the superintendent.

Executions are formal occasions. I'm here as a participant, acting on behalf of my department. So I'm dressed in my funerals-and-court-appearances suit, special briefcase in hand. As I approach the police checkpoint, a constable makes a point of examining my warrant card. Then she matches me against the list of participants and peeks under my veil before letting me inside. Her partner watches the courtyard, helmet visor down and assault rifle at the ready.

The shed has been redecorated several times since they used to shoot spies in it during the Second World War. It's no longer an indoor shooting range, for one thing. For another, they've installed soundproof partitions and walls, so that the entrance opens onto a reception area before the airlock arrangement leading to a long corridor. They sign me in and I proceed past open doors that reveal spotless cells — the unit is very new, and my client today is the first condemned to be processed — then continue on to the doorway to the execution chamber at the end.

The chamber resembles a small operating theater. The table has straps to hold the client down. There's a one-way window on one wall, behind which I assume the witnesses are already waiting. I pause in the entrance and see, reflected in the mirror, the client staring at the odd whorl of blankness in the doorway.

"Ah, Ms. Murphy." The superintendent nods at me, mildly aggrieved. "You're late." She stands on the far side of the prisoner. She's in her dress uniform: a formal occasion, as already noted.

"Delays on the Circle Line." I shrug. "Sorry to hold you up."

"Yes, well, the prisoner doesn't get to eat breakfast until we're finished here."

I stifle a sigh. "Are we ready to start?" I ask as I place the special briefcase on the side table, then dial in the combination and unlock it.

"Yes." The superintendent turns to one of the prison officers. "Nigel, if you'd be so good as to talk us through the checklist?"

Nigel clears his throat. "Certainly, ma'am. First, a roll-call for the party. Superintendent: present. Security detail of four: present. Executioner: present —"

The condemned, who has been silent since I arrived, rolls his head sideways to glare at me. It's all he can move: he's trussed up like a Christmas turkey. His eyes are brown and liquid, and he has a straggly beard that somehow evades his cheekbones but engulfs his neck, as if he grew it for insulation from the cold. I smile at him as I say, "This won't hurt." Then I remember the veil. I flip it back from my face and he flinches.

"Superintendent, please confirm the identity of the subject."

The superintendent licks her lips. "I hereby confirm that the subject before us today is Mohammed Kadir, as delivered into the custody of this unit on January 12th, 2015."

"Confirmed. Superintendent, please read the execution warrant."

She reaches for a large manila envelope on the counter beside the stainless-steel sink, and opens it. There's a slim document inside, secured with Treasury tags.

"By authority vested in me by order of Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, I hereby uphold and confirm the sentence of death passed on Mohammed Kadir by the High Court on November 25th, 2014, for the crime of High Treason, and upheld on appeal by the Supreme Court on December 5th. Signed and witnessed, Home Secretary ..."

When the New Management reintroduced the death penalty, they also reintroduced the British tradition of greasing the skids under the condemned — letting people rot on death row being seen as more cruel than the fate we're about to inflict on the unfortunate Mr. Kadir. Who, to be fair, probably shouldn't have babbled fantasies about assassinating the new Prime Minister in front of a directional microphone after Friday prayers during a national state of emergency. Sucks to be him.

"Phlebotomist, please prepare the subject."

Mr. Kadir is strapped down with his right arm outstretched and the sleeve of his prison sweatshirt rolled up. Now one of the prison officers steps between us and bends over him, carefully probing the crook of his elbow for a vein. Mr. Kadir is not, thankfully, a junkie. He winces once, then the phlebotomist tapes the needle in place and steps back. He side-eyes me on his way. Is he looking slightly green?

"Executioner, proceed."

This is my cue. I reach into the foam-padded interior of the briefcase for the first sample tube. They're needle-less syringes, just like the ones your doctor uses for blood tests. I pull ten cubic centimeters of blood into it and cap it. Venous blood isn't really blue. In lipstick terms it's dark plum, not crimson gloss. I place the full tube in its recess and take the next one, then repeat the process eighteen times. It's not demanding work, but it requires a steady hand. In the end it takes me just over ten minutes. During the entire process Mr. Kadir lies still, not fighting the restraints. After the third sample, he closes his eyes and relaxes slightly.

Finally, I'm done. I close and latch the briefcase. The phlebotomist slides out the cannula and holds a ball of cotton wool against the pinprick while he applies a sticking plaster. "There, that didn't hurt at all, did it?" I smile at Mr. Kadir. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Mr. Kadir opens his eyes, gives me a deathly stare, and recites the Shahada at me: "la'ilaha 'illa llah muhammadun rasulu llah." That's me told.

I smile wider, giving him a flash of my fangs before I tug my veil forward again. He gives no sign of being reassured by my resuming the veil, possibly because he knows I only wear it in lieu of factor-500 sunblock.

I sign the warrant on Nigel's clipboard. "Executioner, participation concluded," he intones. And that's me, done here.

"You can go now," the superintendent tells me. She looks as if she's aged a decade in the last quarter of an hour, but is also obscurely relieved: the matter is now out of her hands. "We'll get Mr. Kadir settled back in his cell and feed him his breakfast...