Free (2013) Looks Could Kill by David Ellis

wondered what she put in her passport: ‘nurse’ just wouldn’t cut it.
    Professor Cuthbertson’s idiosyncrasies remained an irritation to all, but Emma had a way of appealing to his vanity which by and large meant that she was excused duty in the operating theatre. One thing they did share in common was an interest in lepidoptery and she discovered that his favourite UK butterfly was the Brimstone. The reality was that he was a misogynist through and through and couldn’t comprehend how a woman could be a doctor, let alone stand up to the pressure of surgery and the operating theatre. Fortunately, pharmacology remained something of a mystery to him, so he rarely questioned what Emma wrote up on the patients’ charts.
    “Emma?” called matron.  
    “Yes, how can I help?”
    “Would you have a look at Mr Simmonds in bed 5? He’s complaining of being in a lot of pain and you might need to check his analgesia.”
    “Will do.”
    Mr Simmonds was a man in his 70s who had cancer of the prostate with metastases in his spine. That wouldn’t usually be a reason for him being on a general surgical ward, but he also had a large inguinal hernia which was adding to his discomfort. He was now a few days post-op and should have been going home, but pain management was posing a problem and the hospital’s pain team hadn’t been to see him. He was on patient-controlled analgesia but this didn’t seem to be very effective. He also lived alone and had no known relatives.
    “Hello, Mr Simmonds, is it alright if I have a chat with you?” Emma asked.
    Mr Simmonds nodded and removed the headphones he was using to listen to his cassette player. There was a pile of classical music cassettes on his bedside table.
    “I see you like music,” said Emma.
    “Yes, doctor, it helps take my mind off the pain, but it makes me a bit maudlin if you know what I mean.”
    “Matron wonders whether your pump needs some adjustment,” explained Emma
    Emma checked the settings on the pump and it seemed that the morphine was on the lowest level.
    “Well, the level of painkiller is at the lowest setting, so that’s probably why you’ve been in so much pain. Let me show you what you have to do to increase it.”
    Emma gave him the control and showed him how to use the buttons to increase or decrease the infusion.
    “Thanks, doctor, I appreciate that.”
    “And perhaps try something a bit more uplifting than Verdi’s Requiem?”
    “Point taken, doctor.”
    Before going, Emma glanced at him. Pain was ingrained into his face. She caught his eyes briefly and felt an intense wave of despair wash over her. She gasped and had to take a couple of breaths.
    Mr Simmonds looked at her, puzzled by her reaction. “You’ve been working too hard, doctor.”
    “Perhaps. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Simmonds.”
    Later that afternoon, as she was leaving the ward, she glanced at his bed and noticed that he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, the headphones still on his head.
     

February 1988
     
     
    Emma breathed a sigh of relief when she finally collected the sign-off from the Professor’s secretary. She didn’t know how she’d coped with his arrogance for the past six months, but at least the sign-off was the first step to getting her full registration. As expected, he’d made some comment about “presumptuous” prescribing. 
    Today, Emma was heading for her next house officer post at St Edwards’ Hospital, but this time it was well away from any so-called ‘centre of excellence’ and it was medicine rather than surgery. She’d always thought she’d feel more comfortable treating illness without cutting into the patient.
    Walking into the hospital’s postgraduate centre, she was struck by how different it all seemed from her first job. Rather than long corridors and dark, wood-panelled walls, this hospital was laid out around a light, spacious atrium and the glow of winter sunshine seemed to spread everywhere. There seemed little chance of a