Free A Death of Distinction by Marjorie Eccles

suddenly, aware of his intense scrutiny.
    â€˜Not exactly,’ Marc said.
    Far from it, really, though he would like to have been, if the long years of training before he would be qualified hadn’t deterred him. He’d been working as a hospital porter when he’d heard about Operating Department Practitioners, or ODPs, as they were known, who worked in the operating theatres and assisted the surgeon and the anaesthetist. The idea appealed to him immediately, and it turned out to be almost as good as being a doctor: he’d studied subjects allied to surgery and anaesthetics during his two-year training, which wasn’t too long, though it was rigorous and needed a lot of study and application. But because this was something he really wanted to do, he’d passed both practical and theoretical exams with flying colours and would soon be on the second grade, a senior ODP, and could, theoretically, rise to Assistant Chief, or even Chief, though he wasn’t sure he wanted that. It involved too much administrative work for his taste, whereas he enjoyed the practical side – setting up the technical equipment, checking that the ventilators were working, even monitoring the patient, occasionally, when the anaesthetist was called away. He liked the responsibility and power it gave him, particularly the feeling of having control over life and death: if he were to make a mistake, or failed to anticipate the anaesthetist’s needs, if he allowed his attention to wander, no doubt about it, the patient could very easily die.

7
    Josie Davis, small and very slim, with short, bleached, neatly cut hair, wearing tight jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, was whipping round the weekend chores with her usual brisk efficiency.
    Every Saturday morning the small house was blitzed from top to bottom, windows cleaned, floors vacuumed, furniture dusted and polished, while the week’s washing was whirling around in her new combined washer and tumble dryer. Nobody was going to get the chance to say she didn’t keep her home nice, though it was bloody hard work, keeping it spotless and looking after the children, besides working full time in the mail-order office. But if she hadn’t had the job, never mind that it bored her out of her mind, there wouldn’t be a house, not to mention the little luxuries she felt they were all entitled to. They’d taken on a bitch of a mortgage, dependent on their combined wages, hers and Barry’s, to buy it. The house was brilliant, a new one on a small estate, better than the last grotty old shack – or anything she’d ever lived in before.
    She was hoping to get the ironing done before getting the bus into town to shop for some clothes – you couldn’t go on wearing the same things day after day in the office, the other girls would look down their noses – and to buy some ready-prepared meals from Marks. Dear, but you had to pay for conveniences when the twins let themselves in from school all they had to do was to microwave boeuf bourguignon or chicken tikka masala to eat while they watched Neighbours.
    She rubbed the windows even more vigorously, cheered by the idea that she might buy herself something smart this afternoon that she could wear that night. Being Saturday, they’d a sitter coming in so that she could go down the club with Barry.
    Busy, busy, busy, every weekend the same.
    So she wasn’t exactly delighted to see two men walking purposefully up the path beside the handkerchief-sized lawn. Especially when she recognized them immediately for what they were.
    She told them grudgingly that they’d better come in, evidently on tenterhooks that the neighbours might see and hear. It was a fear Martin Kite often played on to his own advantage – getting the door banged in your face earned you no medals. He smiled seraphically in the face of her scowl and allowed her to lead them indoors.
    Two neat little girls of around ten, as