Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler Page A

strongly that the car, usually imperturbable, started bucking sideways. The drive back through the tangle of Spaghetti Junction could well be an exciting one. Meanwhile, I had an evening of work to get through, including a foray on to a cold, wet runway – not a pleasant social evening, starting in the pub and maybe not getting much further.
    Despite the wait in the car, we still presented ourselves about five minutes early. Mark greeted us affably, then allowed himself an anxious glance at his desk. ‘Look – I have to complete this for tomorrow. Would you mind terribly – there’s some magazines over there—’
    So there were. Nice glossy ones, all about airports. Gurjit devoured the nearest: yes, she’d do well here, or anywhere else for that matter. I thought of the pile of assignments and contemplated with apprehension the prospect of getting up at six to finish marking them. I also looked at Mark, covertly. He seemed to be what might be considered an eligible young male, with, now I came to notice them, the most beautiful eyelashes. Though I didn’t see myself skipping off into domesticity via a romantic sunset, there was something in what Andy had said. Companionship. Someone to cook for – or, better still, with. Someone to go to concerts and theatres with. Someone – yes – someone to go to bed with. And then I blushed. All those prepositions at the end of sentences! And me the arch-pedant of William Murdock. In any case, all this speculation was a bit on the previous side. All we’d done was chat about cricket.
    Mark sighed and looked up. ‘I suppose you teachers find these things easy.’
    â€˜Reports? Not intellectually challenging. But not easy.’
    We exchanged a smile. Hmm. Back to professionalism, Sophie.
    â€˜Only two more minutes,’ he said.
    I dug in my bag for the references he’d need for Gurjit: one from me, one from her personal tutor, both testifying to her honesty and reliability. I had a letter from Richard as well, just in case. I would miss Richard quite badly, now I came to think of it. He’d been at William Murdock when I started; though we’d had the odd skirmish, largely because he considered important rules which I merely saw as a challenge, our relationship had been friendly. What would his replacement be like?
    â€˜There!’ Mark said, replacing the top of his pen with a satisfied click. ‘Right, we’ll go and have a quick half – things won’t hot up till about ten.’
    â€˜Half?’ Gurjit asked.
    â€˜Down at The Flying Saucer,’ he said.
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜A drink at the pub. It’s all right – you can have mineral water,’ I said.
    â€˜I have never been in a pub,’ she said, wide-eyed with panic. ‘My parents—’
    I believed her. Most of her contemporaries weren’t so inclined to filial obedience, of course; we were used to students of all races and religions discovering the pleasures of drink in the library study carrels. All too soon the pleasures were followed by the ignominy of being sick into a waste basket and being expelled as a consequence: even the most disciplined teetotal families had to receive repentant and hung-over students back to their bosoms. Sikh, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jew – we’d seen the lot. But it was a long time since I’d come across a student who hadn’t even been to a pub.
    I caught Mark’s eye.
    â€˜I can offer you tea or coffee, er, Gurjit?’
    â€˜I don’t take stimulants, thank you. My religion—’ She bit her lip, humiliated.
    I tried to rescue her. ‘Mark, I was wondering if you could show Gurjit where she’d be working, tell her roughly what she’ll be expected to do. Then we could see all the action later.’ I passed over the references, which he put in an envelope file.
    Although I’d seen no one else around, he locked his door