Death on Demand Read Online Free PDF Page A

volunteered it. He was happier to go to work than get home, happier to hook up with his male friends than stay with her.
    Because there was more to life than lunches with other ladies who lunched, and tennis, and yoga classes, and charity work (socializing by any other name), and overseas holidays, and supervising the gardener.
    Because the children had left home.
    Because she was ashamed of not having done more with her life, in the sense of using her ability and exposing herself to a wider range of experiences and challenges.
    Because it was too long since she’d had an adventure.
    Because she was bored.
    Because she wanted to have a secret, something thrilling and forbidden she could relive second by second when she woke up at three in the morning.
    Because when it was over she could walk away, knowing there would be no aftermath, no repercussions.

    Because there was no risk.
    She finished her coffee. Her hands had stopped shaking. She placed her palms on her cheeks. They were warm as opposed to hot, which meant pink as opposed to crimson. Pink she could live with.
    She stood up and walked out of the café, not caring if people were staring at her, feeling the first, faint stirrings of arousal.

CHRISTOPHER
St Heliers, Auckland, two weeks ago
    He’d always wondered how he’d react if it came to this. Pretty well as it turned out, assuming you subscribe to the code of the stiff upper lip. Quite the stoic, in fact. He hadn’t swooned or broken down or got angry; he’d sought clarity on the time frame and, as the condemned often do, thanked his sentencer. The specialist had admired his courage, belated acknowledgement that he was a patient rather than a case study.
    It was a different story at home, of course. He’d thrown up, he’d howled and ranted, he’d soaked his shirt front with tears like equatorial raindrops. When the crying jag had run its course, he stared at himself in the mirror above the basin. A Latin phrase he hadn’t used or thought of since boarding school popped into his head: Morituri te salutant – those who are about to die salute you. He seemed to remember it was what the gladiators said to the emperor before hacking each other to bits for his entertainment.
    He sat beside the pool drinking $300 cognac. Buggered if he was going to leave that for the wake. When the sun went down he went inside and passed out on the sofa. He
woke up in a room stuffy with sun, having slept for fourteen hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed ten; probably not since his student days. It was a fine time to regain the knack of sleeping in.
    He thought about telling his friends, but that could wait. There was nothing they could say or do and he wanted to put off being treated as an endangered species for as long as possible. They would ask, “Have you had a second opinion?” This was the second opinion – and third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. The best people in the field in Australasia, doyens and Young Turks, safe pairs of hands and pushers of the envelope, optimists and pessimists, had read the notes and studied the images. They were unanimous: It’s inoperable. It’s terminal. Time is very short. We are very sorry.
    He would put off telling the kids for as long as possible too. They were both overseas and there was no point in disrupting their busy lives any earlier than necessary. That was how he rationalized it anyway. The real reason was that their grief would be intolerable.
    He thought of getting in touch with his ex, just out of curiosity really. Would she feel guilty about the way she dumped him, without warning or sympathy? Would she offer to nurse him? He suspected the answers would be no – she simply didn’t do guilt, that one – and yes. She’d probably want to be involved, not because he meant anything to her, but because she would respect the fact that he was dying. But he wouldn’t have that. No matter how