A Fatal Obsession. Faith Martin

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       CHAPTER THREE

      Dr Clement Ryder reached for the claret jug and swore loudly as his hand began to twitch.

      It was dark outside, it had been a long and tiring day, and after going out for a quick and rather unsatisfying meal of sausages and mash in his local pub, he felt like he deserved a decent nightcap by his own fireside. Having a nightcap at all was a rare occurrence for him, since he seldom drank alone. Now he realised he probably shouldn’t have bothered, since he couldn’t seem to hold the glass straight, damn it.

      At least, he thought grimly, the shakes hadn’t started until after he’d left the office. And so far, praise be, he’d never had an attack of them while actually in court. Which meant the humiliating moment when he’d have to come clean about his condition to his staff and superiors could be put off a while longer yet.

      Which was just as well. Clement had no intention of telling anyone anything, if he could help it.

      At fifty-seven, Clement was beginning to feel the cold more and more, he’d noticed. Luckily, his thick-walled Victorian house overlooking South Parks Road was relatively draught-proof, and as he carefully poured out a small measure of his third-best claret, he was pleased to note that he didn’t spill a drop.

      He smiled sourly, but knew he should be grateful for even small victories.

      So far, the shaking palsy that had begun to stalk him a little over five years ago hadn’t become a major issue in his new life. Even though it had, obviously, put paid to his old one.

      Born to middle-class parents in a suburb of Cheltenham, Clement had earned a scholarship to Oxford, where he’d studied medicine. From there he’d gone on to a residency at a major London hospital, culminating, after years of hard graft and more study, in a surgical position at the same hospital.

      He’d then gone on to specialise in heart surgery, and by the age of forty had smugly assumed his life would continue in the same vein.

      Of course, it hadn’t. His children had grown rapidly and, with a thirst for independence, had left home at the first opportunity. Which, as it turned out, was just as well since Angela, his wife, had died before she could reach her fiftieth birthday.

      And, as if that hadn’t been enough of a blow, two years later, while preparing for surgery, he’d noticed a slight tremble in his left hand when he’d been scrubbing up.

      Naturally, he’d dismissed it as probably nothing. The surgery had gone well, but two weeks later, he’d felt a slight weakness in his arm when he’d been lifting a half pint of beer at a retirement party for one of his colleagues.

      Again, he’d dismissed it – but perhaps not quite so quickly, and with an added sense of unease and foreboding.

      Over the next year, he monitored himself closely, noting down every little incident, every little unexplained tremble or weakness of limb. And, of course, he’d done his research.

      He found that, way back in the mists of time, ‘paralysis agitans’ had been known to physicians. But it was only in 1817 that James Parkinson had published ‘An Essay in the Shaking Palsy’, which best described the familiar characteristics of people suffering from this condition, detailing the resting tremor, abnormal posture and gait, paralysis and diminished muscle strength, and the way the disease progressed over time.

      At first, Clement had not accepted it. There were other possible causes of his symptoms, after all. But one thing became immediately clear – he could not continue operating on people until he knew for sure.

      And so he’d taken a few weeks of leave and, under a false name, booked himself into a little clinic he knew of in the south of France, where he’d ordered and overseen a series of tests he’d had run on himself. And when the results came in, he knew they effectively meant the end of his world.

      Clement sighed heavily now as he took a large gulp of the claret. He was vaguely aware that, since he’d ceased operating, he had slowly grown used to becoming a social drinker – in a minor way. Fastidious about not touching alcohol for so many years, it made a nice change to be able to indulge now and then.

      But, he thought now, with a snort of amusement, if people did begin to detect the odd whiff of alcohol on his breath, getting a reputation for being a bit of a lush could be a positive bonus. It would help explain СКАЧАТЬ