by Peter James
She read it thoroughly, the phone number, the fax number, the e-mail and website addresses.
You're the real reason, Dr Oliver Cabot, aren't you? You're the real reason I'm so damned uptight.
13
'Brandenburg.'
'Any in particular?' the scrub nurse asked.
'Number two, in F, Jane,' Ross said, without looking up from his suturing. 'I think this is a number two in F morning, don't you?' He beamed brightly, a real this-is-what-the-Big-Cheese-wants-and-this-is-what-the-Big-Cheese-is-having beam.
Under the bright octopus lamp, the young woman lay on the table, her eyes open, glazed, motionless as a cadaver. Only the digital displays on the anaesthetics monitor and the constant beep, beep, beep told the six in the operating theatre that she was still alive.
Imran Patel, the registrar, watched closely, studying Ross's technique. The surgeon was coming to the end of the thread. The scrub nurse, wordless, passed a fresh one up to him. This was how Ross liked his theatre to run. The old-style way, where the scrub nurse was there to serve him, where they were all there to serve him, the runner nurse, the anaesthetist, the operating-department assistant, or ODA. Operating theatres needed to run like clockwork. Hierarchy. Discipline. A tight ship.
And pretty nurses.
He liked pretty nurses around him, and considered flirting a perk. He wasn't interested in anything beyond that, though.
Strains of the Brandenburg Concerto No 2 filled the room. Ross pushed the needle through the thin flap of flesh, cropped only minutes earlier from the young woman's thigh, and then through the thick roll of scar tissue from the terrible burns that covered her upper torso. Sally Porter, twenty-seven, a pretty girl before the fire had ravaged her looks. Ross did not know much about the fire, other than that it had happened on a boat. When he was doing reconstructive surgery, he avoided finding out the cause of any tragedy because it might affect his judgement: if he found out a patient had done something really stupid, such as throwing petrol on a barbecue, or deliberately setting fire to themselves, it might anger him and cause him to do a less good job.
Sally Porter would always be an innocent victim. A long-suffering girl, on whom he had operated ten times in the past two years, and on whom he would probably have to operate at least another ten times, trying, one small step at a time, to give her back her life. He admired her guts, her stoicism in coping with the setbacks.
And she'd had her share of setbacks. On one previous operation, the new skin had become infected and died and she'd had to endure the whole operation again. Today's operation was a repeat of one he had performed six months earlier. There had been micro-circulation problem: the skin had constricted too much, pulling her head permanently downwards. It was the endless battle every plastic surgeon fought between beauty and blood supply.
He finished the last of the sutures, stood back and nodded at the photographer, who had returned to the theatre. She stepped forward and took three pictures of his work. Then the registrar began to lay the strips of gauze in place, and the scrub nurse handed Ross the stapler.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Sally Porter was hoisted up while a Fatslide board was slipped under her. Then she was lifted across on to a trolley, and wheeled out to the recovery room. The runner nurse turned off the CD, and the atmosphere in the operating theatre became slack. Then she helped Ross remove his gloves, and binned them. Ross flipped his mask down, slackened the tapes of his gown, and began writing his notes, the registrar looking over his shoulder. He was interrupted by a young nurse holding a cordless phone. 'Mr Ransome, there's a call for you.'
'Who is it?' he asked, irritated. They were on a tight schedule today, and Sally Porter's operation had taken longer than he'd anticipated. It was two thirty, he was hungry and he wasn't going to have time for lunch.
'Um…' The nurse covered the receiver with her hand. Her name was Francine West, she was pretty and she was looking nervous.
'I don't bite,' he said. 'Just find out who it is.'
She went out of the room and returned some moments later. 'It's Dr Ritterman. The third time he's called.'
He slipped out of his gown, handed it to a nurse, then took the phone and went into the corridor. The line was bad, he couldn't tell whether it was this handset or whether the GP was on a mobile.
'Ross,' Ritterman said, in his calm, dry voice, 'sorry to chase you like this.'
'No problem. What's up?'
There was a long pause and Ross, listening to static crackle, wondered if they'd been disconnected. Then the GP spoke again. 'You recall you asked me to see Faith last week?'
'Yuh.' Ross entered the changing room and untied the front of his pyjama trousers with one hand. 'This nausea she's been having, Jules, it seems to have been going on a long time.'
'I had some tests done on her fluids,' Ritterman said, sounding hesitant, 'and I needed to have further analysis on what came back. I — Is this a good time to talk, Ross?'
Urinating, Ross said, 'Actually, no, I have to get back into the theatre.' But GP's tone had worried him. 'What is it, Jules? What do the tests show?'
'Look, Ross, I think we ought to have a chat about this. What time will you be free? I could come over and see you.'
'Can't we do this over the phone?'
'I'd prefer not to, Ross. What time will you be finished today?'
Alarmed, Ross said, 'About six, but I have to dash to the flat and change. I have a livery dinner in the City.'
'What time do you have to be there?'
'Seven thirty.'
'I could pop in about six thirty for a few minutes — I'd have to be away before seven, we're going to the ballet.'
'What's wrong with her, Jules?'
'I think it's best if we discuss this face to face, Ross. It's not good, I'm afraid.'
14
The second visit had been to get the key.
Previously the boy had squeezed in through a tiny lavatory window that seemed to be left permanently open and which was out of sight of any neighbours. But there was a six-foot drop to the floor — far too much risk of being heard if she was in. So he had removed the key that hung on a hook beside the kitchen door, taken it to an ironmonger and had a copy cut, which he'd paid for out of his meagre savings. As an extra precaution he had also bought a can of oil and lubricated every hinge in the house.
Now, enough light spilled through from the hall for him to see the squalid state of the kitchen — just like it had been before: dirty plates piled in the sink, an open tin of spaghetti rings sitting on the draining-board, two plates crusted with congealed food on the Formica-topped table, both with cigarette butts crushed out in them. On the floor beside the pedal bin lay an egg shell and a curled length of orange peel.
It was disgusting. Embarrassing.
He took this personally.
There was a sharp click and the fridge stopped humming. In the silence her voice seemed even louder. 'Oh, yes, don't stop!'
And as he listened to her cries, he thought, You didn't like the mess I made and yet you live like this?
15
The house was silent. Alec had been taken to see the wild animals at Longleat by a schoolfriend's family. Faith missed him. She worried about him constantly when he was out of her sight, fretted about him travelling in a stranger's car, hoping he had his seat-belt on properly, or getting out of the car in the safari park. She could not imagine life without Alec. She wondered where he was now as she sat in the leather swivel chair in Ross's study, in front of his computer, logged on, entered her password, and checked her e-mail.
Not much this morning — the date of the next committee meeting about the blocked footpath, a brief message from an old friend who had moved to Los Angeles, some junk mail and the daily collection of news from the abused women's network, to which she had subscribed a while back when she had been feeling particularly down.
She went on to the web, read the address on Dr Oliver Cabot's business card, then carefully typed
it in.
Outside, in the teeming rain, Morris the gardener, in a cagoule with the hood raised, pushed a laden wheelbarrow past the window. Rasputin growled, padded over to the window and barked.
'Quiet, boy! It's only Morris,' she said. The gardener was nervous of dogs, and Rasputin made sure he stayed that way. 'We'll go walkies later, when it eases up.'
Suddenly, on the screen appeared the words:
Cur'd yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
Matthew Prior, 1664-1721,
'The Remedy Worse Than The Disease'
Faith smiled. Moments later the words faded and large letters proclaimed:
WELCOME TO THE CABOT CENTRE FOR COMPLEMENTARY MEDICINE. YOU ARE VISITOR NUMBER 111926.
Then a picture of the exterior of the Centre appeared — it looked like a tall, narrow church — with a photograph of Oliver Cabot: he was dressed all in black, eyes twinkling behind those tiny oval glasses.
She felt a tiny lump of excitement at the sight of him. Gripping the mouse she moved the cursor and clicked in the top right corner of the frame. Instantly the frame enlarged, and a few seconds later his face filled the screen.
The gardener trudged back across the window and, absurdly, she knew, she looked away from the screen to the wall, as if studying the framed picture of Ross shaking hands with Princess Anne at a charity function.
She looked back at Oliver Cabot's image once more, and felt a deep yearning to see him again. Crazy, she thought. I'm like an infatuated teenager. Crazy, and yet…
She scrolled down and his image disappeared. A list of the services offered at the centre came up: acupuncture and Chinese medicine, aromatherapy, chronotherapy, craniosacral therapy, colonic irrigation, colourpuncture, counselling and psychotherapy, homeopathy, hypnotherapy, manual lymphatic drainage, manumassage, osteopathy, reflexology, reiki, Shiatsu.
Below that it said:
All our therapists at the Cabot Centre meet the highest international standards, and all, where policies permit, are practitioners accredited by major health-insurance companies. Come and visit our oasis of tranquillity in the heart of London.
There followed a phone number, fax number, e-mail address and a link to other related sites. She read the phone number, then found herself checking it on Oliver Cabot's business card. Hesitating, she eyed Ross's dark grey Bang and Olufsen phone. A knot tightened in her throat.
He's just going to show me around the clinic, that's all, no big deal or anything.
And maybe Dr Oliver Cabot could give her something to knock this bug on the head.
Picking up the receiver, she was about to dial when she saw a car, headlights on, nosing through the front gates. A white Mercedes estate came down the drive, its occupant obscured behind the rain-lashed windscreen. She watched it with a frown, displeased at the interruption.
Then, as the door opened, she instantly recognised the driver. Wrapped in a riding coat, and beneath a practical but ludicrous looking rain-hat, it was the world's most boring woman.
Felice D'Eath.
Shit.
Faith had been co-opted with Felice D'Eath on to a sub-committee of the NSPCC, organising this year's Hallowe'en Ball. Although it was nearly six months away, the woman had been bombarding her since before Christmas with posted memoranda, then faxed ones, and finally, horror of horrors, she had discovered the Internet and now her e-mails poured in. Every damned gift donated for the tombola was scrupulously detailed to Faith, and so far the tally was three hundred and twenty prizes.
She logged off the site and hurried to the door as a volley of raps from the knocker echoed around the hall.
In her reedy voice, Felice D'Eath said, 'Ohhhhh, Faith, I'm sooo pleased to have caught you in. I've got the car compleeetely filled up with prizes.'
Faith stared past her at the rain, which was now coming down even harder. Felice peeled off her hat, shook free her dreary brown hair, then began unbuttoning her coat. 'What a horrible afternoon,' she said, 'but it's clearing from the west — it'll stop in about half an hour. We can unload the car then. You look pale, Faith — are you all right?'
'I'm fine.'
'You really don't look it. Anyway, Let's sit down and discuss the tombola layout — I've had some thoughts about this — and we can go over the list. Last year they raised seven hundred pounds on the tombola. I think we should try to double that at least, don't you?'
'Yes,' Faith said, resignedly, closing the door behind her. 'At least.'
As they went into the kitchen, Felice said, 'An Aga. Lovely to look at, but so terribly wasteful. They keep pumping out heat when you really don't need it. There was one in our house when we bought it, but we had it taken out.'
'Really?' Faith said. 'We had one put in. Tea or coffee?'
Plonking herself in a chair, Felice unwrapped a sodden silk scarf from around her neck and laid it on the table. 'Do you have any herbal tea? Tannin is so bad for the stomach lining and I find coffee quite devastating — it kills all the minerals in one's system.'
Faith put the kettle on the Aga hotplate. 'I didn't know. I have camomile.'
'Anything else?'
'Only camomile.'
'Well, I suppose so, then, but camomile always sends me to sleep.'
Faith dropped two bags into her cup.
16
Ross, in stockinged feet, braces of his dinner-suit trousers hanging loose, ushered Jules Ritterman into the living room of his small flat close to Regent's Park, and steered him to one of the two-seater chesterfields opposite each other in front of the fireplace, separated by a low oak chest that served as a coffee table. Gas flames leaped up among the imitation logs. Chopin played on the CD.
He felt strained: Ritterman's words had been preying on him all afternoon, whittling away at his concentration. His mind had begun to wander when he was cutting through a cheek muscle, and he had nearly severed a nerve, which would have left the patient with one side of her face partially paralysed.
He wanted desperately to hear what the doctor had to tell him, but he said, 'Can I get you a drink, Jules?'
'Well, just a very small whisky, thank you, if you have time. A livery dinner, you said?'
Hurrying out to the kitchen, Ross called, 'Barber-Surgeons Hall — I'll have to leave just after seven. You're going to the ballet?'
'Les Sylphides.'
It was one of the few ballets Ross knew. Faith had a CD of it at home. He poured some Macallan into a crystal tumbler and shouted, 'Any water or ice?'
'A splash of water.'
Oh, God, please be all right, Faith.
As Ross padded back into the room, the doctor's eyes were roving approvingly over the fine pieces of antique furniture and the oil paintings on the walls, mostly eighteenth- and nineteenth-century naval scenes. 'It really is a most charming place this, Ross. Are you using it a lot?'
'Three or four nights a week. It's a little small, but it suits me fine. Faith hardly ever comes to town these days. You and Hilde will have to come to dinner again when I can drag her away from Alec and up here for a night.'
'That would be very nice.' Ritterman smiled. 'How's your golf these days?'
'Crap. I've got into shooting, joined a couple of syndicates.' He sat opposite the GP, leaving his glass on its coaster on the oak chest, glanced at his watch anxiously, and said, 'So?'
The doctor leaned forward, pressed his hands firmly on his thighs, as if to iron out creases in his trousers. 'Um,' he said. 'I…' He raised his glass and stared hard at it. 'Look, there are a few more tests I could do, just to make certain, but I'm sure in my own mind, Ross. And I've had a couple of informed opinions as well. How familiar are you with hydrophobia?'
Ritterman's tone was making Ross even more frightened. 'Hydrophobia — as in rabies?'
Ritterman nodded.
'Faith has rabies?'
Ritterman stopped him with a raised hand. 'No, but I'm afraid she has something that attacks the human neurochemistry in much
the same way.'
'As severely?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Wh— what kind of a disease? Viral? Inherited? Communicated? What's the prognosis, Jules?'
Ritterman massaged the base of his neck. 'It's viral, probably waterborne. All the known cases have contracted this disease after visiting areas in the Far East bordering the Indian Ocean and South China Sea — which, of course, includes Thailand. It's known as Lendt's disease.'
'Lendt's disease?'
'Named after Hans Lendt, the American immunologist who identified it. I've had a look at several case histories in the past week, and they all share similar characteristics. The first symptom is prolonged nausea — the patient usually feels this for two to three months. Increasing disorientation with delusions of persecution follow. Night terrors. Terminal features include fluctuating levels of consciousness and hallucinations. Then a gradual loss of motor-control functions.' Ritterman fell silent.
Ross tried to picture all these things happening to Faith. He lifted his glass, turned it round and set it down again without drinking. His mouth was dry. 'What's the treatment?' He asked the question, although he could already read the answer in Ritterman's face.
'There isn't one, Ross,' he said, baldly.
'Nothing?' It came from Ross's throat like a yelp of pain.
'There are clinical trials in progress but no specific treatment as yet. The disease was only identified eight years ago with a handful of cases around the world, mostly visitors to that area from Europe, the United States and Australia. But it's growing rapidly. About three thousand people have been diagnosed with it and the numbers could double in the next twelve months.'
