The Secret Anatomy of Candles

by Quentin Smith

  “I’m sorry, I’ll have it collected,” Jasper said in a monotone voice and disconnected the call.

  FORTY SIX

  Jasper’s walk through the centre of Northallerton was slow and pensive, each leaden footstep thudding as he gradually approached the formidable Salvation Army signpost, his landmark for locating the surgery. Blood and Fire: the words of the Salvation Army motto resonated in Jasper’s head as he contemplated where he might be destined to end up.

  The waiting room was more cheerful, with brightly dressed mothers and their children, smiling pensioners, everyone nursing some form of ailment, but seemingly none the worse for it.

  “Mr Candle,” Dr Giordano called to him in her mellifluous Neapolitan voice, rescuing him from a little girl who was going around the waiting room offering jelly beans to all the doting pensioners.

  Jasper unbuttoned his thick cashmere coat before sitting down in her consulting room, quickly regretting this decision. His arms disobeyed, his neck contorted and his waist twisted twice, most of which would have been largely obscured beneath the thick folds of his coat. He felt self conscious, embarrassed and under scrutiny.

  “How have you been?” she said with a concerned smile, tapping at the keyboard on her desk to bring up his details.

  He shrugged.

  “I’m keeping busy, I’m coping, I think.”

  “Have you been to see Dr Montgolfier yet?”

  She glanced across at him.

  “No,” he said quickly and looked down.

  Giordano nodded but the smile faded slightly.

  “He’s very good, you know.”

  “I have made an effort to cut back. It’s been difficult though… Jennifer’s funeral was only… on Friday.”

  “Good,” she said and oozed positive appreciation. “You will need to, Mr Candle, your liver tests are quite worrying.”

  “I will, I promise. I mean, I know I have to do it.”

  Giordano swung around in her swivel chair to face Jasper. He felt uncomfortable as the full concentration of her educated eyes took in his corrupted features. Every twitch, every spasm of his shoulder and arm suddenly seemed enormously amplified to him under her perceptive gaze, like an owl – she missing nothing.

  “I must tell you, Mr Candle, that I cannot fully explain some of these movements that you have.”

  “You mean it’s not the whisky?”

  She frowned, eyes searching the room.

  “The trembling could be, the occasional unsteadiness could be too…”

  Jasper sighed. It was time to face up to the mounting severity of his physical problems. There was no point in denying them any longer. But deep within his tormented soul he was suddenly afraid, afraid of losing control, afraid of what he did not know and understand.

  “They’re getting worse, Doctor. First it was my eye, and my face, then my neck and then my shoulder. Now my legs are affected as well.”

  Giordano made a brief note with her Mont Blanc pen, but said nothing.

  “What’s happening to me? I’ve assumed, perhaps hoped, that it was all due to stress and… perhaps the whisky…”

  She paused.

  “I’ll be honest, Mr Candle. The whisky has certainly not helped, but I don’t fully understand what is going on.”

  Jasper lowered his head and studied his hands as he intertwined his fingers nervously. This was the moment he had been so afraid of confronting.

  “Would you consider seeing a specialist?” Giordano said.

  That word had so many connotations and associations for Jasper that he could not help but recoil from it.

  “What sort of specialist?”

  “A neurologist.”

  “Why a neurologist? Surely I just need to see someone like Dr Montgolfier to help me with the drinking?”

  He nodded and clasped his hands together tightly, squeezing them until the knuckles blanched. Yet still they trembled and twitched like those of a possessed man.

  “I think we should make sure that there is nothing else going on with you.”

  Jasper breathed deeply. He just didn’t want to accept what his problem was – he was afraid.

  “I suppose I don’t have much choice.”

  “And you must stop drinking, Mr Candle. No question about it.”

  Suddenly he heard himself blurt out: “You don’t think I might have something like a brain tumour, do you?”

  Giordano put down her pen and sat straight up as she addressed him.

  “I really do not know at this stage.”

  Jasper tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He had just one thought in his mind – how much he wanted a whisky.

  FORTY SEVEN

  Lazlo stepped forward cheerfully and held out a cup of steaming coffee as Jasper descended the station steps. It was a bitterly cold day and Lazlo had covered his head with a woollen hat in combat green, the worn collar of his favourite leather jacket turned up against the cold.

  “They’ve launched their seasonal varieties, so I got each of us a gingerbread latte, guv,” Lazlo said before sipping from his own paper cup.

  “I hate ginger.”

  “Sorry, guv. Want to change it?”

  “No,” Jasper grunted, “I want to put Chivas in it.”

  Lazlo nodded and shrugged his shoulders as the pair walked down the roadway, away from the station and across the arched pedestrian bridge leading to the town centre. The bridge was damp with trampled, rotting leaves, from which emanated a smell reminiscent of shaded woodland.

  “How did it go, guv?” Lazlo asked.

  “Well, I cannot put Chivas in my coffee, even if I had some.”

  “Oh.”

  They walked down the hill, past Highgate, towards the distant, elevated stone walls of the central markets.

  “I have managed to find out that there were more than just the seven staff members affected by the gastroenteritis outbreak on Edward Burns’ ward,” Lazlo said through the clouds of steamy vapour around his face.

  Jasper looked up as he drank some of the latte.

  “Actually, this is not bad, Lazlo, even without scotch.”

  “Two catering staff also got it, one of the floor cleaners and a family visiting someone in Edward Burns’ cubicle. There is some doubt as to whether this family were already symptomatic with it at the time of the old woman’s admission.”

  “Oh that’s just chicken plucking great, that is.”

  Lazlo stopped at the pedestrian crossing and pressed the button. Jasper drew up beside him.

  “I don’t know if I can get all their names, guv.” Lazlo said, with an apprehensive grimace on his face.

  “Your sweetheart getting nervous, is she?”

  Jasper sighed and dropped his unfinished coffee cup into a dustbin on the railing.

  “I don’t think it matters that much, Lazlo. I was talking to Magnus Burns and I think he might be getting used to the idea of a more general claim of negligence, rather than specifically blaming individuals. There are just too many permutations in this case.”

  They began to cross the road and walk over Framwellgate Bridge, with its impressive backdrop of Durham Castle’s elevated battlements above nearly naked, wintry trees.

  “I need some time to reconsider our strategy in this case, Lazlo,” Jasper said, sucking air in through his teeth.

  Lazlo frowned. He had never known Jasper to take his boot off the other man’s throat when he was floored. The guv’nor that he knew did not abide by the Queensbury Rules. His success was not borne out of meakness, or gentlemanly consideration.

  They walked up Silver Street and paused beneath the newly refurbished statue of the Marquis of Londonderry upon his steed.

  “I contacted that specialist in London,guv,” Lazlo said.

  Jasper’s eyes brightened up despite the nagging tics and twitches distorting his face.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Dr Majid Eldabe. He wouldn’t speak to me, but his secretary told me his patient consultations are c
onfidential.”

  Jasper nodded and looked down as he scraped the granite paving stones with the toe of his brogue.

  “They always say that.”

  “I told him you would be in touch.”

  “Is this the doctor Jennifer saw two days before… er?” Jasper said.

  “Yes, guv.”

  Jasper hesitated as he tried to imagine what could have affected Jennifer so significantly in those two days to drive her beyond the limits of desperation.

  “What kind of specialist is he?” Jasper asked quietly, without looking at Lazlo.

  Lazlo fumbled in the pocket of his leather jacket and extracted a crumpled pad. He flipped through the pages, habitually licking the tip of his index finger as he did so.

  “He’s a… neurologist, guv.”

  Jasper felt his heart skip a beat, then his neck twisted demonically to the left and his arm jerked against his ribs several times.

  “Cheese and rice.”

  “You okay, guv?”

  Jasper stared past Lazlo blankly with his mouth slightly agape. The only visible signs of neural activity were the tics and contortions of his ashen face.

  “No, I’m bloody well not.”

  Lazlo creased his brow as he studied his guvnor’s tormented face.

  “Isn’t it time to go home again, guv? You can’t keep living in your office.”

  Jasper glanced at Lazlo and then looked across the market square, watching people sitting on benches around the statue eating sandwiches, or pasties.

  “No time for sentimentality, Lazlo, I have to go to London. Give me the number for that neurologist so Stacey can make an appointment for me.”

  FORTY EIGHT

  Jasper used to walk wherever he went in London. He loved feeling the gritty pace of the city at close quarters, hearing the little conversations and smelling the cafés and bars as he passed them. But he had been forced underground, travelling blindfolded and isolated from the vibrant activity of the streets way above the tunnels. The crippling contortions and increasing stiffness of his legs simply could not carry him from Kings Cross Station and along Euston Road to Harley Street, a journey he would, in the past, have walked with ease.

  He exited Regent’s Park underground station, squinting in the bright light, then walked the short distance along Marylebone Road until he reached Harley Street.

  Jasper felt as though he was being watched by the ghostly presence of Jennifer, who must have trodden these very same steps in her final days. What was it that had brought her to Harley Street? More importantly, what was it that had driven her from Harley Street to that makeshift noose in their entrance hall?

  He passed Devonshire Street and hobbled further on to Weymouth Street, pausing at times to rest his cramping thighs.

  The address he sought turned out to be a stylish, end terraced property built out of elegant, pinkish sandstone, rather like rosé. He pushed through the heavy black door and followed the signs to Dr Eldabe’s reception.

  It felt eerie to retrace Jennifer’s ill-fated footsteps and he was overcome slightly by the mysterious irony of unfolding events.

  “Please take a seat, Mr Candle. Dr Eldabe will only be a few minutes,” said Mrs Caruthers, sat behind a computer and typing with professional dexterity.

  She wore a peach coloured suit with a large dragonfly broach on the lapel. The waiting room smelled strongly of exotic spices, though Jasper was unable to identify them.

  Jasper sat and stretched his stiff, aching legs, his quadriceps rippling rebelliously and constantly. He was alarmed at how much stamina his once sturdy legs had lost on the failed attempt at walking from Kings Cross. Jasper rubbed his trembling hands and noticed that the receptionist took no notice of his twisting neck or disobedient arm movements. She was no doubt accustomed to all manner of neurological peculiarities in this waiting room.

  “Mr Candle, please,” Dr Eldabe ushered Jasper into his office with a smile and flourish of his arm as he held the door ajar with the other.

  The office was richly furnished with turned wooden side tables, chairs and a collection of elegant smoking hookahs: one made out of burnished brass and adorned with plush red satin; the second crafted from flecked Carrera marble, the third out of cut crystal decorated with filigree gold. Hanging on the walls, rich tapestries featured horsemen riding in the desert.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Candle?” Eldabe asked from behind his wide desk, twirling his pencil thin moustache between two fingers.

  His eyes never left Jasper’s face, studying the muscles that worked away beneath the skin, never resting, ever mutinous.

  “I’ve come about my wife, Jennifer.”

  Eldabe nodded slowly.

  “You’ve journeyed a long way for nothing, as I told you, sir.”

  Jasper took a deep breath.

  “Doctor, my wife hanged herself two days after sitting in this very same chair I am in now.”

  “I am deeply sorry to hear that,” Eldabe said with sincerity.

  “I am struggling to understand why she would do such a thing. I need to know.”

  Eldabe sat forward and placed both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on clasped hands.

  “What do you expect me to be able to tell you?”

  “Why she came to see you? What you told her? We think her visit to you could be crucial to understanding her suicidal motivation.”

  “We?” Eldabe frowned.

  “My associate and I; he is my investigator.”

  “Ah yes, you are a compensation lawyer, are you not, specialising in medical negligence? You have an impressive website, for clients that is, not doctors.”

  Eldabe sat back and folded his arms tightly, lifting one hand to twirl the moustache again.

  “I’m not here as a lawyer. I’m here as a grieving husband… a widower.”

  “Even so, Mr Candle, your wife’s medical details are protected by a code of confidentiality that I cannot break.”

  Jasper’s twitching eyes became imploring.

  “Please think back, can you not remember her state of mind when you saw her? Was she upset, depressed, irrational?”

  Eldabe hesitated.

  “Not to diminish your wife’s memory in any way, sir, but I see a lot of patients every day, and I cannot recall Mrs Candle that clearly.”

  Jasper looked deflated and his brow creased as his lips pouted several times.

  “But you must keep notes?”

  Eldabe nodded.

  “I have reviewed them in anticipation of your visit and despite now being refreshed about the discussions that took place, I cannot specifically recall Mrs Candle.”

  “What?”

  “This may of course be taken positively because she did not make so memorable an impression on me, either because of her behaviour or demeanour, that I would remember. She was just… another patient.”

  “Please, Doctor, I need your help. Tell me why my wife came to see you down here in London. We live 350 miles up country. Why you? Why a neurologist? She was not to my knowledge in poor health of any sort.”

  Eldabe shook his head slowly and maintained his eye contact with Jasper.

  “I understand how you feel, but I’m sorry, sir, I cannot.”

  Jasper breathed deeply, his eyes wandering the room as he searched the recesses of his deepest emotions. Everywhere that he had searched for answers had drawn a blank and Dr Eldabe seemed to represent his last opportunity to understand the desperation that drove Jennifer to her death.

  “You understand nothing. Jennifer and I were declared infertile after years of tests, broken hearted and unable to have children, yet upon her death I found out not only that she was taking contraceptives, but from the post mortem examination that she was pregnant, with my baby inside her. How am I supposed to feel, Doctor?”

  Eldabe pursed his lips and twiddled his moustache but said nothing, the small skin creases around his eyes tightening and relaxing as he searched the depths of his compassion.

&nb
sp; “I’ve had my investigator spying on the ghosts of my wife’s past, looking for clues that would point me in the right direction, to help me unravel this tragedy. How do you think that makes me feel, looking for evidence that my wife of fifteen years was unfaithful?”

  Jasper stared at Eldabe, his eyes strained, his mouth drawn, then extracted a brown envelope from his coat pocket.

  “I have brought a copy of my marriage certificate to Jennifer, a copy of my passport as well as Jennifer’s and I have her death certificate here as well. You cannot harm her by helping me, Doctor, you cannot disgrace her or embarrass her. I ask you to examine your conscience, your sense of benevolence. What did you discuss with her… please?”

  Eldabe stood up and walked across to the row of hookahs on a polished wooden mantelpiece. He ran a sentimental finger along the elegant, curved lines of the Carrera marble hookah, perhaps his favourite.

  “I’ve been practising here for twenty five years now and in the past, before all these ridiculous health and safety laws, I used to sit down every day and enjoy a relaxing smoke on one of my hookahs. It helped me to see things clearly, muddle over dilemmas and calm myself from the distress of my patients’ often tragic circumstances.”

  Jasper’s eyes remained downcast in his lap, staring at his trembling fingers, his twitching arm occasionally rolling to one side as his shoulder lifted.

  “But the law is the law, and as much as I detest and despise it, I too have to abide by it. Now my hookahs are merely ornamental. You are a lawyer, I’m sure you understand this, Mr Candle.”

  Jasper stood up unsteadily and picked up the envelope. He pulled his black coat straight and walked to the door, past Eldabe without uttering a word. He felt deflated and empty, overcome by a despondency he had not known since the days when his father would berate him and criticise his failures, realising that he might now never know why his life had taken such a tragically bitter turn.

  “Mr Candle.”

  Jasper paused at the door, his outstretched palm pressing down on the brass door handle.

  “I cannot reveal to you the contents of my consultation with your wife, but I can tell you that she was deeply concerned about you, concerned for your welfare.”