Patasola

By Roger Wood

"I awoke this morning with the realisation that I am losing my mind."
Paris, 1893: Dr Gaston Daladier's friend and patient, the famous author G, has died. He has left Daladier a legacy - journals which start the good doctor on a quest. He begins to wonder, has he caught G's madness? Or is something else - something much more exotic - invading his dreams and corrupting his body?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Wood
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310634666

Roger Wood

I have graduated four times from three different English universities and have a PhD in Radio Drama. I used to be a local politician and ran an advice centre. Now I am a magistrate and write inflammatory political material for my local political party.

Book preview

PATASOLA

ROGER WOOD

Copyright 2014 Roger Wood

Published by Roger Wood at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

From the Journal of Dr Gaston Daladier

July 6

July 12

July 24

July 25

July 30

July 31

August 11

August 13

August 14

September 1

September 5

September 6

From Le Journal, Paris, September 7 1893

About the Author

July 6

My friend, my patient, G died today. He was, as I am, forty-two years old. Given the ravening nature of his disease, his passing was surprisingly peaceful. Eyes, unnaturally large and blue, fixed upon mine from a bank of pillows. The hand which had given the world such art fluttered against the rust-red blanket in an approximation of a wave. I waved back – Sleep well, my friend – and the spark of life slipped from him. The last trace of the G I had known since childhood was a cryptic smile on bruised lips. I closed the lifeless eyes, kissed the cold cheek, and left him to the ministrations of those appointed to care for him.

It should be understood that whilst I remain G’s physician of record I have not had care of him since that morning, nineteen months ago, when his valet, François, summoned me to his apartment. My last professional service to my friend was to commit him to Doctor B’s establishment. For the safety of himself and others as we medical men like to pretend. In truth it is the euphemism by which we acknowledge that all our years of study, reinforced by the miracles of modern science, have proved unequal to the challenge of that most basic and indomitable of diseases.

--- Do you mean to tell me, Gaston, his mother said when I told her what I had done, that my son has lost his mind?

---I mean, Madame, that his mind has been taken from him by an illness that has progressed beyond our powers to cure.

---The pox, you mean.

---Yes, Madame.

I am a healer and G – or that caricature of him that I found that morning the January before last, standing on the stairs, exulting in what he had done to himself – was beyond healing. I have colleagues, of whom Dr B is the most eminent, who specialise in the containment of the hopeless. And in G’s case Dr B more than justified his reputation. He kept him