The Other Wife by Michael Robotham EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Michael Robotham
- Genre: Psychological Thrillers, Psychological Fiction
- Publish Date: June 26, 2018
- Size: 1 MB
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
Day One
From the top of Primrose Hill, silhouetted against the arriving day, the spires
and domes of London look like the painted backdrop of a Pinewood sound
stage waiting for actors to take their places and an unseen director to yell
‘Action’.
I love this city. Built upon the ruins of the past, every square foot of it has
been used, re-used, flattened, bombed, dismantled, rebuilt and flattened again
until the layers of history are like sediments of rock that one day will be
picked over by future archaeologists and treasure hunters.
I am no different – a broken man, built upon the wreckage of my past. It
has been thirteen years since I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. It began with
an unconscious, random flicker of my fingers on my left hand; a ghost
movement that looked like a twitch, but read like a guilty verdict. Unknown
to me, working in secret, my body had begun a long, drawn-out separation
from my mind; a divorce where nobody gets to keep the record collection or
fights over who gets the dog.
That small rolling of the thumb and forefinger has now spread silently
through my limbs until they no longer do my bidding without the assistance
of drugs. When I’m medicated properly, I can appear to be almost symptomfree. A little stooped and more deliberate in my movements but normal in
most respects.
At other times, Mr Parkinson is a cruel puppeteer, tugging at
invisible strings, making me dance to music that only he can hear.
There is no cure – not yet – but I live in hope that science will win the
race. In the meantime, daily exercise is recommended. That’s why I’m
standing here, with all of London’s mangled and magnificent history on
display. My eyes sweep from east to west and settle on the curved rooftops
and netting of London Zoo. Julianne and I bought our first house a few streets
from here. We would lie in bed on warm nights when the curtains swayed
from open windows, listening to the calls of lions and hyenas and animals we
couldn’t name.
It is sixteen months since she died. A surgical complication, they said; a
blood clot that travelled from her groin to her heart and lodged in her left
ventricle. She lived for a week on life support, lying on white sheets, looking
tranquil and beautiful, but ‘not at home’, according to the neurologist. We
turned off the machines and she slipped away like an empty rowing boat cut
loose in the current.
The seasons since then have been like stages of grieving. Summer passed
in denial and isolation, autumn brought anger, winter blame and by spring my
depression had driven me to seek help.
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