The Patient

THE PATIENT An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist E.V. SEYMOUR Previously published as Beautiful Losers Revised edition 2023 Joffe Books, London www.joffebooks.com First published by Midnight Ink in the US in 2016 as Beautiful Losers © E. V. Seymour 2016, 2023 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of E.V. Seymour to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. We love to hear from our readers! Please email any feedback you have to: [email protected] Cover art by Nick Castle ISBN: 978-1-80405-745-2 CONTENTS Love Free Bestselling Fiction? Before Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Chapter Seventy Chapter Seventy-One Chapter Seventy-Two Chapter Seventy-Three Chapter Seventy-Four Acknowledgements Love Free Bestselling Fiction? The Joffe Books Story Also by E.V. Seymour A Selection of Books You May Enjoy Glossary of English Usage for US Readers Love Free Bestselling Fiction? Join our mailing list and get a FREE Kindle book from a bestselling author every week! Click here to join our mailing list and also get a free box set of short stories! Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @joffebooks For Ian Before Thank you for choosing this book. Join our mailing list and get FREE Kindle books from our bestselling authors every week! CLICK HERE TO GET MORE LOVELY BOOK DEALS He knew in an instant that something was wrong. He could see it in their faces, the way they looked at him, with pity. The surgeon, a short, overweight man with a bald shiny head, briefly closed his eyes. The rest of the team watched with haunted expressions, the sense of collective unease palpable. Someone coughed. A combination of phrases spilled into the room, disjointed, so that he was given the impression of listening to a master of ceremonies with a faulty microphone. Unfortunately . . . unable to correct . . . difficult . . . given the nature of the injuries. He blocked them out, ignored the hushed tones, the guarded looks, focused instead on the pale-washed walls, the smell of surgical alcohol, the rotating blades of the fan. Silence spread through the room like an uncontrollable forest fire. Wary, they huddled together, waiting for him to speak. He spoke, all right. He could barely control his anger. “Things like this don’t happen to people like me. Do you know who I am, for Chrissakes? Do you understand the fucking consequences?” His protest tumbled out in a jumbled heap, the slurred words falling from the gap where his lips should have been. There was no pain. The morphine took care of that. That’s when he began to feel scared. Perhaps it was the residue of the medication. Post-operative, he was still light-headed, his concentration and coordination impaired. He had a nauseous sensation in his stomach, a hangover from the anaesthetic. Yes, that was it. Once he’d recovered, things would be fine. He couldn’t expect miracles at this early stage. He needed time. That was all. They were probably talking to the wrong guy, the bad news meant for some other poor bastard. He voiced as much. “I’m sorry.” The surgeon’s eyes were open now, his look direct. “There is no mistake.” A plain-looking woman dressed in a white coat talked about physiotherapy. She had a voice like a cracked plate and kept touching her mouth with the fingers of one hand. Her sensible flat shoes shuffled. Dead giveaways. He lost all sense of time. People came and went. Anxious conversations burbled around him. Drugs administered. Tubes adjusted. He was constantly checked as if on suicide watch. Finally, he asked to be left alone, insisted on it. They shambled out, worried about lawsuits, he suspected, as well they might be. Very slowly he got out of bed and tottered towards the only mirror in the room. He’d always loved them, photographs too. Anything that reflected his powerful good looks. And now . . . His heart filled with razors of ice. Spots, like tiny tropical fish, darted before his eyes. He wanted to throw up. Oh Christ, he thought, stunned by his reflection. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. A tight surgical cap clung to his skull. Tubes poked out from behind each ear. He inclined to the right, the once arresting features bloated in a way that was not simply post-operative. He was prepared for the bruising and swelling, but the skin on one side, where it was not discoloured, had the dead appearance of a waxwork. His left eye sloped and would not shut even though the lid drooped. The full lips had lost their shape and form and curved down in a permanent expression of disdain. A persistent ball of spittle hung like a cobweb in the corner of his mouth. He attempted a pose and failed, the message from his brain defeated by the catastrophic trauma to the facial