A Silent Death Peter May (i read book TXT) 📖

to drive them into Estepona for Ana’s appointment with Doctor Esteban at his private consulting rooms in the healthcare centre on the Avenida Juan Carlos Rey de España. Ana never thought to ask how much it might be costing, but her parents had been told that an appointment with a health service specialist could take weeks, even months, and so her father had decided to go private.

She spent more than an hour with the doctor, undergoing tests for both sight and hearing. He asked her endless questions about her apparent clumsiness and invited her to perform various tasks that tested her spatial awareness. He took blood samples to be sent for analysis, performed standard eye tests, and took an electroretinogram to measure the response of her retinas to light stimuli.

Afterwards she sat for what seemed like an age in a waiting room with her parents until Doctor Esteban called them into his office. His manner was very matter-of-fact, but there was a certain gravitas in his tone when he addressed them that somehow telegraphed the bad news to come. He directed his comments directly to her parents as if she were not there.

‘I believe your daughter is suffering from something called retinitis pigmentosa, sometimes known as RP. When considering this in conjunction with the continued deterioration of her hearing, I am inclined to believe that she has a condition known as Usher Syndrome.’

It was a name that meant nothing to any of them, though it was one that would come to haunt Ana, not only in the days to come, but for the rest of her life.

He said, ‘Assuming my diagnosis is confirmed, Ana will become not only profoundly deaf, but will also lose her sight. She will become deaf and blind.’

Ana was devastated. She had more or less come to terms with the possibility that she would at some future time lose her hearing altogether. But to become blind as well? It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. She remembered Sergio’s words from their first meeting. I think losing your sight would be the worst of all. I can’t imagine not being able to see the world around me. And when, a week later, the diagnosis was confirmed by a senior consultant in Malaga, she was plunged into the deepest depression. An abyss from which she could never imagine any way out.

It was a genetic condition, the consultant said. There was no cure. Nothing to be done. And the prognosis itself was uncertain, impossible to predict how quickly or slowly her sight would deteriorate. The only certainty was that blindness, along with eventual deafness, would come. Whether it was weeks, months or years was in the lap of the gods.

He had suggested that Ana start preparing for it immediately. There was, he told them, a form of sign language specifically designed for deaf-blind people. It was called tactile signing. A little like sign language for the deaf, except that the movement of the hands was conveyed by touch rather than sight.

It was with considerable reluctance that Ana’s father allowed her, then, to return to the centre in Estepona. They could, they had told him, obtain the services of a special instructor to teach her the basics of tactile signing, preparing her for future blindness. And so with great trepidation Ana went back for the first time in weeks. She had not seen or heard anything of Sergio since the tapas they had shared that fateful night, and with the knowledge that her future promised only darkness, she was afraid to face him. Afraid that when he realized how dependent she would be on him in any future relationship, he would turn away. After all, who in his right mind would want to take on that kind of responsibility for another human being? Living your own life was hard enough.

Her father drove her to the centre and told her he would return to collect her later, before it got dark. She was taken into an office at the back of the building, where the centre’s administrator told her that they had applied on her behalf for the services of a touch-signing instructor. But the instructor would not arrive for another week, and could only come once a fortnight. So it was important for Ana to have someone to practise with in between times.

When her session with the administrator was over, Ana ventured back out into the big lounge. It was busy tonight. Elderly deaf men and women gathered around tables, signing and laughing and drinking coffee together. But her eye was drawn, almost involuntarily, towards the little group of blind people who sat near the door, white sticks resting against chairs, a guide dog sleeping against the back wall. They had no need to sign, for none of them was deaf. However bad it might be for any one of them, it would be worse for Ana. She felt tears of self-pity gathering in her eyes.

‘Hello stranger.’

She spun around to find herself face to face with Sergio. She could see the uncertainty behind his smile, and she blinked away her tears.

‘It’s been a while.’

She nodded.

‘I thought you were never coming back.’

She shrugged and attempted a smile. ‘Neither did I.’

They stood in awkward silence, then, unsure of what to say next. Finally Sergio said, ‘I have a little car now. I could run you home at the end of the evening, if you want.’

‘My father’s coming to get me.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ He looked disappointed. ‘How have you been?’

She shrugged noncommittally. How could she tell him about her night blindness, that soon it would extend to daylight hours too, that the only future she faced was one of darkness? ‘I had a fall,’ she said. ‘Nothing serious. I’m okay now.’

He seemed concerned. ‘What kind of fall?’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He gazed at her with apprehension, aware that somehow all the intimacy of that evening spent together in the tapas bar at the port had dissipated, like smoke in the wind. ‘Can I get you