The Sleep Room Page 15

  ‘Dr Richardson? Is that you?’

  The lambency of the flame assembled Michael Chapman’s face in the stairwell. What I had mistaken for a habit was, in fact, his baggy dressing gown.

  ‘Michael!’ Relief was instantly replaced by anxiety. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘My bed,’ Chapman said. ‘It was moving so much, I couldn’t stand it any more.’

  ‘But Michael, how did you get off the ward? The door was locked.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It was open.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ I would never have made such an error. ‘Did you find a key in the nurses’ desk?’

  ‘No.’ He moistened his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘The lights aren’t working. I couldn’t see a thing. Why aren’t the lights working, Dr Richardson?’

  ‘A power cut.’

  ‘I could tell that someone was upstairs with a candle. I was hoping it would be you. The bed was shaking and rolling from one side of the room to the other. It was making me feel sick. Mr Morley was sick earlier, perhaps his bed was moving too.’

  ‘He has the flu. Come on, Michael. Let’s go downstairs.’

  ‘That new medication you’ve put me on isn’t doing me any good. I feel different. Not quite myself.’

  ‘Michael. Listen. You really must go back to your room.’

  ‘I’d rather not if you don’t mind.’

  I ignored his objection. ‘I’ll get Mr Hartley to start up the generator, and then I’ll return at once. Come on, Michael, let’s go.’

  ‘No,’ Chapman repeated. It was unlike him to be so stubborn.

  He hauled himself up the last few steps and stood beside me on the landing. I saw something glinting in his hand. It was a carving knife. He must have seen me recoil, because he made a furtive attempt to slip it into his dressing-gown pocket.

  ‘Michael?’ I said, trying to remain calm. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It looks like a knife to me. Where did you get it from?’ He shook his head. I guessed that he must have wandered through the dining room and into Mrs Hartley’s kitchen. ‘Michael’ – I extended my hand – ‘that could be very dangerous. Please, give it to me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you want a knife, Michael?’

  ‘To protect myself.’

  ‘Against what? You don’t need to protect yourself here.’

  ‘I disagree, Dr Richardson.’

  ‘Michael, give me the knife. Please.’

  ‘Do you think it’s her? Come back to torment me?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The swimmer. The girl.’

  ‘What do you mean, come back? Come back from where?’

  ‘She was so . . .’ His fingers contracted. An odd, slow squeeze, as if they were meeting with some form of weak resistance. ‘Soft.’

  ‘We’ll talk about the girl when we get downstairs,’ I said, addressing him more firmly. ‘Now, give me the knife.’

  He wasn’t a strong man and I was confident that I could disarm him. I was working out how I was going to achieve this, rehearsing manoeuvres in my mind when, quite suddenly, Chapman tensed. His whole body stiffened. He was evidently staring at something behind my back. His eyes were wide open and protruding slightly, his irises fully exposed and the whites gleaming. Everything about him was taut, coiled and alert. I wheeled round and followed his gaze. He was looking through the wooden arch of the door frame, at some distant point at the far end of the hallway.

  ‘It’s coming,’ said Chapman.

  There was something about his choice of words, the non-specificity of the pronoun, that chilled me to the bone. There is nothing more frightening than that which cannot be identified, no engine of fear more powerful than the unknown. If I had been more composed (and less prone to professional prejudices), I might have realized that Chapman’s pronoun was not merely a part of speech, but the key; however, at that precise moment, I was incapable of meaningful insight.

  ‘Please, Michael. Let’s go downstairs.’

  ‘It’s coming,’ he repeated.

  I pointed into the gloom of the hallway and said, rather unconvincingly, ‘There’s nothing there. Come on, Michael. Please. Give me the knife and we’ll go—’

  My sentence was interrupted by a thunderous noise. Chapman and I ducked and cringed as if we were being shelled. Every door in the hallway was being repeatedly opened and shut with superhuman speed and violence. This crashing and banging was sustained for about ten seconds, after which it came to an end as abruptly as it had started. Chapman and I were so stunned we remained rooted to the spot, frozen in attitudes of cowering disbelief.

  A flurry of ‘confetti’ blew out onto the landing; some of the flakes swirled in the air before dropping to my feet. I bent my knees and picked up one of the pieces. Holding it close to the candle, I saw that it was covered in closely printed text. I noticed the name of an American pharmaceutical company and realized that I was holding the remains of one of Maitland’s offprints.

  ‘Dr Richardson.’

  Chapman’s voice was wary, uncertain. I let the square of paper fall to the floor and looked up. A tongue of flame had appeared. It was difficult to judge its position, but I estimated that it must be hovering just outside the bathroom. I wanted to believe that it was an illusion, a reflection of my own candle on the panel of an open door. But there was something inconsistent about its elevation. It was far too low.

  As I studied the flame, it seemed to be getting brighter. Then I realized I was mistaken. It wasn’t getting brighter, but coming towards us.

  Chapman took the carving knife from his pocket and thrust it forward like a sword.

  ‘Put it away,’ I barked.

  ‘No,’ said Chapman. ‘I won’t.’

  As the flame advanced, Chapman and I retreated a few steps backwards. Perhaps my eyes were deceived, but I thought that I could see a shape behind the glare, an outline that encouraged the brain to supply missing details. I am still not sure what it was that I saw. But the darkness seemed to become textured. It moulded itself around a face: a small, rounded face with blank, doll-like features. Confusion became horror, I lost my nerve, and I was about to flee down the stairs, when the landing door slammed shut, displacing a large volume of air in the process. Its forceful closure sent a tremor through the whole building, my candle went out, and we were plunged into total darkness.

  Chapman panicked: ‘Stay away from me, stay away.’

  I could hear the blade swishing nearby.

  ‘No, Michael,’ I called out. ‘Keep still!’

  I took the matches from my pocket, but before I could produce any light, Chapman’s knife sliced into the flesh below my thumb. The matchbox dropped to the floor and I leapt away, hoping to place myself beyond his reach.

  The swishing stopped and he began to whimper.

  ‘That’s better,’ I said, trying to calm him down. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. Put the knife away. Do you hear me, Michael?’

  I went down on my knees and felt for the matchbox. I couldn’t find it on the landing, so I started to work my way down the staircase, undertaking a systematic search of each step from left to right. The cut began to hurt and my fingers were wet with blood.

  The landing door swung open again with a mighty crash. Michael screamed and I heard him lashing out once more with the knife.

  ‘Keep still, Michael,’ I pleaded. ‘Or you’ll fall down the stairs.’

  I continued raking the carpet frantically.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ Michael sobbed. ‘What have I done? What have I done?’

  I felt something crack and crumple beneath the weight of my knee. Picking up the flattened matchbox, I slid the lid aside, and took a matchstick out of the tray. Just as I was poised to strike it, I felt a breath of cold air on the back of my neck. A cobwebby caress explored the contours of my face, and then a tuft of my hair was pulled. It was a hard, spiteful tug. I struck the match and turned, e
xpecting to find myself gazing into the hollow eyes of the thing I had half-seen, half-imagined, advancing down the hallway. But there was nothing there. Only the stairs, falling away into obscurity. The match burned out and I struck another. My hands were shaking. Thankfully, I had not lost the candle and re-lit the wick.

  Chapman was standing with his back against the landing wall, grimacing, his head twisted to the side, his cheek pressed against the wallpaper. His eyes were shut and he was holding the knife out at arm’s length. The gesture was not aggressive, but defensive, a totemic warding off.

  I climbed to the top of the stairs and said, ‘It’s only me, Michael.’

  With great care, I peeled his fingers away from the handle – one by one. Then I took the knife from him and put it into my jacket pocket. It was too big to be comfortably accommodated, and the handle hung out at an angle. I inspected the cut beneath my thumb. It was still bleeding profusely and badly in need of dressing. I coaxed Chapman away from the wall and guided him down the stairs. He seemed to be in a state of shock, so I took his arm and offered him gentle reassurances. As we passed beneath the stag’s head, he leaned against me, seemingly anxious to give the animal a wide berth. A dribble of hot wax scolded my fingers.

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs I saw that the door to the men’s ward was wide open. I immediately checked the door to the women’s ward and the hospital entrance. These were both locked.

  We entered the men’s ward, and as we did so the lamp on the nurses’ desk flickered and came to life. I tested the nearest wall switch and found the ceiling lights were in working order. Electricity had been restored; however, the fact that the power cut and the poltergeist activity had coincided suggested to me that the two were in some way related. I blew out the candle, poured the excess wax into a bin, and put the stub down on the desktop.

  ‘Come on, Michael,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  When we arrived at Chapman’s room, I couldn’t open the door. My first thought was that it had been inexplicably locked – just as the ward door had been inexplicably unlocked. Even so, I tried to force it open, and found that it gave slightly. There was something heavy on the other side. Renewing my efforts, I created a wide enough gap to squeeze through, and immediately saw that it was Chapman’s bed that had caused the obstruction. Clearly, he could not have put it there himself. Gripping the metal frame, I pushed the bed across the floor and back into its usual position.

  Chapman was waiting outside, staring blankly at his slippers. I got him into bed and gave him an injection of sodium amytal.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Richardson,’ he said, exhaling as his eyelids began to droop. ‘I’m sorry about the knife. I didn’t mean to . . .’ He looked down at my hand.

  ‘I know, Michael. It was just an accident. Rest now.’

  ‘Is it her? Do you think? The girl. Come back to punish me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Michael.’

  He closed his eyes and two minutes later he was snoring.

  I looked in on the other patients and thankfully they were all asleep. Then I dressed my cut and went to see the women. One of them had been sick again and I had to get her cleaned up. In the basement, everything was very still. None of the sleepers were dreaming. After completing another, more leisurely circuit of the wards and the sleep room, I was satisfied that nothing untoward had happened in my absence.

  Once again, I found myself in the vestibule, and I sat on the lower steps of the staircase, trying to collect my thoughts. A circle of dark-green needles had collected around the base of the Christmas tree and the air was fragrant with spruce. My mind was curiously vacant and I felt numb inside. All of the earlier excitement and terror seemed to have drained me of emotion. I allowed my head to rest against the banisters and immediately the world began to swim in and out of focus. There was nothing I wanted more than to close my eyes and sleep.

  I did not recognize the sound at first. It arrived as nothing more than a subtle incursion, something seeping between the accumulated layers of silence. But it was enough to make me sit up and listen. The sound became louder, and acquired a mechanical, throaty depth. It was a motor car. The pitch changed as the driver negotiated uneven ground. I stood up, crossed to the entrance and unlocked the door.

  Outside, the stars had vanished and a light snow was falling. Two powerful headlamps illuminated the scrub and heather as the vehicle rounded the oblique curvature of the drive. It occurred to me that Maitland might have had second thoughts, and that he had decided to travel down from Norfolk to help. Knowing what a stickler he was for proper dress, I straightened my tie and buttoned my jacket. The brilliant beams were dazzling, and I couldn’t really see the car – even less the driver inside. I squinted and tried to shade my eyes but this made little or no difference.

  The vehicle came to a halt directly in front of me. I could feel its heat from where I was standing and smell the pungency of its exhaust fumes. The engine juddered loudly and then fell silent; the headlamps dimmed and went out. A door opened and I saw a man in an overcoat emerging.

  ‘Hello, Richardson.’ It was Osborne. He lurched towards me and his gait was unsteady. A white silk scarf was hanging around his neck and in one of his hands was a bottle. ‘Seasons greetings!’

  ‘Bloody hell, Osborne, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Steady on. l don’t want to be overwhelmed with gratitude.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound . . .’ My sentence trailed off in embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  He staggered forward: ‘I heard that you’d been dropped in the merde and thought that I’d better come out and see how you were getting along.’

  ‘But how did you get to hear? I was told that . . .’

  He waved away my question with big, uncontrolled gestures, and talked over my incomplete sentence: ‘Look, Richardson, I don’t mean to be a bore, but can we go inside? It’s getting pretty nippy out here.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  I never thought that I would be glad to see Osborne, but glad I was, and in no small measure.

  We stepped into the vestibule and I locked the door. Osborne eyed the Christmas tree for a moment and then laughed. ‘Good heavens. Is Mr Dickens at home?’ He then turned to look at me. His stance changed slightly as he tensed and cocked his head to one side. ‘What happened to you?’

  I raised my hand. The dressing was soaked through with blood. ‘There was a power cut. I had an accident.’

  ‘A power cut?’

  ‘Yes, the lights went off for a few minutes.’

  ‘What were you doing? Slicing sprouts?’

  ‘As it happens I did have to help out in the kitchen earlier.’ Osborne smirked and walked to the foot of the stairs. I noticed that under his coat he was wearing a dinner suit. He leaned on the banisters and said, ‘I’ve come straight from the golf club. The Christmas party.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ The syllable was protracted. He leaned forward and beckoned for me to come closer. ‘What a night.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Women, eh?’ My puzzled expression encouraged him to go on. ‘The chairman’s wife. We were getting along nicely enough – all very cosy, in the cloakroom – when, quite suddenly, she seemed to go right off the idea. Talk about blowing hot and cold! One minute she was all over me and the next . . .’ Osborne shook his head and belched into his fist. ‘Pardon me, the pâté was rather rich.’ He seemed momentarily distracted by darker thoughts. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I was asked yesterday – or was it the day before? – if I could come over here to give you some assistance. The situation was explained but frankly I didn’t regard it as my problem. To be honest, I put it out of my mind. Then, just after my less than satisfactory imbroglio with the chairman’s wife, I was smoking a cigar in the car park, trying to make sense of it all, when I suddenly remembered you and your . . . predicament.’

  He searched his po
ckets and produced a shot glass which he filled with whisky. After handing it to me, he said, ‘Cheers,’ and took a swig from the bottle. I threw my head back and poured the single malt down my gullet. It tasted remarkably good: like warm caramel and wood smoke.

  ‘Looks like you needed that,’ said Osborne. ‘Here, have another.’ He topped me up and I disposed of my second shot as quickly as the first. ‘You know, Richardson, I have to say, entre nous, you’re not looking your best. And is that a carving knife I see in your pocket?’

  ‘I haven’t been to bed for a couple of days. It hasn’t been easy.’

  ‘All those sprouts. I can imagine.’ He screwed the top back on the whisky bottle and handed it to me. ‘You’re whacked. Why don’t you run off to bed?’

  ‘You’re very drunk, Osborne.’

  ‘Oh, I can cope.’ He registered my doubtful expression. ‘Really I can.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I looked at my watch. It was four thirty. ‘There’s no one else here. The nurses have flu.’

  ‘A nasty one, isn’t it? We’re pretty stretched at Saxmundham too.’

  ‘Some of the patients are being sick. Make sure you keep an eye on all of them. They’re quite heavily sedated.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t fret, Richardson. I’m perfectly capable.’

  ‘I’m hoping some of the nurses will be recovered tomorrow. I couldn’t manage the sleep-room routine on my own, so I used the ECT restraints to stop the patients from moving around – and I put them on drips.’

  ‘That sounds sensible.’ Osborne took off his coat and said, ‘I’ll go downstairs first. Do you have the keys?’

  I detached a jangling bunch from my belt and threw them in Osborne’s direction. He interrupted their trajectory with a lightning snatch and his face creased with smug amusement. Words were unnecessary: You thought I was going to miss them, didn’t you? He slung his coat carelessly over his shoulder.