The Sleep Room Read online

‘Would that be Bertrand Russell?’

  He nodded.

  Like Maitland, the famous philosopher was always on the wireless. They had both featured on the same programme only a few months earlier.

  ‘Did you ever run into him when you were at Trinity?’ I asked.

  ‘His voice annoyed me,’ said Chapman.

  I pointed at the symbols again. ‘Russell’s paradox. Would you care to explain?’

  ‘It demonstrates that Cantor’s naive set theory leads to a contradiction.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael. That doesn’t mean very much to me.’

  ‘You must have heard of the barber paradox, surely?’

  ‘No. I can’t say I have.’

  Chapman chewed the end of his pencil and said, ‘A barber’s job is to shave all the men in a village who do not shave themselves. But this means that he can’t shave himself, because he can only shave people who don’t shave themselves. Do you see?’ I thought about it for a moment and shook my head. ‘All right,’ Chapman continued, ‘it’s a little like saying, “This sentence is false.” If the sentence is true, then the sentence is false – which means that what it states is true. A sentence can’t be true and false at the same time. But in this case . . .’ His expression suddenly changed and he looked worried.

  ‘Why are you troubling yourself with all this, Michael? It doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.’

  ‘It’s important to know what is true. What one can trust.’

  ‘The evidence of your senses might be a reasonable place to start?’

  ‘But a straight stick looks crooked in water.’ He employed his tongue to make a knocking noise on the roof of his mouth. ‘Cogito Ergo Sum.’

  ‘I think, therefore I am?’

  ‘The only certainty. As for the rest . . .’ He struck the page with his pencil. ‘Full of contradictions. Paradoxes are like fault-lines: they show where the weaknesses are, the shoddy workmanship, the dodgy joins that can so easily fall apart.’

  I did not know how to respond.

  This conversation turned out to be one of the last I would ever have with Chapman. Soon after, he became agitated and impossible to talk to. ‘What have I done?’ and ‘Will I be punished?’ These were the only things he said, and he would stand for hours by the window, gripping the bars and whimpering.

  Chapman’s deteriorating health might have been due, at least in part, to his new medication. I raised the subject with Maitland, but he was insistent that Chapman should stay on the same drug and even suggested that the dosage should be increased. ‘With these compounds,’ said Maitland, ‘a period of apparent decline often precedes full recovery. The Boston trials show this. Mr Chapman must stick to his treatment plan. It is in his best interests to do so.’

  I didn’t share Maitland’s confidence in the studies he referred to. The results, as I remembered them, were not straightforward. I wondered how ill Chapman would have to get before Maitland took my concerns seriously. Very ill indeed, I suspected.

  In spite of my efforts to be rational, to think only of my long-term goals, being in Maitland’s company continued to make me uneasy. Especially so when we had meetings in his office. That Chesterfield of his was a constant provocation. Unwanted sexual images would flood into my mind and I was powerless to stop them. Curiously, I found it much easier to be with Jane. When we encountered each other, we adopted the spare, economical speech of professionals, and we only communicated when it was absolutely necessary. Once or twice Jane threw me a hurt, resentful look, but she quickly recovered her poise. She had obviously taken Lillian Gray into her confidence. Her dutiful friend had become aloof and subtly contemptuous whenever I was in her presence. It was not an ideal situation. I found myself eating in my rooms more often than I used to and writing more. Although I had toyed with the idea of joining Osborne at his golf club, I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t for me. I imagined a tawdry provincial bar, bored, tipsy housewives, the dubious promise of assignations in anonymous hotels. The idea had initially appealed to me only because I wanted to get back at Jane.

  I finally finished writing up my third Edinburgh experiment, which I promptly sent to the editor of the British Medical Journal. The two papers I had submitted in the summer had already been accepted for publication and I was confident that the third would meet with his approval. Although co-writing Maitland’s textbook would be very time-consuming, I did not want to discontinue conducting original research, as the ongoing production of scientific papers would also greatly benefit my career. I had been thinking about how the sleep-room patients tended to dream at the same time, and it occurred to me that this was a phenomenon worthy of systematic study.

  When I broached the subject with Maitland, he was as sceptical as I had expected him to be. ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s happening with increasing frequency. One of them starts and the others follow. Then one will stop, and shortly after they’ve all stopped.’

  ‘I’ve never seen that happen.’

  ‘With respect, Hugh, I spend a great deal of time in the sleep room.’

  Maitland considered the point and judged it to be a fair one. ‘Have you seen anything like it before?’

  ‘No. But I’ve never worked in an environment where patients are kept asleep for so long.’

  ‘Walter Rosenberg’s team are a little ahead of us. He hasn’t mentioned anything like this.’

  ‘Perhaps they haven’t noticed. Or perhaps the phenomenon is unique to our group.’

  Maitland shook his head. ‘I don’t know, James. There isn’t a mechanism that could account for what you are describing.’ His features gradually contracted into a scowl. ‘What are you suggesting? That some form of telepathy is taking place?’ Maitland raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Brains do generate electric fields. If they didn’t, nothing would appear on an EEG. Electrodes are placed outside the skull, not inside. As such, an EEG machine picks up brainwaves at a distance.’

  ‘Come now, James, that’s a specious argument.’

  ‘There are similar precedents,’ I persevered.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Menstrual synchrony. When women live together in groups their periods tend to coincide.’

  ‘That has never been demonstrated.’

  ‘There’s considerable anecdotal evidence.’

  ‘As I said,’ Maitland’s smile was cold, ‘it has never been demonstrated.’

  I eschewed further argument in favour of a simple, direct request. ‘Is there any harm in asking the nurses to make regular observations?’

  Maitland squeezed his lower lip and after a long, contemplative pause said, ‘No. I suppose not. Providing Sister Jenkins doesn’t object. And if there is something happening here, something that you can prove, well,’ he finally conceded, ‘that would be interesting.’

  We went on to discuss the textbook. After thirty minutes or so, our conversation had become quite intense. Maitland was in full spate when the telephone rang. He looked at it angrily, as if the caller were trying, on purpose, to interrupt his train of thought. Maitland went on talking, but eventually he accepted defeat and lifted the receiver. After an initial, irascible exchange, he fell silent, and I watched his expression become increasingly anxious. I listened to him asking a series of questions: ‘Where did it happen? At what time? Is she all right? How serious? Can I speak to her?’ His eyes fixed on one of the framed photographs on his desk. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll come at once. Thank you.’ He replaced the receiver.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘My wife,’ he replied. ‘She’s had an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got to go.’

  He stood up and marched to the door. He didn’t even stop to collect his hat and coat. I caught up with him on the stairs. ‘Hugh? What’s happened?’

  ‘She was driving in town . . .’ His speech was disjointed, breathless. ‘Leicester Square – a collision. Sounds as if she’s in quite a bad way.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. If there
’s anything . . .’

  He wasn’t listening to me. When we got to the bottom of the stairs he was too distracted even to say goodbye. I watched him leave and waited until the silence was broken by the Bentley’s powerful engine. The tyres spun and pieces of gravel sprayed against the porch as he pulled away. I had left my papers in Maitland’s office and set off to collect them at once. But, as I made my way up the stairs, I was thinking: he forgot to lock the door. This had never happened before and I experienced a vague sense of expanding possibilities, a quickening in my chest.

  Standing by Maitland’s desk, I could still hear the drone of the Bentley, although it quickly dwindled to nothing as it crossed the heath. I scanned the room, registering familiar objects, now made unfamiliar by the novelty of solitude: glass dome with stuffed birds, globe, drinks cabinet – Chesterfield. The atmosphere was still hazy with cigarette smoke and retained a faint trace of Maitland’s cologne. My gaze settled on the photograph that he had been looking at. Maitland had never told me that the subject of this old-fashioned portrait was his wife, but I knew that it must be her. The skin of her face appeared unnaturally smooth and her thin lips had been improved by the reflective gloss of a well-placed studio light. She looked beautiful but synthetic. Even so, something in her eyes, a spark of humanity, survived the brittle glamour of her pose. It was odd, I thought, how she and I were both obscurely connected by the same falsehoods. Her hands were clasped together, but her wedding ring was still clearly visible.

  I did not deliberate. I walked straight over to Maitland’s grey filing cabinet and tried the bottom drawer. It was locked. I glanced at the door and began a frantic search. Minutes were wasted before the glint of silver in an empty glass ashtray captured my attention. I grabbed the key, returned to the cabinet and slid it into the lock.

  The drawer rolled out, revealing six folders. Each one had the name of a sleep-room patient written on the spine. I took out the nearest and turned to the referral letter at the back. It was dated 26th February 1955 and addressed to Maitland at St Thomas’s. The correspondent was a consultant based at the Maida Vale Hospital, a Dr Angus McWhirter. Dear Hugh, I would be most grateful if you would see Miss Webb: a young woman with a history of schizophrenia and severe mood disturbance.

  I read on.

  Kathy Webb’s life had been blighted by misadventure and a succession of breakdowns. She had been advised to have an abortion, but after the operation she began asking for the return of her ‘baby’. In due course, she became suicidal and haunted by ‘devils’. Isobelle Stevens’s history was not dissimilar. Her referral letter, written by Dr Joseph Grayson at the London Hospital, detailed a corresponding pattern of events – mental disintegration, misfortune, pregnancy; although, in Isobelle’s case, a baby was actually born and removed for fostering. The third referral letter was a personal communication from Dr Peter Bevington, whose name I recognized. He was the colleague Maitland had stayed with over Christmas. The patient who we called Celia Jones, I was surprised (perhaps even shocked) to discover was not the real Celia Jones, but an unknown person who had been in a depressive stupor for over a decade.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. The curtains on the opposite side of the room were gently undulating. Yet the cigarette smoke still hung on the air in a state of static suspension.

  ‘Not now,’ I whispered. I had waited a long time for this opportunity to learn more about the sleep-room patients, and in all likelihood there would not be another.

  I picked up the fourth folder: Marian Powell had lived in a number of children’s homes since the death of her guardians – an aunt and the aunt’s husband. One of these institutions was the infamous Nazareth House, where she had very probably suffered horrible deprivations and abuse. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of thirteen. A queer aside stated that one of her teachers believed that she possessed psychic powers, and consequently arranged for her to be tested by members of a learned society.

  Perhaps the mere suggestion of the supernatural was enough to aggravate my nerves. I checked the curtains, but thankfully they were no longer moving.

  The fifth referral letter was not written by a professional. It was addressed to Maitland at the BBC and was from Elizabeth Mason’s mother, Matilda, who had apparently heard Maitland speaking on the wireless about madness. The poor woman was clearly quite desperate and finding it difficult to cope. Elizabeth had been jilted on her wedding day, a trauma so great (at least for her) that she subsequently became delusional. She refused to take off her dress and became a kind of Miss Havisham figure. The clinical picture was later complicated by agoraphobia. Sarah Blake – the last of the six – had been referred to Maitland by Dr Ian Todd at the Highgate Hospital on the 1st of July. She had been caught attempting to burn down the building in which she and another tenant rented rooms. Her pyromania had been foreshadowed in childhood by a morbid fascination with fire, and this had returned, more malignantly, in the context of much wider psychopathology: unusual interests, auditory hallucinations and unorthodox behaviour – namely, the acceptance of financial patronage in exchange for sexual favours.

  Apart from Celia Jones’s folder, which had very little inside it, the others were quite thick and bulky. Flicking through them, I saw in-patient records from other hospitals, occupational therapy reports, typed letters and treatment summaries. Sarah Blake’s folder also contained an astrological chart, drawn by her, and a rather good self-portrait. I dearly wanted to take the folders away with me, but didn’t have the courage to do so.

  All of the sleep-room patients were of a similar type – orphaned, disowned, forgotten, lost. As I turned the pages, I wondered why Maitland had been so reluctant to discuss these sad histories. I remembered my meeting with Palmer and how I had raised this issue, but he had been dismissive, saying only that he had long since given up trying to fathom Maitland’s motives. After reading the referral letters and leafing through the folders, I was prepared to accept that Palmer’s conclusion may have been justified; however, as these thoughts were still passing through my mind, I came across a startling memorandum in Marian Powell’s notes. It bore the inky impressions of numerous rubber stamps and had been copiously annotated. At the top of the page, printed in black letters, were the words ‘Central Intelligence Agency, Washington DC’. I was just about to start reading the memorandum when I was disturbed by sounds coming from the corridor: a heavy, unhurried tread accompanied by a metallic jingle. With great haste I replaced the folders, closed the bottom drawer, locked the filing cabinet and tossed the keys into the ashtray. My papers were piled together on Maitland’s desk, so I gathered them up and held them against my chest. The door, which I had left slightly ajar, creaked open and Hartley stepped into the room. He said nothing, but his silence and slit eyes demanded that I explain myself.

  ‘Dr Maitland’s wife has had an accident,’ I said without preamble. ‘He left in a hurry. I was just collecting my things.’

  ‘A serious accident?’ Hartley enquired.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  The caretaker nodded. ‘Did Dr Maitland say when he’d be coming back?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  I passed out into the corridor and Hartley produced a bunch of keys. He selected one and locked the door. Picking up his toolbox, he indicated the room opposite. ‘A faulty sash.’

  ‘I see,’ I answered. He made a casual, mock salute, and left me standing there, clutching my papers.

  16

  I wanted to be alone, to consider what I had learned about the sleep-room patients. But when I reached the landing, Nurse Fraser was coming up the stairs. She stopped and said, ‘Ah, there you are, Dr Richardson. I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Mr Chapman. He’s getting very agitated and . . .’ She hesitated before adding, ‘There’s blood on his pyjamas.’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘He must have hurt himself. He wouldn’t let me take a look.’ />
  I deposited my papers at the nurses’ station and went directly to Chapman’s room. There, I found him pacing and muttering to himself.

  ‘Michael,’ I said, ‘can you stand still for a moment.’

  He took no notice, so I stepped in front of him and grabbed his shoulders. A few seconds passed before his lined, anxious face showed signs of recognition. ‘Dr Richardson?’ His voice was quavery and uncertain.

  ‘Yes. It’s me, Michael.’

  ‘You must let me leave.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. You know that.’ I released his shoulders and pointed at the left sleeve of his pyjama jacket. The stripy material was mottled with irregular red stains. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I reached out to examine his arm but he stepped backwards.

  ‘Come now, Michael, let me see.’

  ‘No!’ he snapped. But then his lower lip started to tremble and his mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t mean to harm her. I just wanted to watch. I just wanted to look.’ He produced a great, heaving sob, and tears filled the sagging pockets of flesh beneath his eyes.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘Let’s not worry about the past.’ I guided him to the bed and gave him a gentle push so that he fell backwards and had no choice but to sit on the mattress. Then I rolled up the stained sleeve. It was an ugly sight and I did my best not to recoil. The skin of Chapman’s forearm was livid and broken in several places. He might have been suffering from some rare, ulcerating disease. I noticed that there was a black crust of dried blood under the thumbnail of his right hand. ‘Michael, have you been pinching yourself again?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I called Nurse Fraser and, together, we dressed Chapman’s arm. Subsequently, we helped him into a fresh, clean pyjama jacket and I gave him a sedative.

  It didn’t work.

  An hour or so later he was up again, pacing the room. Worse still, he had removed the bandages so that he could continue pinching himself. I gave him another sedative, which was effective for no more than twenty minutes, after which Chapman was shouting down the corridor at Nurse Fraser, demanding that he be allowed to go home.