‘An ingenious explanation,’ said Dr Dudden, after a pause. ‘But not a satisfying one.’ He folded his arms and swivelled his chair slightly, so that he was no longer addressing her directly. ‘This morning, you will recall that I led a discussion group with four chronic insomniacs. Do you know what you would have heard, if you’d stood outside my door, on this occasion?’
‘Snoring, probably,’ said Dr Madison, before she could stop herself.
The corners of Dr Dudden’s mouth twitched for a moment; otherwise he betrayed no emotion.
‘I see that sleep apnoea is also on your list of suitable topics for levity. I must make a note of that.’ He even pretended to scribble something down on his notepad, while Dr Madison looked on with growing incredulity. Then he said: ‘In point of fact, what you would have heard, if you had strained hard enough, is the sound of pencils scraping upon paper, as four Sleep Awareness Questionnaires were properly completed, and then the sound of voices talking, one at a time, in reasoned and measured tones, as the results of these questionnaires were collated and analysed.’
Dr Madison decided she couldn’t take any more of this, and rose to her feet, hoping to escape.
‘I take your point, doctor. And if that will be all…’
‘It won’t be all, I’m afraid. Please sit down.’ He waited, pointedly, for her to settle again. ‘I’d like to remind you that you’jre expected to assist Dr Goldsmith this afternoon, in conducting the preliminary interview with Mr Worth. Is that clear?’
‘It may be clear, but I’m afraid that it’s quite impossible. I have several appointments scheduled already, and a considerable backlog –’
‘I see.’ He picked up a pencil and began tapping it on his desk, as his cheeks pinkened with vexation. ‘So you persist in your objections, do you?’
‘Objections, doctor?’
‘You’ve already made your attitude towards this admission quite clear. Or have you forgotten the conversation we had just before you left?’
Dr Madison had not forgotten it at all, even though it had merely been the latest in their long series of increasingly heated confrontations. Dr Dudden had shown her a column from a recent weekday edition of the Independent, written by a freelance journalist called Terry Worth who worked, apparently, for a number of national newspapers: usually writing about film but sometimes branching out into more general subjects. In this column he had announced his intention of entering a competition which was to be held at a repertory cinema in London, where they were staging a ten-day ‘Cinethon’. There would be continuous screenings throughout the event, twenty-four hours a day, and a prize was being offered to the audience member who could clock up the longest uninterrupted period of film-watching. Revealing that he was already a long-term insomniac, Worth had claimed that he would be able to stay awake through all 134 films, and Dr Dudden, upon reading this announcement, had immediately contacted the newspaper and asked to be put in touch with him.
‘Just think of the research possibilities, apart from anything else,’ he had enthused to Dr Madison. ‘We’ll have him driven down here the minute the event is over. Get him put straight into a bedroom and then – a seven-electrode montage to assess sleep disturbance and architecture… sixteen channels to record EEG… manual scoring of the sleep record from optical disk… full sleep questionnaire, of course. It’s an unmatched opportunity to see what sort of effect continuous exposure to media images might have on dream content.’
‘And is that the only reason?’ Dr Madison had asked.
‘It’s reason enough, isn’t it? What are you implying?’
‘I just wondered if the newsworthiness of this story might have occurred to you at any point. Will Mr Worth be paying for his own treatment?’
‘That is neither here nor there.’
‘And will he be writing about us for the newspaper? Is that part of the deal?’
‘There is no deal, Dr Madison. I find that insinuation highly objectionable. And even if there were, I would ask you to bear in mind that this clinic operates largely as a private concern, that we are dependent on income from the patients themselves, and that there is nothing intrinsically evil about the idea of trying to generate a little modest publicity every now and again.’ He had opened his desk diary at a page already marked with blue ribbon. ‘Mr Worth will arrive here a fortnight on Monday, late in the morning. I see that you will have returned from your holiday the day before, so I suggest that you and Dr Goldsmith conduct your first interview with him in the afternoon. I’ll pencil that in, shall I?’
‘Whatever,’ she had said, with a dismissive shrug; and the insolence of that remark, and that gesture, came back to Dr Dudden now as he stared at her across the desk, almost trembling with rage.
‘Don’t think,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t assume for one minute that my good nature is inexhaustible.’
‘The thought had never occurred to me,’ said Dr Madison.
After a few seconds’ silence she realized that their conversation was at an end. She left, closing the door softly behind her.
∗
Shortly after midnight, wakeful, her casement window open to the warm breeze and her room sheened with moonlight, Dr Madison heard footsteps on the front terrace. She put on her dressing-gown and peered through the window. There was a man outside, leaning against the balustrade, smoking a cigarette. Its golden glow, a tiny pinprick of light, came and went as he drew upon it. He did not look frightening. He did not look like an intruder. She decided to go down and investigate.
On her way she was stopped by Lorna, one of the technicians, rushing along the corridor with an anxious look on her face.
‘I was just going to wake Dr Dudden,’ she said. ‘Something peculiar’s happened. I set up the patient in Bedroom Nine and put him to bed about an hour ago. I watched him for a while and there was still no sign of him going to sleep, but he seemed O K. He was lying quite still. Then I went to make myself a cup of tea, and when I got back he was gone.’
‘Gone? You mean he’d taken off all the electrodes himself ?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Bedroom Nine – that was Mr Worth, tonight, wasn’t it?’
Dr Madison hurried down towards the bedroom in question and found a scene much as Lorna had described: the bed empty, the sheets tousled, the network of wires and electrodes tangled up at the head of the bed and leaving smears of glue over the pillows. This was highly unusual: although the insomniac patients often wanted to get up in the middle of the night, it was rare for one to elude the vigilance of the technicians and take the matter into his own hands.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dr Madison. ‘I think I know where he is. I’ll go and talk to him.’
‘What about Dr Dudden?’
‘Don’t wake him up. I don’t think he needs to know about this.’
She made her way towards the common room at the front of the house, where a pair of French windows allowed access to the terrace. She could see the man outside, pacing in the darkness. The windows were frequently used, but their hinges were rusty and they gave out a grating squeal. The man turned with a start and looked at Dr Madison as she approached, advancing swiftly into the shadows. His face, even in this blackness, shone paler than the moon.
There was an electric light above the terrace, but Dr Madison had not switched it on.
‘Mr Worth, I presume?’ she said.
‘That’s correct.’ Like her, he was wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
‘I’m Dr Madison. Dr Dudden’s Girl Friday, as it were.’ She paused to see how he responded to this phrase, whether he registered its slightly mocking undertone. The moonlight, and the cigarette glow, illuminated just enough of his face to reveal the hint of a smile. ‘You seem to have deserted your post.’
‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep.’
‘We didn’t expect you to.’
‘No. I don’t, you see.’
‘All the same, I assume you know that you were supposed to ask permission b
efore getting up.’
‘I was told that, yes, but I didn’t think it was serious.’
‘Well, the equipment you were handling is very delicate, and very expensive. Besides which, you’ve now got glue in your hair, which can’t be very comfortable for you.’
The man touched his hair tentatively, wincing with distaste. ‘So I have. Well, I’m sorry about this. I hope I didn’t damage anything.’
‘Not this time. But there is another thing – we don’t really like our patients wandering around after dark. I thought somebody might have explained that to you as well.’
The ocean rumbled angrily in the distance. Waves were breaking upon the rocks with weary irregularity. He listened to them for a while before explaining: ‘I’ve got to relax somehow.’
‘Yes, I understand that. Don’t worry. I’m not going to put you in detention, or set you a hundred lines.’
Now he laughed, and said: ‘Why don’t you call me Terry?’
‘Thank you. I will,’ said Dr Madison; but instead of offering her own first name, as Terry had expected, she said: ‘Did you manage it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your film marathon. Ten days. A hundred and thirty-four films. How did you get on?’
‘Oh, that. Yes, I managed that all right. No problem. I think I’m going into the Guinness Book of Records.’
‘Congratulations.’ It seemed to Terry that Dr Madison wanted to go inside again, but something was holding her back; some semi-reluctant urge to prolong the conversation. She said: ‘Dr Dudden will be delighted. You’re already his favourite.’
‘Oh?’
‘That’s his area, you see. Sleep deprivation.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Rats.’
Terry misinterpreted this, and asked: ‘Have you dropped something?’
‘No: that’s what he uses. Rats. He deprives them of sleep, to see what happens.’
‘What a delightful hobby. And what does happen?’
‘They die, usually. But their lives are never in vain, because he gets to add another paper or two to his bibliography.’
‘I’m beginning to sense,’ said Terry, ‘that Dr Dudden’s Girl Friday is not the most devoted of servants.’
‘Everything I tell you is off the record, by the way.’
‘Of course.’
In spite of this reassurance, she seemed to recede further from him, almost imperceptibly, cloaking herself in even thicker darkness. He could not make out her face at all. ‘It’s not about curing people, you know,’ she said. ‘All he’s interested in is knowledge. He won’t cure you.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Terry. ‘But this place might.’
For a moment they were both conscious, again, of the waves’ murmurous onslaught; clouds scudding through the moonlight; the immensity of the ocean. Stubbing out his cigarette, Terry licked his lips and savoured the taste of salt.
‘Yes, there is a certain… atmosphere about this house,’ said Dr Madison. ‘You’ll find it very restful. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m booked in for two weeks,’ said Terry. ‘But that’s not what I meant. There’s another reason why I thought it might – well, not cure me, exactly…’
He tailed off. Dr Madison waited.
‘I used to live here, you see.’
‘Live here?’
‘Not for long. When I was a student. Twelve years ago. I haven’t been here since. That’s partly – mainly, I suppose –why I decided to come. Curiosity.’
Dr Madison said, laconically: ‘Well, that’s something you have in common with Dr Dudden, then.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was a student here as well.’
‘Really? When?’
‘I don’t think you would have overlapped.’
‘You never know, though. What’s his first name?’
‘Gregory.’
‘Gregory Dudden… Doesn’t ring any bells…’ His mind, in any case, had latched on to a different memory. ‘I had a friend at the time – it’s funny, I’ve hardly given her a thought since then, but seeing Ashdown again, it… brings things back… Anyway… She should be the one coming back here, because she had the weirdest… syndrome, I suppose you’d call it.’
‘In what way?’
‘She had dreams – incredibly vivid dreams – dreams so vivid that she couldn’t tell the difference between the things she dreamed and the things that really happened to her.’
‘Hypnagogic hallucinations,’ said Dr Madison. ‘Also known as pre-sleep dreaming.’
‘There’s a name for it? You mean it’s quite common?’
‘No, it’s not common at all. It can be one of the symptoms of narcolepsy. Was she narcoleptic?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘I suppose I did, yes. We lived together for a bit – just a few weeks – the year we graduated.’
‘When you say lived together…’
‘No, I mean, we just shared this flat. We never…’ The words faded into ambiguous silence – half-careless, half-regretful. Only when he added, ‘She was called Sarah,’ was there something newly soft and reflective in his voice. Then it turned brisk again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m probably keeping you up. You must be tired.’
‘Not really. Are you?’
Terry barked with laughter. ‘I’m always tired,’ he said, ‘and never tired. That’s my curse, I’m afraid. I certainly don’t feel like sleeping now. We’ve got all night, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘All right, then,’ coaxed Dr Madison. ‘Tell me about Sarah, and her dreams.’
3
‘Tell me about your dreams,’ Gregory had once said to Sarah, sitting on that same terrace, one bright November morning many years earlier. ‘Tell me how long this has been going on.’
Sarah had warmed her hands on the mug, shivered slightly in the ocean breeze, and looked at him fondly. This was during the early months of their relationship, long before they grew apart. She still found, in those days, that he could be very kind. She still regarded him as a wise and understanding man. Sitting on that terrace, leaning instinctively towards him so that their knees touched, she felt her anxieties begin to dissolve. She forgot that they had been arguing more often, recently, and over pettier things. As for the sex, she told herself that it would improve over time. She tried to ignore the fact that as she spoke to Gregory, he was writing her words down in a notebook, marked ‘SARAH’s PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS’.
In any case she was excited, there was no denying it: for they had just made an important discovery. They had stumbled upon an explanation for something which had been baffling Sarah for the last five years or more. They had discovered, that very morning, that she could not tell the difference between her dreams and her memories of real life.
‘Tell me about these dreams,’ Gregory was saying. ‘Tell me how long this has been happening.’
And so Sarah took a deep breath, and told him.
∗
It had started, she said, when she was fourteen or fifteen years old. She was unhappy at school, had frequent problems finishing her homework, and lived in particular fear of her History teacher, one Mr Mountjoy. At the end of one difficult evening, having found herself completely incapable of writing an essay on the causes of the Franco-Prussian War – an essay which she was supposed to read out in class the next day –she had gone to bed in tears, resolved in her desperation either to bunk off school the next morning or to feign illness of some sort. But instead she awoke to an immediate sensation of light-heartedness, with a pristine memory of having written the essay, and having written it, she knew, to a high standard: she could visualize it in her exercise book, four and a half sides long, several crossings-out on page three but otherwise neat and presentable, the title double-underlined in red ink and with even a few footnotes thrown in at the end to give it a scholarly sheen. And it was not until almost half past eleven that same day, the first period after break, when she opened her exercise book
just before being called up to address the class, that she discovered that this essay, incredibly, did not exist. That was the conclusion she finally came to, at any rate: at first she thought she must have made some foolish mistake and written it in another book, and she searched frantically through her briefcase, looking at her English, Geography and French books, her panic mounting so visibly and audibly that Mr Mountjoy had to interrupt the current reader in mid-flow and ask what was the matter. She explained that she must have left the essay in her locker and asked permission to go and fetch it: which was granted; but a search of her Maths, German, Physics and Biology books in the unaccustomed silence of the deserted locker-room still failed to produce the vital essay; and then, seized by a bewilderment bordering on hysteria, she had fled the school building altogether and run to the municipal park where, head in hands, she had tried in vain to make sense of this sequence of events and began to wonder seriously, for the first time, whether she was going mad. The essay never turned up and she was put in detention that week (Mr Mountjoy not believing a word of her story): and while everybody else forgot the incident, Sarah did not forget it, and never spoke about it to anyone, even though she went on to experience other, similar misadventures at irregular intervals over the next few years. Once, a few terms later, she had bitterly reproved her best friend Angela for failing to meet her at a prearranged time outside the swimming baths: Angela denied that such a rendezvous had ever been suggested, and the argument led to a rift between them which was never quite healed. There was another occasion, too, when Sarah baffled her family by stopping off at the chemist’s on her way home from school, and bringing back-in response, she insisted, to a specific request from her mother – six tubes of smoker’s toothpaste, ten sachets of pot pourri and at least a year’s supply of suppositories.