The Sleep Room (20 page)

‘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 pockets 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.

‘Osborne?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was very decent of you, coming out like this.’ He smirked and turned to walk away. ‘No, really, Osborne. I won’t forget it.’

‘Steady on, Richardson, have you been at the sherry?’

‘You know, sometimes you can be extremely irritating, Osborne.’

‘Ah, that’s better! You were beginning to worry me.’

As I climbed the stairs, I heard him whistling the tune of ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’.

When I reached the top floor, the door to my apartment was still open and a wedge of yellow light divided the hallway. It was coming from my bedroom. Earlier, when I had tested the switch, I must have left it in the ‘on’ position. I stripped, finished the last of the whisky, and got ready to get into bed. Gripping the blanket, I pulled it aside, and as it came away I jumped backwards. Something was lying on the exposed sheet. It was a doll. One of the dolls from the Christmas tree.

I only slept for five hours. Perhaps it was the cold that woke me up. Even though the radiators were on, the windowpanes were purled with ice on the inside. I attended to my ablutions, dressed and made myself a cup of tea. The view from my kitchen was extraordinarily beautiful. Beneath a cloudless sky, the heath was carpeted with snow and a violet haze lingered just above the horizon. Osborne’s sports car had been transformed into a sculpted object of gentle contours and smoothed, rounded edges. At regular intervals, the wind rolled long streamers of powdered ice in a southerly direction. This unsullied prospect refuted everything that had transpired during the night: the leaping shadows, slamming doors and ghostly apparitions. All of these things seemed to belong to another world, a world of fevered dreams and lunacy. Yet when I placed my hand on the window frame, and the bloodied bandage attracted my attention, I was reminded of their undeniable and horrible reality. What was I to do?

I didn’t
have
to stay. I could always resign. But then I would forfeit the opportunity to be joint-author of Maitland’s textbook. I thought of the mansion flat in Hampstead that I had imagined, and Jane, sitting by an open fire, her legs curled beneath her; a suitably stylish conveyance parked on the road outside and holidays spent in the south of France. I wasn’t about to throw it all away because of a poltergeist.

With these considerations in mind, I decided that when Jane returned I would tell her everything. We knew each other well enough now. Just the idea of having someone to talk to was enough to get things into perspective. Mary Williams had died because of her psychological vulnerabilities. She was a young woman whose family were members of a religious sect, and from birth her brain had probably been crammed with all kinds of nonsense about devils and demons. It was
fear
that had killed Mary Williams. Although living in a haunted house was disturbing, it was not dangerous. If Mary Williams hadn’t been so frightened, she would still be alive. I finished my tea, put the cup in the sink and went downstairs.

On the men’s ward, I discovered Osborne slumped forward over the desktop, his head resting in the crook of his arm. I placed a hand on his shoulder and rocked him until he woke up with a start.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, wiping some dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘I must have dropped off.’ Then he looked around more anxiously. ‘Sister Jenkins isn’t here, is she?’

‘No.’

‘She’s up and about, you know. A little unsteady on her feet, but as spirited as ever.’ He rubbed his forehead and grunted. ‘I think I may have overdone it last night.’

‘Just a moment.’ I got him a glass of water and two aspirin.

‘Ah, thank you, Richardson. Much appreciated.’

I learned that Osborne had had a busy morning – perhaps a little too busy for a man with a hangover. With Mrs Hartley’s assistance, he and Sister Jenkins had already given all of the patients their breakfast, even those in the sleep room. The drips had been removed and Sister Jenkins was apparently eager to reinstate the usual routine. ‘I had to give two enemas,’ said Osborne, shaking his head. ‘I hope to God the nurses make a swift recovery, or I’m off.’ His expression was uncharacteristically grave. Leaving him to formulate an escape plan, I went down to the sleep room, where Sister Jenkins was restocking the trolleys with medication. She looked pale and gaunt. Even so, she was a determined woman and I knew that she would be offended if I questioned her ability to function. ‘I’ve spoken to Nurse Fraser,’ said Sister Jenkins. ‘She will be back at work later this morning, and I’m expecting Nurse Hunt to join us by two o’clock.’ She covered her mouth and coughed. ‘If Mrs Hartley continues to enjoy good health, we may weather this crisis yet.’

I joined Osborne for a late lunch, and afterwards we sat in the empty dining room smoking. Through the French windows I saw bands of dark cloud accumulating. Osborne was a little distracted. I thought this was because of his hangover, but as we spoke I realized that there was more to it. He was ruminating about his failed assignation. ‘I mean, it wasn’t as if she didn’t lead me on. She was the one who took the initiative. I suppose I did take a few liberties, but what’s a man supposed to do in that situation?’ He was clearly concerned about his conduct and the possibility of repercussions; however, this did not prevent him from contemplating future amorous adventures. He was soon rambling on about the nightingales. ‘Nurse Brewer is pretty enough, but she can’t take a joke. Likewise, Nurse McAllister. A woman of singularly impressive endowments.’ His grin twisted in leery amusement. Ordinarily, I would have ignored his silly innuendoes or cut him short, but on this particular occasion I felt obliged to indulge him. It seemed churlish not to, given that he had come to my aid in the middle of the night – albeit because of a drunken afterthought. In due course, he arrived at a not very surprising conclusion: ‘If I’m not mistaken, there are only two nurses worth making a play for: Gray and Turner. Now, the thing is, Richardson, I don’t want this to become a bone of contention between us. I’ve given you ample time to declare an interest, and you have chosen to hold your peace, as it were.’ Satisfied with his homophonic
double entendre
, he lit another cigarette and raised his eyebrows.

‘Do as you please, Osborne.’

‘Gray and Turner.’ He imitated the seesawing movements of a scale, one hand going up as the other came down. ‘Turner and Gray. A difficult decision, don’t you think?’

‘They’re both very attractive women.’

‘When all’s said and done, though, I think it’s got to be the lovely Jane.’ He stopped and waited for me to react. When I didn’t, he added, ‘Yes, I definitely fancy my chances with Nurse Turner.’

There was something ridiculous, indeed, almost sad, about his complete lack of insight. I no longer saw him as conceited and arrogant, but utterly deluded. A buffoon, a cloakroom Lothario, misjudging the women he meant to seduce, and blaming them for being fickle after his maladroit fumblings had earned him a hard slap across the face.

‘What makes you feel so confident?’ I asked with weary disinterest.

‘Oh, she’s a game girl all right.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

‘How would you know?’ Contempt had leaked into my voice.

He leaned closer. ‘Not long after this place opened,’ he looked back over his shoulder, ‘we had a patient here, a depressed woman who also suffered from asthma. She was prone to very bad nocturnal attacks. I was already fast asleep when the duty nurse called; the patient was wheezing and turning blue. I got up, rushed over and got the situation under control. It wasn’t half as bad as the nurse thought, but to be on the safe side I went upstairs to get some cortisone. At that time, the medications were still stored in a cupboard on the first floor, where the outpatient rooms are now. It must have been about two thirty. I’d just switched the light off and was about to go back downstairs, when the door to Maitland’s office opened. Of course, I was expecting the old boy to come out. He didn’t – but someone else
did
.’ Once again he tapped the side of his nose.

A finger of ice seemed to stroke the nape of my neck.

‘How do you know that Maitland was in the room?’ I asked.

‘His car was outside.’

‘The transfer of staff and resources from London was a major operation. Perhaps there was an emergency meeting and they were working late. Perhaps Sister Jenkins was in there too.’

‘Come off it, Richardson. There was no light coming out from under the door. They couldn’t have been doing admin in the dark!’

‘Did Nurse Turner see you?’

‘Yes. I must have given her a nasty surprise.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Nothing. She just glared at me and walked straight past. I must say, I was quite impressed. Another girl might have gone to pieces. She knew that
I knew
and that’s all there was to it. She didn’t make things worse by trying to persuade me otherwise.’ He flicked some ash into a teacup and added: ‘Now, if she can find a soft spot in her heart for old Maitland – a married man, let’s not forget, and in his fifties – then I’m sure she’ll do the same for me.’ I suddenly felt very sick. ‘Bloody hell, Richardson! You’re not coming down with this flu are you? You look terrible.’

‘I think I might be. I’m sorry. Excuse me.’ I got up so fast the chair almost toppled over. Osborne had to reach out to steady it. I left him in the dining room and let myself into the men’s ward. As soon as I reached the toilet, I fell on my knees and threw up into the bowl.

14

For the next few days I functioned like an automaton. Outwardly I appeared normal: I dispensed drugs, administered ECT, and wrote up notes. But inside I was seething with anger and could not stop myself from thinking about Jane and Maitland. An endless stream of questions flowed through my mind. How did the affair come about? Did it last for very long? Had she really found Maitland, a man over twice her age, attractive? I reconstructed the stages of their relationship and found that my heated imagination was eager to create a coherent narrative. Glances, touches, smiles and small favours. Meetings in Maitland’s office. A dinner, perhaps, at a discreet location near the Braxton Club. It was as though I had been handed a stack of photographs by a private investigator. Each scene showed them in increasingly compromised positions and progressed inexorably to the same end: Jane sprawled naked on Maitland’s Chesterfield, her pale skin silvered with moonlight. Very occasionally, a small, dissenting voice urged me to give Jane the benefit of the doubt, but it was difficult to nourish hope. What Osborne had observed seemed to merit only a single, rather seedy interpretation.

Gradually, the routines of Wyldehope were restored. Osborne went back to Saxmundham and the nightingales who had been away over Christmas started to reappear. There were two new cases of flu on the men’s ward, but thankfully no more patients were affected. Throughout this period, Maitland called the hospital every day. He appeared in person on the 2nd of January, and immediately sought me out. ‘Well done, James,’ he said, slapping me on the back. ‘I’m indebted.’ We went up to his office and he thanked me again for managing the ‘crisis’. I was aware of certain clichés being aired – ‘darkest hour’, ‘call of duty’ – but I was unable to give his praise my full and undivided attention. The Chesterfield and the unorthodox uses to which it had no doubt been put were a permanent source of distraction. Even so, I kept a tight rein on my emotions and gave Maitland no reason to suspect that anything was wrong.