The Sleep Room (31 page)

Mrs Richardson and I have discussed the current situation at length, and she agrees with me that it would now be better for James if he were transferred to Oak Lodge. Your lovely gardens, with their views of the low rolling hills of Bedfordshire, are as good a place as any to convalesce. And if James does not recover, I can rest assured that you and your team of excellent nurses will look after him.

I am convinced that the removal of Richardson to Oak Lodge will also be good for Mrs Richardson. Her husband’s presence, here, in London, is a constant reminder of what must have been a very traumatic period in her life. Moreover, a misplaced sense of duty obliges her to make frequent visits to Ward 5 – but these visits only make her upset. I do not think the marriage has any future and if James is taken to Oak Lodge I am sure that Mrs Richardson will be able to think more clearly about making a new start. What has happened to Richardson is bad enough. It would be unconscionable to allow his wife to suffer a similar fate. That really would be a tragedy.

I have taken the liberty of completing some preliminary paperwork that you will find enclosed. Please feel free to give me a call if you have any questions.

Yours Sincerely,

Hugh

Dr Hugh Maitland

M.A., M.B.(Cantab.), F.R.C.P, F.R.C.Psych.

Physician in Charge of the Department of Psychological Medicine and Lecturer in the Medical School, St Thomas’s Hospital.

Sources and Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Wayne Brookes, Catherine Richards, Clare Alexander, Dr David Veale, Steve Matthews and Nicola Fox for their comments on the first and subsequent drafts of
The Sleep Room
and Lorraine Green for some impressive proofreading. I would also like to thank: Philip Loring (Science Museum) for answering many questions about electroconvulsive therapy, but particularly about the operation of the model R1135 ECT machine, which was used in a Suffolk asylum between 1945 and 1960; Francis Maunze (Royal College of Psychiatrists) and Professor Malcolm Lader, for answering questions about the qualifications required to practise psychiatry in the 1950s; the Royal College of GPs archivists (and an anonymous veteran GP) for answering questions on the composition and layout of referral letters in the 1950s; Dr Diana Dixon (Southwold Museum) for answering questions on the condition of the Southwold pier in 1955; Peter Homan (Royal Pharmaceutical Society) for providing information about Reserpine and its uses in the late 1960s and early 1970s; Wendy Fox for answering questions on the everyday use of the BNF and the British Pharmacopoeia in the 1950s and 1960s; and Dr Naomi Fersht for sending me an extremely useful academic paper on the characteristics of sleep in disorders of consciousness.

Concerning the plausibility of whether a consultant in psychiatry would take on his or her senior registrar as a patient – and whether or not this would be permitted – I’ve actually seen this happen. At the time, the propriety of such a peculiar arrangement was never questioned or debated.

The character of Hugh Maitland is based on the psychiatrist William Sargant (1907–1988). It was not my intention to introduce the real William Sargant into my story; however, Sargant provided me with a near perfect model for Maitland and I have made extensive use of Sargant’s autobiography,
The Unquiet Mind
, and his book on brainwashing and indoctrination for the general reader,
Battle for the Mind
. The sleep-room procedures and drug regimens are authentic and taken from
An introduction to Physical Methods of Treatment in Psychiatry
(5th edition) by William Sargant and Eliot Slater.

Sargant was a major figure in British psychiatry, who promoted ‘somatic’ treatments for ‘psychological’ problems. These included chemical sedation and stimulation, excitatory abreaction, brain surgery, insulin shock, electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) and narcosis (deep-sleep therapy). Sargant’s most controversial treatment project was undertaken in Ward 5 of the Royal Waterloo Hospital, otherwise known as ‘the sleep room’. Remarkably, given the rise of the anti-psychiatry movement in the 1960s, it was still operating in the early 1970s.

Some sources suggest that Sargant’s activities at the Royal Waterloo Hospital were connected with a larger programme of research into brainwashing ultimately sponsored by the CIA (see
Brainwash: The Secret History of Mind Control
by Dominic Streatfeild for an evaluation of the evidence). Although Sargant’s links with the CIA are doubtful, he certainly worked for MI5. According to one intelligence historian, Sargant was MI5’s ‘in-house psychiatrist’. Interestingly, there are no records of the patients treated in Ward 5. Sargant removed and destroyed all the relevant files before his retirement.

Maitland’s speech to James Richardson about physical illness, mental illness, and suicide is based on one of Lord Owen’s recollections of Sargant. As Dr David Owen, Lord Owen worked with Sargant in the 1960s. The original quotation can be found in
Brainwash.

Sargant was a larger-than-life character who we can easily demonize. Professor Malcolm Lader, a very distinguished and respectable member of the British medical establishment, is on record as having said, ‘There was a whiff of sulphur about him.’ Moreover, Sargant’s book
Battle for the Mind
is alleged to be a firm favourite at Al Qaeda training camps. In actuality, Sargant was one of many psychiatrists who believed that mental illnesses have a biological basis and should be treated with interventions that affect the brain directly. Today, Sargant’s methods appear crude and barbaric; however, psychiatry is a notoriously fickle discipline. Different approaches become fashionable and unfashionable in cycles. Recently, for example, persuasive arguments have been made for the more widespread use of ECT, which has hitherto been in decline for many decades (see
Shock Therapy: A History of Electroconvulsive Treatment in Mental Illness
by Edward Shorter and David Healy). It is quite possible that at some time in the future, Sargant’s reputation as a ‘brilliant’ doctor and scientific visionary will be restored. At present, however, a positive revision of Sargant’s contribution to medicine seems a distant prospect.

In the end, it was the ‘couch merchants’ (or at least those who inherited the psychoanalytic legacy of curing by talking) who won the clinical ‘battle for the mind’. There are no longer any sleep rooms.

F. R. TALLIS

London, 2012

A conversation with F. R. Tallis

What inspired you to write
The Sleep Room
?

The point at which I realized narcosis had fictional possibilities was shortly after listening to a BBC Radio 4 documentary called ‘Revealing the Mind Bender General’, made by the reporter James Maw and originally broadcast in 2009. It was a fascinating programme about controversial psychiatrist Dr William Sargant (1907–1988) and his advocacy of deep sleep therapy. I found the image of a darkened room in which patients were kept asleep for extended periods of time (weeks, sometimes months) both powerful and haunting. Prior to listening to James Maw’s programme, I had become interested in William Sargant after discovering a battered 1959 Pan paperback edition of his magnum opus
Battle for the Mind
in a second-hand book shop. My curiosity was aroused by the glowing reviews on the back cover supplied by luminaries such as Aldous Huxley and the philosopher Bertrand Russell. I was also intrigued by the enigmatic and sinister subtitle, ‘
A Physiology of Conversion and Brainwashing
.’

The Sleep Room
is set in a psychiatric hospital in the 1950s. How much research did you have to undertake as preparation for this novel?

I am an avid student of the history of psychiatry, so I didn’t have to do a great deal of general research; however, I was keen to get the specific details of deep sleep therapy correct. In order to achieve this I had to track down a copy of an old text book authored by William Sargant which contained detailed treatment instructions. I made such a close study of the relevant chapter that, if asked to, I could probably manage a sleep room. Another aspect of the novel that had to be carefully researched was the location of the hospital. When I write, a sense of place is very important to me. I drove around Suffolk looking for a precise position where sea, reed beds and heathland meet. Dunwich Heath was perfect. I am sure that at the back of my mind I was also trying to identify
The Sleep Room
with some august literary predecessors. The Suffolk coast is strongly associated with the classic ghost stories of M. R. James and the name Dunwich comes with its own pleasing Lovecraftian resonances.

Before writing fiction you were a clinical psychologist. How has your work as a psychologist influenced your writing?

Virtually every aspect of my writing has been influenced by psychology. Firstly, I tend to favour clinical settings. For example, I have written a six-volume series of psychoanalytic detective thrillers set in Freud’s Vienna. Without an appreciation of Freudian theory and my experience as a practitioner I could never have written them. Secondly, a lot of my work blurs the boundary between imagination and reality. Sometimes I make it clear to the reader what is happening, but not always. For example, my novel
The Forbidden
can be read as a supernatural adventure, or the fantastic imaginings of a nineteenth-century French neurologist. This second reading removes the novel from the horror genre and makes it, instead, a kind of literary case study. There are no obvious clues in the text with respect to the second interpretation. Stanley Kubrick (my favourite director) did much the same in his film
Eyes Wide Shut
. It is an exploration of a marriage in crisis observed through the murky medium of the unconscious; however, Kubrick doesn’t employ a single cinematic device to signal departures from reality. In many respects, I don’t see myself as a former clinical psychologist but, rather, as a clinical psychologist now working in a different context.

In a previous life you wrote crime fiction under the name Frank Tallis. What made you decide to turn to horror?

I thoroughly enjoyed writing crime novels, but deep down, I’ve always wanted to write supernatural fiction and horror. Indeed, I think this desire was so strong, characters and themes associated with supernatural fiction kept on surfacing in my crime writing. For example, my psychoanalytic detective series features séances, occult societies, the golem legend, a secret alchemist’s laboratory, and visitations by the angel of death, none of which are staples for most traditional crime novelists. It was more or less inevitable that my fascination with the supernatural would eventually necessitate a genre change.

What normally comes to you first: an idea for the plot or the character(s)?

Neither. What usually comes first is an idea, a theme, or a single image. So, the starting point of
The Sleep Room
was an image of a darkened room full of sleeping patients. I then learned more about deep sleep therapy and thought a great deal about where the action of the novel might take place. It was only at a relatively late stage that I started to construct a plot. Of course, I knew that I wanted to write a ‘ghost’ story, but I wasn’t at all sure how the supernatural element would manifest itself. As for characters, I like my characters to develop as the novel progresses. I like them to surprise me occasionally. This isn’t possible if their behaviour is limited by too many preconceptions.

What do you feel is the hardest part of writing a convincing horror story?

The hardest thing to achieve when writing horror novels is suspension of disbelief. Fiction is most compelling when the reader is completely immersed in a story. If something seems absurd, or ridiculous, then the reader is quickly delivered back to reality. He or she will become self-conscious and disengage from the book. The problem with supernatural fiction is that its
dramatis personae
(ghosts, vampires, monsters) are – by their very nature – incredible. Therefore, the horror writer is presented with a unique and substantive challenge: to sustain suspension of disbelief while working with ‘materials’ that test credulity to its absolute limit. Essentially, one must make the unbelievable believable.

Your last book,
The Forbidden
, was set in nineteenth-century Paris. Was it difficult to make the transition from nineteenth-century Paris to England in the 1950s?

I didn’t find the transition difficult at all. Indeed, it was very easy, because
The Sleep Room
was less problematic with respect to the choices I had to make about language. I simply wrote it in the 1950s English I am familiar with from watching post-war British films.
The Forbidden
, however, was technically more demanding. I wanted to create an impression of it being written in the style of a nineteenth-century French novel, but without compromising accessibility. In other words, I had to create a literary illusion.

Which authors have had the biggest impact on your writing?

For the purposes of this interview I will consider only those authors who have had an impact on my supernatural fiction. Needless to say, I am indebted to all the genre colossi of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: Edgar Alan Poe, Charles Dickens, Henry James, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Bram Stoker, M. R. James, William Hope Hodgson, H. P. Lovecraft and Shirley Jackson. In addition, there are two other writers with whom I feel a more personal connection: Dennis Wheatley and J. Meade Falkner. I discovered the black magic novels of Dennis Wheatley when I was a schoolboy and found them deliriously enjoyable. Although Wheatley is no longer fashionable (he is a complete stranger to political correctness) and his writing style leaves much to be desired, he remains a profound formative influence.
The Devil Rides Out
is a stupendous supernatural adventure. I was still an adolescent when I read
The Lost Stradivarius
by J. Meade Falkner and I was immediately captivated by this strange tale of an English aristocrat who obsessively pursues a vision of absolute evil. It is sometimes described as the novel that M. R. James never wrote. It remains, to this day, my favourite full-length ghost story. Indeed, I am prepared to commit heresy and suggest that it is not merely comparable to the best work of M. R. James but superior.