She tightened the belt of her dressing gown and said, ‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Briggs.’
‘Don’t forget to switch off the landing light.’
‘I won’t, Mrs Briggs. Sleep well.’
I tried to creep up the stairs quietly but it was impossible. Almost every step produced a loud creak. On entering my room, I placed a chair by the window and looked up into a cloudless sky. A full moon had risen above the chimney stacks and the slates were awash with a silvery brilliance. I didn’t think about Sheila once. I thought about Maitland.
On the day I was due to make my departure, I had intended to catch an early train; however, an administrative error necessitated my immediate return to the Royal Free. There were some documents that had to be signed. My replacement, Dr Collins, had just arrived, and I foolishly allowed myself to be dragged into a protracted and rather tedious handover meeting. Collins asked me a ludicrous number of questions and I’m ashamed to say I grew quite impatient.
It was late afternoon when I arrived at Liverpool Street station, just in time to catch the six thirty-four to Ipswich. On reaching Ipswich, I telephoned the caretaker, Mr Hartley, to inform him of my delay. It had already been arranged that Mr Hartley would meet me at Wyldehope and show me to my quarters. He did not seem terribly inconvenienced and said, ‘Call me again when you get to Darsham.’ The branch line took me as far as Woodbridge, where a signal failure meant that I had to disembark and wait for another two hours, after which a small locomotive appeared, belching smoke, and pulling along two empty carriages. I picked up my suitcase, heaved it aboard, and after squeezing through the narrow corridor, entered the first compartment. Before I was seated, a whistle blew, and the train began to crawl forward.
Once the train was out of Woodbridge, I was able to study the countryside – low, rolling hills and flat expanses. Night was falling and the windows soon became black and reflective. The train stopped at a couple more stations, Melton and Wickham Market, but my carriage remained empty. At Saxmundham, I heard a door slamming shut and a few seconds later I saw a man outside my compartment. He peered through the glass and our eyes met. Before I could look away, he slid the door aside and stepped over the metal track. Removing his hat, he nodded, before sitting down on the seat directly opposite. The train began to move and the station slipped away.
‘Are you going to Lowestoft?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Darsham.’
‘Darsham?’ he repeated, his voice carrying a note of surprise.
‘Well, not exactly,’ I continued. ‘Dunwich Heath? There’s a new hospital there. I’m a doctor.’
‘Wyldehope Hall.’
‘Yes.’
I had supposed that, having chosen to enter the only occupied compartment in the train, my companion was in need of company. But my supposition was quite wrong. It was as though, having satisfied his curiosity concerning my identity, he had no more need of conversation. He sat very still, frowning slightly, his hands tightly gripping his kneecaps. I turned my face towards the window. A few minutes later he spoke again. ‘It wasn’t wanted.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The hospital. Folk ’round here didn’t want a madhouse on their doorstep.’
I was finding his behaviour and manner quite irritating.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. There are many individuals who suffer from diseases of the mind and provision has to be made for their care. They have to be treated somewhere.’
The man bit his lower lip and fell silent again. I toyed with the idea of moving to a different compartment, but decided against it. Instead, I distracted myself by reading Maitland’s textbook and when the train came into Darsham I was quick to leave the carriage.
I stepped down onto a platform shrouded in mist. Stressed metal groaned, flashes of firelight emanated from the cab, and glowing cinders formed chaotic constellations above the smokestack. The effect was vaguely diabolical. I glanced at my wristwatch and paused to observe the train pulling out. The wheels began to turn and I stood there, immobile, strangely captivated as the engine and carriages vanished into an opaque middle distance. I picked up my suitcase and walked to the end of the platform where a ramp descended to the road. There, a few yards ahead of me, I saw a telephone box. I stepped inside and lifted the receiver, but when I held it to my ear there was no dialling tone. Swearing loudly, I replaced the receiver and lifted it again. Still no tone. I took a deep breath and made my exit by leaning my back against the door.
Ribbons of mist were floating before my eyes. I ventured a short distance from the telephone box and noticed that the station had all but disappeared. Even so, I took a few more steps down the road with the intention of walking into the village. I remembered what Maitland had said about Wyldehope being ‘somewhat off the beaten track’ and his impression that the previous registrar, Palmer, had felt ‘rather isolated’. At that moment, I heard the wail of a night animal, one of those melancholy calls that could easily be mistaken for the cry of a human child. The combination of the impenetrable mist and the eerie cry proved too much for my already tired nerves and I turned back.
I ascended the ramp and walked up and down the platform. The door to the ticket office was locked, all of the station windows were dark and the only illumination came from a row of lamp posts. There was, however, a waiting room, the door of which was open. I went inside, sat on a bench and considered my situation. It seemed to me that I had no choice but to wait for the mist to clear and then make another attempt at reaching the village.
A few minutes passed, during which time I stared hopelessly through the window. Then I heard footsteps. I got up, rushed out, and saw a bright light coming towards me, beams lancing through the haze. I raised my hand to protect my eyes from the glare. Someone called – ‘Hello there!’ – and a few seconds later a uniformed figure appeared in front of me. It was the stationmaster, wheeling a bicycle. I was so glad to see another person that I laughed out aloud with delight. ‘Good evening.’
‘Look at this!’ said the stationmaster, creating a swirl of fog with a wave of his hand. ‘It came in off the marshes about an hour ago.’
‘Will it clear?’
‘Who knows. Sometimes it does – sometimes it doesn’t.’
‘I wonder if you could help me. My name is Dr Richardson. I’m expected at Wyldehope Hall: the new hospital on Dunwich Heath?’ The stationmaster showed no sign of recognition. ‘The public telephone is out of order. Might I use yours instead? Otherwise I fear I might be stuck here all night.’
The stationmaster escorted me back to his office and I called Mr Hartley, who was, on this occasion, less understanding. ‘I suppose I’d better come and get you,’ he grumbled. The stationmaster informed me that Dunwich Heath was only five miles away: ‘You won’t have to wait for very long.’
He locked his office and we walked down the platform together. When we reached its end, he mounted his bicycle, said ‘Goodnight, sir’ and coasted down the ramp, ringing his bell.
I positioned myself beneath the projecting roof of the station and gazed out into a featureless expanse. The quiet was extraordinary. Dense and absolute. A car passed, driving very slowly, and I did not see another one until Mr Hartley arrived some thirty minutes later.
Mr Hartley was a big man with a pockmarked face and bulbous features. His hair was brushed to one side and he wore spectacles with circular lenses. He was not particularly talkative, although this was quite understandable given the circumstances. I apologized several times for my lateness, but this had no effect on his manner. He was still disinclined to make conversation. We passed through only one village on our way to the hospital, a place called Westleton, after which, thankfully, the mist began to lift and Mr Hartley was able to drive faster. A mile or so further on, the road became uneven and I had to press my palm against the dashboard so as to prevent myself from being thrown around. We passed between two square columns and I saw a cluster of faint lights ahead.
‘Wyldehope,’ said Hartley.
As we drew closer I realized that I was not looking at one building, but several – a central block flanked by outhouses. The car ground to a halt beside a stone porch, and when I got out, I took a few steps backwards to get a better look at my new home. It was too dark to see very much detail, but I was able to discern mullioned windows, mock battlements and a tower. A background noise was impinging on my awareness, and when I gave it my full attention, I realized that I was listening to the sea.
‘This way, please,’ said Mr Hartley. He was standing in front of the car with my suitcase.
We walked to the porch and the caretaker produced a bunch of keys from his coat pocket. He unlocked the door and we entered a spacious but dimly lit vestibule. It was decorated with wallpaper that I supposed must be Victorian – gloomy maroon stripes enlivened by a floral motif of faded gold. A suit of armour, evidently unpolished for centuries, stood guard by the stairs. I followed Mr Hartley up to the first-floor landing, where we passed beneath a stag’s head with glassy black eyes. When we reached the second-floor landing, Mr Hartley unlocked another door, switched on a light, and invited me to enter a wide hallway which had rooms adjoining it on both sides. He handed me a key. ‘You only need the one, sir. None of the other rooms on the second floor are occupied.’ I was shown a bedroom, a study, a small kitchen and a bathroom. The furniture was solid and functional, except for an antique writing bureau which was elegant and beautifully crafted. I imagined myself seated at it, writing a monograph.
‘Would you like your breakfast brought up, sir?’ asked the caretaker. ‘Or would you prefer to join the nurses in the staff canteen?’
‘If it isn’t any trouble, I think I’d like to eat here.’
‘I’ll tell Mrs Hartley. Seven o’clock suit you?’
‘That would be very good.’
‘Oh, I almost forgot – Dr Maitland called. He’ll be arriving tomorrow at ten thirty. I think you were expecting to see him a little earlier.’ Mr Hartley put the keys back in his pocket. ‘Well, I think that’s it, sir.’
I wanted a cup of tea, but dared not ask. ‘Thank you so much. And thank you for collecting me from the station. That was most kind of you.’
The caretaker appeared indifferent to my gratitude and said, rather brusquely, ‘Goodnight, sir.’
I locked the door to the landing and set about unpacking my suitcase. After hanging my shirts in the wardrobe, I filled a few drawers with the remainder of my clothes and distributed the rest of my possessions (mostly books and documents) in the study.
When I had finished, I walked down to the bathroom, where I washed my face and brushed my teeth. The sink was deep and its surface broken by fine cracks. Each of the taps had a circular enamel medallion at its centre, on which black letters spelled out the words ‘hot’ and ‘cold’. Raising my head, I looked at my reflection. I placed a finger under one of my eyes and dragged the loose skin downwards, exposing a crescent of pale, pink flesh.
There was a sound – a familiar sound – a sigh, and it seemed to come from just behind me.
I stared into the mirror, registering the emptiness of the bathroom.
That someone might be lurking in the hallway seemed very unlikely. I had heard no approaching footsteps, only the curious, breathy exhalation. Nevertheless, I found myself checking, and even peered into a few of the adjacent rooms to make sure that I was truly alone.
The tap was still running, and I was about to go back to the sink in order to turn it off, when an obscure intuition made me hesitate. I was reminded of the superstitious wariness that arrests one’s progress the instant one perceives that the path ahead proceeds beneath a ladder. Irritated by my own irrationality, I marched over the linoleum, grasped the tap handle, and rotated it until the flow of water stopped. I looked at my reflection again, perhaps more carefully than before, and I was forced to concede that I was not looking my best: my complexion was sallow and my eyes bloodshot. It had been a long day and I was clearly overtired. A painful throbbing in my head accompanied each beat of my heart.
I returned to the bedroom, put on my pyjamas, and got into bed. As I listened to the subtle music of waves on shingle, London seemed very distant. I thought again about what had happened in the bathroom. If the ‘sigh’ had been produced by natural means – an obstruction in the pipes, the acoustical properties of the environment, and so on – then it was remarkable how chance events and processes had duplicated the effect with such fidelity: an intake of breath, the slow release of air from the lungs, a suggestion of descending pitch. It had been most disconcerting.
I slid down further between the crisp, clean sheets, and reached out to turn off the lamp. Although I was exhausted, it was some time before I closed my eyes.
2
I will always remember entering the sleep room for the very first time: descending the stairs that led to the basement, Maitland at my side, immaculately dressed, talking energetically, cutting the air with his hands, the door opening and stepping across the threshold – a threshold that seemed not merely physical, but psychological. The nurse, seated at her station – a solitary desk lamp creating a well-defined pool of light in the darkness – the sound of the quivering EEG pens and, of course, the six occupied beds. All women – in white gowns – fast asleep: one of them with wires erupting from her scalp like a tribal headdress.
Narcosis, or deep-sleep treatment, had originally been developed in the 1920s, although, according to Maitland, prolonged sleep was one of the oldest treatment methods in psychiatry. Distressed individuals had been using alcohol to ‘knock themselves out’ for thousands of years, and in the nineteenth century a few enterprising doctors had attempted to treat insanity with opium and chloroform, but it wasn’t until the arrival of barbiturates that narcosis gained wider acceptance. Maitland was pioneering a new form of the treatment, which combined continuous sleep with the latest drugs and electroconvulsive therapy.