The Sleep Room by F.R. Tallis

Author:F.R. Tallis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus Books

11

Maitland handed me the referral letter as we were leaving his office. ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to assess this gentleman for me?’ His manner was casual, almost careless, but I wasn’t fooled. He was keen to repair any damage done to our reputation by the Mary Williams affair. The provision of outpatient services at Wyldehope was long overdue, and if we offered them now this would not only improve our standing among local GPs but it would also mollify the Health Board.

Our new patient’s name was Edward Burgess. During the war he had spent four years as an army driver and had never reported sick. He then became an infantryman and was sent to the front line, where he and his comrades came under fire. Heavy shelling and mortar bombs precipitated a rapid mental collapse, and he was transported to an aid post on the Normandy beachhead. In due course he was evacuated to England and given various treatments. Although outwardly he appeared to improve, he was constantly on edge and prone to attacks of anxiety. He was allocated a desk job and after being demobbed he started a haulage business in Lowestoft that subsequently became very lucrative. Within a relatively short period of time he had become a well-respected member of a regional trade association and his contribution was recognized when he was voted its president. Yet he continued to be tormented by traumatic memories and his sleep was disturbed by vivid nightmares of the battlefield and all of its attendant horrors. He would wake up, several times a week, screaming and drenched with perspiration. Occasionally, he would be crippled by a loss of sensation in his legs. His nervous condition was placing a considerable strain on his marriage, and after years of resistance and procrastination he was finally persuaded by his wife to consult his GP.

I was waiting for Mr Burgess in one of the first-floor outpatient rooms, reading and rereading the referral letter. A nurse had been instructed to receive him in the vestibule, and I knew that he had arrived when I heard the heavy iron knocker sounding downstairs, three unhurried strikes that were amplified by the resonant space of the vestibule. Shortly after, there were footsteps in the corridor and Mr Burgess was ushered in. I recognized his face at once, the sloping brow, sunken eyes and lean features, but it took me a few moments to establish where, exactly, I had seen that grim, haunted visage before.

‘Doctor,’ he said, offering me his hand.

‘Mr Burgess.’ And then it came to me. ‘I believe we’ve already met.’

‘Briefly, yes. We shared a train compartment.’

I recalled my first, interminable journey to Wyldehope: the man sitting opposite, gripping his kneecaps. Folk ‘round here didn’t want a madhouse on their doorstep. I had misunderstood him completely. Mr Burgess had not been expressing his own view but, rather, forewarning me of local hostility.

‘Please,’ I gestured, indicating an empty seat.

‘I’m still not sure whether I’ve done the right thing, coming here today.

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