The Eye in the Door

by Pat Barker

  Night had turned the window into a black mirror. His face floated there, and behind it, Siegfried and the rumpled bed. If Siegfried’s attempt at dissociation had failed, so had his own. He was finding it difficult to be both involved and objective, to turn steadily on Siegfried both sides of medicine’s split face. But that was his problem. Siegfried need never be aware of it.

  It was still dark. A light wind stirred the black trees in the park. He took his boots off and climbed on to the other bed, not expecting to be able to sleep, but thinking that at least he might rest. He closed his eyes. At first his thoughts whirred on, almost as active as Siegfried’s and not much more coherent. For some reason the situation reminded him of sleeping on board the deck of a tramp steamer travelling between the islands of Melanesia. There, one slept in a covered cabin on deck, on a bench that left vertical stripes down one’s back, surrounded by fellow passengers, and what a motley assemblage they were. He remembered a particular voyage when one of his companions had been a young Anglican priest, so determined to observe holy modesty in these difficult conditions that he’d washed the lower part of his body underneath the skirt of his cassock, while Rivers stripped off and had buckets of water thrown over him by the sailors who came up to swab the deck.

  His other companion on that trip had been a trader who rejoiced in the name of Seamus O’Dowd, though he had no trace of an Irish accent. O’Dowd drank. In the smoky saloon after dinner, belching gin and dental decay into Rivers’s face, he had boasted of his exploits as a blackbirder, for he’d started life kidnapping natives to work on the Queensland plantations. Now he simply cheated them. His most recent coup had been to convince them that the great Queen (nobody in the Condominion dared tell the natives Victoria was dead) found their genitals disgusting, and could not sleep easy in her bed at Windsor until they were covered by the long johns that Seamus had inadvertently bought as part of a job lot while even more drunk than usual.

  They wore them on their heads, Rivers remembered. It had been a feature of the island in that first autumn of the war, naked young men wearing long johns elaborately folded on their heads. They looked beautiful. Meanwhile, in England, other young men had been rushing to don a less flattering garb.

  Drifting between sleep and waking, Rivers remembered the smells of oil and copra, the cacophony of snores and whistles from the sleepers crammed into the small cabin on deck, the vibration of the engine that seemed to get into one’s teeth, the strange, brilliant, ferocious southern stars. He couldn’t for the life of him think what was producing this flood of nostalgia. Perhaps it was his own experience of duality that formed the link, for certainly in the years before the war he had experienced a splitting of personality as profound as any suffered by Siegfried. It had been not merely a matter of living two different lives, divided between the dons of Cambridge and the missionaries and headhunters of Melanesia, but of being a different person in the two places. It was his Melanesian self he preferred, but his attempts to integrate that self into his way of life in England had produced nothing but frustration and misery. Perhaps, contrary to what was usually supposed, duality was the stable state; the attempt at integration, dangerous. Certainly Siegfried had found it so.

  He raised himself on his elbow and looked at Siegfried, who was sleeping with his face turned to the window. Perhaps the burst of nostalgia was caused by nothing more mysterious than this: the attempt to sleep in a room where another person’s breathing was audible. Sleeping in the same room as another person belonged with his Melanesian self. In England it simply didn’t happen. But it was restful, the rise and fall of breath, like the wash of waves round the prow of the boat, and gradually, as the light thinned, he drifted off to sleep.

  He woke to find Siegfried kneeling by his bed. The window was open, the curtains lifting in the breeze. A trickle of bird-song came into the room.

  In a half-embarrassed way, Siegfried said, ‘I seem to have talked an awful lot of rubbish last night.’ He looked cold and exhausted, but calm. ‘I suppose I had a fever?’

  Rivers didn’t reply.

  ‘Anyway, I’m all right now.’ Diffidently, he touched Rivers’s sleeve. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  NINETEEN

  A week later Rivers was sitting in his armchair in front of the fire, feeling physically tired in an almost sensuous way. This was a rare feeling with him, since most days produced a grating emotional exhaustion which was certainly not conducive to sleep. But he had been flying, which always tired him out physically, and he’d seen Siegfried a lot calmer and happier than he had recently been, though still very far from well.

  Prior was the mystery. Prior had missed an appointment, something he’d never done before, and Rivers wasn’t sure what he should do about it. There was little he could do except drop Prior a line expressing his continued willingness to help, but there had been some suggestion that Prior worried about the degree of his dependence. If he had decided to break off the association there was nothing Rivers could – or should – do about it. He wouldn’t come now. He was over two hours late.

  Rivers was just thinking he really must make the effort to do something when there was a tap on the door, and the maid came in. ‘There’s a Mr Prior to see you,’ she said, sounding doubtful, for it was very late. ‘Shall I tell him–’

  ‘No, no. Ask him to come up.’

  He felt very unfit to cope with this, whatever it was, but he buttoned his tunic and looked vaguely around for his boots. Prior seemed to be climbing the stairs very quickly, an easy, light tread quite unlike his usual step. His asthma had been very bad on his last visit. He had paused several times on the final flight of stairs and even then had entered the room almost too breathless to speak. The maid must have misheard the name, that or –

  Prior came into the room, pausing just inside the door to look round.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rivers asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ He looked at the clock and seemed to become aware that the lateness of the hour required some explanation. ‘I had to see you.’

  Rivers waved him to a chair and went to close the door.

  ‘Well,’ he said, when Prior was settled. ‘Your chest’s a lot better.’

  Prior breathed in. Testing. He looked hard at Rivers, and nodded.

  ‘You were going to go to the prison last time we spoke,’ Rivers said. ‘To see Mrs Roper. Did you go?’

  Prior was shaking his head, though not, Rivers thought, in answer to the question. At last he said, in a markedly sibilant voice, ‘I didn’t think you would have pretended.’

  ‘Pretended what?’ Rivers asked. He waited, then prompted gently, ‘What am I pretending?’

  ‘That we’ve met before.’

  Momentarily, Rivers closed his eyes. When he opened them again Prior was grinning. ‘I thought of saying, “Dr Rivers, I presume?”’

  ‘If we haven’t met before, how did you know me?’

  ‘I sit in.’ Prior spread his hands. ‘I sit in. Well, let’s face it, there’s not a lot of choice, is there? I don’t know how you put up with him. I couldn’t. Are you sure it’s a good idea to let him get away with it?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With being so cheeky.’

  ‘The sick have a certain licence,’ Rivers said dryly.

  ‘Oh, and he is sick, isn’t he?’ Prior said earnestly, leaning forward. ‘Do you know, I honestly believe he’s getting worse?

  A long silence. Rivers clasped his hands under his chin. ‘Do you think you could manage to say “I”?’

  ‘’Fraid not. No.’

  The antagonism was unmistakable. Rivers was aware of having seen Prior in this mood before, in the early weeks at Craiglockhart. Exactly this. The same incongruous mixture of effeminacy and menace.

  ‘You know, it’s really quite simple,’ Prior went on. ‘Either we can sit here and have a totally barren argument about which pronouns we’re going to use, or we can talk. I think it’s more important to talk.’

/>   ‘I agree.’

  ‘Good. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘I never do mind, do I?’

  Prior was patting his tunic pockets. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he said smiling. ‘Ah, no, it’s all right.’ He held up a packet of cigars. ‘I’ve got him trained. He used to throw them away.’

  ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  A broad smile. ‘I thought you might have some ideas.’

  ‘You say you “sit in”. Does that mean you know everything he knows?’

  ‘Yes. But he doesn’t know anything I know. Only it’s… it’s not quite as neat as that. Sometimes I see things he can’t see, even when he’s there.’

  ‘Things he doesn’t notice?’

  ‘Doesn’t want to notice. Like for example he hates Spragge. I mean, he has perfectly good reasons for disliking him, but what he feels goes a long way beyond that. And he knows that, and he doesn’t know why, even though it’s staring him in the face. Literally. Spragge’s like his father.’

  ‘Like his own – like Spragge’s father?’

  ‘No. Well, he may be. How would I know? Like Billy’s father. I mean, it’s a really striking resemblance, and he just doesn’t see it.’ Prior paused, puzzled by some quality in Rivers’s silence. ‘You see what I mean?’

  ‘His father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you really saying he’s not your father?’

  ‘Of course he isn’t. How could he be?’

  ‘How could he not be? In the end one body begets another.’

  Prior’s expression hardened. ‘I was born two years ago. In a shell-hole in France. I have no father.’

  Rivers felt he needed time to think. A week would have been about right. He said, ‘I met Mr Prior at Craiglockhart.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘He mentioned hitting Billy. Was that a frequent occurrence?’

  ‘No. Oddly enough.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I know everything he knows.’

  ‘So you have access to his memories?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you also have your own memories.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why “oddly”?’

  A blank look.

  ‘You said it was odd his father didn’t beat him.’

  ‘Just because when you look at the relationship you think there must have been something like that. But there wasn’t. Once his parents were having a row and he went downstairs and tried to get between them, and his father picked him up and threw him on the sofa. Only, being a bit the worse for wear, he missed the sofa and hit the wall.’ Prior laughed. ‘He never went down again.’

  ‘So he just used to lie in bed and listen.’

  ‘No, he used to get up and sit on the stairs.’

  ‘What was he feeling?’

  ‘I’m not good on feelings, Rivers. You’d better ask him.’

  ‘Does that mean you don’t know what he was feeling?’

  ‘Angry. He used to do this.’ Prior banged his clenched fist against the palm of the other hand. ‘PIG PIG PIG PIG. And then he’d get frightened, I suppose he was frightened that if he got too angry he’d go downstairs. So he fixed his eyes on the barometer and blotted everything out.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  Prior shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Somebody who didn’t care.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘No, I told you –’

  ‘You were born in a shell-hole.’ A pause. ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  An elaborate shrug. ‘There isn’t much to tell. He was wounded. Not badly, but it hurt. He knew he had to go on. And he couldn’t. So I came.’

  Again that elusive impression of childishness. ‘Why were you able to go on when he couldn’t?’

  ‘I’m better at it.’

  ‘Better at…?’

  ‘Fighting.’

  ‘Why are you better?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake–’

  ‘No, it isn’t a stupid question. You’re not taller, you’re not stronger, you’re not faster… you’re not better trained. How could you be? So why are you better?’

  ‘I’m not frightened.’

  ‘Everybody’s frightened sometimes.’

  ‘I’m not. And I don’t feel pain.’

  ‘I see. So you didn’t feel the wound?’

  ‘No.’ Prior looked at Rivers, narrowing his eyes. ‘You don’t believe a bloody word of this, do you?’

  Rivers couldn’t bring himself to reply.

  ‘Look.’ Prior drew strongly on his cigar, until the tip glowed red, then, almost casually, stubbed it out in the palm of his left hand. He leant towards Rivers, smiling. ‘This isn’t acting, Rivers. Watch the pupils,’ he said, pulling down the lid of one eye.

  The room filled with the smell of burning skin.

  ‘And now you can have your little blue-eyed boy back.’

  A withdrawn, almost drugged look, like extreme shock or the beginning of orgasm. Then, abruptly, the features convulsed with pain, and Prior, teeth chattering uncontrollably, raised his shaking hand and rocked it against his chest.

  ‘I haven’t got any pain-killers,’ Rivers said.’You’d better drink this.’

  Prior took the brandy and held out his other hand for Rivers to complete the dressing. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’ he said.

  ‘You burnt yourself.’

  ‘Why?’

  Rivers sighed. ‘It was a dramatic gesture that went wrong.’

  He’d decided not to tell Prior about the loss of normal sensation. It was a common symptom of hysterical disorders, but knowledge of it would only serve to reinforce Prior’s belief that the alternating state of consciousness was a monster with whom he could have nothing in common.

  ‘What was he like?’ Prior asked.

  ‘What were you like? Bloody-minded.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Well, yes. Obviously,’ Rivers said, indicating the burn.

  ‘No, I meant –’

  ‘Did you take a swing at me? No.’ Rivers smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You make it sound as if it’s something I want.’

  Rivers was thinking deeply. ‘I think that’s true,’ he said, knotting the ends of the bandage.

  ‘No. Why should I want it? It’s creating bloody havoc.’

  ‘You know, Billy, the really interesting thing about tonight is that you turned up in the other state. I mean that while in the other state you still wanted to keep the appointment.’

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Billy. Do you mind? I – ‘

  ‘No, it’s just that it’s the first time. Did you know that? Sassoon was Siegfried. Anderson was Ralph. I noticed the other day you called Manning Gharles. I was always “Prior”. In moments of exasperation I was Mister Prior.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I –’ Oh, God, Rivers thought. Prior was incapable of interpreting that as anything other than snobbery. And perhaps it had been. Partly. Though it had been more to do with his habit of sneering suggestiveness. ‘I’d no idea you minded.’

  ‘No, well, you’re not very perceptive, are you? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better be off.’

  ‘You can’t go now, the trains have stopped. And, in any case, you’re in no state to be on your own. You’d better sleep here.’

  Prior hesitated. ‘All right.’

  Til make up the bed.’

  Rivers saw Prior settled for the night, then went to his own room, telling himself it would be fatal, at this late hour, to attempt any assessment of Prior’s situation. That must wait till morning. But the effort of not thinking about Prior proved almost equally disastrous, for he drifted off into a half-dreaming state, the only condition, apart from feverish illness, in which he had normal powers of visualization. He tossed and turned, scarcely aware of his surro
undings, while persistent images floated before him. France. Craters, a waste of mud, splintered trees. Once he woke and lay looking into the darkness, faintly amused that his identification with his patients should have reached the point where he dreamt their dreams rather than his own. He heard the church bell chime three, and then sank back into his half-sleep. This was a dreadful place. Nothing human could live here. Nothing human did. He was entirely alone, until, with a puckering of the surface, a belch of foul vapours, the mud began to move, to gather itself together, to rise and stand before him in the shape of a man. A man who turned and began striding towards England. He tried to call out, no, not that way, and the movement of his lips half woke him. But he sank down again, and again the mud gathered itself into the shape of a man, faster and faster until it seemed the whole night was full of such creatures, creatures composed of Flanders mud and nothing else, moving their grotesque limbs in the direction of home.

  Sunlight was streaming into the room. Rivers lay thinking about the dream, then switched his thoughts to yesterday evening. In the fugue state (though it was more than that) Prior had claimed to feel no pain and no fear, to have been born in a shell-hole, to have no father. Presumably no relationships that pre-dated that abnormal birth.

  To feel no pain and no fear in a situation that seemed to call for both was not impossible, or even abnormal. He’d been in such a state himself, once, while on his way to the Torres Straits, suffering from severe sunburn, severe enough to have burnt the skin on his legs black. He’d lain on the deck of a ketch, rolling from side to side as waves broke across the ship, in constant pain from the salt water that soaked into his burns, vomiting helplessly, unable to stand or even sit up. Then the ketch had dragged her anchor and they’d been in imminent danger of shipwreck, and for the whole of that time he’d moved freely, he hadn’t vomited, he’d felt no pain and no fear. He had simply performed coolly and calmly the actions needed to avert danger, as they all had. After they’d landed, his legs had hurt like hell and he’d once more been unable to walk. He’d been carried up from the beach on a litter, and had spent the first few days seeing patients from his sick bed, shuffling from the patient to the dispensing cupboard and back again on his bottom. He smiled to himself, thinking Prior would like that story. Physician, heal thyself.