by F. R. Tallis
I can remember how I experienced his use of the word ‘it’ as particularly chilling, because the word suggested the approach of something impersonal and unknown.
In psychoanalysis, the term ‘id’ is used to describe the deep unconscious. A classicist would also be familiar with the term as the Latin word for ‘it’. Freud described the id as an inaccessible chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations; a primitive part of the mind, constantly seeking to bring about the satisfaction of its instinctual needs. Thus, when Chapman had said ‘It’s coming’ the language he employed had had a double meaning and at some level I must have registered this.
I had read through the referral letters of the sleep-room patients only once; however, I could remember, quite clearly, every detail of each case, and one didn’t need to be so very insightful to identify certain correspondences between the histories of these women and the activities of the poltergeist. For example, the theft of the wedding rings and the fire-setting. Moreover, the women in the sleep room had in common the frustration of that most fundamental of female instinctual needs: the need to have and care for a child. Most of them had lost a baby, one way or another, through removal, termination or miscarriage, and those that hadn’t lost a baby demonstrated strong maternal feelings. Marian Powell had cherished her rag doll, ‘Little Marian’, and for Elizabeth Mason, the prospect of marriage and raising a family was, evidently, everything.
Their minds had come together, in their long, communal sleep, and the ‘whole’ that resulted from this merging had become something much greater than the sum of its parts. The poltergeist was a vehicle for the fulfilment of wishes, a dream that had escaped from the confines of their collective unconscious.
Had they meant to die with Maitland? Probably not. Nothing that they did was intentional, as such. The unconscious is entirely irrational. It does not plan ahead or consider consequences.
And what of Marian Powell’s psychic powers? As a child, she had been investigated by representatives from the Society for Psychical Research. Had her abilities been reawakened and amplified by membership of this unique community of souls? Did she generate energies that could be used to levitate books, slam doors, release the fastenings of a straitjacket, and, in the final instance, prevent my entry into the sleep room? These were fanciful speculations, but I could think of no better way to account for the facts.
I asked myself many questions, but one in particular came back to me, again and again, to disturb my quiet moments. What was Maitland really doing at Wyldehope? I had long since abandoned the naive notion that he was simply trying to develop new treatments. Naturally, I had ideas, notions, but nothing that could be substantiated, nothing that I could actually prove. This unsatisfactory state of affairs might have lasted indefinitely had I not, quite literally, bumped into my old girlfriend, Sheila, in a smoky pub in Soho.
‘James?’ she said, wiping a damp hand on her skirt. We had both spilled our drinks as we collided.
‘Sheila?’
‘Good God, it is you.’ She raised herself up on her toes and kissed me on the lips. A boisterous group of people in the corner cheered. ‘Take no notice,’ she added, and then asked me what I was doing in London. I gave her a much-abbreviated account of my experiences at Wyldehope (omitting any mention of the poltergeist) and explained how the fire had necessitated my return.
Sheila’s face showed signs of recognition. ‘I think I read about it in the newspapers. You were there. Heavens. Some people died, didn’t they?’
‘Six patients and the medical director.’
‘What caused the fire?’
‘An electrical fault.’ I did not want to dwell on Wyldehope and was anxious to change the subject. ‘How about you? What have you been up to?’
She extended her fingers and showed me a diamond ring that flashed when she tilted it beneath the light. ‘I’m engaged.’
‘That was quick. Who’s the lucky man?’
‘His name is Nigel. Nigel Reeves. He produces comedy programmes on the wireless. He did a few episodes of The Goons last year.’ She seemed bashfully reticent for a moment, before adding: ‘He took me to a party on Tuesday and Peter Sellers was there.’
‘Was it fun?’
‘Fantastic fun.’
‘Did you meet Nigel at the BBC?’
‘No. In a jazz club, which is mad, considering that our offices are on the same floor. He’s always looking for new talent.’
Our lives couldn’t have been more different since we had chosen to go our separate ways. I remembered Sheila jumping on a bus and waving through the window. My recollections of saying ‘goodbye’ to her on the Charing Cross Road seemed as distant as childhood.
‘You must be very happy,’ I remarked.
‘I am.’ She smiled and looked at me askance. ‘Anybody special in your life?’
‘No. Not really. I became very fond of a nurse at Wyldehope but it didn’t work out. You know how it is.’
This admission aroused in Sheila a disproportionate volume of pity. She was insistent that I ‘absolutely must’ meet a friend of hers who was also single and who Sheila was certain I would like. I found myself being cajoled into accepting a dinner invitation. We were to be a foursome: Sheila and Nigel, the friend and myself.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ I asked Sheila. ‘I mean, do you really want your fiancé and me sitting on opposite sides of the same table?’
Sheila laughed. ‘Oh, that won’t be a problem. I’ll tell him who you are and he won’t mind a bit. He isn’t the jealous type.’ Clearly, they were a good match.
A week later I went to dinner at Nigel’s town house in Kensington. He was a good ten years older than Sheila and clearly in receipt of some form of private income. He wore loose, casual clothes, had the yellow fingers of a chain-smoker, and drank large quantities of wine without showing the least sign of inebriation. The slim, red-haired girl who stood to greet me as I entered the sitting room was Sheila’s friend, Tosca Summerfield. Her exotic name provided the first topic of conversation. Apparently she had been conceived in Milan after her newly married mother and father had visited the opera house.
It turned out to be a very pleasant evening. Nigel Reeves was a splendid host and Tosca and I got along famously. She was a friendly if somewhat excitable young woman who worked in a publishing house and harboured aspirations to be a writer. We swapped telephone numbers and started seeing each other soon after. Subsequently, I saw quite a lot of Sheila and Nigel, and for a brief period of time I found myself escorting Tosca to parties where most of the people present seemed to either make programmes for the BBC or write for a newspaper.
It was at one of these gatherings that I met a journalist called Leonard Grimwood. He was a Marxist and writing a highly critical book on modern America. When he discovered that I was a psychiatrist, he started talking about the CIA. ‘It looks like they’re trying to develop a procedure that will enable them to erase human memories and I have good reason to believe that some very senior members of the medical establishment have been helping them. All hush-hush, of course, but you’d be surprised at how bad they are at keeping secrets.’ He noticed that his pipe had gone out and paused to relight it. ‘Have you been to the United States?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘The whole of American culture is obsessed with mind control and brainwashing. I blame the ad men. They’ve made everyone paranoid.’
Maitland had believed that narcosis and ECT might work by destroying unpleasant memories. I remembered turning the pages of Marian Powell’s file: the CIA memorandum, covered in rubber stamp marks and scrawled annotations.
‘Have you ever come across the name of Dr Walter Rosenberg?’ I asked.
Grimwood looked startled. ‘Yes, I have. He’s based in New York. Do you know him?’
‘I met him once.’
‘A slippery customer if ever there was one. He’s been sending patients home with their memories wiped clean for years. And he’s a lot wealthier than he
should be. I know some lawyers in Queens: young Turks, eager to stir things up a little. They specialize in civil rights and have become increasingly interested in mental health lately. They’ve been trying to put together a case against Rosenberg for some time – some kind of negligence claim – but they haven’t got very far, as yet.’ Grimwood narrowed his eyes in such a way as to suggest that this lack of progress might be attributable to some kind of sinister interference. He produced a vast amount of smoke from his pipe and continued to stare at me from within a thick, brownish cloud.
‘What about Maitland?’ I asked, ‘Dr Hugh Maitland?’
‘Well, of course I’ve heard of him. He died quite recently, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. I worked with him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘We weren’t close. Maitland knew Rosenberg very well. In fact, I met Rosenberg when he was visiting Maitland.’
‘Maitland was British.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘It does to me. My book is about America.’
22
In the autumn, Tosca was offered a job in Paris which she accepted. I had never really expected our affair to last for very long. Even so, I was saddened by her departure. She had been good for me, a welcome distraction. Of course, the fact that I judged the success of our relationship in those terms shows that we had never really progressed beyond a superficial acquaintance. Our love-making had been efficient rather than passionate. There had never been any rapt embraces or trembling exhalations that might, at any moment, have carried an admission of love.
When my contract expired at the Royal Free I applied for a position as senior registrar to Professor Aubrey Lewis at the Institute of Psychiatry. He was the inaugural chair and a man of considerable importance. Unlike Maitland, who was leonine and seductively charming, Lewis was bald and pedantic. An unflattering moustache gave him the appearance of a retired sergeant major. The interview was arduous but I managed to impress Lewis and drub some stiff competition. Once again, my prior association with Maitland proved useful.
On the face of it, one day was much like the next. I saw patients, undertook research and did a little lecturing; however, the Institute was an interesting place to be. One felt at the centre of things.
My relationship with Lewis was good, but lacking in warmth, because he was not given to showing his emotions. Indeed, he was probably the least demonstrative person I have ever met. Some of my colleagues found this trait discomfiting, but as far as I was concerned Lewis’s reserve was a refreshing and welcome contrast to Maitland’s intensity. Travelling from Dartmouth Park to South London every day soon became tiresome, so I gave my bohemian landlady notice of my imminent departure, packed my bags, and moved to Herne Hill.
One Saturday, I was walking past the forecourt of a car showroom in Camberwell when I noticed a rather eye-catching, second-hand Wolseley. It had lustrous black bodywork and silver appurtenances that reflected radiant spears of morning sunlight. I opened one of the offside doors and inspected the leather upholstery, pile carpet, and walnut trim. Why not? I thought. I can afford it.
When the spring came, I got into the habit of going for long drives every weekend. I would usually head for the coast, stopping for a few hours in Brighton, Margate, or Southend, but occasionally I would travel north, into Hertfordshire and beyond. On one of these jaunts I went as far as Cambridge. I arrived much earlier than I had expected and, while strolling along Silver Street, it occurred to me that I could probably get to Wyldehope by way of Ipswich in just over two hours. The idea took hold and began to acquire a compulsive quality. I experienced what I can only describe as a ‘strong urge’ to see Dunwich Heath again, to hear the sound of waves breaking on shingle, to stand in front of the ruined hospital and to remember. Perhaps at the root of this impulse was the untrustworthy supposition that returning to Wyldehope would be therapeutic. For over a year, my actual life had felt vaguely unreal and lacking in substance, whereas my memories of the sleep room, Maitland, Sister Jenkins, Chapman and Jane were extremely vivid. A symbolic and final encounter with the past seemed to offer the prospect of release. I would satisfy some obscure and wholly imagined propitiatory requirement and be able to move forward. The flat monochrome of the world would swell into three dimensions and colour would gradually bleed back into its surfaces.
It is difficult to describe what my feelings were as I drove between the old gateposts. Two mutually exclusive states of mind, excitement and a kind of numbness, vied for supremacy. Looking to my left, I saw an expanse of purple heather. The sun was a pale, floating disc; however, from time to time it would discover a small breach in the quilt of clouds and a thin, coppery light would pour through.
I stopped the car and the engine fell silent. Peering through the windscreen, I gazed at what was left of the hospital. The central tower had collapsed, the roof had fallen in, and rectangular portions of the eastern sky were visible through the upper windows. Parts of the brickwork were blackened, debris was scattered in front of the facade and a shaggy moss had started growing on the sills. I pushed the car door open against a sudden blast of wind. After getting out, I cupped my hands around a cigarette and lit it. The reed beds shimmered and I heard, once again, their distinctive sound. Ripples spread across pools of silver water and a flock of birds ascended vertically in the distance.
The outbuildings were clearly uninhabited. Mr and Mrs Hartley’s cottage had all of its windows boarded up and the paintwork was peeling badly. The area in front of the bicycle shed was overgrown with weeds. When I had finished the cigarette, I dropped the filter onto the gravel and flattened it beneath the sole of my shoe.
I set off down the drive, all the time keeping my eyes on the hospital. As I advanced I succumbed to a curious illusion. It seemed to me that I was walking on the same spot, not progressing, and that the diminishing distance between myself and the hospital was the result of Wyldehope gliding forwards. Somewhat sooner than I had expected, I found myself facing the porch, deliberating whether or not to enter. I doubted very much that the structure would be safe, but curiosity got the better of me and I stepped inside. There was no floor – only exposed beams covered in rubble and broken slate. The vestibule, with its faded wallpaper, grand staircase and suit of armour, was entirely gone, and in its place was a bomb-site enclosed by four high walls. Some seagulls, disturbed by my arrival, fluttered across the big, open space, exchanging a low perch at one end of the building for a high perch at the other.
The stairs leading down to the sleep room had been destroyed and all that remained of the basement was a depression in the debris. I cautiously stepped over the wreckage and, as I moved forward, the bottom of the hollow came into view. Among the rubble and slate I saw a twisted, rusting bedpost. I then noticed something among the scorched bricks and detritus that made my heart jump. The pounding in my ears was loud and furious. I was looking at a miniature doll: one of the Christmas tree decorations that Hartley had found in the tower attic. From my vantage point, the doll looked completely undamaged. How could that be? I wondered. Surely, it should have been reduced to ashes by the fire? The seagulls flapped their wings and emitted harsh calls. Another bird was wheeling high overhead. I edged down the slope, but the rubble beneath my feet began to shift, and I had to scramble back up to the lip. In doing so, I created an avalanche of broken bricks, and when I looked back down the doll had been completely buried. I knew exactly what I had seen, but even so, the indefatigable voice of reason had already started to suggest that perhaps I had seen nothing at all.
I stood very still, listening to the sound of my breathing. In spite of this reminder of my own physicality, the sensation of my lungs working like bellows in my chest, I felt like a ghost, a fragile assembly of motes, floating in the air and easily dispersed. The close transit of a moth would threaten my integrity. I left the hospital and took the path that led down to the sea. For a long time, I sat among the dunes, watching the dun-coloured waves crashing on the shore. A tear trickl
ed down my cheek, but it did not come with a note attached, explaining the reason for its existence. Was I crying for Chapman? Mary Williams? The sleep-room patients? Maitland? Was I crying because I had lost Jane, or was I crying because, somewhere along the line, I had lost myself? I wiped the tear off my face and studied the tip of my finger. Moisture on skin. I had no sense of ownership. I had shed a tear, but it seemed to belong to a stranger.
In due course, I walked back to the car. I looked at the hospital for the last time, knowing that I would never return. Clouds glided past the sun, dappling the front elevation with patches of light and shadow. It was then that I noticed the figure, framed by one of the upper windows. A small figure, no bigger than a child, looking out across the heath, in my direction. The light changed and a moment later, she was gone.
That night, I dreamt of the lighthouse: an oil-black sea, a starless sky, and a yellow beam sweeping across the sluggish waves. As usual, each revolution of the lamp was accompanied by a sound that evoked heavy industry. The roar of a furnace, the scrape of metal against metal. But then the scene began to fade, until all that remained was the sweeping beam, which shrank and became a blinking light embedded in a grey metal box. At the same time, the mechanical sound softened and became an electronic pulse, repeating on a single pitch. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I was lying in a bed, and when I rolled my head on the pillow to look in the opposite direction I discovered that there were other beds, close to mine, and beyond them a desk, behind which a nurse was sitting. All of the other patients were asleep. The nearest was Celia Jones. My mouth was dry and I felt very hot. Curiously, even though I was dreaming, I seemed to lose consciousness, and only woke again when someone rocked my body. I opened my eyes and saw Maitland and Jane gazing down at me. Although I recognized Jane, she looked very different. Her hair was much longer and parted in the middle. She was wearing a short orange jacket, a frilly blouse and a necklace which seemed to be made from wooden beads. Maitland also looked different. His complexion was tanned and he had grown a peculiar, drooping moustache.