The Sleep Room Read Online Free PDF Page A

he said, ‘I want to go home, doctor. I want to go home.’ His voice was thin and pathetic.
    ‘I’m sorry. That isn’t possible, Mr Chapman.’
    ‘Please, doctor. I want to go home.’
    ‘But you are unwell, Mr Chapman. You must stay here until you are feeling better. Now, let me get you something to help you relax.’
    ‘I don’t like this place.’
    ‘Why ever not?’
    He turned to look at me and his lower lip began to tremble. He was like a frightened child. ‘I want to go home,’ he repeated.
    I went to his side and eased his fingers from the bars. Then I led him back to his bed. He didn’t resist and submitted to my ministrations without a word of protest.
    ‘Please sit down, Mr Chapman. You’ll feel better in a minute.’
    I called the nurse and told her to prepare a syringe of sodium amytal.
    ‘Something bad is going to happen,’ said Mr Chapman, wringing his hands.
    ‘What do you mean? Something bad?’
    He shook his head. ‘I can feel it.’
    ‘Feel what, exactly?’
    The poor fellow simply frowned and continued muttering. When the nurse returned, we helped Mr Chapman back into bed and I gave him the injection. ‘You’ve had this drug many times before,’ I said. ‘It may make you feel a little dizzy.’ He produced a heavy sigh, the first outward sign that the sedative was starting to take effect. I had expected him to breathe more deeply but, interestingly, this did not happen. Instead, his respiration continued as before – shallow and fast. I told the nurse to keep an eye on him and to call me if he became agitated again.
    ‘Of course, Dr Richardson,’ she responded. ‘Where will you be?’
    ‘In the sleep room.’
    I had been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed the nurse’s appearance. She was wearing one of the newer uniforms: short sleeves, bibbed front, shoulder straps and a pillbox hat. The nipped waist showed off her trim figure. Although she was quite tall, her ankles and wrists were pleasingly slim. Her features were delicate and her eyes were a striking green.
    ‘Thank you, Nurse . . .’ My sentence trailed off awkwardly.
    She came to my assistance: ‘Turner. Jane Turner.’
    As I was leaving the ward, I glanced back. She was still standing outside Mr Chapman’s room, and when our eyes met she rewarded my interest with a subtle smile.
    I stepped out into the vestibule and was in the process of locking the ward door when the kitchen girl appeared carrying a stack of trays. She nodded at me and then descended the basement stairs. I was curious to see how the sleep-room patients were managed when they were woken up, so I followed her down. A senior nurse, Sister Doris Jenkins, was directing two subordinates – another nightingale and an alarmingly young-looking trainee. Sister Jenkins was extremely deferential, and I had to stress that I was not there to interfere, but simply to observe their routine.
    The patients were difficult to rouse. Indeed, they never achieved what I would call lucid, waking consciousness. They remained heavy-eyed and extremely drowsy – even when they were eating. Their jaws moved with the slow determination of cows chewing cud. Out of bed, they needed the steady arm of at least one nurse for support, otherwise they would have simply fallen over. I tried introducing myself to Kathy Webb, the girl who had been given ECT, but she looked at me with vacant eyes and said nothing.
    I was very impressed by the nurses. They worked together with machine-like efficiency. Their movements were so well coordinated, so well rehearsed, that I was reminded of a factory production line. The patients were fed, washed, and taken to the lavatory, before being guided back to their beds and given medication. In their long white gowns, they looked like compliant ghosts. When they were all properly asleep again, I became aware of an unpleasant stench. The smell of the voiding, the enemas, and food, had no means of escape and tainted the air.
    Although Sister Jenkins