Free The House of Sleep by Jonathan Coe Page B

tea between her hands, watching a television screen which was mounted on a shelf above the polysomnographic equipment. She noticed Terry appearing in the doorway, glanced at him, but did not otherwise allow him to deflect her attention. Together, they watched the screen in silence for a few seconds. It showed the blurry, black and white image of a woman wearing a nightgown, asleep in bed, her head festooned with electrodes. The woman remained perfectly still, as did the camera. Once or twice the screen flickered. Terry looked at Lorna, who was watching intently, then contemplated the screen again for another minute or more, while the image remained unchanged.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ he said at last. ‘I hate these European art movies, don’t you?’
    Lorna smiled, picked up a remote control unit, and paused the tape.
    ‘You shouldn’t be watching this at all,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Is this the one they’re remaking in Hollywood with Ted Danson and Goldie Hawn?’
    ‘Dr Dudden was looking for you,’ said Lorna. ‘Just a few minutes ago.’
    ‘Yes, I know. I was supposed to be seeing him at eleven. Seriously, though – what were you watching that for? Can’t you tell me?’
    ‘Not without breaching confidentiality.’ In spite of which she pointed, after a moment’s hesitation, at a wad of computer paper on her desk, covered with pen-tracings from the polysomnograph. ‘According to that,’ she said, ‘there was a burst of activity at four thirty-seven this morning. So I thought I’d be able to see something on the tape: catch her moving her legs or something. But I can’t find anything.’
    ‘Why’s it in black and white? Can’t this machine play in colour?’ Terry was bending down to inspect the video recorder.
    ‘It can if you want it to.’
    ‘What about sound? Where’s the sound?’
    ‘There’s a volume control on the side of the monitor.’
    ‘So it’s just like a regular video, is it? I mean, it can play regular tapes?’
    ‘I dare say.’
    ‘And is there one of these attached to every bedroom?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Would I be able to use one of them tomorrow morning?’
    ‘Well, we do have a vacancy in Bedroom Three at the moment, because one of the patients has cancelled. So technically speaking, that machine won’t be in use. But I very much doubt whether Dr Dudden –’
    ‘What time does the post get here?’ Terry asked.
    ‘About nine-thirty.’
    ‘Brilliant. That’s all I need to know.’ He switched on the mobile again and was already hitting a number on his way out. ‘Thanks,’ he said, turning in the doorway. And, with a final glance at the screen: ‘Give me a shout when the nude scene starts, will you?’
    After he had phoned the relevant publicity department and persuaded them to send down a VHS copy of the film by registered post, Terry found that he was already twenty minutes late for his interview with Dr Dudden: who, upon seeing his apologetic face appear round the door, merely returned to the perusal of a typescript spread out on his desk, and murmured: ‘Come in, Mr Worth, come in.’
    Once Terry had sat down, he added (still seemingly absorbed in his papers): ‘Perhaps my watch is fast, but I make the time to be eleven twenty-three.’
    ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m late.’
    Dr Dudden looked up at last. ‘I see.’
    ‘I must have overslept.’
    This remark met with an unwavering stare. Terry crumbled in the face of it, and started back-pedalling furiously. ‘You probably get these jokes all the time,’ he said, weakly.
    ‘Occasionally,’ said Dr Dudden. ‘My colleague, Dr Madison, is a great believer in humour as a therapeutic aid. Perhapswe should organize a group discussion on this subject.’
    Momentarily numbed into silence, Terry could only nod.
    ‘Now.’ Dr Dudden gathered the sheets of his typescript together and stacked them into a neat pile, then picked up a file with Terry’s name on it. ‘On arrival yesterday you received a