Free The Sleep Room by F. R. Tallis

– ‘cohort’.
    ‘Five months,’ Rosenberg replied.
    Maitland started. ‘Five months?’
    ‘Yes,’ Rosenberg replied. ‘Though things haven’t gone exactly to plan. We lost two.’
    ‘Bowel problems?’
    ‘Chest infections. We were unlucky.’
    Maitland nodded. ‘And how long do you think you’ll keep them under this time?’
    ‘As long as it takes,’ Rosenberg replied. ‘I’ll let you know how things are progressing.’
    When the patients were all back in their beds and asleep, Maitland congratulated Sister Jenkins. ‘Well done,’ he said softly. Again, his attitude reminded me of a military man. The Americans accompanied Maitland back to his office and I returned to the sleep room. Before parting, Rosenberg had seized my arm and said, ‘If you ever come over to New York, be sure to call me up.’ His eyes were bright with raw intelligence.
    I thanked him for the invitation.
    The Jaguar was still parked outside Wyldehope at half past three. When I looked out of a window two hours later, both vehicles – the Jaguar and the Bentley – were gone.
    That evening I sat at the bureau and added a few more paragraphs to my unfinished paper, but I wasn’t satisfied with what I had written. The language was too dense and the sentences didn’t flow. Forcing myself to concentrate was giving me a headache. I smoked a cigarette and thought about Jane. When I closed my eyes, the recollection of her kiss became so vivid it was like a repetition of the actual experience. I could feel the pressure of her lips against mine and their slow parting; I could detect a trace of her perfume in the air.
    Since returning from our trip to Southwold, only a single opportunity had arisen for private conversation. I had said that I wanted to see her again, preferably alone, the following weekend, but she had already made arrangements to visit her mother in London. She had squeezed my hand and said: ‘Never mind. We’ll sort something out.’ I wasn’t sure what she had in mind.
    A blast of wind shook the windowpane and its loud rattle disturbed my musings. I drew diagonal lines across the two paragraphs I had just written. It simply wasn’t good enough. I stubbed out my cigarette, tidied up my notes and put them in the bottom drawer. The Reserpine was still there. I hadn’t bothered throwing it away. I picked up the container, looked at the wastepaper basket, but found myself oddly disinclined to complete the action I had started. Instead, I put the container back in its usual place. Consulting my watch, I noted that it was eleven thirty.
    I shuffled along the hallway, yawning, until I came to my bedroom door. Reaching into the darkness, I slid my hand along the wall until I felt the light switch. It emitted a soft ‘click’ and the room instantly materialized: the large iron bedstead, the chest of drawers, the bulky wardrobe. In the middle of the carpet, about a yard or so in front of me, a metallic gleam caught my attention. I crouched down to take a closer look.
    ‘It can’t be . . .’ I was conscious of my words as if they had been spoken by someone else. They sounded abnormally loud.
    I picked up the object and let it roll into the palm of my hand. It was a wedding ring. I tried to slide it onto my index finger and found that it was too small to get past my knuckle. Without doubt, it belonged to a woman.
    Was I the victim of a prank? Hartley possessed a spare key, identical to my own, but it was patently absurd (I realized after a moment’s reflection) to suppose that he and Sister Jenkins shared a common interest in playing practical jokes. Had Hartley been persuaded then by Sister Jenkins to plant the ring in my bedroom in order to accuse me of theft? Again, the idea was totally absurd. My brain generated a number of equally unsatisfactory theories, which I promptly rejected on account of their utter implausibility, until only one remained: Alan Foster must have slipped Sister Jenkins’s ring into the back pocket