The Sleep Room Read Free

train pulling out. The wheels began to turn and I stood there, immobile, strangely captivated as the engine and carriages vanished into an opaque middle distance. I picked up my suitcase and walked to the end of the platform where a ramp descended to the road. There, a few yards ahead of me, I saw a telephone box. I stepped inside and lifted the receiver, but when I held it to my ear there was no dialling tone. Swearing loudly, I replaced the receiver and lifted it again. Still no tone. I took a deep breath and made my exit by leaning my back against the door.
    Ribbons of mist were floating before my eyes. I ventured a short distance from the telephone box and noticed that the station had all but disappeared. Even so, I took a few more steps down the road with the intention of walking into the village. I remembered what Maitland had said about Wyldehope being ‘somewhat off the beaten track’ and his impression that the previous registrar, Palmer, had felt ‘rather isolated’. At that moment, I heard the wail of a night animal, one of those melancholy calls that could easily be mistaken for the cry of a human child. The combination of the impenetrable mist and the eerie cry proved too much for my already tired nerves and I turned back.
    I ascended the ramp and walked up and down the platform. The door to the ticket office was locked, all of the station windows were dark and the only illumination came from a row of lamp posts. There was, however, a waiting room, the door of which was open. I went inside, sat on a bench and considered my situation. It seemed to me that I had no choice but to wait for the mist to clear and then make another attempt at reaching the village.
    A few minutes passed, during which time I stared hopelessly through the window. Then I heard footsteps. I got up, rushed out, and saw a bright light coming towards me, beams lancing through the haze. I raised my hand to protect my eyes from the glare. Someone called – ‘Hello there!’ – and a few seconds later a uniformed figure appeared in front of me. It was the stationmaster, wheeling a bicycle. I was so glad to see another person that I laughed out aloud with delight. ‘Good evening.’
    ‘Look at this!’ said the stationmaster, creating a swirl of fog with a wave of his hand. ‘It came in off the marshes about an hour ago.’
    ‘Will it clear?’
    ‘Who knows. Sometimes it does – sometimes it doesn’t.’
    ‘I wonder if you could help me. My name is Dr Richardson. I’m expected at Wyldehope Hall: the new hospital on Dunwich Heath?’ The stationmaster showed no sign of recognition. ‘The public telephone is out of order. Might I use yours instead? Otherwise I fear I might be stuck here all night.’
    The stationmaster escorted me back to his office and I called Mr Hartley, who was, on this occasion, less understanding. ‘I suppose I’d better come and get you,’ he grumbled. The stationmaster informed me that Dunwich Heath was only five miles away: ‘You won’t have to wait for very long.’
    He locked his office and we walked down the platform together. When we reached its end, he mounted his bicycle, said ‘Goodnight, sir’ and coasted down the ramp, ringing his bell.
    I positioned myself beneath the projecting roof of the station and gazed out into a featureless expanse. The quiet was extraordinary. Dense and absolute. A car passed, driving very slowly, and I did not see another one until Mr Hartley arrived some thirty minutes later.
    Mr Hartley was a big man with a pockmarked face and bulbous features. His hair was brushed to one side and he wore spectacles with circular lenses. He was not particularly talkative, although this was quite understandable given the circumstances. I apologized several times for my lateness, but this had no effect on his manner. He was still disinclined to make conversation. We passed through only one village on our way to the hospital, a place called Westleton, after which, thankfully, the mist