Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [1]
‘What do you mean?’ She’d been warned that this particular patient was obtuse at best. Still, it was as well to get to know everyone – especially on your first day.
The patient sighed, long and deep, as if toying with the idea of not breathing again. When he spoke he avoided direct eye contact, his fingers fiddling anxiously. ‘I don’t mean that I can’t see them, of course. One of the advan-tages of being so far from anywhere is the absence of light pollution. Do you know, an entire generation will grow up not being able to perceive the true majesty of the sky at night, the glory of this galaxy’s spiral arms etched into the dark?’
‘You’re assuming that people can even be bothered to look up at the sky.’
‘Indeed. This culture seems increasingly parochial. Not so much navel-gazing as downward-gazing.’
There was a long pause as the nurse folded away some linen, wondering if the man would ever explain himself further.
Finally more words came in a funereal whisper.
‘To travel out there, in the cosmos – and have that freedom taken from you. . . Can you imagine what it’s like to see the stars not as a mere backdrop to everyday life, but the very place where you roam? The almost limitless freedom. . . It’s impossible to describe.’
‘What do you like to be called?’ asked the nurse. She’d been warned that this patient never responded to his name, but was so attached to his alternative persona that almost nothing seemed to be able to get through the barriers and defences he had meticulously constructed.
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‘I am the Doctor,’ replied the patient.
‘Doctor of what?’
‘More than any mere human could ever know.’
‘You think you’re not human?’
‘You are a psychiatric nurse,’ said the man. ‘You of all people should understand that appearances cannot always be trusted. Do most people in here look
“mad”?’ Something like a smile played across the man’s lips. ‘I don’t accept that term, of course, but before you began your work as a nurse, did you not have some stereotypical picture of the mentally ill? It might be a subconscious one, of course, and I’m sure it was modified over the months and years of your training, but even so. . . How many of us would look out of place in everyday life?’
The nurse indicated the man’s newspapers – apparently he had three broad-sheets and two tabloids delivered daily, though he also subscribed to the National Enquirer, New Scientist and the Beano. ‘When I see the House of Commons sometimes I do wonder about their sanity,’ she commented with a grin.
‘I notice a former Member of Parliament has been found guilty of perjury,’
said the man. ‘To be in such a privileged position, and then have your honour and dignity stripped away, one layer at a time. . . I know how he feels.’
The nurse reckoned the MP deserved everything he got. She tried to change the subject. ‘What did you do, when you travelled in the stars?’
‘Many things. I started as an observer, a traveller if you will, became – if I might be arrogant enough to use the term – a hero, then. . . ’ He paused again, staring at the bars on the window. ‘Then it all became rather complicated.’
‘And how did you end up somewhere as dull as the Retreat?’
‘I have retired,’ announced the man grandly. ‘Illness and regret have caught up with me. I now need to rest – unfortunately, I have absolutely no choice in the matter. The rural isolation of the Retreat is as good a place as any to while away my remaining years.’
‘And how long is that?’ asked the nurse, sitting on the end of the bed.
‘Oh, I expect I shall outlive this place – the bricks and mortar, I mean. I shall certainly be here long after you’ve gone.’
‘You know that I’m new, then?’
‘I’m not completely stupid,’ said the man, momentarily irritated. ‘Just because I am staying in the Retreat does not automatically make me mad –