The Long Sleep

IX

He woke and found that a rat was worrying at his shoe. It was a big sonofabitch, maybe ten or twelve pounds, long, wide, low to the ground. The long, black, pebbled tail trailed from it, motionless on the floor. The fur on its haunches was dark gray, the color of summer thunderheads; but it grew progressively lighter on up the body until it was a washed out and indefinable dirty color around the neck and head. The ears were thin, pointed, laid flat: listening. The quick red eyes were intent on the shoe, and the sharp yellow teeth shaved the shoe leather like razors stropping a bar of soap. Joel watched it until, sensing that he was awake, it peered up at him. For a moment they stared hard at each other, testing each other, gauging possibilities… When he moved to strike it, the rat turned and ran into the shadows on the other side of the room.

Had it been real — or part of some new illusion?

He sat up, stretched, and groaned. He was sore all over. His neck was stiff, his shoulders knotted with pain, his back filled with a dull ache where it had come into contact with the hard mattress of the floor.

When he finally looked carefully at the room, he was surprised to find himself in a cell. The walls were made from huge blocks of stone, granite or perhaps lava rock. The mortar between the blocks was brown, thin, perfectly spread, the work of a master mason who relied more on the fitting of stone than on the glue that lay between them. The ceiling was also stone. He could see no light fixtures except for the sputtering candle propped in a shallow baking pan by the door. He had been allowed no furniture, not even a straw sleeping mat. The only door was a massive slab of oak with three iron hinges; the eight-inch-square window in the center of it was fitted with four thick iron bars which were welded into an iron frame.

He got to his feet, leaned against the wall until a brief but intense fit of vertigo passed. Circumspectly, afraid that someone might be listening for him at the other side of the oak, he went to the door and peered through the bars. Beyond lay a musty, candle-lit concrete-walled hallway. In the flickering orange light, he saw that the corridor ceiling contained lightstrips which were no longer functioning.

The hall was empty. So far as he could see, no one was guarding the door.

Hooking his fingers in the bars, he tried unsuccessfully to swing the door open. Locked. Of course. What else was he to expect of a prison cell?

He considered calling for help. But he knew there'd be no one to hear him — except those who'd put him here: Galing, Richard, the man without a face…

But what the hell? He had nothing to lose. They'd come for him sooner or later anyway. “Hey! Hey, I'm awake now.”

No one answered.

“Let's get on with it,” he said.

The hall was quiet, empty. Somewhere nearby, a steady trickle of water gurgled softly over stone.

His fingers still hooked in the bars, he tried to recall all that had happened since he'd first awakened on that hydraulic couch in the pod chamber. Maybe there was a clue in it, a pattern, some thread that would let him unravel the whole ball of yarn. First: the deserted laboratories, filmed with dust. Then: the empty labs and offices, the skeleton, the faceless man, bed, Allison, escape from the house, the shuttle wreck, waking up in the fake aquaman experimental station, the discovery of that hoax, the faceless man again… No. It was useless. Senseless.

Turning away from the door, he explored his meager cell more carefully than he had first done. The only thing that he had overlooked was a two-foot-square drain in the center of the floor. It opened on a black pit and was laid over with iron grill work. The rat had probably entered and left through the drain, but that was not going to do him any good. He wasn't going to be rescued by any sewer-patroling cavalry.

Behind him a key rattled in the lock.

He turned quickly.

Henry Galing pushed open the door. He was silhouetted by the brighter glow of the corridor candles, but Joel recognized even his silhouette. Galing came into the cell where Joel could get a better look at him. He was wearing a white smock that fell to his knees, and he carried a black satchel that resembled Dr. Harttle's bag of instruments. He smiled broadly and said, “Well, well… How are we doing this morning, young man.”

Joel stared at him.

“Don't you remember me?” Galing asked. He sounded genuinely concerned. “I'm Galing. Your doctor.”

“The angel of mercy,” Joel said sarcastically. He put his back to the stone wall. His arms hung at his sides, and his hands were fisted. “What have you done to me?”

Galing did not retreat but moved farther into the room so that Richard could get by him. Richard was dressed in a hospital orderly's uniform, all soft blue cotton and as clean as new diapers. A darker blue surgeon's cap covered most of his skull. He was wearing heavy rubber-soled shoes that squeaked when he walked.

“Just be calm,” Galing said.

“Go to hell.” He knew he was being childish, but he was hungry for revenge, even for the petty revenge of minor disobedience and surliness.

“Now,” Galing said consolingly. “You don't want Richard to hurt you again.”

Richard was carrying a battery-operated electric prod. He smiled slightly as Joel stared at the ugly device. Richard wouldn't hesitate to use it.

“I asked you what you've done to me,” Joel said, turning back to Galing.

The old man looked sad, as if he had to reprimand a favorite child. “I haven't done anything yet. What I'm trying to do is cure you, my boy.”

Behind Galing and Richard, Allison appeared in the doorway. She paused for a moment as if she knew what a stunning picture she made even in silhouette, then stepped to her uncle's side. Her long hair was drawn back from her face and tied in a bun. She was wearing a white uniform and a peaked nurse's cap. Even in the stark institutional dress she was curvacious, sensuous.

“Ah, Annabelle, my dear,” Galing said. He gave her a fatherly kiss on the cheek. “I want you to watch me with Mr. Amslow so that you've some experience in the handling of this sort of patient.”

“Yes, doctor,” she said, glancing quickly at Joel as if he were a curious insect.

“He's unusual. We get very few like him,” Galing said.

She said, “I'm always anxious to learn, doctor.”

Galing looked at Joel again, and he was no longer smiling. “Cooperate, and you won't be hurt,” he said.

Joel frowned. “Her name isn't Annabelle,”

Galing nodded sagely, the holy doctor probing at the twisted mind of the patient. “Why do you say that?”

“Her name's Allison.”

“It is?”

“And she's my wife!”

The woman sucked in her breath, put one hand over her breasts. Her eyes were round with fright.

“My wife,” Joel insisted, taking a step toward her.

Richard touched him with the tip of the prod.

He jerked as the electric charge slammed through him like an ice pick in the spine. His knees turned to jelly, quivered. He managed to stay on his feet only because he couldn't bear to have Allison — Annabelle see him fall.

“Sit down,” Galing said.

“No.”

“Be reasonable,” Galing said.

“Stuff it,” Joel said. He spoke through clenched teeth.

Richard used the prod again.

Staggering backwards, gasping for breath, Joel collided with the wall, leaned against it for support. Fireworks had gone off behind his eyes; the afterglow slowly faded. The pain faded. He did not sit down.

Galing hunkered down himself. “You'll only be shocked again if you stay on your feet.”

Reluctantly, Joel sat down.

“You have to be firm with his sort,” Galing told Allison-Annabelle. “You have to keep the upper hand at all times.”

Although Joel was now down where Galing wanted him, Richard remained standing, the prod ready. He just couldn't wait to use it again.

The woman stood near the door, wonderfully erotic in the caress of the red and orange candle-light. Her eyes were still wide. She was frightened of him.

Drugs, Joel thought. They've used drugs on her. She hasn't really turned against you. She isn't one of them.

Galing said, “You think she's your wife?”

“I don't think she is. I know it.”

“How long have you been married?”

“For at least…”

“Yes?” Galing smiled.

But Joel couldn't remember how long it had been. This damned amnesia, or whatever it was…

“Well? How long?”

“I can't remember.”

Nodding solemnly, Galing said, “Do you have children?”

He wasn't sure. He wiped his sweat-slicked face with both hands, wiped his hands on his trousers. “Look here. I don't remember all of that. I had an accident, a head injury. I've had amnesia ever since.”

Galing sighed, shook his head sadly. “This is going to hurt you, Joel. You won't like what I've got to say, but you must meet it and face the truth. You must stop fleeing into fantasies like this one.”

“Fantasies…”

“You're very ill, Joel.” Galing was terribly concerned. “You have been incarcerated in the Fleming Institute for more than a year now. Do you understand?”

“I—”

“You have severe psychological problems,” Galing said. “Until you can grasp that, until you can finally face up to your illness, you are beyond my help. Annabelle isn't your wife. Indeed, this afternoon is only the second time you've ever seen her.

“That's a lie!”

“No.”

“I've slept with her!”

“I'm afraid you've never slept with her,” Galling said as if he were offended by Joel's obscene fantasies.

Richard chuckled softly and looked over his shoulder at the woman.

Joel thought that she winked at Richard and smiled, but he could not see her well enough to be certain. “I don't know what the game is, Galing. But — ”

“No game, Joel. I just want to cure you.”

“Bullshit!” He started to get up, sat down again when he saw Richard move in with the prod. “You're no doctor. You're Allison's uncle. I don't know why you keep using your own name from one illusion to the next while she changes hers. And I don't know why she goes along with this — even if she is drugged as you once said she was. She's my wife. And that man's your household servant and cook. He's no hospital orderly. And this is for goddamned sure no hospital, no psychiatric ward! It's a cell!”

“He's worse than usual,” Galing told the woman.

Richard nodded.

Joel looked at the woman. “Allison! Don't you recognize me? Can't you get your head clear long enough to see what they're doing to me?”

Allison drew back and stood on the threshold of the room as if she would bolt and run if he were to make the slightest move in her direction.

Frustrated beyond endurance, Joel stood up and grabbed for Galing. He wanted to kill the bastard. Choke him to death and fling him aside, and some way, any way, get the truth. He caught the older man's lapels as Allison screamed, and he slammed Galing against the cell wall.

Then Richard's prod caught him on the hip. This time, the ice pick twisted in his spine, gouged and tore sensitive nerves. He jumped, dropped Galing, and was flung against the wall. He sagged, grabbed at the stones, kept his feet beneath him.

Richard prodded him again.

He sagged, clutching his invisible wound. Through sweat and tears, he saw the manservant's wide smile, and he was suddenly charged with hatred. Only half recovered from the electric shock, he launched himself at Richard.

The orderly backstepped and jammed the blunt head of the prod into Joel's gut.

He was thrown backwards as if he'd been struck by a sledgehammer. Richard had apparently turned up the current. The blow was brutal, irresistible. He fell to the floor.

“Thank God!” Allison said. “Thank God!”

Is she relieved that it's all over for me, that there's no more suffering for me? Joel wondered.

“I was so scared,” she said breathlessly.

Or is she just relieved that I didn't get a chance to push in Richard's pretty face?

He stared at the damp floor in front of his face until it no longer whirled around in tight little circles.

“It's over now,” Galing said to the woman.

Gagging, sobbing, Joel tried to get up. But Richard delivered another shock to his hip, knocking him flat. “Rotten… bastards…” he gasped. He felt as if his pelvis had been torn loose. His stomach and groin were on fire. Pain played like schools of silverfish, swam up his spine and darted this way and that in the pool of his brain. As the tide of agony swelled over him, the prod touched his face and brought a rainbow of light, color, shimmering bubbles of heat and pain. Darkness…

In the dream, he was in a dark bedroom, lying in bed with Allison. She was naked, cuddled against him, moving against him, kissing and touching him. Her thighs opened to him, guided him, received him. They moved together with ecstatic rhythm, two warm bubbles settling through gelatin… And then the light came on, and he was looking at an Allison who had no face: no eyes, nose, mouth, nothing but a smooth plasticity from ear to ear…

He woke, screaming.

When he had recovered from the nightmare, he found that Galing and the others had gone. The door was closed, the room was lighted only by the flickering candle; he was alone.

He heard a lone rat scampering beneath the grill which covered the floor drain.

He wept. That was unmanly, he supposed, a sign of weakness. But he didn't hate himself for it. He was alone, Terribly, awfully alone in a world he'd never made. No one would listen — or believe him even if they did listen. Not even Allison. Crying was called for. Tears were a sign of compassion; and his tears were the only compassion he would get.