The Sleep Room by F. R. Tallis Read Free Book Online Page A

All psychiatric patients have sad histories, but Chapman’s was, at least in my estimation, sadder than most. Although his origins were humble, he had possessed a natural gift for mathematics. He was awarded a scholarship and subsequently went to Cambridge, where, while preparing for his final examinations, he had suffered the first of several ‘nervous breakdowns’. He was overwhelmed by dark thoughts and believed that one of his tutors, a renowned logician, was stealing his ideas. The college doctor made a diagnosis of monomania and Chapman was sent home, where he was treated at a local hospital as an outpatient. His recovery was slow and this period of ill health left him with significantly impaired powers of concentration. He was unable to return to Cambridge and instead found employment as a clerk in an accountant’s office. Within a year he had started behaving strangely once again and was dismissed: a notebook had been discovered in which he had recorded the movements and whereabouts of his work associates in minute detail. Thereafter, the poor man was never able to hold down a job for more than a few weeks, for he was always convinced that his colleagues were conspiring against him, and the rest of his life was spent in hospitals or hostels.
    Chapman’s promising youth and descent into madness evoked in me a very particular sympathy. It was my good fortune to have been born with chemicals benignly balanced in my brain, otherwise my Cambridge career might have ended just as ignominiously. Individuals like Chapman demonstrated all too clearly the moral indifference of fate. Accidents of biology, rather than brilliance or hard work, are the real and haphazard determinants of success or failure.
    I could have given Chapman more sodium amytal, but he had had so much of late, I decided not to. Instead, I tried to calm him down with common sense and good humour, two practical expedients that all hospital doctors rely upon from time to time.
    Chapman was breathing heavily and beads of perspiration were visible on his brow. ‘Am I going to be punished?’ he demanded.
    ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Whatever makes you say such a thing?’
    He ignored my question and, wringing his hands, repeated the same phrase over and over again, until it dwindled to a whisper: ‘What have I done? Oh, what have I done?’
    ‘Certainly nothing that deserves punishment,’ I said, affecting a jovial manner. He started biting his nails. ‘What are you so worried about?’
    Chapman spun around on his heels, reached the window in two long strides and pressed his forehead against the iron bars. ‘I don’t like it here.’
    ‘Perhaps we could play a game of chess? Do you play chess, Mr Chapman?’
    He sighed, a massive expulsion of air that seemed to make him shrivel like a collapsed balloon. ‘I used to.’
    ‘Come on then, let’s go to the recreation area.’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘We can start a game and see how it goes, and if you get tired, we’ll stop.’
    His head jerked around and he looked at me with suspicion. ‘Why are you so eager to play chess?’
    ‘I’m not, Mr Chapman. I merely think that you are preoccupied and that a game of chess will provide you with some much needed distraction.’
    He continued to study me and after a lengthy pause, asked: ‘What do you think of Botvinnik?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mikhail Botvinnik.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Chapman, I haven’t the foggiest idea who you’re talking about.’
    ‘He is the world champion.’ Chapman narrowed his eyes and there was something in his expression that suggested he expected me to say something more. When I did not react, he moved away from the window, but was careful to keep his back to the wall. The manoeuvre was ungainly and he almost tripped over. He steadied himself and said, ‘Botvinnik’s play is remarkable on account of its strategic depth. There are those who say that his opening repertoire is limited, but his endings are quite exceptional.