Pat Barker - The Eye in the Door

‘I haven’t got any pain-killers,’ Rivers said.’You’d better drink this.’

Prior took the brandy and held out his other hand for Rivers to complete the dressing. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?’ he said.

‘You burnt yourself.’

‘Why?’

Rivers sighed. ‘It was a dramatic gesture that went wrong.’

He’d decided not to tell Prior about the loss of normal sensation. It was a common symptom of hysterical disorders, but knowledge of it would only serve to reinforce Prior’s belief that the alternating state of consciousness was a monster with whom he could have nothing in common.

‘What was he like?’ Prior asked.

‘What were you like? Bloody-minded.’

‘Violent?’

‘Well, yes. Obviously ,’ Rivers said, indicating the burn.

‘No, I meant —’

‘Did you take a swing at me? No.’ Rivers smiled. ‘Sorry.’

‘You make it sound as if it’s something I want .’

Rivers was thinking deeply. ‘I think that’s true,’ he said, knotting the ends of the bandage.

‘No. Why should I want it? It’s creating bloody havoc.’

‘You know, Billy, the really interesting thing about tonight is that you turned up in the other state . I mean that while in the other state you still wanted to keep the appointment.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Billy. Do you mind? I — ‘

‘No, it’s just that it’s the first time. Did you know that? Sassoon was Siegfried. Anderson was Ralph. I noticed the other day you called Manning Gharles. I was always “Prior”. In moments of exasperation I was Mister Prior.’

‘I’m sorry, I —’ Oh, God, Rivers thought. Prior was incapable of interpreting that as anything other than snobbery. And perhaps it had been. Partly. Though it had been more to do with his habit of sneering suggestiveness. ‘I’d no idea you minded.’

‘No, well, you’re not very perceptive, are you? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better be off.’

‘You can’t go now, the trains have stopped. And, in any case, you’re in no state to be on your own. You’d better sleep here.’

Prior hesitated. ‘All right.’

Til make up the bed.’

Rivers saw Prior settled for the night, then went to his own room, telling himself it would be fatal, at this late hour, to attempt any assessment of Prior’s situation. That must wait till morning. But the effort of not thinking about Prior proved almost equally disastrous, for he drifted off into a half-dreaming state, the only condition, apart from feverish illness, in which he had normal powers of visualization. He tossed and turned, scarcely aware of his surroundings, while persistent images floated before him. France. Craters, a waste of mud, splintered trees. Once he woke and lay looking into the darkness, faintly amused that his identification with his patients should have reached the point where he dreamt their dreams rather than his own. He heard the church bell chime three, and then sank back into his half-sleep. This was a dreadful place. Nothing human could live here. Nothing human did. He was entirely alone, until, with a puckering of the surface, a belch of foul vapours, the mud began to move, to gather itself together, to rise and stand before him in the shape of a man. A man who turned and began striding towards England. He tried to call out, no, not that way, and the movement of his lips half woke him. But he sank down again, and again the mud gathered itself into the shape of a man, faster and faster until it seemed the whole night was full of such creatures, creatures composed of Flanders mud and nothing else, moving their grotesque limbs in the direction of home.

Sunlight was streaming into the room. Rivers lay thinking about the dream, then switched his thoughts to yesterday evening. In the fugue state (though it was more than that) Prior had claimed to feel no pain and no fear, to have been born in a shell-hole, to have no father. Presumably no relationships that pre-dated that abnormal birth.

To feel no pain and no fear in a situation that seemed to call for both was not impossible, or even abnormal. He’d been in such a state himself, once, while on his way to the Torres Straits, suffering from severe sunburn, severe enough to have burnt the skin on his legs black. He’d lain on the deck of a ketch, rolling from side to side as waves broke across the ship, in constant pain from the salt water that soaked into his burns, vomiting helplessly, unable to stand or even sit up. Then the ketch had dragged her anchor and they’d been in imminent danger of shipwreck, and for the whole of that time he’d moved freely, he hadn’t vomited, he’d felt no pain and no fear. He had simply performed coolly and calmly the actions needed to avert danger, as they all had. After they’d landed, his legs had hurt like hell and he’d once more been unable to walk. He’d been carried up from the beach on a litter, and had spent the first few days seeing patients from his sick bed, shuffling from the patient to the dispensing cupboard and back again on his bottom. He smiled to himself, thinking Prior would like that story. Physician, heal thyself.

Other people had had similar experiences. Men had escaped from danger before now by running on broken legs. But Prior had created a state whose freedom from fear and pain was persistent, encapsulated, inaccessible to normal consciousness. Almost as if his mind had created a warrior double, a creature formed out of Flanders clay, as his dream had suggested. And he had brought it home with him.

Rivers, thinking over the previous evening, found that he retained one very powerful impression. In Prior’s speech and behaviour there had been a persistent element of childishness. He’d said, He was wounded. Not badly, but it hurt. He knew he had to go on. And he couldn’t. So I came . So I came. The simplicity of it. As if one were talking to a child who still believed in magic. And on the stairs. What happened then? Nothing. He wasn’t there . It was like a toddler who believes himself to be invisible because he’s closed his eyes. And that extraordinary claim: I have no father . Surely behind the adult voice, there was another, shrill, defiant, saying, He’s not my Dad? At any rate it was a starting-point. He could think of no other.

Rivers had not thought Prior would appear for breakfast, but no sooner had he sat down himself than the door opened and Prior came in, looking dejected, and in obvious pain. ‘How did you sleep?’ Rivers asked.

‘All right. Well, I got a couple of hours.’

‘I’ve asked the girl to bring us some more.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not hungry.’

‘Well, at least have some coffee. You ought to have something.’

‘Yes, thanks, but then I must be going.’

‘I’d rather you stayed. For a few days. Until things are easier.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you.’

‘You wouldn’t be “imposing”.’

‘All right,’ Prior said at last. ‘Thank you.’

The maid arrived with a second tray. Rivers was amused to see Prior devour the food with single-minded concentration, while he sipped milky coffee and read The Times . ‘I’ve got an hour before I need go to the hospital,’ he said, when Prior had finished. ‘Do you feel well enough?’

When they were settled in chairs beside the desk, Rivers said, ‘I’d like to go back quite a long way.’

Prior nodded. He looked too exhausted to be doing this.

‘Do you remember the house you lived in when you were five?’

A faint smile. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember the top of the stairs?’

‘Yes. It’s no great feat, Rivers. Most people can.’