Doctor Gavrilov (31 page)

The smell of fresh coffee reached Dmitry's nostrils and he slowly sat up. He was wearing a white nightshirt of thin, soft cotton. He moved slowly, gingerly, not sure what his body was capable of doing. His wrists were still bandaged and there was a mass of bruising on his arm. He wondered, in a disconnected sort of way, where he was, how long he had been there, what drugs they had been giving him. He wondered if he had been questioned under their influence, whether he would remember if he had.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached over for the coffee-pot. His hands felt clumsy and stiff and his body curiously light and powerless. He wondered if he had been given tranquillising drugs and was still under the influence of them. He poured out a cupful of the thin, black, steaming fluid, tasted it gingerly; it was very good.

He slowly sipped the coffee, ate a fresh bread roll, admiring its open texture and yeasty taste. When the cup was empty he stood up and walked to the window. The top of the window was open, but there were bars outside. Suddenly he realised what the sound was that had so affected him; they were by the sea, and the sound of the waves came to him very softly on a light breeze. Beyond the white stucco walls of the house lay a long strip of white sand and then the sharp blue of the flat, calm sea. He stood and stared at it. There was nothing else; only, in the distance, a wire fence, in front of which a soldier with a rifle across his shoulder was patrolling up and down.

Dmitry crossed the room. He felt dizzy; he had to pause to steady himself. There was a small mirror; he stared into it. He looked different. They had cut his hair short; his face looked thinner. He opened the cupboard; some of his clothes were there; folded, clean, pressed. The belts from his trousers were missing; he felt through the pockets but they were empty. There was no watch; he didn't know what the time was, though from the angle of the sun and the freshness of the air he imagined it was morning. He wondered whether to put on his clothes and try to go outside. He assumed he was a prisoner; but he had no intention of trying to escape. He simply wanted to see where he was, to step outside into the sunshine for a moment and look at the sea.

He dressed, and tried the door; it was not locked. He stepped out and walked quietly down the corridor and into the hallway. A man was sitting on a chair, watching the door; Dmitry assumed he must be a guard. He heard steps coming up behind him and turned; Dmitry recognised the doctor who had been at the hospital.

Dmitry had the feeling, looking at him, that he had seen him again, in between, as in a dream. He had an impression of snatches of conversation, of a gentle voice piercing through clouds of confusion, of being locked into some kind of mental combat with him, but these felt like fragments of distant memories from a long way back.

The doctor was young, in his thirties, with a long, narrow face and fine nose. His eyes were very dark, his nostrils flared like a horse's, and he had thin, sensitive hands.

He looked at Dmitry intently, shrewdly, as if he were looking right into him. He said, in a pleasant voice, in fluent English, ‘I am Dr Senussi. How do you feel?

‘I'm all right.'

‘Please, sit down.'

Dmitry sat down on a cane sofa, and the doctor sat beside him. Dmitry had to turn his head away from his gaze.

‘You seem much calmer now. You have slept a long time.' He hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you still think I wish to harm you?'

Dmitry turned to look at him. Dr Senussi's eyes, though shrewd, were kind. There was a softness in them. All the same, he could not bring himself to trust him. He answered, ‘Yes.'

Senussi sighed. He said, ‘I'm sorry, but we had to keep you under sedation. You realise that you have had a mental breakdown, I'm afraid, quite a severe one. I assure you we will not harm you; on the contrary, we are here to help you.'

Dmitry didn't want to listen; he felt awkward and ashamed of himself. He asked, ‘May I go outside?' He saw the doctor glance at the second man, then he said, ‘Of course. Please,' holding out his hand in the direction of the door.

The glare of the sunshine hit Dmitry like a wall of light; also the sound of the sea, the breeze, and the salt smell. He took a deep breath. The verandah outside led down straight on to the beach; he stepped on to the sand, feeling the warmth slip in between his toes. The sunlight glinted on the surface of the calm sea in a myriad startlingly bright points of light. He sat on the steps; Dr Senussi came and sat beside him. It was very quiet.

‘What is this place?'

‘It's a holiday house. You are here as a guest until you are recovered. We have chosen it because there is nothing to disturb you, it is well guarded so you are quite safe. You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.'

Dmitry shook his head. ‘Why should I trust anyone?'

Senussi said, in a quiet, even voice, ‘This is part of your illness, a kind of paranoia… we must all trust something or we will go mad.'

They sat in the shade, staring at the sea. From time to time Senussi asked him a question, and Dmitry answered cautiously, anxious not to give anything away. After an hour or two Senussi retreated and they brought him lunch, kebabs and salad; the guards stood in the doorway while he ate; perhaps they were afraid he might stab himself with the thin wood skewer. When he had finished Senussi came and asked if he could come inside so that he could examine him. He was polite, deferential. Dmitry sat on the edge of the bed while the doctor took his temperature, his pulse, and removed the bandages to look at the wounds on his wrists. Senussi said, ‘They will heal well. Of course, you damaged the tendons, but you have had some surgery to put that right… it's not been badly done. Well, we will have to see. Move your fingers. Good.' Then he asked, softly, ‘What made you do this to yourself?'

Dmitry didn't answer. Again, he felt an acute, a nauseating stab of shame. Carefully, the doctor re-bandaged him. His touch was gentle, relaxing; Dmitry found he didn't want him to stop. Perhaps the doctor sensed this; he said, ‘If you don't want to be alone, I can stay with you for a while. Perhaps you would like to talk? I should explain to you – I am a psychiatrist. I know that in your own country psychiatry does not have a good reputation, but I studied in London. Believe me, it would do you good to talk.'

A voice interrupted him, calling from down the corridor. Senussi said, ‘Excuse me,' softly and went out. Dmitry could hear voices down the corridor, then Senussi returned and said, ‘Dr Masoud is here to see you. I am against this, but he insists. If you want, I will tell him you are not well enough.'

Dmitry stared at Senussi. At the mention of Masoud's name a feeling of dread came over him, he couldn't say why. Then he thought he might as well know the worst. He said, ‘I'll see him.'

‘Very well. I will allow you five minutes. Come.'

Masoud was sitting in the hallway, drinking coffee in a little gilded cup, which he placed on a tray beside some delicate, spicy cakes. Masoud helped himself greedily, brushing the crumbs from his full lips. When he saw Dmitry he rose to his feet; he spoke quickly, as if his speech had already been prepared. He said, ‘I must apologise for not offering you help before, Dr Gavrilov. We did not realise that you were so unstable. Of course we realised that you had been under strain, but we did not foresee that you would do something so desperate. I should have seen the way that things were going; Suzarbayev said himself he thought that you were ill. I should have had a proper talk before now; I regret very much that I postponed it. Are you able to talk now?'

Dmitry said, very quietly, ‘What about?'

‘Listen,' said Dr Masoud, in a calm voice, sitting down on the carved chair, and indicating for Dmitry to sit next to him, ‘I don't know what you imagine, but we are not as stupid as you suppose. We have been aware, of course, that you have been in contact with Russian intelligence in London. We expected them to approach you. We realised that you would go to some efforts to obtain intelligence but, well, let us say we were keeping a close eye on you. I can assure you that most of the information you have passed on is completely useless.'

Dmitry shut his eyes; he let his hands fall apart in a gesture of helpless passivity. He thought, then it's all over, it was over before it had even begun. He was surprised that he wasn't more affected by this realisation; perhaps it was still the effect of the drugs.

‘I think that you have allowed yourself to see everything out of all proportion, Dr Gavrilov. I am sure that once you have rested here, had time to reflect, you will realise this. Your fears are completely unjustified. You simply have to fulfil the contract and then you are free to go home; you have nothing to fear from us.'

Dmitry thought he saw a way to get out of this. ‘But I will be no use to you. I am mentally ill.'

‘Senussi thinks this is only temporary. You have been put under intolerable pressures by these intelligence people on both sides. You should know, Dr Gavrilov, never to get mixed up with this kind of thing. You and I, we are scientists. We should stick to that.'

Masoud poured himself another cup of coffee from the elegant silver pot. ‘I can assure you that no harm will come to you, or your wife and family. I have had assurances on that. I have no sympathy for these people. So many times they try to force people into doing what they would do quite willingly given a free choice, don't you agree, Dr Gavrilov?'

Senussi came and looked meaningfully at Masoud who rose, offering his hand to Dmitry, who refused it, not wanting to seem to have agreed to anything, and ashamed of displaying too openly the bandages on his wrists. Masoud left. Dmitry found himself trembling; Masoud's mention of his wife and children had suddenly reminded him of the letter to Katie. The instant he recalled it he did not know how he could ever have forgotten it; the recollection made him feel quite sick, and he knew he must address it with the utmost urgency.

He turned to Senussi. ‘I must telephone my wife.'

Senussi was apologetic, but firm. ‘I am afraid that I cannot allow you to use the phone.'

‘It's very important.'

‘I'm sorry, it is not possible. Please wait for me in your room.'

‘Then it's as I thought. I am not a guest, as you said, but a prisoner.'

‘Not at all. You are a patient; that is different. Please, come with me.'

Dmitry knew there was no point in protesting; he thought he must stay calm, he must do what they wanted. He allowed Senussi to take him to his room and at his request lay on the bed while Senussi went to fetch something. But it was no use; he could not forget about the letter. He was beginning to fully realise the terrible thing that he had done. Katie would have the letter; Katie would think he was dead. The cowardice of his action suddenly came home to him. Why did the thought of Katie reading that letter affect him so much? She would have gone through as much pain reading that letter had he really been dead; it was just that he wouldn't have been there to think about it. He had been so full of his own pain that he hadn't been able to imagine hers. The very thought of what he had written in the letter consumed him with shame so acute that he writhed inwardly.

Senussi returned with one of the guards, who stood by the door. He had a tray in his hands which he put down on the table. On the tray were a glass of lemon tea, a bowl, some tablets, an ampoule containing a straw-coloured liquid and a sterile syringe.

‘It's time you slept, now. I would like you to take these tablets. And I need to give you another injection.'

Dmitry was deeply suspicious. At the sight of the syringe, his heart started to beat faster and his mouth went dry. He had a fear of his mind being altered, of being turned into some kind of passive zombie like those he had once seen in a Russian mental hospital. ‘What drugs are you giving me? I need to know what I'm taking before I agree to it.'

Senussi nodded. ‘Yes, of course. These are anti-depressants. This will help you sleep. And this is what we call a major tranquilliser. It will act quite quickly. You will find that it relieves your feelings of anxiety, so that your body feels calm. It will not stop your obsessive or paranoid thoughts, but it will dull them, making the mental pain easier to bear.'

‘You have got it wrong. I am not paranoid. I am anxious because I need to know… I wrote to my wife, telling her… did they find the letter…'

He stopped himself abruptly. He was muddled. He had wanted to know if the letter had reached Katie or if they had intercepted it, but now he was afraid that because he had mentioned it he had put her in danger. Was this what Senussi meant by paranoia? The doctor was looking at him, seemed to see his distress; his eyes seemed kind, full of genuine sympathy. He said, ‘I'm sorry, I don't know any details, I don't know about any letter. Why does this matter to you now?'

‘I have to tell her I'm all right.'

Senussi put a hand on his arm. ‘Let us talk about this in the morning… You are becoming agitated. I warned Masoud that it might not be a good idea for him to talk to you today.' He turned to the guard and snapped a few words at him, and a second man came in through the door. They stood there, waiting; Dmitry fought back panic. He protested, ‘But I need time, to think. You cannot keep me doped for ever.'

Senussi sat down and faced him squarely. ‘I'm sorry, but you must understand your situation. You have had a severe depression, and, even more worrying, a psychotic episode. Without the drugs, your symptoms would return.'

‘And if I don't agree to take them?'

‘I'm afraid I will have to administer them forcibly. In your own best interests, I must stress.'

Dmitry could see that argument was useless. He began to tremble; he was angry with himself, at his body for letting him down in this fashion. He walked to the window and then back again, trying to regain control. The palms of his hands felt sticky and his heart began to jump around wildly. He felt dizzy and sat down again on the bed.