Dr Nevin’s Nightmare
Dr Nevin’s Nightmare
By Mike Rickett
I first met Charles Nevil at university. We were both in our final year at the University of Liverpool. He was studying Philosophy and I was doing English. He had spent three years studying God, morality, mind, and reality. I remember asking him, rather audaciously, if he was any the wiser. He had stared at me; at first somewhat disbelievingly and then realised I was mischievously pulling his leg. He had then grinned a little apologetically, saying: ‘I have just spent three years engaging with some of the most challenging and profound questions with which humanity has ever grappled, and that is what it comes down to.’
He had then turned to me: ‘And you David, in what way has humanity benefited from your studies?’
It was a good question. I looked at him with a straight face saying: ‘Well, I have spent three years in an advanced study of literature and language, including academic writing and independent learning. I know all about the historical developments of the English language and of literatures.’
‘I can feel an “and” coming,’ he said smiling.
‘And I will almost certainly end up working for a newspaper interviewing the good, the bad and the ugly for the Great Unwashed to pore over while tackling their boiled eggs of a morning.’
And that is exactly what I did while he had become an Ethical AI academic at Cambridge. We had spent the following summer together following graduation; he achieving a First and me a respectable Upper Second.
And then, predictably, we had gone our separate ways; he back to Cambridge and me to the ‘Street of Shame’ working for the Daily Express.
That was ten years ago.
A few days ago, I was in the Cheshire Cheese pub at the bottom end of Fleet Street. It was something of a pilgrimage really because the Express left Fleet Street many years ago, but I enjoy returning to my old haunts and since I only live in Holborn, I can easily walk there from my apartment on Fetter Lane.
Anyway, I was enjoying a pint of Abbots Ale and soaking up the atmosphere after chatting to a couple of people I remember from the old days, when I spotted a familiar face sitting in a corner of the bar.
It was Charles.
His face was turned away from me, and he was staring sightlessly out of the window. Even though I could only see him in profile there was something about him that had changed. He looked old beyond his years. There were grey streaks in his hair. Could it really be that long since I had last seen him? He is about the same age as me, early thirties or so.
I grabbed my pint and walked over to his corner and sat down at his table. He turned and glared at me and was about to ask why I was intruding when then there was recognition and he relaxed and smiled.
‘David Sullivan as I live and breathe.’ He held out his hand and we shook.
‘It is good to see you again David. Are you still telling lies for a living?’ He grinned and it was the Charles I used to know.
‘No, I gave that up a while ago. I teach students to tell lies now at the University here in London.
‘Are you still studying God and morality?’ I asked him.
‘Not any longer. I gave up once they gave me a PhD. Like you I teach it now.’
‘So, it’s Doctor Nevin now, is it?’ I doff an imaginary hat.
He stood up. ‘Your glass is almost empty. Allow me to get a refill. Any particular poison?
‘I do not mind. Abbotts Ale perhaps. Otherwise, I’ll leave it to you.’
He nodded and gave me a speculative stare. ‘I am glad you turned up. There is something I want to run past you.’
He returned and placed a pint in front of me and a large whisky for himself, I studied his face as he stared at his drink. He looked like a man in need of sleep. There were bags under his eyes, and his complexion had an unhealthy grey pallor.
‘Are you OK Charles?’ I asked him gently. ‘You look like you are in dire need of sleep.’
He took a generous swig of whisky and smiled grimly. ‘You have put your finger on it. I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep for months.’
‘You need to see a doctor. Sleep is very important both mentally and physically,’ I say to him.
His smile becomes a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t think a doctor can help me. Maybe a psychiatrist or even’ . . . he hesitates. ‘Perhaps a priest.’
I stared at him. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Why a priest?’
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. ‘I have been having nightmares,’ he explained almost whispering. He stared at me with the look of a man on the edge. ‘To be exact, it’s actually the same nightmare, every night and sometimes even during the day if I try to have a nap.’
He took another generous swig of his whisky. ‘It always begins in the same way. I am standing in a large room, more like a hall really, with a high bare ceiling and bare walls and floor. A solitary light bulb in the middle of the ceiling gives out a meagre glow leaving the room in semi darkness. There is a strong smell of decay everywhere. There is a strange fire with blue flames burning in a hearth but despite that it is cold, icy cold.’
He took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling before continuing.
‘The only item of furniture is a large wingback armchair in front of the fire with its back to me and slightly to one side. It is the sort of chair that has arms and head rests on each side. There is someone, or something, sitting in it but I cannot see it. I know that because a spiky tail is protruding through a gap on one side and resting on the floor.’
‘What sort of creature has a spiky tail?’ He asked me, shaking his head.
‘I stared at it and called out: “who are you, what do you want?” but all I heard was a coarse laugh followed by a bony finger emerging and pointing to a flight of stairs on the wall to my left. I hadn’t noticed them before because of the general gloom in the place. Whoever or whatever it is, wanted me to climb those stairs. I stared at them and noticed a door at the very top. I stared at the door and the feeling of unease increased.
‘I felt an overwhelming compulsion to climb the stairs, but I didn’t want to because I somehow knew that whatever was behind the door was utterly terrifying. I had no idea what was behind it, I only knew it was evil. I have no idea how I knew that, but I could feel myself trembling and a feeling of dread began to overwhelm me.
‘Then, my legs suddenly began slowly walking towards the stairs. I tried to stop but I couldn’t. It was as if something had taken over me. Despite the cold I could feel a sweat breaking out on my face. I also had a feeling that there was something following me and I tried to turn around but I couldn’t. The smell of decay got stronger as I approached the bottom steps of the stairs.
‘The stairs were metal with rails on both sides. I grabbed hold of them and for a while I was motionless. But then whatever was behind me began pushing and I was forced to climb step-by-step.
‘We had reached half -way with my apprehension growing with every step. At one point I had shouted out: “Please stop, for God’s sake stop.” But the only response was that evil laugh again. I glanced up at the door, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but it was if it was mocking me.’
He stopped and stared at me. There was a wildness in his eyes, and the colour had drained from his face. ‘You probably think I’m crazy,’ he whispered. ‘How can a door emanate evil?’ He shook his head.
‘Nightmares can sometimes seem very real,’ I had said somewhat forlornly. ‘I used to get them when I was a boy.’
‘This was real,’ he muttered. ‘As real as you sitting there.’
He took another gulp of his whisky and leaned back in his chair. ‘I slowly got to the top of the stairs and by this time I was trembling all over. The laughing began again only this time it echoed loudly throughout the room. It was deafening. I put my hands to my ears and then a coarse voice in my head said: “open it.”
‘Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I grasped the door handle and slowly turned it. . .’
He stopped talking and sat there with his eyes closed.
I stared at him. ‘What happened?’
‘I woke up. I was drenched. I just lay there.’
‘You didn’t see what was behind the door?’ He shook his head and wiped his brow.
‘It’s about the tenth time I’ve had the nightmare, and it always ends the same way. Sometimes there are two armchairs with things sitting in them. I never get to see who or what they are. I just know they are there.’
Our glasses are empty. I ask if he would like another whisky. He nods and I go to the bar. When I return, he has vanished. I think perhaps he has gone to the toilet, but he isn’t there either. He isn’t anywhere in the pub. I go to the bar and ask the barman if he saw where my friend has gone. He looked at me nonplussed.
‘Friend? What friend? You were sitting on your own mate.’ He gives me a puzzled look before moving away.
That was last week. I am still puzzled by it. I know Charles was there. I don’t care what the barman said. I was talking to him for well over an hour. In fact, now I think about it Charles bought a round so he must have been there.
Although I teach for a living, I still file a story now and then. It is half term in college and old habits die hard and all that. I have just finished A 1200-word feature on artificial intelligence and how it has been treated by storytellers over the years. The features editor of the Times said he was interested and I email it to him.
I sit back and switch on the TV. I sometimes watch the BBC’s Verify Live to catch up with what is happening.
I sit back and watch idly, my mind still on the feature I have just completed when I suddenly sit bolt upright.
The presenter is outside the British Museum talking about a new exhibition and standing a short distance behind him is Charles, standing on the steps and smiling. As I watch a bus passes obscuring the view for perhaps two or three seconds. When it has passed there is no sign of Charles. How could he have climbed the steps in that time? I search the scene, but he has disappeared.
It bothers me for the rest of the day. I carry the image around with me. What is going on with him?
The days that follow are busy organising projects for my students as well as organising a seminar on ‘The ethics of newsgathering in the 21st century.’ It provoked much discussion among my students both afterwards and in the tutorials that followed.
It is finally Friday and I call in to my local pub and have a cheery chat to a few regulars. I collect a Chinese takeaway on my way home and gratefully sink into a chair. I watch a current affairs programme whilst eating.
Afterwards, I must have dozed off because I am suddenly awakened by the doorbell. I struggle to my feet annoyed that somebody should disturb me and lurch to the door determined to tell whoever it is to go away in no uncertain terms.
I open the door. Standing there is Charles. I stare at him, momentarily transfixed. I step back and open the door wider. When he is inside, I wave him into the sitting room.
‘Why do you keep disappearing?’ I ask him when he is sitting and before he can respond I ask him if he would like a drink. I automatically pour him a whisky and hand it to him. He accepts it gratefully.
‘Do I?’ he says. ‘What do you mean. When did I disappear?
‘Well, when we were in the Cheshire Cheese last week and yesterday in front of the British Museum. You were standing on the steps. You might not have realised it, but you were on TV when somebody was talking about a new exhibition.’
He frowns and sips his whisky. ‘I don’t remember that.’ He pauses and stares at me. ‘You might find this difficult to believe but I don’t remember anything beyond a few hours ago. It’s just a complete blank.
‘You don’t remember talking to me in the Cheshire Cheese?’
He shakes his head.
‘You told me about a recurring dream you were having. It sounded terrifying. Are you still having it?’
He shrugs, nonchalantly, and rubs the side of his head. ‘No, In don’t have dreams anymore. What was so terrifying about it?’
I study him. He really doesn’t remember our conversation.
‘You were in a desolate room with a creature or creatures sitting in armchairs and you were made to climb a winding stair, and are about to open a door, a door that has something terrifying behind it.
‘Don’t you remember that?’
I look at him and his face is changing. He has a puzzled expression. ‘I thought it was you who had that dream. I told you to see a doctor if you remember. You weren’t sleeping too well as I recall.’
‘It was you who wasn’t sleeping,’ I say impatiently.
He laughs dryly. ‘David, I wasn’t in the Cheshire Cheese. You just imagined it.’
‘We were talking for about an hour Charles. Don’t you remember?’
He shakes his head. ‘Did anyone else see me there, the barman for example?’
I stare at him. I remember the barman saying I was on my own.
He is frowning. ‘David, I know quite a lot about altered memories. It’s a condition known as confabulation, sometimes referred to as “honest lying.” It’s a neuropsychiatric symptom where a person generates false memories, misremembers the sequence of events, or hallucinates details without any intention to deceive. The brain creates these fabricated details as an unconscious, compensatory mechanism to fill holes in the individual’s autobiographical memory.’
He stares at me with a concerned smile. ‘Don’t worry old chap it’s quite a common disorder. And it can be treated by altering the chemical balance in the brain.’
He takes out a pad and scribbles a note. ‘Take this to your GP. He will know what to do.’ And with that he consults his watch and stands. ‘Got to go. Got an appointment with an accountant.’ He pulls a sombre face and then smiles. We must meet up again soon. I’m a bit concerned about you. Take care and make sure you see your GP.’
And with that he walks out, tapping me on the shoulder as he does so.
I slump in my chair and stare sightlessly at the TV. ‘Am I going mad? Did I really imagine him telling me all about his terrifying dream? I close my eyes and wonder what I will see when I open them. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe Charles arriving was just a dream, and I will wake up and everything will be different.
I tentatively open just one eye. It is my sitting room just as it was; just as it is. I open both eyes and sigh with relief. It is then I notice the brolly leaning up next to the door. Charles’ brolly. So, he was here. He was not imaginary. I have proof. I smile triumphantly. This deserves a pint. I head for the door grabbing my jacket on the way.
In my local pub I meet one or two regulars, and we sort out the world as usual. It is a Friday and very soon the place is heaving. I am up to my fourth – or was it my fifth, I am not sure – which is unusual; I usually call it a day after three. It is almost 8.00pm when I stagger out into the cold air. I feel drunk and I notice people chuckling as I collide with a lamppost, banging my head.
I have difficulty finding the keyhole in my door too; why does it keep moving? The keyhole I mean.
I slump in my chair and turn on the TV.
I can feel awareness returning. I must have dozed off. I slowly open my eyes. I am in a large armchair.
But it is not my armchair. I am wide awake now, or at least I think I am. I rub my eyes. I have a hangover.
I am in a large room, and the armchair has a wing on either side. There is an identical one nearby and Charles is sitting in it. He has a crooked smile on his face.
I stare at him. Is this a dream? It feels real. I pinch myself. It hurts.
‘Welcome to my dream,’ he says. ‘I knew you would come one day. It was only a matter of time.’
‘Who are you?’ I ask, looking around the room. I notice a staircase on the wall to my right. It leads up to a door.
‘That’s an interesting question,’ he says sniggering. ‘You probably think I’m your friend Charles but I’m just a copy . . .’
He pauses and looks thoughtful. ‘Or is he a copy?’ He laughs, a rasping, menacing sound. ‘That’s something you are going to have to decide.’
‘You are not real,’ I snap back at him. ‘You are just a nightmare and all I have to do is wake up and you will vanish.’
‘Will you? Are you sure? Good luck with that.’
He waves a hand expansively, a leer on his face.
It is then I notice something moving on the floor in one of the corners. I peer into the semi-darkness. The room is dimly lit with just one bare light bulb in the centre of the ceiling. It looks like a large snake. It is moving in my direction and as it gets nearer it raises its head and it is a human face. I shrink back in my chair. It has Charles’ face.
I climb out of my chair and run towards the staircase. I have mounted the first few steps and look back at the room. Charles has disappeared. So has the snake, but there is something else instead. A skeletal arm is dangling at the side of the chair. I climb the first few steps and look back. The skeleton figure is climbing out of the chair. It is covered in rags with a hood almost covering its skull. It begins walking towards me. I climb further up the stairs.
I have reached the door. I can feal fear. I can almost feel the door mocking me. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? How can a door be evil. It is just a door.
I look back. The monstrous skeleton has reached the bottom of the stairs. It begins climbing.
I reach out and grasp the door handle and turn it.
I am sitting at the side of the road. I am feeling fuzzy. My head hurts. Really hurts. Someone has put a cloth or something over my shoulders. I can see an ambulance nearby. It is night but there are bright lights everywhere. I can see a car nearby that is all smashed up. There are a group of people nearby, all huddled over something lying on the ground.
A policeman has just left me. He asked how I was feeling. I told him I cannot remember anything. What has happened? He did not answer; just nodded sympathetically and asked me to blow into a breathalyser.
He then informed me that it is positive and that I was under arrest. A medic comes and examines me while the policeman watches. He says nothing; just nods to the policeman and I am taken to a car.
I am sitting at a desk in a bare room at a police station. There is a large mirror on the opposite wall. I suppose there are people behind it looking at me. A detective walks in and sits opposite me. He looks at me sternly.
‘You are under arrest for drink driving and for dangerous driving which has caused the death of a pedestrian.’ He stops to let his words sink in.
‘Do you understand?’ I just stare at him.
‘You crashed into a lamppost after hitting the pedestrian. Your car is a write-off.’
A picture begins forming in my mind. I had been at a book publishing party. I had been drinking Champaigne – too much Champaigne. I was on a country road. It was dark. Very dark and then . . . suddenly . . . there was a figure in front of me. It was Charles.
Grinning.
I tried to avoid him, but the car was going fast . . .too fast . . .and then everything went blank. And I was sitting on the side of the road.
I tell all this too the detective.
‘You know the pedestrian you killed?’ he asks, making a note.
‘It was my friend Charles, Charles Nevil,’ I say miserably covering my face with my hands. ‘He caused it.’
The detective shrugs and leaves the room.
Five minutes later he returns and sits opposite me again.
‘That was not the name of the pedestrian,’ he says shortly. The dead man is Arthur Wallis. Did you know him?’
‘You’ve made a mistake,’ I tell him. ‘It was definitely Charles. I saw him quite clearly.’
The detective studies his notes. ‘I looked up Charles Nevin. It could not have been him. Would you like to know why?’
I nod.
He smiles thinly. ‘Because he would need to have risen from the dead, that’s why.’
I stare at him and shake my head. ‘I was only with him last week,’ I say.
The detective puts his notes away. ‘A doctor will be here to examine you shortly,’ he says. ‘And by the way your friend Mr Nevin died in mysterious circumstances five years ago in a lake in Scotland so you couldn’t have been with him last week, could you?’
He does not wait for an answer. He just walks out.
I stare at the mirror. Charles is looking at me.
He is laughing.
