The Long Sleep

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