‘He shifted painfully against the pillows which propped him up, looking up at the lugubrious face of Mr Braeburn.
`Look, Mr Skinner,' said the mournful consultant, 'I'll grant that you have a remarkable constitution, to have survived a wound which would have finished off most people, and to be recovering from it so well. But I do wish that you would take my advice and accept more medication to ensure that you have a restful night.'
The big policeman smiled, but shook his head slowly. 'You've got me off the glucose and back on solid food. I even took a piss half an hour ago, albeit with the help of my good pal Andy over there. That means that my system's working normally again. In that case, when it wants to go to sleep, it will. I've got a thing about medication of any kind. Just ask my wife. I won't even take Rennies.'
`That's right,' said Sarah. She was still seated at his bedside, holding his hand. Andy Martin stood at the back of the room, beside the wall, laughing quietly to himself. 'He knows it all, my husband. His standard remedy for indigestion is a pint of milk, and his patented hangover cure is a six-mile run.'
Mr Braeburn nodded. 'Efficacious in both instances, I will allow. But surely, you will agree as a doctor with my recommendation in these circumstances.'
As a doctor, of course I do.' Bob glowered at her. 'And as a wife, perhaps if you left us alone, I might try to talk him into it’
Anything to further the cause,' said the surgeon, throwing up his hands in despair. He turned and left the Unit, with Andy Martin following behind.
Sarah watched the door close and turned back to her husband. She squeezed his hand.
'Bob, don't you think we're being a bit difficult here? I mean, that guy just saved your life and now you won't even let him give you a pill.’
His jaw tensed. 'Look, love, I just want to be able to sleep naturally, that's all. I hate the idea of sleeping pills.'
`No. There's more to it than that. After the accident on Friday, and before the attack, you were… funny. Going out for a run in the middle of the night, for instance. That ain't normal behaviour even for you. What made you do that? Was something worrying you?'
He shook his head. 'I can't remember.'
`Bob, I don't want to rush you into recalling things, but on Saturday night you had a nightmare. You didn't tell me what it was about, but I guessed it was a reaction to all the things you saw on Friday, much as I had immediately afterwards. Have you been having more dreams?'
I don't know. I feel… I don't know how to say it. There's a sort of darkness in here.' He tapped his head. 'And a feeling of being trapped in it. I can't bring back detail, any of it. I just know that I don't want to take anything that will make me sleep.'
She rubbed his hand again, and nodded. 'Okay, I understand you. Bob, this isn't my expert field, as you know, but I'd say you were suffering from post-traumatic stress. Nightmares, flashbacks, even memory lapses, are all classic symptoms. I think I had some of the same last Friday night. But I'm different from you. I was able to cry myself through it. You might need some help.' She hesitated. 'Would you do something for me?'
'Depends,' he said slowly.
'Would you talk to Kevin O'Malley?'
‘ O’Malley? But he's a shrink! I don't need a head doctor.'
She grasped his hand, tighter than ever. 'Bob, he is an acknowledged expert in the sort of counselling which you insisted should be available to every person on duty on the Lammermuirs last Friday. You're not immune, big guy. You need him too.'
He looked at her doubtfully. 'I can get myself through this. I just don't need drugs or quacks to do it.'
'Bob, this isn't the first time. When you woke up in a sweat on Sunday morning you told me that you'd had dreams like that before — after that business with the man in the cottage.'
Suddenly, he went rigid. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes standing out. 'Him!' he gasped. 'He was in the dream; and a doll; and Chanel No. 5; and-' the words came tumbling out. He looked round at her, and for the first time in her life she saw panic in his eyes.
'Okay, okay,' she said firmly. 'That settles it. I'll ask O'Malley to see you tomorrow morning. For now, I'm going to recommend to Mr Braeburn that he gives you Prozac. And if he agrees, my dear, you will take it.
'That is not a request. That, Deputy Chief Constable, is an order!'