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the sheets tousled, the network of wires and electrodes tangled up at the head of the bed and leaving smears of glue over the pillows. This was highly unusual: although the insomniac patients often wanted to get up in the middle of the night, it was rare for one to elude the vigilance of the technicians and take the matter into his own hands.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Dr Madison. ‘I think I know where he is. I’ll go and talk to him.’
    ‘What about Dr Dudden?’
    ‘Don’t wake him up. I don’t think he needs to know about this.’
    She made her way towards the common room at the front of the house, where a pair of French windows allowed access to the terrace. She could see the man outside, pacing in the darkness. The windows were frequently used, but their hinges were rusty and they gave out a grating squeal. The man turned with a start and looked at Dr Madison as she approached, advancing swiftly into the shadows. His face, even in this blackness, shone paler than the moon.
    There was an electric light above the terrace, but Dr Madison had not switched it on.
    ‘Mr Worth, I presume?’ she said.
    ‘That’s correct.’ Like her, he was wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
    ‘I’m Dr Madison. Dr Dudden’s Girl Friday, as it were.’ She paused to see how he responded to this phrase, whether he registered its slightly mocking undertone. The moonlight, and the cigarette glow, illuminated just enough of his face to reveal the hint of a smile. ‘You seem to have deserted your post.’
    ‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep.’
    ‘We didn’t expect you to.’
    ‘No. I don’t, you see.’
    ‘All the same, I assume you know that you were supposed to ask permission before getting up.’
    ‘I was told that, yes, but I didn’t think it was serious.’
    ‘Well, the equipment you were handling is very delicate, and very expensive. Besides which, you’ve now got glue in your hair, which can’t be very comfortable for you.’
    The man touched his hair tentatively, wincing with distaste. ‘So I have. Well, I’m sorry about this. I hope I didn’t damage anything.’
    ‘Not this time. But there is another thing – we don’t really like our patients wandering around after dark. I thought somebody might have explained that to you as well.’
    The ocean rumbled angrily in the distance. Waves were breaking upon the rocks with weary irregularity. He listened to them for a while before explaining: ‘I’ve got to relax somehow.’
    ‘Yes, I understand that. Don’t worry. I’m not going to put you in detention, or set you a hundred lines.’
    Now he laughed, and said: ‘Why don’t you call me Terry?’
    ‘Thank you. I will,’ said Dr Madison; but instead of offering her own first name, as Terry had expected, she said: ‘Did you manage it?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Your film marathon. Ten days. A hundred and thirty-four films. How did you get on?’
    ‘Oh, that. Yes, I managed that all right. No problem. I think I’m going into the Guinness Book of Records.’
    ‘Congratulations.’ It seemed to Terry that Dr Madison wanted to go inside again, but something was holding her back; some semi-reluctant urge to prolong the conversation. She said: ‘Dr Dudden will be delighted. You’re already his favourite.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘That’s his area, you see. Sleep deprivation.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Rats.’
    Terry misinterpreted this, and asked: ‘Have you dropped something?’
    ‘No: that’s what he uses. Rats. He deprives them of sleep, to see what happens.’
    ‘What a delightful hobby. And what does happen?’
    ‘They die, usually. But their lives are never in vain, because he gets to add another paper or two to his bibliography.’
    ‘I’m beginning to sense,’ said Terry, ‘that Dr Dudden’s Girl Friday is not the most devoted of servants.’
    ‘Everything I tell you is off the record, by the way.’
    ‘Of course.’
    In spite of this reassurance, she seemed to recede further from him, almost imperceptibly,