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wake, not that day, not that night. Yet one faint memory has remained at the back of my mind. Whenever I clutch at it and try to drag it into the full light of consciousness, it evaporates and is gone. But at unguarded moments it returns.
    It was already in my mind when I finally woke on Sunday morning: the image of a dark stone doorway, hugely arched and gaping. Beyond it, glistening stone steps led down into the deepest blackness imaginable. That is all. Sometimes I think that I must have stood staring at that vast doorway through all the hours I slept, never moving, never blinking, as though waiting for someone – or something – to emerge. Or was I expected to set foot on those steps, to pass through the doorway and descend into the blackness below?
    I was woken shortly after nine on Sunday by the sound of knocking at my door. As I struggled to regain consciousness, I realized that I had lost all track of the day or the time. The knocking came again, and I called out feebly. A voice answered from behind the door.
    ‘Andrew, are you there? Are you all right?’
    It was Iain. I had asked him to call on Sunday morning in order to go over my proposals for the next seminar. Craigie had told him about my missing our appointment on the day before.
    With an enormous effort, as if freeing myself from cords tying me to the bed, I pulled myself up. My head ached intolerably, and I felt nauseated. Throwing aside my bedclothes, I struggled to stand, and managed to get to the door. As it opened, I saw Iain’s concerned face, then, unable to stand any longer, I collapsed onto the floor.
    I came round later to find Iain hovering anxiously over me. He had dragged me back to the bed and made me as comfortable as possible. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back firmly, saying I should take it easy until the doctor arrived. He had rung the University Health Service, and they had said someone would be along soon.
    Twenty minutes later I saw Dr McLean come through the door. By good fortune, he had been on duty that morning. I was relieved to see him, rather than some indifferent locum who did not know me from Adam.
    He examined me briskly but carefully, and at last pronounced himself satisfied. Packing away his stethoscope and blood pressure meter, he snapped shut his little case and turned to me.
    ‘Well, Andrew, I have to say I’m very disappointed in you. I’d taken you for a man with greater sense. Do your parents know what sort of state you’ve got yourself into?’
    ‘My parents? I haven’t . . .’ I realized that it had been some time now since I had spoken to either of them.
    ‘No matter. It’s none of my business if you speak to them or not. But I wish you would. I think you need to talk to someone.’
    ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I felt wretched, and the tone of his voice suggested something serious.
    ‘Oh, nothing much,’ he said. ‘Nothing I haven’t seen more often than I like. You’re overworked. Your nervous system’s been taxed to its limit. And you haven’t got over the death of your young woman. I’ll call it nervous fatigue and leave it at that.’
    ‘Is that all?’ I was relieved. The way I felt, I was sure there was something more serious the matter.
    ‘All?’ His heavy eyebrows knotted and he looked down at me severely. ‘You’ll wreck your health permanently if you don’t do something about it. I could give you tranquillizers, but they’ll do nothing but mask the symptoms and let you think you can get away with overdoing things. Instead, I’m going to prescribe a herbal tonic and plenty of rest. I want you to stay in bed for the next week. After that, you can take some mild exercise, go for the odd walk, but take it easy. There’s to be absolutely no writing or serious reading, and no intellectual conversation of any description. You can watch television if you like, provided you stick to light programmes.
    ‘If you allow yourself to relax and take it easy for a few weeks, I guarantee