The Apartment - K. L. Slater Page 0,62

disturbed sleep and Rosalie swiftly dispersed my concerns with the waft of a hand.

‘It is completely normal for a child of this age to have trouble sleeping. He is probably teething, too. Rest assured it can have nothing to do with the work the professor is doing,’ Rosalie insisted. ‘Why, the child will have forgotten any distress by the time you step out into the corridor after each session.’

So when the time comes to visit Professor Watson for possibly the last session, I take care to dress a fractious Douglas in his one best outfit: a cream shirt and a pair of brown moleskin shorts with braces.

‘My goodness, don’t you look smart!’ I coo, and he gurgles and kicks his chubby legs with pleasure, his earlier irritation forgotten.

I follow Rosalie through the familiar warren of the near-identical corridors featuring pale-green glossed walls and echoing concrete floors, until the turning for Professor Watson’s wing appears.

To my surprise, Rosalie turns in the opposite direction and leads us into an unfamiliar wing of the hospital.

As we walk without speaking, only our heels clicking on the floor make a sound. I notice how the walls soon merge into a softer cream shade and a quality woven carpet appears underfoot, muting the harsh clack of our shoes.

‘Ahh, there you are.’ Professor Watson appears at the end of the corridor, his long, lean frame disguised by a voluminous white coat. ‘This way, please.’

We walk a little further, make a sharp right turn, and Professor Watson stops at a set of double doors.

‘We’re going to be working in here today,’ he says, watching Dougie, who keeps peeking at the professor and then burying his head back into my shoulder, whimpering. ‘The main lecture theatre.’

I shiver. I know this theatre is used regularly for specialist post-mortem lectures. I hope Dougie won’t have to sit on the steel table used at such events, but before I can comment, the professor pushes open the doors and Rosalie ushers us through.

As soon as I enter, bright lights hit me, momentarily blinding me. When my disorientation passes, I look around and gasp. The surrounding tiered wooden benches are packed to the brim with both medics and academics.

Rosalie leads us to the staged area in front of the tiered seating where the dreaded steel table sits waiting and the chatter and obvious excitement die down, fading away to silence.

‘Professor, are all these people here to see Dougie?’ I whisper. ‘Your study is that important?’

‘Immeasurably so,’ Professor Watson remarks. ‘Nobody has carried out an experiment remotely like this one.’ I flinch at his use of the word experiment, but he doesn’t appear to notice. ‘It will shed light on one of the most mysterious areas of psychiatry. That is, whether selected behavioural responses are innate or can be learned. I hope that people will be talking about it for years to come.’

‘I see,’ I murmur, but I don’t see at all. Better to just let him get on with it, I decide. Soon Professor Watson’s study will be concluded. I have the whole day off and plan to take Douglas to the park later.

‘If you’re happy, then let’s begin.’ The professor turns to his assistant. ‘Let’s start with the baseline reactions, Rosalie.’

I stand next to the raised platform, clutching my son. In the spotlight, I feel like a bug under a microscope. Blinded by the light, I can hear Professor Watson and Rosalie busying themselves with preparations behind us, and I can feel the weight of expectation amongst the now silent spectators occupying the tiered seating.

Douglas shies away from the spotlight and whimpers. I struggle to contain him as he wriggles.

Professor Watson begins to speak in a booming voice, powerful enough to reach the back rows of the lecture theatre and those people standing in the balconied floor above.

He introduces himself, gives a brief account of his work so far, and then begins a detailed description of his experiment which I confess I struggle to understand.

‘You can put the baby down now,’ Rosalie whispers to me, patting the metal table. ‘And then step back out of the light, please.’

I try to sit Dougie on the table, but his legs become rigid as he whimpers louder and clings to me. He doesn’t want to let go. I am just about to ask if we could try again another day, when Dougie is in better spirits, when Rosalie steps forward and pulls him away from me, setting him down, startled and alone on the sterile-looking surface.

Just