Deadly Communion

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LIEBERMANN WAS SEATED ON a wooden chair at the head of the rest bed. He had adopted an attitude which he found conducive to listening: legs crossed, his right fist against his cheek, the tip of his index finger resting gently on his temple. His supine patient — Herr Norbert Erstweiler — could not see the young doctor. In fact, Herr Erstweiler could see very little apart from the white ceiling and, if he dropped his gaze, a plain door in which a panel of opaque glass had been mounted. Herr Erstweiler’s eyes were restless. Their agitated movements suggested unease, apprehension. It was as if — Liebermann thought — Herr Erstweiler was worried that someone might intrude.

‘I am not expecting anybody,’ said Liebermann.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We shan’t be interrupted. No one will come in.’

‘Good … I wouldn’t want that.’

‘You were saying that your sleep is disturbed.’

‘That’s right. I can’t get to sleep any more. I get into bed, extinguish the lamp, and I am immediately overcome by terror. It’s the darkness … something about the darkness.’

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