Chapter 7: Avenged Sevenfold

I hadn’t exactly been looking for reading material, all things considered, but there was something about the old, battered book that called to me. A strange second sense, or perhaps gut instinct told me that it was important somehow, so I gave up on my increasingly futile search for drugs, and cracked open the cover. It was a small, leatherbound notebook, small enough to fit in one’s jacket pocket. A diary, something of a rarity in the modern age: not at all dead, to be certain, but less prevalent nowadays, thanks to the rise of the smartphone. The younger generation often preferred a digital format for their thoughts, though clearly, there was nothing particularly young about this specific diary.

Written in a refined cursive, with a steadiness of hand that made me most envious, the manner of speech within was clearly that of an elderly gentleman. I’d certainly never seen anyone address themselves by commenting on ‘mine faculties’, nor had I ever read about “the issue of spawn” in a maternal context, barring certain old textbooks on probate law. It took a bit of work, admittedly, to parse through language that was both varied and verbose, but I am an educated man, and the content of the diary was still fairly relatable.

The man was a chemist, or perhaps even a physician, though his way with words would have made me think more of the debunked alchemists, were it not for the clear, scientific bent to them. Most of the entries detailed medical consultations, largely with children but also interspersed with a more diverse clientele on occasion. They described a variety of ailments, from those commonplace like the flu or intestinal distress, to more rarified illnesses such as consumption (nowadays known as tuberculosis), gout and scurvy. In keeping with those times, this physician did not have an office of practice, and instead travelled to the homes of his patients, performing house calls.

In almost every case, he would arrive, and exchange greetings with the patient, before quickly moving on to a personal examination and consultation. This consultation would invariably be followed by a prescription, certainly the most legible I’d ever read, recommending precise doses of medicine to relieve the patient’s concerns. I didn’t recognise most of that, having read Law rather than Medicine, but I did catch a reference to Laudanum. This particular tincture, containing one-tenth extract of opium, was a remedy for pain and coughing, up until its ban in the early to mid 1800s. That, at least, was an early dating for the origin of this diary. There were more than a few amusing anecdotes too, as I flicked through, with the standout example being the case of the man who suffered from impotence, and was advised to dine on a steady diet of wolf penis for no less than two weeks.

None of this was particularly relevant to my present situation, however much I enjoyed this fascinating glimpse on the medical practices of the 19th century. Or at least, not until I made it well into the latter half of the book. Absently, I heard someone knocking on the door outside. I considered going up to answer it, before remembering that I was currently an intruder in a dead man’s room, and opting to ignore it. Maybe whoever it was would go away by themselves. Turning back to the diary, I continued to turn the page, looking for anything important, and eventually, towards the end of the book, I found it.

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An entry, detailing the beginnings of a house call on behalf of a wealthy and elderly man. The chemist had already been retired for several years now, the entry explained, but was an old acquaintance and therefore willing to return to practice on this particular occasion. It would be a long journey, from London to Glasgow, but fortunately, the physician had been made aware of a recent innovation, an overnight sleeper train that would enable him to arrive at his patient refreshed and ready to diagnose. Or at least, that had been the plan.

Here, the previously neat handwriting began to deteriorate, as the physician complained mightily of being woken up in the middle of the night by a loud crashing noise, followed by the announcement that the train was at a dead stop. It was around that time, that his own chest began to ache, accompanied by sudden nausea, faintness of breath, and a cold sweat. I wasn’t a doctor, but even I could recognise the common symptoms of a massive heart attack: it was one of the first things I’d learned during my workplace health and safety briefing, where I was shown how to use the on-site defibrillator.

Unfortunately, such devices didn’t exist back in the 1890s, so this particular physician was forced to improvise. Oddly, he continued to write even in the midst of an acute medical emergency, maybe out of habit or comfort, but either way, it made for fascinating reading. Some of what he tried was sensible: like sitting down and taking deep breaths, or the aforementioned laudanum to relieve his chest pain. Other additions, such as arsenic, cocaine and the essence of mercury were perhaps less helpful. None of it helped, however, and by the end, the poor physician was at death’s door, slumped over in his cabin.

Strictly speaking, none of this was really the fault of the Caledonian Sleeper. There were many hours to go before they reached their destination, and even then it was doubtful what the medicine of the day could have done for him, and the old physician probably knew this. But people aren’t always rational, when in great distress, so he blamed the train, and wrote that if he had to suffer, then so would those who came after him. Then, I turned to the final page of this compelling story, and I burned. It shouldn’t have been possible for centuries old ink to sear my eyes and tear at my mind, but someone clearly disagreed, because the next thing I knew, I was lying sprawled upon the floor.

I heard someone screaming, and it took a solid ten seconds to realise I was the source. I must’ve sounded truly dreadful, because the persistent knocking that I’d long since tuned out returned in force, followed by loud thumping at the door. I kept screaming, even after the Waiter and two uniformed members of British Transport Police forced their way inside, one of them raising a taser in my direction, and then, I was finally free.

—

I woke up in my cabin in a cold sweat, a small, innocuous diary clutched to my chest. It was one minute past four, according to my phone, and we were on the last approach to Edinburgh.