It is the same dream, almost always.
He is in the cupboard, and his father has just locked the door behind him.
It is pitch black.
Usually his parents don't leave him in here too long - an hour at most, appropriate punishment for a ten-year-old who is still wetting the bed, still needy, still putting his foot in his mouth and offending his parents' friends on social occasions. Martin accepts it, knows his behaviour isn't good enough, promises to do better.
He never seems to meet their expectations, no matter how many times they lock him in the dark.
Tonight, however, everyone has gone to bed, and Martin begins to wonder when he will be let out.
By his estimation, an hour goes past, and then another. He starts to panic. He wets himself, which makes him panic even more.
They don't let him out until the morning.
He wakes up in a cold sweat. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and then he immediately feels for wetness on the sheets.
No. Dry. Thank God. The last thing he could bear would be to wake Louisa up by wetting the damn bed. He isn't a child.
He doesn't have the dream often anymore. He has only had it once or twice since James Henry was born. Stability and comfort in his home life, control of his work life, prevent nightmares from occurring. As well as the correct diet and not eating after 7, of course. But what had triggered this nightmare?
He turns to gaze at Louisa while he ponders this question, only to find her awake and looking silently back at him.
"Louisa," he says, in surprise. "I thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?" His voice is somewhat shaky, and he hopes she can't hear it, although he knows she can. She probably also sees the cold sweat beading on his forehead, despite the darkness of the room. She may not be a doctor, but she does know him very well.
"Nightmare?" she asks in a voice hoarse from sleep.
Martin makes a little jerky movement with his head, and then shrugs. "It's nothing," he says, staring at his sheets.
"It didn't sound like nothing," she says doubtfully. She sits up, the better to look at him. "You sounded quite upset." She leans forward, wipes a droplet of moisture from his cheek very gently. "Sweat," she asks, "or tears?"
"Both," Martin whispers, shamefaced, still not looking at her.
"What was the nightmare about?" she asks, very quietly, as if she is not quite sure if she is allowed to ask.
"When I was a child my parents would sometimes lock me in a cupboard under the stairs, as punishment. Sometimes I have nightmares about it." About one particular time, he adds, in his head. The other times weren't so bad. In fact, sometimes they were almost peaceful.
Louisa looks horrified for a long moment, before she schools her expression into something more neutral. "I remember you saying," she says softly. Then: "Nightmares brought about by childhood trauma and abuse."
He is still not sure about Louisa's credentials in psychology, but in this case she isn't far wrong.
"Childhood trauma, maybe," he admits in a steady voice. "I'm not so sure I'd call it abuse. It was only one time."
Louisa wrinkles her brow. "You just implied it happened multiple times."
"Yes, it did, but there's only one time I have nightmares about!" He is irritated now. This isn't something he wants to have a conversation about - it's not relevant.
"What made that time different?" she asked, still in that voice, and Martin almost snaps that she should leave diagnosis to the professionals.
Instead he says, "you're not my therapist, Louisa," and gets out of bed.
"I know I'm not, Martin," he hears her say as he opens the door to the bathroom. "I was just trying to help."
"Well, don't," he says, and closes the bathroom door on her abruptly.
"I think it was the bedwetting," he says later, when he has emerged from the bathroom to find Louisa pretending to be asleep.
"What?" she mumbles, and he thinks that maybe she really is nearly asleep.
"James's bedwetting. That triggered the nightmare," he explained.
Louisa's eyes open. "What?" she asks, sounding decidedly less asleep but still confused.
"They used to send me to the cupboard whenever I wet the bed. Which was…often, as a child." He grits his teeth against the embarrassment.
"Oh," says Louisa, unsure what to say if she isn't allowed to censure his parents in the strongest possible terms for doing that to their child. To Martin.
"Incidentally, that probably prolonged my childhood bedwetting," says Martin, sounding almost conversational now. Louisa recognises the tone he uses when musing on a fascinating medical complaint. "Current guidelines state that punishing a child for bedwetting can actually make the situation worse. But thinking has changed since then."
"You don't say," says Louisa faintly.
"Anyway," says Martin, suddenly embarrassed that he has been musing about his childhood bedwetting in front of his wife. "I think we ought to get James a bedwetting alarm. That should help things out."
"Yes," answers Louisa, for want of a better response. "Good idea."
She doesn't mention Martin's parents again.