by Ron Elliott
‘Yes. I remember now. I wanted him listed “at risk” because I thought he might be in for a bashing.’
‘It looks like your telephone message got through to the medical office. It was noted on Rodney’s file. There was a change of shift and the psych on duty was called away before he could complete handover. As you know, they’re always understaffed. A violent offender hit another violent offender over the head with a spaghetti maker in the kitchen, and an ice addict who was in the middle of a psychotic episode didn’t choose a convenient time to act out. The loudest emergencies won. They didn’t get back to the secure cell until … He slipped through the cracks.’ Gillian sighed. There were always cracks. Chasms. ‘Anyway, I wanted to drop by to let you know you didn’t slip up. Far from it. You did everything you possibly could. If you were feeling …’
‘No.’
‘A paper trail exists which backs you up, which is legally important, you know.’
Iris shrugged.
‘Do you feel you let him down?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Tough case to take on, by the way.’
‘If he’d had someone else … who knows.’
Gillian’s hand was on her shoulder. Iris let it stay, let the warmth come through her t-shirt.
Iris said, ‘You said you fix people, Gillian. I’m not sure I do. I seem to be better at catching them and breaking them.’
‘I know that’s not true.’
Iris was pretty sure Gillian didn’t know this at all. She was trying to be supportive. Her hand felt good on her shoulder.
*
Gillian left soon after, having extracted Iris’s notes concerning conversations with Rodney so Gillian could write up the bones of a report for the coroner to mollify Patricia. Iris promised to take it easy during her brief suspension from the practice, which was a lie. She had told the kids she wasn’t rich, which she supposed was another lie.
She decided after her second glass of wine she would not exercise on the running machine. She stayed in her office writing her report for Frank and the police Arson Squad regarding James. She reiterated her belief he was suffering from a trauma that he was compulsively reworking by lighting fires. He had constructed, she felt, an alternative personality in order to evade an unknown but specific heinous act. She was aware this conclusion fell outside her remit and perhaps expertise, but used it to support her observations about James in relation to the degree of planning obviously required to construct the gymnasium bomb. Put more simply, the projected personality of the school bomber and the assessed personality of James were not a very good match.
Iris did not send the report. She found herself imagining a possible scenario. What if James did get the ether? She did not know how. Someone had. What if, in his psychosis, he imagined the ether as fuel? What if the gymnasium was to be his rocket ship? What if he was going to save these kids, take them home to Mars? Might he be able to plan these two parallel procedures? They were not mutually exclusive. What if, as Detective Pavlovic suggested, he’d found a brief oasis of clarity once everything was set to go and, in the horror of this realisation, he broke down again, or further regressed and fled – only to become compulsive again twenty hours and nine hundred kilometres away? Was there anything in what Iris knew of James’s personality, symptoms and profile that proved he could not have committed the crime? Was she certain?
Iris didn’t feel sleepy. She felt too restless for the junk on television. She poured herself another glass of wine, the sedative of choice for many, and picked over her pile of dead writer books. She picked up Janet Malcolm’s The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. She’d bought Virginia Woolf and Neuropsychiatry, but knew she wouldn’t read it. She’d been reading a wonderful biography of Virginia Woolf by Woolf’s nephew. She’d been intrigued about references to sexual molestation when Woolf was a child and her evident bipolar. Then Iris had read To the Lighthouse, and she didn’t want Woolf picked apart like a faulty clock. Explanations can reduce rather than deepen our understanding.
Long after joining the fire service, after all the court cases, profiles and press stuff, after working for the police, meeting and marrying Mathew, having Rosemarie, Iris returned to the fire service and became known as the Fire Lady. It was a media thing. A newspaper thing the television news took up. In spite of the fact she worked in police cells and courtrooms now, they used old photographs, archived video clips, those news people, of the times at the beginning when young Iris attended the fires. There was a famous shot of her with her hand on an exhausted fireman’s shoulder in burnt-out bush, another of her silhouetted against a wall of flame as a house erupted. Worst of all was a closer shot of her face, orange tinged watching a fire with an expression of ecstasy.
Iris put her empty wine glass in the dishwasher. She switched off the kitchen light and the lounge light, then went to her office to turn that light out. She noticed dust on her father’s microscope and wiped it away with her hand. She drifted to look at a butterfly in its frame, found herself focusing on her own reflection in the glass. She studied the face there: part blue morpho, part Iris Foster; two dry, pinned things in a frame.
Chapter thirteen
Iris dressed in an olive-green skirt, a white blouse, black high-heeled sandals. She didn’t put on any make-up or earrings, but she chose the antique pendant with the vague hieroglyphics etched into the breloque. It felt cold on her skin. Iris thought she’d drive. It was Friday night, the streets were busy, full of taxis and threatening cars. Iris considered a drive in the hills, discounting it as too far, possibly too forlorn, so her whim sent her towards the beach. The coast road was busy, the carparks along the ocean full. Young people were wandering, office workers staggered. Iris passed a pub on the corner with huge windows on the second floor. She considered going up to be jostled and unserved, to edge her way to the glass and look out on a dark moonless ocean. She wound down the passenger window so she could smell the salt, hear the crash of surf. Cars beeped behind her, long angry horns forcing her to drive on.
Iris parked in the staff carpark behind Park Wing. High, strong lights made the three fences look grey, the no-man’s land a shadowless yellowy green. Moths swirled and circled way up like tiny seagulls.
Iris buzzed at the outer door. The attendant, in his fifties and dressed in a psychiatric nurse’s blue windcheater, peered at her through the glass in the door. It was after midnight. He talked through an intercom. ‘Can I help you?’
Iris said, ‘Iris Foster. I’ve been assessing James. No surname. For Dr Silverberg.’
‘The Martian.’
‘Yes, the Martian.’
‘Just a minute.’
He went behind the dimly lit reception counter, read the schedules.
Iris looked across to the other buildings of Fieldhaven. They were barely lit, the rooms and dormitories for voluntary patients were dark, only corridors lit, only skeleton night-staff cars in the carparks. A security van drove slowly up along the vacant nursing school at the top of the rise.
‘He’s been moved,’ came the voice through the intercom.
‘Oh,’ said Iris. ‘Has he been sent back to Biara?’
‘No. Across to Grange Wing.’ He pointed behind Iris, across the road to another secure ward.
‘Thank you,’ said Iris. ‘Oh, can you do me a favour? Let them know I’m coming over?’ She gave a sad, tired smile.
He nodded, returning a similar smile.
Grange also held involuntary patients, but it was not maximum security. Fewer locks, no CCTV, only one high security fence. The patients here were disturbed but had committed no crimes. They were often experiencing episodes, or due for diagnosis, or off their meds. In spite of the security, its purpose was assessment and treatment. It was a hospital.
At night, most patients were sedated. The night duty staff held a watching brief, mostly paperwork to fulfil, and care of a number of wards. The night duty nurse waited at the outer door.
‘I’m Iris Foster. I’ve
been assessing James – the Martian – for Dr Silverberg and the state court.’ Iris flashed her ID.
‘It’s very late.’ The nurse was Indian, in her mid-thirties, plump in her uniform like a pudding.
‘I’m overdue with the report. I wanted to check my conclusions.’
The nurse stepped back, allowing Iris to enter. ‘He’s not talking. He’s not doing any tricks either. Apparently he used to do magic tricks over at Park.’
‘Yes, a juggler and a knife thrower. A pickpocket and escapologist. I think he’s a pretty good dancer too.’
‘Yes. On his file.’
‘Have they got him on anything?’
The nurse went into a nurse’s station. Another woman worked at a computer in the office behind. The nurse checked the whiteboard inside the nurse’s station. It listed thirty names, their medications, some with adjoining asterisks indicating danger, either for the patient or the staff.
‘No. He’s not very responsive. Complies with physical manipulation and firm requests. Not communicative. Looks like you’ve wasted a trip.’
‘Not at all. I’m on my way home,’ lied Iris. ‘Listen, I couldn’t go and sit with him? He’s not dangerous, I can write up my report, be done. They’re quite anxious about it with this taskforce, the school bombing.’
‘They said that’s what he is here for. Hardly seems possible. You never can tell.’
‘I’ll make my last observations about his state and write up my notes. No more than an hour, we’ll be done.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
Iris gave the barest roll of her eyes, a secret shared.
‘I can’t let you in, Dr Foster. Not without authorisation.’
‘They didn’t send my paperwork over with him? I had blanket authorisation at Park. It should be with his paperwork.’
The nurse sighed, glanced vaguely at the back office, not keen to wade through days of emails, doctors’ reports, police transfers, visitor lists and the like.
Iris said, ‘Well, you could call Park. They’ll have me down on the visitors log for the last few days. Be easy for them to look it up.’ Iris gave her a conspiratorial smile at bureaucracy circumvented in the interests of common sense. She glanced towards the door. ‘I’ll come back in the morning. The taskforce are clamouring, I thought I could beat the weekend.’
‘I’ll call them.’
‘Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.’
Iris opened her bag and took out her notepad. Clearly she must have formulated the possibility of seeing James because she had everything she needed.
The nurse came back, mollified by her call to the maximum-security ward. She unlocked the door to the ward to reveal six individual locked rooms, each with a small viewing window. The lights were out in all the rooms, Iris noted, as the nurse led her through to another ward, where she unlocked another door.
‘Why do they think it is him?’
‘He lights fires. A bit compulsive. So they’re looking at everyone.’
‘I heard it is terrorists. You know, against girls being educated. This happens in a lot of countries, I can tell you.’
‘I hope it’s not true, but you never know, do you?’
‘There are a lot of crazy people in the world who aren’t in here.’
Iris could tell she said this quite a lot. ‘Yes, with all kinds of definitions of crazy. Although we’re more strict about it in here, aren’t we?’ They shared a laugh.
The nurse led her to James’s room. She flicked an exterior switch that dimly illuminated the room. It was at quarter power, for sleeping and observation. He lay on his side under a sheet, his eyes closed.
The nurse unlocked the door. She whispered, ‘Do you want an attendant? We’ve got one on duty, three more on call for all the wards.’
‘He’s never shown any sign of violence. You have panic buttons in these rooms, don’t you?’
‘Yes, there are …’ Second thoughts were starting to sneak in.
Iris held out her hand, ‘Thank you …’
‘Julie.’
‘Thank you, Julie. You’re a lifesaver.’ They shook hands. ‘You’ll leave the door unlocked, won’t you? I can come back out here, wave to you when I’m done.’ Iris pointed to a camera mounted in the hall to cover the doors to the rooms. Iris inspected her watch. ‘I will be done at 1.30.’ Iris stepped into James’s room and closed the door.
She sat in the plastic chair by the wall to look at James.
He opened his eyes, blinking.
‘Hello James. It’s Iris Foster.’
He closed his eyes again.
Sensing Julie at the viewing window, Iris took the notebook and a pen out of her bag before putting it down on the floor next to her chair. She said, ‘You’re looking well rested. I hope you’ve recovered from … our session the other day. I’m sorry. I crash or crash through. It caused you to crash too. And all this is about the nature of your crash. The spaceship. The nature of the spaceship. The metaphor of the spaceship. Dream therapy and dream reading suggests we share certain symbolism so we can analyse our subconscious thoughts through decoding the symbols. Anima, animus. Fire is often passion but context is all. It is warm, but it also devours. As you told me. No symbolism required. Context, see. What is the fire doing? What is it saying in the story of the dream? The dreamer is the one who knows. The pop psychology dream reader can suggest interpretations but only the dreamer can know if it fits. What if the dream is about an actual fire? Surely all snakes are not sex. Or even sin. Sometimes someone is quite reasonably afraid of snakes.’ Why did I bring up snakes?
As Iris spoke, she scanned the room. She spied the panic button by the door. She noted the empty desk under the window. She saw the empty viewing window. She looked at the plastic smoke detector, the automatic sprinkler. It was the kind with red alcohol liquid sensitive to heat. The sprinkler blade was recessed, covered in a special mesh, to prevent it being used as a tying off point for any suicide attempts.
‘I think narrative has become fetishised. I think it’s as capable of silencing complicated conclusions as of discovering truths. Do you think Phil Spector did it? Or is he locked up because of his manifest oddness? What about Pistorius? Did he mean to kill her? Or is his feetlessness what really gets to us; what makes us so sure he snapped; couldn’t cope with such a beautiful girlfriend? I’m old enough to remember Azaria Chamberlain. Excuse me. I’ve been reading the newspapers. They disturb me; they have dark fairy stories underneath, our tribal fear of the dark and danger – whatever it is outside the campfire light.’
James lay on his side, his eyes staring unfocused. He may not have even been listening.
Iris went on, ‘I’m talking about whether what I want to do is wrong. I think I know what’s wrong with you. At least where to look to find out. I think, when we get to the other side of this event, it will be towards a better condition. I hope. Maybe this playful, funny, intuitive, light, inquisitive self is a preferred one. Who am I to say you have to grow up? I have come across all kinds of things. I can imagine … well, to lock it away forever, never remember, would be a fair decision. Only it’s not locked away, is it James?’
Iris leaned forward in her chair.
James didn’t move, but his eyes remained open.
‘I’m trying to explain, but my mind isn’t very clear. I think of it like an injury. Like a car accident or war or skiing. Let’s go with skiing. You take a fall, or hit a tree and your leg is shattered. It has to be taken off because you will get septicaemia or all kinds of blood loss and infections that will kill you. So, without your consent, they cut the leg off – to save the rest of you. But … and my little story moves beyond that – you’re at the point where we can give you a prosthetic. We can get you walking again. Not as good as before. Maybe as good as before. Different, because of the accident. The crash. The prosthetic, the solution, the physiotherapy and uncomfortable fittings, sweat; retraining your body is worth the new things you will be able to do. Not as good as before
the skiing accident, sure, but better than only one leg.
‘That’s my metaphor. That’s my story for this. You have rights about taking on a false leg. You have the right to refuse to learn to walk again. You don’t have rights about losing the leg. The code amongst doctors forces them to decide that. Well, so here is where I am, I guess. If you did try to blow up the school, if you did burn those old people and those backpackers and who knows what else, then not remembering those things … well. I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine that far.’ Iris stopped speaking. She dribbled to a halt, sighed.
James lay on the bed looking across the room at Iris. She was sure he was listening.
‘I don’t think you are, but if you are this bad person, I am going to find you. I’m here for another crack, without your permission. Your leg is shattered. Whatever happens, I will not abandon you, even if you are the bad man, hiding. I’m here for the long haul, one way or the other. We leave no man behind. My promise.’ Iris pulled her chair closer to him. ‘So, we’re going to conduct an experiment.’
James’s eyes came up to meet hers.
‘I’m proposing a dangerous type of therapy, like aversion therapy, where you might confront your fear, and by confronting it learn it is not insurmountable. Sounds a bit like Shakespeare, doesn’t it? By opposing, end it.’
Iris touched her pendant nestled at the base of her neck.
‘You’ve commented on my jewellery. You like jewellery. Nice, old things. Here’s another Australian antique. Silver, eighteen-nineties. I think you’ll like it. Old.’ Iris took the pendant, pulled the chain over her hair, held it out towards James.
He still lay on the bed, his head on the pillow, but his eyes focused on the dangling silver object Iris held out to him, slightly below his eye level.
She kept speaking, in a calm voice. ‘I can never quite decide whether it looks like a book or an empty sack. Maybe it mostly looks like a purse, a long, skinny purse. See the shape at the top. Look at these marks on it. Do you think they are actual writing? Or is it fake writing? Etched marks? Can you see it?’