by Ron Elliott
Iris let the pendant swing slightly at the end of the chain.
‘I can see writing, Iris. It looks like writing.’
Iris let out a long breath. ‘I think it is. Do you think it says anything? Can you see?’
‘Is there writing on the back? Look closely. It says, “Look at me. Look at me.” You look tired Iris. Relax.’ His voice was low and constant like Iris’s, as though he were matching her slightly monotonous pace. ‘Relax your neck while you read the writing. That’s good. Relax. The pendant is floating, floating in the air. “Look at me,” it says.’
Iris said, ‘Look at me. Are you reading it?’ Her voice sounded distant to her.
James said, ‘It says, “Read me. Read me.” Imagine it is your breathing. Imagine you are calm and at peace. Breathing with each swing, each swing of the pendant. Imagine you are resting, Iris. Resting and happy and asleep. You want sleep. Sleeping peacefully. Finally at peace. No worries. Peace.’
Iris heard James sigh. Or was it her own sigh.
James sat up on the bed. He wore boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. He took the pendant from her. ‘It’s very pretty, Iris. Like you. I like your old jewellery, the way you’ve left it tarnished with a hundred years of dust and human sweat in the crevices.’ James reached past Iris, came back with her handbag. He said, ‘I might borrow your car. Do you mind? Can I borrow your car?’
Iris said, ‘Yes.’
‘It might be time to go.’ He froze, looking in the handbag. He sat on the bed looking deep into the opening. He reached in slowly, pulling out the green plastic cigarette lighter Iris had taken from the table at the pub that afternoon.
Iris sat, immobile. She couldn’t stop him. She didn’t want to stop him. She watched him.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, no.’ He closed his hand into a fist around the lighter. He was looking somewhere far from the room where he sat.
‘What do you see?’ said Iris.
‘The bedroom.’
‘Whose bedroom?’
‘Mine. Ours.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re leaving.’
‘Who?’
‘No.’ James lay down on his side on the bed. He raised his legs up. He sang something, low. It sounded like a nursery rhyme, but in another language. He stopped singing. Said, ‘Sleeping.’ He put his thumb in his mouth. He still held the lighter in the other hand.
‘What happens now?’
‘I light the fire.’
‘Do it,’ said Iris.
James sat up again, opened his hand to reveal the lighter. He searched about him, saw Iris’s pad in her lap. He took it, tore pages out of it, layering them in a tiny pyre on the bed. He pulled up the sheet, fashioned it loosely around the paper.
Iris sat, unmoving, watching James prepare his fire.
James lit the paper. It caught quickly, the sheet started to smoke. It took up the flame. James watched his fire, intent.
‘What do you see?’
‘Fire.’
‘Where?’
‘My house.’
He froze again, as though listening.
‘What is happening?’
‘No. Got to get them out? Oh no. I have to get them out.’
‘Who?’
‘The kids.’
‘What kids?’
‘My kids. I have to get them out.’
‘You said they’ve left?’
‘They’re here. They’re shouting.’
‘Go to them.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Go to them.’
‘Fire. Fire everywhere.’
Iris stood, bumped past James where he sat on the bed next to the circle of burning sheet, grabbed the pillow, and smothered it. She leaned on the pillow over the fire, grinding down on it, not wanting to release the smoke from under.
James remained sitting on the bed. ‘I have to get them out.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I go to the door.’
‘Do it.’
James stood, walked.
‘What do you see?’
‘Fire everywhere.’
‘Where are your children?’
‘Downstairs, screaming.’
James fell to his knees.
Iris, still leaning into the pillow, said, ‘What’s happening?’
‘Something fell on me. It’s burning.’
James stood, twisting around.
Iris said, ‘What?’
‘She’s screaming?’
‘Who?’
‘Nisa.’
‘Who’s Nisa?’
‘My wife. I have to get them. I have to save them. I have to get them. They’re burning.’ James’s body began to shake. He gave an anguished cry.
Iris let go of the pillow and went to him. ‘It’s all right.’
‘They died.’ He drew out the words like a fragile bird cry.
‘Shh. James, you are not there.’ Iris knelt next to him. ‘That was in the past. It is gone. You are here, with me now.’ She hugged him around his shoulders, pulling his shuddering body to her. ‘It’s all right now. Shh. Shhh. We will fix this. We will heal you.’
‘They burned. I burned them,’ he whispered.
‘You’re safe. Let’s go back. Before the fire. Why did you light it?’
‘No. Please.’ He begged.
James was crying.
‘It’s okay. Shh. Enough now. We’ve done enough for today.’ She kissed his wet, salty cheeks. He smelt of hospital soap and of fresh male sweat, kind of animally and leathery, like horses and wheat. A chaff smell. How did he smell like flour? Iris had her hands in his hair. ‘Shh. Shh,’ she was saying or was he saying, ‘Shh. Shh.’ His hands were on her hips. He held her hips while she held his head. She tasted his tears. ‘It’s okay now. It’s all right. We’ll talk about the fire. We can talk about it now,’ she whispered. Why was she whispering? Or were these thoughts, unspoken words?
Her hands found their way inside his t-shirt. He was wet. His shoulders were wet with hot sweat, her hands were rubbing down his sides. She found his scars, the tessellated pocks on his back, smooth yet rippled. Her fingertips played with the dips and ridges of the burn scars. ‘Poor boy. It’s okay now. Poor boy.’
His hands were at her breasts, on the outside of her blouse. His fingers were plucking at her nipples. No!
Iris pushed him away. She skittered up to stand by the bed. An alarm sounded, outside of her. Above.
He knelt before her, head bowed. ‘I’m sorry, I …’
‘I’m sorry. This is unforgiveable. James, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’ Iris reached out and touched the soft dark hair on his bent head, a reverse act of contrition.
‘Do you remember the fire?’
‘Yes,’ he said. His head was still bowed.
The fire alarm continued to whine. Iris saw a movement at the viewing window. She saw Julie, the night nurse’s dark face, eyes wide.
Iris considered the charred bedding. She looked down to see the top of her blouse unbuttoned, bra showing. She could hear an alarm. Not a fire alarm.
James stood, dazed.
Iris spoke quickly, as she searched the room for her pendant and the cigarette lighter. ‘I took advantage of you, James, and I will be punished. I will come back. You’ve faced this awful thing in your past, but we have to talk about it again. Okay?’
Iris went to James as the door opened and two orderlies came in. She touched him on his arm, on the bicep. She said, ‘You hid this memory from yourself because it is awful. But you are strong enough to deal with it. Do you understand?’
James said nothing. He stood in the room looking towards the bed.
Iris said, ‘James? Can you hear me?’
Julie said, ‘I think you need to come with me.’
Iris said, ‘James?’
One of the orderlies held up the blackened pillow. ‘There’s been a fire.’
*
‘He confronted the traumatic event which tr
iggered his psychosis. He needs to be watched.’ Iris continued to argue for James’s welfare in spite of the orderlies taking him away, in spite of being escorted herself to the ward office near the front door.
‘How did the fire start?’ asked the ward supervisor.
‘Where is he?’
‘We’ve moved him.’
‘Has he been put on suicide watch?’
‘We will.’
‘It needs to be done now.’
The supervisor nodded to a male nurse who headed off.
Julie hovered in the doorway. She had remained silent so far concerning what she’d seen or not seen through the viewing window whenever she’d arrived. Julie was conflicted, aware she’d bent the rules perhaps in allowing Iris unfettered, unaccompanied access to a patient after hours without direct authorisation.
‘How did the fire start?’ repeated the supervisor.
Iris had her own battles. Full disclosure, right now, would not help anyone, least of all James. ‘I was writing notes. I’m completing an assessment for Dr Frank Silverberg, who I believe is reporting to the School Bombing Federal Taskforce. I thought James was asleep. He managed to get a cigarette lighter out of my handbag. I panicked, but then I managed to get the pillow and smother the flames. Completely my fault. I shouldn’t have left it in my handbag. I was tired.’
‘You know we lost a patient to a fire last year? Set fire to his mattress.’
‘As I say, completely my fault.’
The supervisor turned to Julie.
Iris said, ‘After I got the fire out, we struggled, well more grappled. He tried to get to the ashes. I stopped him. It wasn’t violent. He was upset.’
The supervisor paused. She looked to Julie again.
Julie was fitting the pieces of what she had seen with what she now knew.
Iris said, ‘The fire compulsion is strong. Something for Dr Silverberg, I suppose.’
‘He’s on his way. I need you both to write this up. While it’s fresh.’
‘Yes. All right,’ said Julie, refusing to look at Iris. Her jaw was loosening. She thought maybe this could have been what happened. She might have jumped to the wrong conclusion. She would have to think about it while she wrote. She still might go either way, although one way would clearly have greater consequences than the other way.
*
Frank found Iris in a small crib room in Grange Wing around three am.
‘You look like shit,’ she said.
‘I’m old. I need my eight hours sleep. You look strangely radiant, which is a worry.’ He didn’t sit, instead went to the sink and started the kettle. It whirred, hissed in the background.
‘Why are you here, Iris?’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said brightly.
He examined a coffee mug in the dish rack before teaspooning instant coffee. His coat was covered in dog hair as usual. Frank’s hair was wild, full of cowlicks, tufts, thickets. He’d rushed in, without a shower. He was used to this, of course. Part of the gig as a government psychiatrist. Always an emergency.
‘Have they got him on special watch?’ she asked.
‘He is subdued but alert. Calm. No obvious distress.’ He went to the fridge, sniffed a carton of milk. He flinched, leaving it in the fridge, and returned to the bubbling kettle.
‘That stuff will rot your guts, Frank.’
‘I have developed a taste for it. My gut craves the special blend of caffeine and soap.’ He topped up his mug of black coffee with a little water from the tap before coming to sit. ‘What happened?’
‘I came in for one last assessment.’
‘Bullshit. You had all you needed.’
‘I had doubts.’
‘Bullshit. You’ve worked the slowest I’ve ever seen.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t have dragged in a damaged person to do your police work.’
‘You seemed well. You promised me you were okay.’
Iris said nothing.
Frank said, ‘So you’re acting out. Is that it? You’re punishing me.’
‘Hmm. It’s worth thinking about.’
‘Naughty daddy.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Okay, so …’ He sipped his coffee, wrinkling his face at the acrid taste he needed. His eyes remained down, contemplating the coffee. He was trying to get his brain up to full speed.
‘I crossed the line. Way over.’
He raised his eyes to hers, but gave nothing. He listened, withholding judgement. Only listening. His glasses were covered with the thinnest film of dust on the lenses.
‘I must have formulated the idea before I left home because I chose this pendant.’ She pulled it out from her blouse. ‘I did have my doubts. Not big. What if his Martian persona were merely one character creation? What if there was a twisted, calculating bomber too? What if? So, I talked my way in here, I hypnotised him.’
Iris stopped, waited for Frank to speak. He didn’t.
‘Not one of my … safest ideas. I wanted to confront his trauma. Which I did.’ Iris couldn’t help the triumph sneaking into her voice, in spite of everything. ‘So, I tried to hypnotise him, which I’m not sure I did. I think he hypnotised me.’ Iris laughed. ‘Blowback? He took a cigarette lighter from my purse and he lit a fire on the bed. Yes, I let him, kind of. Maybe he hypnotised me, maybe I hypnotised myself, or maybe it was a kind of … swoon of possibility – I was present while he acted out his compulsive behaviour, I observed and asked questions.’
Frank seemed about to say something, but waited again.
‘I believe he started a fire in his house, his family burned to death. The name of his wife is Nisa. I think we should be able to check. It doesn’t sound common. Also he sang a song in an Asian language. Not Chinese or Vietnamese.’
Frank nodded.
‘We were intimate, Frank. Physically.’
Frank still didn’t say anything. He scanned her face, examined each pupil. He finally said, ‘How intimate?’
‘I put the fire out. He was crying. I hugged him. It started as a hug. I kissed him. I stroked his back.’ Iris recalled the strange feel of James’s back, the odd, hard smoothness of the scars.
Frank said, ‘But you didn’t have sex?’
‘I was comforting him and I got lost in it. I took comfort.’
‘Did you have sex with the patient, Iris? Manual, oral, penetrative. Did you?’
‘No. Nearly, but no. Frank, it wasn’t the sex. It was the intimacy. My patient, powerless, sick, in need, and I took advantage of that vulnerability and trust. I forced to him confront his trauma and I have not followed up, not talked through the ramifications. What’s wrong with me, Frank?’
Frank reached across the table, took Iris’s hands in his own big mitts. They were warm from holding the coffee mug.
‘I’m glad you told me, Iris. I love you, mate, you know, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He did, she guessed. ‘Am I having a breakdown?’
‘Well, that’s a funny word.’
‘Break, broke. Down. Up.’
‘People can wear out, Iris. Need – a break from. Would you consider having a proper rest somewhere?’
‘Here?’
‘Good gracious no. Not a public hospital, nothing like here. You know, somewhere like Xavier, in the rolling greenery of the hills with rock stars and politicians. Resting, recuperating with groovy dieticians and personal trainers and very subtle cognitive therapists.’
‘I must be sick. You’re talking to me too gently. I’ll go home and think about it.’
‘Iris, the light bulb has got to want to change.’
‘But we need the eggs.’ Old psychiatrist jokes.
Frank finally let go of Iris’s hands to pat his suit pocket. ‘I’m going to go find a script pad. Try a mild sedative.’ He leaned back against the fridge. ‘I will let the police know about what you’ve found from James. I will have him examined and organise follow up. In terms of the contact, I think it was wrong, but I’m not sur
e how it’s going to play out. Counter transference, I’d guess. Clearly you can’t have any further professional contact with him. I should have seen. The school explosion may have triggered a relapse, set back your recovery. Or just be a whole new thing. I should not have put you onto this case so soon after …’
Iris could tell Frank didn’t want to finish it so she did. ‘Georgina and Williams dying in the fire at my office.’
Frank blinked at her. Simply said, ‘Interesting.’ He stood, shuffled, said, ‘I’ll write you that script. You know we’ll get through this, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m strong, Frank. Stupid, irresponsible, deeply disturbed – but strong.’
He leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. It sent a warm glow through her.
Iris got up, washed Frank’s mug, put away the coffee. She suddenly remembered James sitting up in the bed and the voice he’d used to say he would borrow her car. It had been quite cynical. It was not like boyish James or Martian James. Was the hypnosis a performance too? Was the family tragedy another cover, the sexual advance too, another bit of glitter to distract?
Chapter fourteen
Iris woke in her own bed to sunshine. Mathew was away. Frank had allowed her to drive herself home. She hadn’t filled out his sedative prescription. She wasn’t going to. The front doorbell chimed again. She looked to the clock. It was ten fifteen on Saturday.
Iris put on a robe, went downstairs. The doorbell chimed again as she reached the bottom steps. Impatient, she thought. Where’s the fire? She opened the front door to Detective Stuart Pavlovic.
Pavlovic wore a striped shirt, dark trousers, black leather shoes. He carried a small soft leather bag, too effeminate for a cop. He was looking towards the garage when she opened the door. He swung back, noting the robe. ‘Oh, sorry. I woke you.’
Iris shrugged.
‘I’ve been sent to ask you some questions.’
‘Come in.’ Iris led him towards the lounge. ‘Let me help you with your inquiries.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you want coffee?’ asked Iris.
He nodded.
‘Okay. Come through to the kitchen. Do you know how these pod coffee makers work?’