“Mr Damon Courtenay has left the hospital without permission. Do you know where he is?”
I was shocked beyond words but finally managed, “When? How?”
The young, red-headed doctor sighed. “He had an altercation with some of the staff at the Marks Pavilion and stormed out. They had no instructions to restrain him.” She paused momentarily. “Are you sure you don’t know where he is?”
I had recovered enough to sense her question was loaded. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“The gate men reported he left at great speed in a car with two other people. They saw him get into the car and drive away.”
“Damon? He doesn’t have a car. His car is being repaired.” I hadn’t thought about Celeste having Ben-ita’s car or that the two people for that matter could be Celeste and one of Damon’s friends. Celeste hadn’t long been off the phone to me and I couldn’t conceive of her visiting Damon in her present state. I was also sure Celeste wouldn’t conspire to help him escape; it simply didn’t make any sense. “If he turns up you must report it to us at once!” Springsteen said. I could feel she was angry. The way people are angry when their judgment has been wrong or their confidence has been betrayed.
I went cold. I remembered what she’d said about Damon leaving the hospital without permission. “Please, Dr Springsteen, if he comes here couldn’t we just bring him back?”
“I don’t know. But you must call if you know where he is. You understand, don’t you, Mr Courtenay?”
“Yes,” I said, “but doctor, please promise…” She had rung off.
When the door bell rang Benita and I, alerted as we were, didn’t know what to expect. Damon stood with his hands on his hips, defiant, obviously angry, while behind him stood Celeste and Toby. Neither looked up at first.
“Christ! What happened, Damon? Why did you leave the hospital?”
Damon glared at me, then pushed past Benita and myself and stormed into the apartment.
Celeste looked up, “You know?”
I nodded and turned quickly to follow Damon.
“Come in,” I heard Benita say to Celeste and Toby.
Damon was in the living room seated on the Persian rug. He had stripped off his shirt and pulled off his shoes and stood up as I came upon him. Immediately his baggy pants fell halfway down his hips, though this didn’t seem to concern him. He stood facing me, chopping at the air and leaping up in mock karate kicks, sniffing through his nose. “They won’t get me! No, they won’t!” he yelled, punching the air and practising a kick.
“Steady on, Damon, nothing is going to get you!”
The others had entered. “Would you like a Coke or a coffee, darling?” Benita asked.
Damon stopped and swung around to face his mother, “They’re not going to get me, Mum! I can defend myself, you know!” He turned suddenly and made for the terrace and jumped on to one of the garden beds and stood on the brick wall looking down. “If they come, I’m going to jump! They’re not going to take me!”
We’d never seen him quite like this. It was very frightening. I pulled him from the garden bed and led him indoors. Celeste quietly locked the door to the balcony and withdrew the key and then, moments later, I heard her closing and locking the bars outside the front door.
Benita took Damon and led him to a couch.
I left and went into the bedroom. It was one of the most awful moments of my life. Had I known the consequences of the phone call I was about to make, there is no way on earth I would have made it.
I dialled and, when the switch at the other end answered, I identified myself and was immediately put through to Dr Springsteen. She answered with the by now familiar “Yes?”
“Damon’s here, he arrived home a few minutes ago.”
“Can you keep him there?”
“Yes, I think so, though he’s very agitated.”
This time the young doctor sounded slightly more conciliatory when she spoke, “Mr Courtenay, I explained to you what would happen. I’ve had to schedule Damon. It’s the law. I have no choice. I have notified the police.”
“Oh, no!” I groaned, but Springsteen’s voice cut in.
“If you try to prevent him being arrested, you are committing a crime. Please hold him until the police arrive.” There was a moment’s silence. “I’m sorry, Mr Courtenay, I am only doing my duty. I am only obeying the law. I hope Damon will be all right.”
“What will they do?” I managed to say.
“He’ll have to go to Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital under police escort.”
“Doctor, please! I’ll take him. Don’t do that, please!!”
“I have no choice, Mr Courtenay. It’s out of our hands. I’m truly sorry.” I heard the receiver being replaced at the other end.
Benita, who’d come to the bedroom door, now entered. “The police are on their way. They have to arrest him,” I said softly.
“Can’t we just take him back?”
I shook my head, wanting to cry. “It’s the law. She’s – the doctor I told you about – she’s scheduled him; he’s officially insane!”
Benita burst into tears and I could feel an unbearable lump in my throat as I fought back my tears. My darling boy, my beautiful Damon, old black and blue balloon head, my youngest son, the mighty Damon was officially insane. They were going to put him in the loony bin!
I held Benita and led her into the bathroom. When I could talk again, I made her dry her tears. “We have to be there with him when they come.”
We were all sitting around in the living room with Damon walking up and down, but starting to grow a little more calm, when the door bell went. It has a loud peremptory “Dong-dong!” sound and now it seemed to fill all the space around us, as though we were sitting in the interior of a bell tower. We all jumped, startled. Damon’s body froze and his right hand shot up in front of his face in the chopping motion karate players assume, the other held slightly lower. He looked at us, his eyes wild. “Who is it?”
I rose and walked towards him and tried to put my arm around his shoulder, but he moved away, keeping his distance. “Damon, it’s the police. I had to call the hospital and tell them you were here.”
Damon gave me a look of such hatred that I still have nightmares about it. I wake with the look etched into my consciousness. I tell myself that when the look goes, perhaps, things might start to get better.
I spread my hands. “Damon, I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry.”
“You betrayed me,” he howled. “I knew you’d betray me.”
The doorbell sounded again as Benita and Celeste moved towards Damon, who turned and rushed for the terrace door, trying to open it.
I ran to the front door and opened it. Outside stood two policemen, both very young. “Mr Courtenay?” one of them asked.
I nodded and went to open the outer door, a set of burglar-proof bars. I’d forgotten that Celeste had locked it. “Just a moment, I’ll get the key.” I turned and ran back into the hall, but the key wasn’t where we kept it. “The key!” I yelled.
Damon now stood in the centre of the living room. “The police! The fucking police! You called the fucking police!” he screamed. Celeste put her hands into her jeans and threw the keys at me. She was bawling but still in control.
I rushed back to the front door and fumbled with the keys opening the door. “Is he violent?” one of the young constables asked.
“No, no, he’s not very strong. He can’t harm you.”
They walked in and I turned to see Damon standing at the door of my study at the end of the hall. He looked like a little trapped animal with his back to my study door, his hands up in his pathetic karate defence, which couldn’t possibly have fooled anyone, least of all the two young police officers.
“Watch out! I can kill with these,” he said, bringing his hands up closer to his face.
The two police officers moved towards him and Damon turned and, opening the door, darted into my study.
My study had a door leading into
it from the hallway and another leading out into the living room. Damon emerged moments later carrying Brett’s spear gun, which he’d left standing in a corner from his early morning fishing. A spear is loaded into the gun by pulling back a heavy rubber loop, which required a display of strength quite beyond Damon. As it was, it was no more harmful in Damon’s hands than a heavy stick would have been. Now Damon held it pointed at the two policemen. “You bastards! Come!”
One of the policemen said, “Shit! He’s got a weapon.”
“Don’t do anything,” I yelled. Then walking towards Damon I held my hand out. “Give it to me, darling,” I said. Our eyes met and locked; for a moment, just a fraction of a moment, I thought Damon was going to spear me, then he sighed and handed the gun to me. He was defeated, beaten, the look of despair in his eyes was awful.
But at the moment he handed me the spear gun, the two policemen jumped him, one of them grabbing his bad arm and forcing it behind his back.
Benita screamed, I think we all did. “Stop it! Stop it! He’s a haemophiliac. You’ll hurt him!” Celeste screamed.
The young constable took no notice at Damon’s own scream of pain; his tiny, permanently bent arm, its elbow fused, was being forced higher up his back, until the shoulder joint looked as though it might pop.
“You bastard! Don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt him,” Benita screamed.
Celeste rushed up to the policemen. “Stop it! Stop it! He’s a bleeder, he’ll bleed internally to death!”
The word “bleeder” or perhaps “death” seemed to get through. Damon was on his knees, forced to the ground by the two strong men, and the policeman forcing his arm upward released his grip. It was obvious that Damon was unable to defend himself. The useless arm fell to Damon’s side and his face was contorted with pain as he lay on the carpet weeping.
The older of the policemen took the handcuffs from his belt. Suddenly Benita was beside him, her face inches from the policeman’s. “Don’t! Don’t put those on my son!” She wasn’t crying, it was an order, and the policeman stepped back momentarily, not quite sure what to do. “He resisted arrest with a weapon. He’s dangerous, madam.”
“Oh, Christ, look at him,” I pointed to Damon, who lay on his side weeping. “Does he look dangerous?” The other policeman was now sitting on Damon’s hip, holding him down, though there was no resistance coming from the broken little figure on the floor.
The policeman returned the handcuffs to his belt and the officer pinning Damon to the ground rose. Damon continued to lie, groaning with pain, but trying hard to stop, to overcome it, gulping and trying to stifle his moans. Mucus ran down his nostrils and lips and chin and his mouth was half-open showing the yellow-crusted Candida that flaked the inside of his lips. I knelt down and, pulling my shirt tail out, wiped his face.
Celeste and Toby tried to get him to his feet and managed to pull him into a standing position, though he seemed too weak to stand on his own and he clung to them both. Finally, with Toby and Celeste holding him on either side, he stood, his head bowed.
“We have to take him to Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital,” the older of the two officers said. The younger one was looking a bit foolish; he’d over-reacted and I think he knew it.
“I’ll take him,” I said. “I’ll follow you.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. The detainee has to come with us, he’s under arrest.”
“May I come in the police car with you?” I asked.
“We’re in a wagon. You can’t travel with him in the back, it’s against the law.”
“Where will you take him?”
“Admissions, it’s in the main building,” and he named a street.
I stepped over to Damon."It’s all right, darling, I’ll come with you. I’ll be there waiting before you get there.” Damon, still weeping, didn’t look at me.
The two policemen took him by either arm and walked him out of the apartment. “Don’t come!” I instructed the others, who’d followed to the door. I followed the policemen, who almost carried Damon up the steps, though he was making no effort to resist. In the driveway was a paddy wagon, its blue roof light still turning. One of the policemen unlocked the back of the wagon, while the other held Damon. He swung the rear doors to the paddy wagon open and then came back to Damon, so that they once again stood on either side of him.
“Get in,” the older policeman said and pushed at the back of Damon’s bad leg to force him to step up into the wagon. The leg, of course, didn’t bend at the knee and it must have seemed as though Damon was resisting them, trying to prop his leg against the van so they couldn’t get him inside. Both officers lifted him bodily and flung him into the wagon. He landed on his shoulder and slid down the van floor between the seats, banging his head against the back of the driver’s partition. They slammed the doors shut behind him.
“You bastards!” I yelled. “You didn’t have to do that!”
The older of the two officers turned to me. “We’ve had enough trouble with him already, sir. We could charge him with resisting arrest and threatening a police officer with a deadly weapon. Count yourself very lucky, sir!”
They got into the van, reversed into the roadway and were gone. It was nine-thirty on Boxing Day evening and everything in my life had suddenly gone wrong.
I’d forgotten my car keys and now rushed inside to collect them, intending to follow the police paddy wagon so that I got to Rozelle at the same time as they did. I knew more or less where the asylum was. While Rozelle is called a psychiatric hospital, it’s really Sydney’s oldest and most famous insane asylum, though for some years now, large sections of it have been unused and only the central core is maintained for psychiatric cases. By the time I’d fetched my keys and backed the car out of the garage, the paddy wagon had long gone. I drove as fast as I was able to catch up with it, though I was not sure of the route they’d taken. Also, I wasn’t certain of the street on which the admission centre had been placed and had depended on them to lead me to it.
I never did find the police wagon and I arrived at Rozelle and entered by the wrong gate, so that I had to retrace my way and drive to the opposite side of the grounds to come to the admission centre. I parked in a No Parking zone outside and walked into a large, white building.
It was just past ten p.m. and there was no one at the reception desk. I looked about for a bell or a buzzer but couldn’t find one. I called out and waited, but nobody came. Finally, I opened a door and, stepping in, found myself in a long, polished corridor. I walked past several empty rooms until I found one in which a very large man sat at a small table. The man had his hair slicked straight back with oil and looked to be in his late forties. He wore a white jacket and sweat shirt and was eating an uncut sandwich which he held in both hands, tearing at the bread with his teeth, his head slightly to one side in case some of the contents spilled out. His hands were so big the sandwich looked lost in them and I noticed he had an elaborate tattoo on the back of his right hand. In front of him was an enamel mug of tea or coffee, the contents still steaming. He couldn’t have been seated very long.
“Excuse me, are you a doctor?” I felt instinctively he wasn’t, but I asked anyway.
“No,” he said, his mouth full.
“There’s no one at the reception desk.” I jerked my head back in the direction I’d come.
“No,” he said again, then swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s gone off. Only night staff here now. It’s holidays, we’re on skeleton.”
“Perhaps you can help? Do you know if the police have been?” It was a badly phrased question.
“You mean made a delivery?” I must have looked confused and he repeated, “Brought somebody in?”
“Yes. My son.”
“Courtenay? That the name?”
“Yes, yes, Damon Courtenay.”
He lifted the mug and took a careful sip, looking at me over the rim. “Bastards!” he said, putting the cup down again. “They radioed to say they w
anted a strait-jacket, bringing in a violent case.” He took another large bite of the sandwich and continued with a mouthful of bread. “They do that so if the customer or his family make a charge of being manhandled by the cops they can prove they needed a jacket to restrain him on arrival here.” He swallowed, “It’s all bullshit, mate. We met the wagon with your son and, because they’d demanded it, we had to unload him from the wagon and put a restraining jacket on him. Poor little bugger, he was in a mess, real upset, but harmless. He told me his arm was hurting real bad and please to be careful.”
The attendant or whatever he was held what was left of the sandwich, just a couple of crusts, between his thumb and forefinger, tossed them into the wastepaper basket and dusted his hands. “Bloody cops! They really like to get in among our kind, our patients, and have a go.”
“Do you think I can see him?”
“Sure, mate. We just left him with the doctor; he’ll be a while.” He looked up at me, “It’s none of my business but you look buggered. Your boy will be okay for a while. Would you like a cuppa?”
It was the first time all day I wasn’t getting the run-around. Somebody in an institution was actually going out of his way to help. “Thanks, but do you think I could see the doctor, I mean, with Damon? He’s hypo-manic. I’m sure I could help with his details.”
He was sipping at the mug of tea as I spoke and now he almost choked, putting it down quickly. “No, I don’t think so, mate. Not this doctor, she’s a ‘slope’. No, worse! She’s Indonesian and hasn’t a bloody clue. She’s crazy; she’ll mess about with him for a bit and then we’ll go and get him and take him to a ward.”
I grew alarmed, “What do you mean, crazy?”
“I mean she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. She’s Indonesian, she doesn’t speak-so-good-the-English,” he mimicked, then rolled his eyes. “If she’s a psychiatric doctor then my arsehole is one of the crown jewels!”
“Still, I’d like to be with him. He’s a haemophiliac, she has to know about that.”
“Haemo…?”
“A bleeder, that’s why his arm was sore. The police twisted it behind his back. He’s going to need a massive blood transfusion.”
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