April Fool's Day

by Bryce Courtenay

  “Bastards,” he said automatically, then looked alarmed. “He wasn’t bleeding when we got him, I swear there wasn’t any blood!”

  “It’s internal bruising. Bruising is internal bleeding. He’ll be in a lot of trouble if he doesn’t get a blood transfusion. I have to explain it to her and then go home and get the stuff he needs.”

  “What, tonight?” He looked amazed. “He’s going to need a blood transfusion tonight?”

  “Well yes. The police nearly put his shoulder out and he was handled very roughly in the paddy wagon. He’ll be bleeding in a lot of places.” I paused. “It’s very dangerous for him,” I added, hoping to impress on him the need to be taken to Damon right away.

  “Right! Shit, eh? I’ll take you through.” He rose and came to the door, allowing me to go ahead of him. We walked down the corridor and turned left and went down a flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped. “I don’t know how you’ll go with this doctor, mate. I mean with the transfusion.”

  We continued down another corridor to a door at the end and he opened it. We seemed to have entered a small dispensary with an examination couch against one wall, beside which stood a low table. A door on the opposite wall was closed and the attendant opened it without knocking.

  “Come in, mate,” he said, looking back at me and holding the door open. Turning his head to look into the room, he announced, “This is Damon’s father.” I entered and he stood at the door, not entering, and leaving me standing within a small office barely large enough to take a desk and chair and another upright chair in front of the desk on which Damon sat, wrapped in a cream canvas strait-jacket. Behind the desk sat an overweight Asian woman, who looked up as I entered. With me added the room was crowded.

  “You are Mr Courtenay?” the woman behind the desk asked me.

  “Yeah, the patient’s father,” the attendant answered for me from the open door.

  “Yes, doctor,” I said and then looked down at Damon, pointing to the strait-jacket, “Surely, doctor, this isn’t necessary. My son isn’t violent.”

  “Hello, Dad,” Damon said, his voice small but in control.

  The woman looked momentarily confused, then she began to pat the papers scattered over her untidy desk with the flat of her free hand, as though looking for something. “Ah!” She picked up a piece of paper and waved it at me. “Police report. Patient violent!” she said triumphantly.

  “Doctor, my son is a haemophiliac. He’s already been severely manhandled by the police.” I pointed at the strait-jacket, “That thing is going to give him a bad bleed. You must take it off at once!”

  To my astonishment she leaned forward, looking up at me as though she was impatiently explaining something to a child who was bothering her, “No, not hae-mophee, hypomania!” She tapped the paper on the desk in front of her with her pen.

  “No, you don’t understand. He is also a haemophiliac, a bleeder!” Without being aware of it I had raised my voice.

  “It’s no use, Dad.” Damon’s voice was resigned. “She doesn’t know what a haemophiliac is.”

  “But that’s not possible!” I exclaimed.

  “Well she doesn’t. I’ve been trying to tell her I need a blood transfusion, but she thinks I’m crazy.”

  I couldn’t believe that a medical practitioner wouldn’t know what a haemophiliac was.

  “Perhaps there were no haemophiliacs in Indonesia, or they died when they were babies?” Damon said.

  “He has a blood disease, doctor! He has to have a transfusion, a blood transfusion tonight, it’s very important!”

  “No transfusion. We cannot here. No, no tonight…no blood!”

  “Not here, you don’t have to give him a transfusion. I, me,” I tapped myself on the chest, “I will give him transfusion. I go home and get blood, bring it here!” I suddenly realised I was mimicking her and as suddenly knew how futile all this was; if she didn’t know what a haemophiliac was, then nothing I would say could convince her that Damon needed a blood transfusion.

  The Indonesian doctor looked up and smiled brightly, ‘Ah! You also, you are a doctor?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “My son has blood transfusions at home; we keep the blood compound AHF at home in the fridge. Please doctor, can you remove the restraining jacket from my son, it’s doing him a lot of harm!”

  “Okay,” she said, scowling again, “I finish now. We take off.” She lifted the phone and dialled three digits. “Frank? Also Hans, you come now.” She put the receiver down.

  I was already trying to work the main buckle loose on the strait-jacket when she replaced the receiver. “No, no! Not for you! They will do!”

  “Are you hurting a lot, Damon?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder. He winced and I apologised, hurriedly removing it.

  “I’m in for a really bad bleed in my shoulder, Dad. How long will I have to stay here?” Damon didn’t sound in the least manic and I thought what an incredible fuck-up the whole day had been; one, long, disastrous screw-up after another by all concerned and mostly by me.

  “I don’t know, darling. At least until the morning. I can’t get you out tonight.”

  “You can bring the AHF and bleed stuff in the morning, then. I’ll be all right.”

  I knew he wouldn’t be, that the night would be spent in incredible pain and by morning he’d be in a serious condition. “I’ll try again, when we’ve got this thing off you. Maybe I can get someone to call her and explain, maybe another doctor.”

  Damon glanced at his watch. “It’s a quarter to eleven, Dad.”

  Just then the door opened and the attendant I’d spoken to and who’d brought me along to the doctor appeared; behind him came another man, a blond, almost as big. The first must be Frank and the second, Hans, who looked Dutch.

  “Frank, you can take Damon’s strait-jacket off. He’s got a bad arm, it will cause a bleed.”

  Frank winked at me and walked over to Damon. I had to step aside to make space for him in the small office and Hans backed out of the door to let me stand where he’d been standing. “What do you say, doctor?” He didn’t wait for her to agree before he began to undo the ties on the jacket.

  “Ja, is okay,” the fat little woman said, “I tol’ already. Frank we give pills in dispensary.”

  Frank nodded, pulling the straps away and then helping Damon out of the canvas jacket.

  Damon got to his feet unsteadily and I hurried over to take him by the elbow, careful to take his good arm. Frank followed and we led him into the dispensary. “Have a lie-down, mate,” Frank said to Damon, indicating the examination couch. Damon sat on the edge of the couch, the hand of his good arm clutching his shoulder where the police had torn it when they’d locked his arm behind his back.

  “I’ll ask for some pain-killers, shall I?” I suggested.

  Damon was suddenly rigid. “Dad, they mustn’t give me any pills! You mustn’t let them give me any drugs!” His eyes had grown wide. “Please, Dad. No!”

  The doctor was standing behind a small counter. In front of her on the counter were three bottles, each filled with capsules. She put a couple from each into tiny plastic containers. I walked over to her and noticed that, standing up, she was very overweight and was breathing heavily, as though just standing up was an exertion. Her skin, too, lacked the smoothness of most Asians and was lightly pock-marked. All in all she was rather a mess. “Please, doctor, Damon won’t take a drug of any sort unless he knows what it is.”

  She gave me a distasteful look. “He doctor also?”

  “No.”

  She tapped her forefinger lightly against her breast. “I doctor. I give drugs.”

  I turned to Frank. “Damon won’t take the pills. He has to know what they are first.”

  Frank looked embarrassed, then looked down and appeared to be wiping gently at the tattoo on the back of his hand with the pad of his forefinger, as though he were testing to see whether it might wipe off. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help
you there, mate. If she says he’s got to have the pills, he’s got to have the pills. Can’t do nothing about that.”

  “I won’t take them. No way!” Damon said, shaking his head, then pulling his feet up and pushing himself into the corner of the examination couch, as though he was prepared to do battle like a small cornered animal.

  “Well, maybe we can just find out what they are?” I suggested.

  “I know what they bloody are, mate!” Frank said, “Don’t we, Hans?”

  Hans who had said nothing up to this point nodded, “Pills, ja, we know, for sure!”

  Damon was beginning to shake; it was clear he was becoming agitated.

  “Now hang on. My son has a right to know what she’s giving him!” I said, directing my question to Frank and then looking at the fat Indonesian doctor. “What are you giving him, doctor?”

  “Sedatives. I give sedatives,” she said, not prepared to explain any further.

  Frank looked up at me and jerked his head, indicating that I should come outside with him. I walked out of the office into the corridor and the big man put a hand on my shoulder, standing uncomfortably close and looking into my eyes. “They’re pills to flatten him out. The main one’s Mellaril, takes the fight out of him. She gives them to all the patients, it’s all she bloody knows!” Frank grinned, nodding his head towards the dispensary door. “Flatten them, then they don’t give her no trouble.”

  “Frank, are you a nurse? You also have to be responsible!”

  “Me? A nurse? No way! I’m a ward orderly. Me job specification says I’m a cleaner.” He looked at me, his expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr Courtenay, your son has to take them pills. It’s more than me job’s worth. I,” he pointed towards the door, “we have to do what she says, medicine wise, or me job’s on the line.”

  We returned to the dispensary and the doctor looked up. Her expression showed not the slightest curiosity as to where we might have been or what we might have said. She looked flatly at Frank. “Frank,” she said, pushing the three small plastic containers towards the edge of the counter. “You give medication now.”

  “I won’t take them!” Damon said in a frightened but determined voice.

  “You must take!” the doctor said. “Frank, Hans, you give patient now.”

  Frank walked over to the counter and placed the three small plastic containers on his left hand. “I’m sorry, mate. They’re only sedatives; they’ll make you sleep like a baby tonight.”

  “Damon won’t take them. He won’t take drugs he doesn’t know about,” I said.

  “He must take!” the doctor said and then she turned and went into her office closing the door behind her. Hans went over to a surgical tap and, not bothering to use his elbow, turned it on and filled a plastic cup with water, then placed it on a small table beside the examination couch and stood beside Frank. The two men towered over us. Damon cradled in my arms looked like a tiny, frightened, simian creature, its eyes large and overbright.

  “C’mon, mate, one way or another you’ve got to take these. They won’t harm ya, just flatten you a bit.”

  I felt totally inadequate. Damon was getting more and more worked up and was beginning to tremble. I feared another outburst should they try to force the pills on to him. Maybe he should take them, maybe he needs a strong sedative to calm him down, I thought. Something to get him to sleep.

  “Here, let me try,” I said to Frank, holding my hands out for the pills.

  “I won’t, Dad. I’m not taking those pills. They’re trying to drug me, make me confess!”

  Hans’s huge hand suddenly shot out and grabbed Damon by the lower jaw; with his thumb on one side and two fingers on the other he forced his mouth open. Frank quickly fed the pills into his mouth, one by one, whereupon Hans clamped his free hand over Damon’s mouth while Frank held him pinned against the wall.

  It had all happened so quickly that I’d barely had time to react but when I did it was a stupid response, “You can’t force him! You can’t force him, you bastards! He has rights just like anyone else!”

  “Not here he hasn’t. He’s sick! He’s not right in the nut, mate!”

  Damon’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head; he would have to swallow the pills or he was going to pass out. Quite unexpectedly, I heard my voice say, “Watch out for your hand, he has AIDS!”

  The reaction was instant, both men jumped backwards in horror and Damon spat the capsules in his mouth on to the couch and the dispensary floor.

  “Jesus! Why didn’t you fucking tell us?” Frank shouted at me.

  “You jumped him. It wouldn’t have come up otherwise!” I shouted back.

  Damon was choking, holding his throat, trying to dry spit the last capsule which stuck to his tongue. Finally, he picked it off his tongue and threw the tiny, coloured capsule to the floor, where it bounced a couple of times and came to rest near my foot.

  “You bastards! You bloody bastards! Leave me alone!” Damon wailed, “Leave me alone!” Then he stopped and, bringing his hands up to cover his face, he began to weep. “Please, Dad, make them leave me alone,” he said in a little boy’s voice. “Please, Dad, don’t let them hurt me any more!”

  I moved over to the couch again and sat next to him. I took him in my arms and he put his head against my chest. I wanted to cry myself. Hans was at the sink frantically scrubbing his hands and swearing to himself. “It’s okay, Hans, nothing will happen. You can’t catch AIDS that way,” I said, my immediate concern for Damon making me calm again.

  “Is that true?” Frank asked furiously, stabbing a finger at me. “Is that fucking true?” The finger stayed poised, pointing at me, waiting for my reply.

  I held on to Damon. “Yes, it’s true! There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Frank relaxed, his shoulders visibly dropping, though he still wasn’t happy. “We can make you leave, you know.”

  “Frank, I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to be made to leave the hospital.

  The door opened and the Indonesian doctor stood looking at us. She wore no discernible expression and it was as though she’d heard absolutely nothing, although she plainly would have heard the shouting going on. She had the canvas strait-jacket we’d removed in her office draped over her right arm. If she saw the three or four brightly coloured capsules lying on the polished floor in front of the examination couch where Damon had spat them then she chose to ignore them.

  “Frank, Hans, you take to Ward 4.” She repeated, “Take patient Ward 4.” She held out her arm over which the jacket was draped and in her left hand she held a piece of paper, which turned out to be the authority to admit Damon to the ward.

  Frank moved over and took the canvas jacket and the note, carelessly stuffing the note into the top pocket of his white jacket. He took three or four steps over to where I was sitting holding Damon. “He’s got to wear this again,” he indicated the strait-jacket. “We’re taking him to Ward 4.”

  “Ward 4?”

  “It’s a high security ward. They can give him his stuff there.” He kicked at one of the capsules on the floor, missed and had a second go, missing again and scraping the sole of his shoe along the rubber flooring. “This stuff’s shit, anyway,” he said. Then he looked at Damon and held up the strait-jacket and smiled, “You gunna co-operate, mate?” It wasn’t said in a threatening way but almost as though he were saying, “You gunna have a cuppa tea, mate?” It was becoming obvious that Frank was more of a professional than I’d given him credit for being.

  Damon nodded, sniffing, and pulled away from me, offering Frank his arms. Frank slipped one arm into the jacket sleeve – it was almost twice the length of a normal sleeve – then he followed with the other; then he pulled the rest of the canvas jacket around Damon’s torso and Damon turned so that his back was facing the big man who tied the jacket tightly behind his back. Then he crossed Damon’s arms over his chest and brought the sleeves back behind him and tied them behind his back. His movements were quick and efficient and
he wasn’t unduly rough and seemed to have completely recovered his composure.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” I said, “but Damon’s had about enough for one day.” I don’t know why I apologised to this man, perhaps for his initial politeness and later the sense of conspiracy he shared with me over the doctor. Perhaps it was out of simple weakness and I felt guilty that Damon hadn’t co-operated and taken the pills.

  “It’s cool, I wouldn’a taken them things either,” he said in an undertone. “They’re shit!” Then he added, “But round here it’s all shit.”

  A phone on the dispensary counter rang and Hans went over and answered it. “Ja, okay, we coming now,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  Without waiting for Hans to confirm the call Frank said, “We have to take Damon by car, the ward is several minutes drive. You can come if you like.” He turned and nodded at Hans who came to stand beside Damon on the side opposite to Frank. “We’re gunna help you up, mate,” Frank said taking Damon by the elbow. Hans did the same and they lifted him to his feet. “It’s not far to walk to the car. You okay, mate?”

  There was a car waiting for us at what looked like a back door opening out to some sort of courtyard. “We sit in the back with Damon,” Frank said, indicating with a nod that I should sit in the front.

  I climbed into the front seat and said good evening to the driver who returned my greeting. “Ward 4, thanks mate,” Frank instructed.

  “Righto!” the driver said and drove off, the car’s lights flaring and catching and momentarily silvering the foliage of the tall trees that grew everywhere in the grounds. This would be an easy place from which to escape, I thought; there are no outside lights whatsoever.

  ‘My dad drives a Porsche,” Damon said suddenly. He sounded about nine years old and seemed not to realise I was in the car. “He’s very rich and he bought me a Mazda RX7. He knows the Prime Minister, you know?” When no reaction to this statement came from his escorts, he added, “You realise, don’t you, that you’re all going to get into a lot of trouble when he tells him what you did to me?”