Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  My parents adored her. Beyond her academic prowess, she was a gifted artist. She and my mother, a sculptor and painter, had an instant connection and synergy. My father loved her gentle nature and ever-present smile. In an instant, she became part of the family.

  We shared family holidays, generally spending time at Jiguma on the far south New South Wales coast; happy, carefree time on the beach and in the surf, with regular sexual interludes. In those days we owned the sand, which was totally uninhabited and stretched for miles.

  When uni resumed, we shared every available moment together on campus. Lectures, coffee and library time. At the end of the day we would stroll across the rambling university lawns to join my father in his office in the Physics building. For the uninitiated, his domain could be quite intimidating. A large desk covered with papers, notes and a slide rule, it provided a symmetrical counterpoint to the double blackboard on the adjacent wall, which was always covered with bizarre equations, reminiscent of the mad professor’s den portrayed in the science fiction classic, The Day the Earth Stood Still.

  As our love for one another grew, I wished Sue and I were years older. We were only in our early twenties and I knew that inevitably it would all end. We had other mountains to climb and we were years away from attaining our professional goals.

  The end was emotionally brutal for both of us. Sue undertook a placement as part of her training, and I started to sense a growing distance. To be fair, I was becoming restless. It all came to a crashing halt one Sunday morning when she disclosed an interest in a teacher who was mentoring her. I was outgunned. We had become too symbiotic and we were stifling each other. Typical of my well-established defence mechanisms, I withdrew.

  However, I sensed there was unfinished business. So, too, did our parents, who maintained a friendship.

  Her father Brian was a dentist and my mother continued to see him for her check-ups. Over the years my mother would share Sue’s family news whenever the opportunity presented itself. I projected indifference, although the memory of the special magic Sue and I had shared never fully left me.

  Five years later, after I’d moved to Melbourne, I returned to Sydney briefly to see my parents. Over one of my mother’s amazing breakfasts of pancakes, Canadian smoked bacon and an abundance of maple syrup, washed down with freshly percolated coffee – my mother told me she’d had her annual dental check-up.

  Before I could respond, she mischievously added, ‘Brian told me that Sue has separated from her partner . . . and is back living at home in Cronulla.’

  She had me, hook, line and sinker.

  I had dated a number of interesting women in Melbourne, but was too busy for anything serious. The thought of seeing Sue again, however, was highly tempting. I reasoned we would keep it platonic and tidy. And so, just as I had close to a decade earlier, I rang to ask her to dinner.

  She was shy on the phone, but nonetheless keen to join me. I was in Sydney for the weekend and suggested that very evening might be good.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ she responded. ‘It will be wonderful to see you, Tim, it’s been a long time.’ My heart warmed.

  ‘Great, it’s settled. I’ll collect you at seven p.m. I know the address.’ I chuckled.

  Did I what? I still had vivid and happy memories of our earlier life. I could negotiate the drive in my sleep. With seemingly vulgar haste, I organised a table at a top seafood restaurant.

  The night was amazing. Old memories came flooding back and we were both in full flight. So much so that we organised to have lunch the following day. Sue drove me to the airport. On the way I insisted she pause at a local florist. Shortly afterwards I emerged with a dozen red roses. Her joy was palpable and for the first time in years, I felt genuinely happy.

  I felt like my life had progressed swimmingly in the years since Sue and I had broken up. I had been transformed from a T-shirted bloke with long hair driving a VW Beetle to a Zegna-suited sophisticate with a fast European sports car. I was uber cool. At least, that’s what I thought. To my delight, and true to my memory of her, Sue was unimpressed with the trappings of wealth. She loved surfing, art and the kids she taught at the local school. Her modesty in the face of her ability was truly humbling.

  During the short drive to Mascot, I invited her to Melbourne for the following weekend. The mercury was rising, rapidly. It was June 1983. After a whirlwind, frenetic romance, we married in January 1984.

  So there I was: married, wealthy, professionally successful. I was oblivious to the perils. With my career and ego on a stellar path, it all seemed so perfectly reasonable. I was blinded by the light. My exuberance to succeed paradoxically became my nemesis.

  PARENTHOOD

  Many years ago, my now departed friend, the brilliant, scriptwriter and sage, Angela Webber, wrote a hilarious work titled The P-Plate Parent. An instant bestseller, the book took an amusing, almost satirical look at the joys, trials and tribulations of becoming a parent. It suggested that no matter what life skills you bring to the table, nothing prepares you for the lifelong journey you commence with the birth of a child. I cracked up when I read it. By the time it was published in 1992, I had been a parent for seven years. I was nonetheless still a relative novice when it came to dealing with the sobering reality of parenthood.

  Sue learned of her first pregnancy in mid-September 1984, nearly nine months to the day from our marriage ceremony. After we were married, Sue resigned from her job as a teacher in Sydney and worked several days a week as my PA to help my expanding business. It must have been a huge adjustment for her. Resigning from her beloved school, moving to Melbourne and, to top it all, working in my business, dealing with some of the state’s most notorious effluent.

  I still recall that glorious spring day, when she literally barged into my office, while I was working alone on a file. I was taken aback.

  She was glowing. ‘Darling, I have wonderful news.’

  And without drawing breath she announced, ‘I’m pregnant!’

  My arse hit the ground and no doubt could be heard clanging down the stairwell of our Victorian terrace office as I gathered myself.

  ‘That is fuck’n fantastic!’ I crowed. ‘Are you certain?’

  She was. Unbeknown to me she’d done a home pregnancy test and then, to be sure following the positive result, another one. She had wanted to surprise me. Totally bowl me over more like it.

  Although for many years I had wondered what this moment would be like, when it finally arrived, I was floored. Nothing had prepared me for the rush of emotions, the joy, the mutual euphoria, the bond which is unwaveringly established between two partners when the enormity of it all hits you. Csíkszentmihályi, the eminent positive psychologist, speaks about peak experiences, those brief encounters with life where you truly feel at one with universe. I was definitely in the zone. It was very special and, clearly, the most significant day of my life.

  I was thirty-one, and in that instant my existence took on an entirely new perspective. I was pumped.

  ‘We have to tell Mum and Dad and, Mum and Dad. Who shall we call first?’ I babbled. We were both blessed with loving, supportive parents. I adored all four of them.

  ‘Ring Charles and Yvette first,’ she urged. ‘My parents are already grandparents,’ she added. Ever sensitive to the nuance, she wanted my parents to hear it first, to share the joy.

  The entire family was thrilled. My parents, highly relieved that I had finally fallen in love and married earlier in the year, could scarcely believe the news.

  ‘You don’t waste time do you, Tim!’ chuckled my father. I could sense a quiver in his voice. A beautiful gentle soul, he was over the moon. He was going to be a grandparent after all. All my mother wanted to do was to speak to Sue. She was now her daughter, and Mum was keen to be as involved as we would permit. She planned to immediately travel to Melbourne from Sydney.

  David Sime, whose office was next to mine, heard the ruckus and came to investigate. True to his quintessential Welsh ch
arm he was thrilled and full of humour. He had remarried in 1982 and had become a father for the fifth time the following year. ‘Well now David Junior will have a playmate,’ he exclaimed. ‘And if it’s a girl . . . who knows?’ he chortled. ‘The dynasty might prevail.’ We were in high spirits.

  The month before we had purchased a beautiful four-bedroom period home in an undulating suburb. The large secure yard would be perfect for children to play and I knew we would be comfortable. We were extremely fortunate, although at the time, I worried about the mortgage, given that I was self-employed and still finding my way. Fortunately my income was buttressed by my academic work, with regular pay arriving into our joint account a day before the bank took its whack. My hours, however, were long, and I worried about Sue, pregnant, home at night, alone, with me lecturing three evenings a week at the Phillip Institute. Even then, I struggled with balancing work and family.

  A month before the birth, I arrived home early and asked Sue to pack an overnight bag. I had organised a mystery weekend, staying at the five-star, historic Windsor Hotel in the city. We were lodged in a magnificent period suite, resplendent with complementary champagne and an array of abundant roses I had ordered earlier in the day. Sadly, the alcohol remained sealed. Always the diligent mother-to-be, Sue had opted to abstain from booze during the pregnancy. I had been less stoic than her over the months but on this occasion I refrained from drinking. We had one of the happiest weekends of my life. As an only child, I couldn’t wait to have my own child, to start a family with others to come. We laughed, we frolicked and we fantasised about our future life together. During the night, I penned a letter of welcome to our pending baby. We declined to know the gender. Sue was very pregnant and I addressed my note ‘To my darling little Buggles’. It was a nickname which reflected our deep love for the baby and we continued to use it.

  I spoke of our joy and excited anticipation concerning the looming birth. I promised to be a great daddy and a perfect husband, I wanted nothing but the best for her.

  The baby was due on my birthday, the eighteenth of June. As it eventuated, she was a day late. The greatest, most precious present of my life. Born by caesarean section, Jessica emerged into the world in my eyes as a perfect, beautiful human being.

  Following Jesse’s birth an onslaught of family members raced to airports around the country to visit Sue and our child in hospital.

  The atmosphere during that first week was surreal. My office was a short stroll from the hospital and an even closer sprint. I continued to work but couldn’t concentrate. As soon as possible I’d eject the clients, park my pen and race across Victoria Parade, before hotfooting along the Fitzroy Gardens pathways to the Mater, where I would arrive breathless, sweaty and bursting to nurse my baby girl. Jesse was voted by the nurses as the most beautiful girl in the hospital. And paternal bias aside, she was. Gorgeous, large brown eyes, a captivating smile and an easy manner. We all agreed we were blessed.

  I also realised the additional pressures which fatherhood and providing for a family had created. Sue was entirely focused on being a mother; I felt the best contribution I could make was by continuing to provide through prodigious work. It was ultimately to prove our undoing. I continued with my practice and then two nights a week I would proceed, already physically drained, to the Philip Institute where I would deliver a three-hour session including a half-hour tutorial, followed after a meal break by a one-hour lecture. I would then drive home, typically arriving after 10 p.m.

  Sue was amazing, but clearly feeling alone while I was working such long hours. She had no immediate family support as our parents and her siblings lived interstate.

  Weekends were different, allowing us to spend quality time together. On occasions we would take Jesse for drives into the beautiful Dandenong ranges for picnics. We also purchased a dog, Gypsie, a cumbersome Irish wolfhound to complete the family portrait.

  Our time in Melbourne was complemented with regular trips to Sydney. Our family couldn’t get enough of spending time with Jesse and, for a period, I seriously considered returning to live there. I missed the daily interaction and support we enjoyed on those visits and sensed Sue’s loss of connection with her parents, siblings and friends. In many ways, I wish I had listened to my gut instinct. However, at that time, these were fleeting thoughts and ones which were never fully aired with Sue. And besides, as always, there was never time to think things through.

  My times with Jesse and Sue were constantly dislocated by growing work demands. I was still young, dreaming of the future and consequently missing out on the real here and now. Years on, I continue to beat myself up for this as the pattern of overworking continued and had become well entrenched by the time of the arrival of our second child, Tom.

  We both felt Jesse needed a companion and so, within a year of her birth, Sue was pregnant again. Tom was born on 16 February 1987.

  I recall the joy and excitement surrounding his birth. A second child and a son to boot.

  ‘Aren’t you two the clever couple . . . and a pigeon pair too,’ was the popular refrain.

  Tom was born with pure radiant blond hair and dazzling sapphire blue eyes. From day one, his character was apparent. Mischievous, loving and beyond clever. He had attitude too, but he had inherited his mother’s gentle, kind personality. He became my best mate and to this day we maintain a deep love and mutual respect.

  KNIGHT’S MOVE

  It was a cold, bleak Saturday morning when I arrived at the main Pentridge gate, with its imposing century-old bluestone turrets ascending from a sea of razor and barbed wire. The ambience of Pentridge had always struck me as much colder and starker than Parramatta. The sandstone at Parramatta created an illusion of warmth, even in winter. Pentridge, in contrast, was like an old forbidding castle rising from the barren landscape of a foggy Scottish moor. Its ghosts chilled your soul with their untold stories of cruelty as you proceeded through the complex maze of gates and security checkpoints before finally arriving on the other side of the wall.

  I was at Pentridge that day to see Julian Knight, who, the week before, had gone on a killing spree through the Melbourne suburb of Clifton Hill, leaving seven dead and many injured. From the moment Hoddle Street’s unfolding carnage hit the airwaves during the disbelieving news alerts on the night of 9 August 1987, Knight was destined to become an object of fear and loathing. All of Melbourne, and indeed most of Australia, was traumatised that night and our collective beliefs in the security, safety and orderliness of the universe were all shattered at once.

  Armed with a shotgun and two rifles, Knight had committed what was at the time the largest mass murder in Australia. Mass murderers earn their horrible distinction if they manage to kill three or more people at one sitting. Generally, they do not survive their orgy of violence. Either police marksmen blow them away or they choose to punctuate their dramatic statement of anger by taking their own lives. Suicide is usually part of the script.

  Yet despite the grandiose militancy Knight later espoused to the homicide squad in a taped interview (better to die on your feet than to live on your knees), he had meekly surrendered.

  Knight was therefore an anomaly among mass murderers; a rare case that presented a grand opportunity for learned psychiatrists and psychologists to explore his twisted psyche. Any information we obtained might help prevent the likelihood of similar explosions of rage in others in years to come.

  Knight’s lawyer, Mick O’Brien, had requested that I provide a clinical assessment of Knight for the case, which was already the focus of international attention. Forensic psychology was in its infancy during this time and the responsibility bestowed upon me was enormous. The atmosphere in Melbourne was palpably tense and the general public clearly wanted to understand this inexplicable wanton act of violence which had been inflicted upon the community. The psychologist part of me had some ambivalent scientific enthusiasm for the task, but as a young husband and father, I wondered how much I really wanted to speak with, and possibly he
lp, this man who had destroyed so many families. I was also nervous. Knight had been portrayed in the media as a dangerous psychopath. How would he react to me? Would he attempt to make me victim number eight? What if he refused to be assessed?

  My brief was to interview and psychologically assess Knight and advise the defence team as to his history, his profile, his personality and level of cognitive functioning. It would involve hours of interviewing, psychometric testing and document analysis, in addition to talking to his grief-stricken family. Eventually my findings and opinion would be documented in a comprehensive report to be used by his lawyers when he was presented to the court. In all likelihood, I would be spending a considerable period of time with Knight, assuming our first meeting went successfully and I managed to build a degree of rapport with him.

  At that stage Knight had already become a national pariah. The screw who escorted me to Knight’s hospital cell that day appeared less than impressed by all the attention the killer was receiving, let alone the fact that some smart-arse shrink might find a defence for his abominable actions.

  ‘That fuck’n mongrel should get nothing. I’d love five minutes alone with the cunt. There’d be no worries about a fuck’n trial then, mate.’ He continued: ‘Them sheila coppers should have done what others here will do to him – take the little maggot out. The bastard won’t make it to trial.’

  At the time, it felt like everyone had a relative or a friend of a relative’s relative who had been killed or injured. It was also rumoured that some of the deceased were friends or relatives of a number of criminals doing time.

  Knight’s court case would be a good twelve months away at least. I wondered if he would last the distance.

  After what seemed a more than lengthy trek to the hospital, I was finally escorted to Knight’s security cell. There he sat, perched on the rubber mat that was his bed. The room was bereft of any furnishings as he was still considered to be suicidal and under regular observation. With a jarring and intrusive clang, the door opened. Knight looked up. The gaze of a frightened and bewildered boy confronted me. He was only nineteen years old.