by Bob Goodwin
Five of the medication marines emerged, task completed. The round key slid into the hole in the window frame. It turned, and the blinds opened. The sixth member was sitting on the side of the bed, feeling the pulse of the now sleeping woman. For Simon, this was a completely new experience, and one that he found extremely disturbing. He felt a deep sense of sympathy and concern for the sedated lady, and for the sobbing sentinel near her bedroom door.
‘Hello, Simon, I’m Eddy, one of the nursing staff. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other. I’m your nurse therapist.’ Eddy extended his hand to greet the new arrival. Simon turned his head on hearing the voice. He looked the thickset man up and down.
‘Have we met before? Your name and voice sound familiar,’ he asked.
‘No. This is your first admission. We have never met.’ Eddy withdrew the offered hand. His shoulder-length blonde streaked hair seemed odd for a man of around fifty years of age, a bit like a pretence to be something that he clearly was not. That fixed, dominating stare and stern, tight mouth were rather disconcerting. His loose-fitting short-sleeve shirt showed large forearms and biceps, but was not quite loose enough to disguise the slight outline of a rounded belly. Piss pot, thought Stacey immediately. A silver chain was secured to his belt and disappeared into the pocket of his jeans. He reminded Simon of a fat, smelly bouncer who once accused him of cheating and evicted him from a card game. Yes, thought Stacey, this tin god meant trouble.
‘I said, my name is Eddy, and I am your therapist,’ repeated the man sternly.
‘Yes, I know what you said, but I have no need for a nurse therapist, or any other sort of therapist, for that matter. Thanks all the same,’ replied Simon, looking up at the burly figure hovering over him.
‘You’ll get one anyway. Everyone gets one. Them’s the rules, champ,’ said Eddy, as he sat down next to Stacey. ‘It’s unfortunate you arrived during that little outburst.’
‘I’m starting to think it’s unfortunate I arrived at all. Is that little outburst a regular thing round here?’
‘Let’s get a few things clear from the outset.’ The therapist leaned across close to Simon’s ear. ‘You play by the rules, keep your nose clean, and we won’t need to bounce you, will we?’
‘Bounce me? You are the therapist? Right?’ said Simon through his teeth. He knew his first assessment of this creep was now completely justified.
‘Rule one. Be polite to the staff, arsehole. Remember, I have the name tag, I have a door key, and I’m the fucking boss.’ Eddy stood, walked a few paces and turned his head. ‘We’ll talk later then. You’re in bed number eight.’
An old, bearded man sat in the vacated chair. He smiled, revealing a mouth of blackened teeth.
‘Watch that one, especially when he bathes you. He’s rough, and he never dries between your toes or behind your balls,’ croaked the old man.
‘There are some people in this world I just don’t understand. How can a so-called professional behave that way? He’s no therapist. He’s just a thug with the right set of keys,’ said Simon, not really expecting an answer.
‘I understand perfectly,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I believe he’s an emotionally detached and socially challenged man. I suspect he suffered maternal deprivation and paternal abuse from a drunken, intolerant father. He now strives for control and recognition in whatever form he can receive it.’
‘Well, of course,’ laughed Simon weakly. ‘That explains everything. But whatever the cause, it makes him no less of a prick. But thank you for enlightening me. I’m Simon Stacey. What’s your name?’
‘Rasputin, the mad monk, but as we’re friends you can call me Ras.’
‘Ras, eh! That’s fine. Ras it is then.’ The two shook hands firmly.
‘Some people here call me George, but you and I know better, don’t we?’ said the delightful old man, with a nod and a wink. ‘You have missed afternoon tea.’
‘I think I’m pretty well hydrated. They had a drip in me all night and morning.’ Simon displayed the small dressing on his forearm.
‘Ah, death eludes you for now. Overdoses are not a precise science.’
‘I wasn’t planning to die.’
‘Obviously.’
The unusual conversation continued for some time. Simon was most taken with his new acquaintance, whom he found to be amusing, observant, and intelligent. Ras confessed to being in Ward 21 for the seventeenth time.
‘Seventeen times! What’s the attraction?’
‘It seems the general public are not too keen on me attempting to cast spells in the shopping mall,’ said Ras. ‘Besides, there are times when I feel safer in here than out there.’
‘I can sort of understand that. But I reckon…’ Simon let out a long yawn. ‘…this place has its own risks.’
‘I make sure I am in here well before every Friday the 13th. There’s one coming up in exactly one week. And it sounds like you should go to bed, my friend.’
Simon nodded. After the two had arranged a date for a chess game the next morning, he excused himself and trudged off to find his room. The walk from the intensive care ward to Ward 21 seemed to have drained what little energy he had remaining, and he now regretted declining the offer of a wheelchair.
There was little to recommend room eight as a place to stay for an extended period. The low-set bed was a permanent fixture to the middle of the floor. There were no railings, towel racks, interior door handles, wardrobes, or cupboards, just three soft plastic stackable trays. The bare walls were a tan colour and looked like Gyprock, but felt like solid timber. Two bedroom lights, covered by unbreakable glass, were set at either side of a small, round air conditioning vent in the ceiling. All light switches were outside the room on a panel to the side of the door. A towel, face washer, and pyjamas were neatly folded in a pile on the bed. A solitary piece of motel-size soap lay on the pillow.
Simon picked up the few items from the bed, placed them with his paper bag on the top plastic tray, and lay down. From his reclined position, he could clearly see the elevated central office through the double glass windows of his room. It was obvious that very little would go unnoticed. He fell asleep within a moment.
* * *
Disturbed by the chiming of a bell, Simon woke in what seemed like only minutes. It was evening — eight thirty. Medication time. He sat up on his bed and saw a procession of mournful-looking people lining up. A nurse was passing out plastic medicine cups to each in turn, while two other staff supervised the swallowing. Some patients were examined closely, being asked to open their mouths and lift their tongues. Others were not.
‘Come on, Stacey, get in line.’ It was Eddy, the nurse therapist, sticking his unwelcome face through the door.
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Simon, as he lay back down on the bed.
‘It’s eighty thirty, you’ll get in line,’ demanded Eddy. ‘If you’re not on any medication for your mental disorder, you may then return to your bed.’ His words were clear enough, and he obviously wasn’t ready to debate the issue. Simon thought it best to comply, so he reluctantly joined the queue. His therapist gave him a gentle push along, just to remind him of how their relationship stood. Simon’s turn soon arrived and he stood patiently in front of the window that resembled that of some banks, with a small gap at the bottom where items could be exchanged. He crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn’t be compelled to make a withdrawal.
‘Hello, Simon, I’m Kym. I’ll just check your sheet.’ She sounded pleasant enough, thought Simon, but then so did meathead for his first sentence. The Asian nurse flicked through the clip folder under ‘S’, then turned and checked one of the many small wooden pigeonholes behind her. Each one was marked with a name and bed number, and most contained several bottles or packets of pills. She ran her hand along the top shelf and stopped at number eight. It was empty.
‘No, nothing tonight. Doctor will review you tomorrow. He may then decide on some medication. Good night, Simon.’
‘A goo
d night to you, Kym,’ said Stacey with much relief. He walked directly back to his room, completely ignoring Eddy’s scowl. Back down on top of his bed, he folded his arms underneath his head and stared at the ceiling. He thought deeply about recent events. At the moment, it was a constant internal struggle between collapsing into a quivering, blubbering mess, and trying to maintain some degree of control and unravel the sinister puzzle. One thing seemed clear; somehow, Teddy Duncan was involved. It was obvious to Simon that Teddy had tried to prevent him leaving on the night of the fire. He’d just wanted to keep on gambling, and this was clearly out of character. Maybe he was killed because he failed his task, or maybe he just knew too much.
Simon also recalled the distressing and perverse conversation he’d had with Romoli on Tuesday night. That man was evil. A psychopath. And Simon had not the slightest feeling of remorse for putting a bullet in his brain. How could he have possibly told anyone, especially Cochran? Anyway, Adrian had all the details on the tape, and he felt confident that his good friend would help him out. As he thought back to the phone numbers on the newspaper clipping, he realised why Eddy’s name and voice were familiar. It was Eddy that answered a call and identified Ward 21 as one of the listed numbers. While his stay in the locked psychiatric ward was going to be a difficult and possibly dangerous one, his determination to uncover some hidden truths was unshakeable. He just needed his judgment and level-headedness to return to within some degree of what used to be normal. Enough mistakes had been made already. In any case, thought Simon, his admission was voluntary, so when he was ready he could simply sign himself out.
* * *
It was ten o’clock, and the evening nursing staff had settled down to write their reports. Eddy sat at the office desk with several files. He had intentionally left Simon Stacey’s file to last, so he could take time to deliberate over his entry. As he read the doctor’s notes he smiled.
‘Oh great, this is really radical! This joker’s going to be here longer than he thinks,’ laughed Eddy. Kym stopped her writing and looked up.
‘What is it that’s so radical?’ she asked.
‘The doctor’s report, and I quote. In view of this man’s significant personal loss, his death wish, his suicide note and attempt, it is my opinion that he represents a serious ongoing risk of self-harm and/or suicide. He should be maintained in the closed ward as a voluntary patient for now; if he attempts to leave he should be regulated and detained under the Mental Health Act, and I quite agree, he’s likely to be a difficult customer,’ said Eddy.
‘Gee, that’s one thing that really annoys me about this place.’ Kym threw her pen down on the desk. ‘If they’re going to keep someone here like that, why don’t they have the guts to tell them? It’s not fair for patients to think they are here voluntarily when they clearly are not. It’s false imprisonment, that’s what it is!’
‘Here she goes again, on her hobbyhorse. I’m sorry I spoke.’
‘And there’s one other thing that pisses me off. Your attitude!’ Kym looked around for her pen, which seemed to have disappeared. She flung open the drawer and snatched up a new black biro and continued her work.
Eddy ignored her remark and completed his evening report on Simon Stacey.
9th June ‘86 - 2215 hrs.
Admission routine and unit policies explained shortly after arrival in ward. Attempt to explain role of Nurse Therapist met with verbal abuse. Very resistive to counselling and staff assistance. Noticed to be laughing inappropriately when in company of patient who talks very little. I find this man has the potential to be physically aggressive and needs to be closely observed. We also need to exclude the presence of any psychotic symptoms.
Chapter 13
Race Day
‘Hey there, Sarge,’ panted Cochran. ‘I never realised that four steps could be so bloody difficult to climb.’ It was ten in the morning as John Cochran dragged himself into the Alderley Police Station. ‘Well, where is everyone?’ he continued. ‘Hard at it I trust?’
‘J. C., you look like shit!’ declared Sergeant Carter. The fat man’s eyes were out of sight, buried somewhere beneath that excess of flesh and the now swollen eyelids. ‘You look like you need to go back to bed.’
‘Quite possibly. I haven’t slept so badly since my haemorrhoids were removed eight years ago.’
‘Not sure I needed to know that piece of information,’ quipped Carter.
‘And you can save the J. C. for out of work hours, if you don’t mind.’
‘Hey, it’s just the two of us here. We’re mates, in case you’ve forgotten. What’s the big deal? Are you sure you should even be here at all?’
‘Of course I should be here,’ said Cochran emphatically. ‘I’ve got work to do. Just because I have a fucked-up back doesn’t mean I can’t use my brain. And, mates or not, this place still stinks, Carter. Haven’t you tossed those shoes out yet? Clean the damned place up, will you? This is a police station, not a bloody footy change room.’ Despite his use of the front counter for support, the large man had a definite tilt to the left.
‘Ease up. Yes, the shoes are gone,’ grunted Carter. ‘And I’m telling you as your friend, that if I looked like you I’d be a long way from this office. I’d be taking it easy and recovering.’
Cochran shook his head and began tapping his fingers on the counter.
‘Okay, well, I’ve said what I think, and I’ll leave it at that,’ added Carter.
‘You’d best shut up now then. You are not helping. I’m this close to the point of maximum irritation.’ Cochran held a hand up and displayed the smallest gap between two fingers. ‘I think you know what I mean by that.’
Carter nodded and said nothing. He knew exactly what the inspector was referring to. There was a young prostitute who was suicidal, psychotic, and mumbling bizarre stories of demonic possession, torture, and sacrifice. She’d finally jumped to her death from Brisbane’s Story Bridge after Cochran had almost talked her into living. The speeding police car with siren blaring tipped the scales. It was Carter who misunderstood the call for assistance and issued the instructions to the two speeding constables. This was the day of maximum irritation that Cochran was referring to, and a day that neither man wished to revisit.
‘So, back to business matters,’ said Cochran. ‘What the hell is happening here? You are supposed to know everyone’s whereabouts.’
‘Marshall has gone to talk with the late Alison Stacey’s parents. Dempsey and Hogan are trying to locate Adrian Devlin, as well as keep an eye on his flat. Johnson says she’s gone shopping. Briggs has gone back to Bodytune, and I —’
‘It’s Bodytone not Bodytune,’ interrupted Cochran.
‘That’s what I said, Bodytone,’ said Carter, unaware of his error.
‘No, you said tune, not tone,’ insisted Cochran.
‘As you wish, J. C. You know, I should be at home watching the wrestling over a couple of cold tinnies.’ The sergeant forced a chuckle. Cochran was stone faced.
‘Did they leave me any messages?’
‘Yes, they certainly did.’ Carter passed over a few sheets of paper. ‘Go and digest that. They seem to be doing okay.’
‘We’ll see. And by the way, I’m doing you a favour. That wrestling is a load of horse shit. Absolute crap. You tell Johnson when she has finished her shopping I’d like to see her.’ John Cochran proceeded slowly down the hallway using the wall for support and mumbling as he went. ‘Shopping? Bitch. You bloody bitch.’
Alistair Carter lifted a small television from under the desk, switched on the sports program, and made himself comfortable. Despite being a great armchair athlete, he was in reasonable shape for a forty-nine-year-old. He was a keen jogger and would hit the streets at least five times a week, in addition to his frequent runs to and from work. His weight seldom varied from a comfortable seventy-three kilograms, regardless of his regular diet of beer and chocolate. Cochran and he had often joked about swapping roles, but Carter’s dislike for fast cars and fire
arms guaranteed it would always remain just that.
It was thirty minutes later when the slender redhead arrived at the police station, plastic shopping bag in hand, and a light-blue imitation leather handbag over her shoulder. Carter was reclined in his office chair with his feet stretched out on a stool, watching the fight. The hooded, ‘Stalking Shadow – AKA the Finisher’ was in action against his arch-rival ‘Kong of the Congo’.
‘The boss wants to see you, Johnson. He’s in his office.’ Carter spoke without taking his eyes off the square box.
‘I don’t know how you can watch that, Sarge. It’s really a load of crap.’ Cathy shook her head in disgust.
‘That seems to be a popular opinion this morning. Remember, one man’s crap is another man’s candy, and I wouldn’t expect you to understand the finer aspects of a serious, action-packed, sports comedy, Johnson. Now be on your way.’ He waved his hand for her to move along. Cathy proceeded to the inspector’s door, knocked, and entered.
‘Johnson, nice of you to come to work. Any good specials at the supermarket?’
‘A couple, sir.’ Cathy pulled out some low-fat fruit yoghurt. ‘This is for you.’
‘I’m not a bloody invalid, Johnson.’ Cochran took hold of the container and read the label. ‘Low-fat yoghurt! I have the impression there is a message here somewhere. Shit, I’m not in the mood for this. If you wanted to do me a favour, or if you just wanted to crawl up my arse, you could have got me a nice hot pie and peas.’
‘Sir, pardon me for saying so, but if obesity was a crime you’d be up for capital punishment. With an injured back, it wouldn’t hurt you to lose a few pounds. One more thing —’
‘Please go on, Johnson,’ insisted Cochran. ‘It seems you think insulting me is good for your career. The desk job is still open.’
‘Yes, sir. One more thing, which was on special, was…’ Cathy reached into her shopping bag. ‘High wattage light bulbs! Each one of these is three hundred watts. Ideal for incendiary use.’