The Institution

by Kristen Rose

An eager young man in a crisp, ironed police uniform wheels Peter O’Connell carefully down a steep, warn pebble path, more dirt than pebble. Frost bitten hills flooded with gravestones of dull shapes and colours surround them as they journey down for some minutes at a crawling pace, finally arriving at one of many flat bases after a very long descent. The small flat plane is crowded with people. Dark dresses, grey suits, hats and fascinators with subtle ribbons and feathers. The morbid atmosphere electrifies upon O’Connell’s arrival. He sits silently in his chair as on-lookers pretend they are not taking quick sporadic glances in his direction whenever the opportunity arises. As they pretend to ignore the fact his face is decorated with blood matted stitches, his right arm wrapped in a sling tightly bound to his torso and his shoeless left foot pinned together and propped up safely in the wheelchair. Reflective sunglasses disguise his blood shot eyes and there are quiet whispers of how his light brown, un-tailored suit is more than out of place. The plane faced cadet wheels O’Connell closer towards the crowd of people who slowly begin to turn away and wrap themselves around a freshly dug grave where a sparkling white coffin covered in bright pink and orange gerberas awaits, ready to be lowered into its new home. O’Connell is brought to a stop at the end of a large collection of white fold out chairs facing the grave, he remains still, silent, while his companion collects a small program off of the nearest white chair and sits down. He offers the booklet to O’Connell who ignores him, his stare focussed on the freshly dug earth and the coffin that awaits it.

  Time trickles past and more guests arrive, occupying the remainder of the chairs with quite conversation; a small collection of guests left without chairs stand scattered at the back of the audience. Some acknowledge O’Connell with short nods, he does not return them; the rest steer away from him pretending he is not there. The minister, aged and graceful, walks up to the glowing coffin; the crowd stills and turns silent. The minister calls for attention before raising his program and reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

  Our father, who art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom come,

  thy will be done,

  on earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread.

  And forgive us our trespasses,

  as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation,

  but deliver us from evil.

  For thine is the kingdom,

  the power and the glory,

  for ever and ever.

  Amen.

  The audience follows his words in scattered unison, the echo of ‘amen’ eerie around the silent cemetery and is accompanied with gusts of wind almost playing a tune of sadness. The minister glances up at the vacant crowd and waits a few moments before continuing with the service.

  ‘We are here today to say goodbye to Jennifer Barns, a young, lively girl who was sadly taken from us prematurely.’ He draws in a slow rattling breath; sobs erupt from the first row. Carol and Ian Barns sit close to the coffin, hand in hand. ‘Jennifer’s life was not without its ups and downs. It is true to say that the last years of her life were lived in a rather unusual way, which this past week, sadly ended in tragedy. Her parents have asked that I spare no detail in retelling the events of her life for they want her to be represented truly, they want her voice to be heard.’ He turns the page of his booklet and slowly wets his lips before continuing.

  ‘Jennifer, weighed down with a burden much too harsh for her to bear, felt it necessary to lead a life that was, in her words, both equally fulfilling and un-fulfilling. A life where she was forced to pretend to be someone she wasn’t for fear of her own safety. Instead of asking those she loved for help she suffered in silence until the night of her untimely death. If there is a lesson to be learned here it is that we must have more faith in our loved ones and friends, we must have more faith in ourselves, faith in our ability to cope when times may seem tough and to face our demons rather than to run from them.’ His cloudy blue eyes stare into the crowd.

  ‘I’m sure by now most of you have read in recent newspapers and seen on the local news that Jennifer spent the last seven years of her life living at Grove Hospital, an institution for the mentally ill, something she most certainly wasn’t. Whilst there, Jennifer spent many hours writing, or I should say recording, her unique experience.

  ‘Her parents, Ian and Carol Barns,’ the minister gestures lightly towards them, ‘have asked me to read to you some excerpts of what she wrote during her time at the hospital, to finally give her the opportunity to be heard.’

  The crowd erupts into whispers; the minister turns another leaf in his program. O’Connell remains still, the faintest tear begins to trickle in a jagged motion down one of his stitched up cheeks.

  ‘This fist excerpt is the very first thing Jennifer wrote during her time at Grove Hospital.’ The minister clears his throat and draws a long raspy breath before beginning.

  ‘Everyone needs an outlet. Here, outlets are supposed to be psychologists, but you’re also supposed to tell your psychologists the truth. I can’t do that, so I’ve decided to write. I’m going to write my thoughts and feelings, I’m going to write my story. It may come in handy one day, or it may end up at the bottom of my cat’s litter tray, assuming one day, I have a cat.’ The minister could not help but smile to himself before continuing. ‘I need to stay sane and this is the best idea I have. I’m twenty-one years old, twenty-one. I’m inexperienced, I know nothing and I’ve chosen to run; I like to use the word escape. Life is not easy, I honestly don’t know what I expected but it’s not. Maybe I’ve had it harder than others, maybe I’m just a winger, or maybe I’m just scared. What I do know is that I’ve chosen the easy option, I’ve quit life. I’ve hurt everyone and I’m wondering why I don’t care. My parents hate me and I don’t blame them. What I did was inexcusable and I don’t expect them to understand. I couldn’t keep living the life I was living. There was a hard road and there was an easy road. Selfishly I chose the easy one. Maybe someday I’ll forgive myself.’

  Before continuing, the minister turns the page upon finishing the excerpt and coughs lightly.

  ‘This excerpt was written a few years later.’ He stares at the booklet, hands shaking and begins to read.

  ‘I live a life that is both equally fulfilling and un-fulfilling. I’ll expand on this statement for your benefit. Life here is fun. I get up when I want, I do pretty much whatever I want, and I act however I want. Sure, everyone thinks I am mean, rude, nasty and vein; but it’s easy. Sure, at first I had a tough time, the whole morals thing kind of got to me, but now I find that as each day goes by I care less and less. It’s fun being mean. It’s fun having no cares, no job, no commitments. It’s the perfect life, the perfect escape. Thus ends the fulfilling part. Because then I remember that people have feelings and I am hurting them, intentionally and I can assure you that doesn’t feel good. If I were insane it wouldn’t matter because there would be nothing I could do about being mean and horrible, but I’m not. Then there are days where you’re reminded of family, like today, my twenty-fourth birthday. I can’t speak to my parents, the only people who know I’m here, because I am ashamed. I was horrible to them and I know that if I were to re-open any lines of communication I wouldn’t be able to keep on pretending. The only way I can remain focussed is to stay detached from life. Is it a small price to pay in order to prevent death? An easy carefree life without loved versus the certain prospect of a gruesome death. I guess I chose to stab myself with the blunter edge of the sword.’

  The minister stops, stares at the audience and brings forth a new excerpt. Everyone listens, not wanting to miss a single detail of Jennifer Barns’ mysterious life.

  ‘Now I shall read an excerpt from more recent times before ending with her final entry.’ The minister says.

  ‘One thing I have been trying to overcome for the past seven years is my confliction of thoughts. I know Marc is a bad man, I know any woma
n would have to be insane to remain in his company, but, the feelings I have for him, they won’t go away. I love him, and I hate myself for holding on to these feelings.’ O’Connell shifts in his wheelchair. ‘People say you can always get over things, as long as enough time has passed.

  ‘When I was a kid I used to read about young girls who would get seduced by men who treated them terribly and I would think to myself how stupid these women must be, not realising what they had gotten themselves into. Then I became one of those women.

  ‘I want to embrace Marc just as much as I want to imprison him. I know what the right thing to do is, I’ve always known, but I can’t do it. That is why I came here. I could have gone to police, but I didn’t. The only way to cope is to try to ignore it. That is what I have been doing and it has worked quite well. But now, after seeing Marc today, ignoring it is going to be hard.’

  ‘Finally,’ the minister says taking his eyes away from the booklet, ‘her very last entry.’ He clears his throat and reads, the faintest of tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

  ‘When you know there’s a pretty good chance that in less than twenty-four hours you’ll be dead, Pilates isn’t that relaxing, “Back to the Future” isn’t that entertaining and food is, well, un-appetising.

  ‘I’m in my room. Waiting to die or waiting to be rescued – I don’t know which.’ The minster finishes, turns the page and looks up towards the crowd; it is still and distant.

  Once the ceremony is over and coffin laid to rest, the crowd begins to disperse. The minister makes one last announcement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Ian and Carol Barns would now like to invite all of you to attend a small gathering at their home, to celebrate the life of the daughter and to share your memories of her. Thank you.’

  Muffled noised brake through the crowd.

  ‘We going to the wake Pete?’ The cadet asks O’Connell.

  He looks up at him. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He says slowly. ‘I don’t fancy my presence is wanted there.’ He looks over at the Barns’, who avoid his eye contact. ‘Let’s go.’ He says to the cadet.

  He hops up out of the seat next to him, walks behind O’Connell’s wheelchair and slowly spins him around. After taking a few paces, a voice stops them.

  ‘Peter.’

  O’Connell turns in his chair as much as it will allow him to and catches a glimpse of Mr Barns, slowly hobbling towards him. Mrs Barns stays back, hidden behind a pair of white sun glasses. The cadet wheels the chair back around to face Mr Barns.

  O’Connell holds out his good arm, a piece offering. Mr Barns gives it a faint shake. The two of them stare at each other for some time before Mr Barns speaks.

  ‘I um … I have to give you this. Carol didn’t want me to … but, I have to, it’s the honest thing.’ He pulls an envelope out of the inside pocket on his jacket and passes it to O’Connell.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Pages … out of Jenny’s books she’d been writing in. The last thing she ever wrote … it’s in that envelope.’ He wipes his eyes.

  ‘Oh … The paragraph the minister read out?’

  ‘No … That wasn’t the last thing she wrote. The last thing … was addressed to you.’

  ‘To me?’ O’Connell takes off his glasses, staring up at Mr Barns.

  2 MONTHS LATER

  O’Connell’s Volvo comes to a squeaking stop on the tip of a steep hill. He grinds the parking brake on slowly, staring at the small suburban home on his left. His eyes take in a dull white wooden fence covered by a row of neat deep green hedges. A metal gate is just visible in the middle, framed by an arch covered in budding wisteria. O’Connell, drawn and tired, steps out of his car, carefully making sure he doesn’t knock his left foot firmly strapped into a thick black brace. He hops a few steps along the length of his car and reaches into the back seat, pulling out a pair of short withered crutches. Clumsily he places them underneath his arms and navigates his way towards the gate, his tall body swinging awkwardly in between each crutch. He opens the gate slowly with one hand while admiring the well-kept garden awaiting the arrival of spring. Ready to bloom flower beds circle the perimeter of the front yard with citrus trees planted evenly in the middle of them, emitting a fresh and fragrant inviting odour. He makes his way closer towards the white house, positioned elegantly on stilts, and eyes the steep set of stairs leading up to the front door, he cringes.

  O’Connell approaches the base of the stairs with care and starts his ascent. He places his good foot onto the first step and uses it to pull the rest of his gangly frame up, careful to use the crutches as support. It takes him ten times longer than it normally would have to reach the top and once he arrives on the small tidy veranda he pauses for a moment to catch his breath before pressing the doorbell. He leans against the far railing of the veranda, resting his weakened body, waiting. Just as O’Connell gets comfortable, arranging his crutches so they stand by themselves and his broken foot gently resting on the ground, the newly painted white wooden door opens and a middle aged woman with dark skin and curly brown hair pops into view. She stares at O’Connell through the protective screen door and forces a smile before turning the handle and allowing it to squeal open.

  ‘Hi.’ She says, attempting not to be too obvious with her stares at O’Connell’s heavily scarred face.

  ‘Hello Diane. How are you?’ He breathes; soft and weak, not moving from his position.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. How’s your foot?’ She says, staring at his brace in an attempt to avoid his face.

  ‘Oh, it’s getting there. Doctor says I’ll be right as rain by the end of summer. Is Rogers ... ah ... Jeff in?’ He peers through the door behind her.

  ‘Yes, he’s watching the cricket.’ Diane smiles.

  ‘Ah, who’s playing?’ O’Connell feigns interest.

  ‘Australia vs. England. We’re winning.’ An awkward silence follows. ‘Sorry, I guess you probably want to come in. Jeff’ll be pleased to see you.’ She half smiles.

  Diane holds the door open for O’Connell while he collects his crutches and swings his way into the house. Once inside he waits in the narrow hall for her to show him into the lounge room. Rogers is sitting in a cushy brown arm chair, a beer in hand, watching the television with focussed attention.

  ‘Jeff.’ Diane calls. He jumps, turning his head to look behind him.

  ‘O’Connell! How’ve you been?’ He smiles, spinning his torso around so it is in line with his head.’

  ‘Oh, well thanks. What about you, missing work?’

  Rogers waits until his wife leaves the room before replying. ‘Yeah, I’m missing work like crazy.’ He whispers. ‘A guy can go mad sitting at home all day, mad.’

  O’Connell laughs softly. ‘Well, I’m sure Holmes would be very glad to have you back.’ He says.

  ‘It’s tempting sometimes, but I don’t think so. Sit down.’ He motions towards an identical chair next to him.

  O’Connell manoeuvres himself awkwardly over to the chair, shifting his weight towards his good foot, removing his crutches from underneath his arms and setting them on the ground. He takes a few short hops around the chair and uneasily collapses into it.

  ‘I just can’t help but think that I could’ve ended up the way Hudson did.’ Rogers continues. ‘I was the one who was going to hide in the bed, not him. But, he figured I’d be able to stop Verdad more easily because I’m big, so we swapped. I didn’t even get a chance. Verdad opened the door and fired without even hesitating.’ Rogers’ shakes his head, cringing. ‘What kind of person does that? I mean, he thought the girl was in that bed, he had no clue she wasn’t. When he realised she wasn’t there, he was furious. He was too strong for me.’ He shivers. ‘He had me on the ground within seconds, took his anger out on me. The only reason he didn’t kill me was because he needed me as a way to find out where she’d gone.’ O’Connell had heard this re-telling of events many times.

  ‘I had a lucky escape, very lucky.’ He took
a nervous swig from his beer bottle, gulping rapidly. ‘And so did you mate,’ he added. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re so upset about being let go.’

  O’Connell turns his gaze towards the window opposite him and stares, admiring the clear sky. After a minute he speaks, ignoring Rogers’ comment. ‘None of us knew that was going to happen. These kinds of things, they’re so unpredictable ... they really aren’t anyone’s fault.’ O’Connell says, although barely believing it himself.

  ‘I know. But still, it makes you think, makes you appreciate life. My boys are still young. I don’t want them to grow up not knowing their dad. It’s different for you, you haven’t got anyone.’ O’Connell sits silent, biting his tongue. ‘Sorry,’ Rogers’ sprouts quickly. ‘I didn’t mean for that to sound so harsh, I mean, you just don’t have anyone … yet.’

  O’Connell nods stiffly. ‘Don’t worry about it, I understand. Family is important and ... I’m sure if I had what you have, I’d be doing the same thing.’ He sighs quietly, Rogers doesn’t hear.

  ‘So,’ he says after a short silence, attempting to appear unaffected. ‘What are you going to do now then?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Rogers breathes. ‘Diane is dying to go back to work. She was a teacher before we had the kids but she gave it up to look after them. She’s been going on about a role reversal. She’ll be the bread winner and I’ll be the stay at home dad. Can you believe that? Me, a stay at home dad! The guys at the station would be laughing at me if they knew.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Yeah ...’ O’Connell chuckles lightly.

  ‘So, what brings you here anyway? Not that I’m not glad to see you, I’m just surprised. You’ve never been one for social visits.’

  ‘I umm … wanted to see how you were going – you’ve healed really well.’

  ‘Yeah, the doctors did a great job fixing up my nose.’ There was a brief silence. ‘I wish I could say the same for you.’ A look of pity in his eyes as he takes in O’Connell’s face, heavily scarred. O’Connell ignores his comment.

  ‘I also thought you might like a little update on things as well.’ He says.

  ‘Oh? He raises one eyebrow and stares at O’Connell through the corner of his eye. ‘You know what’s going on?’ He asks slowly.

  ‘Some of the guys at the station have been nice enough to keep me posted about everything.’

  ‘Right ...’

  ‘I er ... went and visited the cemetery yesterday.’ O’Connell says. ‘Put some flowers on Hudson, Young and Finley; gave them my best, and yours too.’ O’Connell shifted his foot around.

  ‘Thanks. You know, I can’t believe that guy, he just ... just ... shot Finlay and Young, in cold blood. I bet they didn’t even see him coming. I guess we’ll never really know what happened, seeing as he got killed as well. What was his name again?’

  ‘Gordon Lynch. He’d been working for Verdad for years.’ O’Connell stares at the television, avoiding Rogers’ gaze.

  ‘How come we never investigated him?’

  ‘No reason to. I’d always thought he was just an absent minded employee, you know, helping Verdad out without actually knowing what it was that he was helping him with. Apparently he knew exactly what he was doing, knew the entire time. So did his brother, Quinton. They’d been involved in Verdad’s little business since the beginning.’

  ‘Do you know when the trial against this ... Quinton is?’

  ‘Yeah, never. He committed suicide last week.’ O’Connell said emotionless.

  ‘What?’ Rogers mouth opens wide.

  ‘As soon as he got out on bail he fired a bullet right into his mouth.’ O’Connell continues staring unemotionally at the television.

  ‘And it was definitely suicide?’

  ‘Yes, the coroner is sure of that.’ Rogers says nothing. ‘I know what you’re thinking, that Verdad came back to tie up loose ends.’

  ‘Well, it’s possible, right? I mean, that’s what he’s done all along.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no way of proving that. Besides, he hasn’t been seen at all.’

  ‘Where do you think he went?’ Rogers leans closer towards him.

  ‘Somewhere I can’t find him.’ O’Connell’s crystal eyes turn cold.

  ‘What about the third man that was undercover at the hospital?’ Rogers asks.

  ‘Skipped town. Apparently he was only newly recruited, didn’t realise at the time what he’d gotten himself into. He’s made things worse for himself now, running away.’

  ‘Are they looking for him?’ Rogers’ voice raised an octave.

  ‘There’s a warrant out for his arrest but, he never did anything wrong, just an accomplice. He won’t get much of a gaol sentence if he’s ever caught.’ He snorts to himself.

  ‘No ...’ Rogers resumes staring at the cricket, someone had been bowled out.

  ‘I did learn something interesting last week though.’ O’Connell continues.

  ‘Oh?’ Rogers half faces O’Connell.

  ‘Apparently the psychologist in charge of treating personality disorders at Grove Hospital had been put there by Verdad as well.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘She was the right person at the right time. Of course, Verdad had arranged it so that she was the right person and it was the right time.’

  ‘You mean the old psychologist, Granger, was murdered so she could be put in his place.’

  ‘Not quite. Verdad gave him an incentive to retire so she could be put in his place. The thing was, Verdad never gave the old psychologist the incentive he offered him, so naturally Granger threatened to come to us – so Verdad killed him.’

  ‘How did this all come out in the open?’

  ‘The psychologist, Deborah Fuller is her name, came forward. Apparently she wasn’t in on the plan to kill Jennifer. Her job was to just keep an eye on her and try to find out if she was really mentally ill or not. Verdad was apparently dying to know whether or not Jennifer was narcissistic, that’s why he went to such lengths to change her psychologist. Fuller said that Verdad as good as told her over the phone he had killed Granger. She was scared the same thing would happen to her so she kept her mouth shut. After that, she said she tried to avoid speaking with Verdad, tried to stop him from visiting Jennifer. She was certain that Jennifer was ill and was worried he would send her off track, of course she didn’t really know why Verdad was so interested in Jennifer, you know, that she’d seen him commit murder.’ O’Connell stops, covering his face with his palms.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  O’Connell sits still, cradling his face. After a long silence he takes his hands away, eyes red. ‘I just really wish it hadn’t happened this way.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a drink, join me to watch the Aussie’s thrash the poms.’ Rogers says in an attempt to cheer him up.

  ‘I think you’re forgetting that I cheer for the poms.’ O’Connell smiles lightly. 'Thanks, but I have to get going. I umm … really came here to say goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye?’

  ‘I’m going back to Scotland. There’s nothing here for me now. The only reason I’ve stayed around this long after the incident is because of my injuries. But, the doctor gave me the all clear to travel last week.’

  ‘Mate ... What do you mean there’s nothing here for you. You could get another job, if you give it some time, you know, wait till everyone forgets.’

  ‘No. I stuffed up, there’s no point denying it. Even if I could get another job I wouldn’t stay. Everything here reminds me of her.’

  ‘What are you going to do? When you get back to Scotland I mean.’

  ‘The police station in my hometown has been kind enough to offer me a position, I’ve accepted. I fly out on Saturday.’

  ‘Two days ... Have you got everything sorted?’

  ‘Yeah ...’ Rogers’ leans towards O’Connell and pats him on the back just as a tear begins to roll down his face. ‘Sorry,’ he sniffs.

  ‘Don’t be sorry mate. You’ve lost someone special, it’s n
atural to be upset.’

  ‘If you ever find yourself in Scotland, look me up, okay?’ O’Connell says attempting to compose himself.

  ‘Sure.’ Rogers’ nods, doubtful.

  ‘Well, take care. Look after your family, enjoy your second chance.’ O’Connell smiles then picks himself up out of his chair. He collects his crutches and fiddles around with them clumsily before securing them under his arms. Rogers stands up with him and grasps his hand, shaking it.

  ‘You enjoy your second chance too, okay?’ Rogers gives him a strong stare. ‘You’ve been miserable for too long.’

  ‘I will ...’ O’Connell nods loosely.

  ‘I’ll walk you out.’ O’Connell trails Rogers all the way to the door.

  ‘Say goodbye to Diane for me.’ O’Connell says passing through the door while Rogers holds it open for him.

  ‘I will. Have a safe flight.’ Rogers gives him two hard taps on the back.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And be careful going down those steps.’ Rogers laughs, lightening the mood. O’Connell throws him a short wave goodbye and begins his descent with care. Rogers waits until O’Connell is safely down the steps, waves one last time, and returns to his cricket match.

  Epilogue