Stonedogs
Page 38
‘Well, let’s not get carried away at this stage, Mr McPike.’ Stern: ‘It’s been left to me to assess final reckoning.’
Ducking to her pre-eminence.
Shuffling through papers, fixing him a hard stare: ‘Right. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
‘By all means, Dr Saunders.’
She consults a list, peering through spectacles, a finger flicking at her stylish, greying fringe. Wrinkling her nose: ‘It’s not my field, but I’ve been asked to address it, so let’s first deal with the … felonious side of things.’
Grimacing his shame: ‘That’s a good idea, Dr Saunders. I’m as eager as you to conclude those matters.’ Weary smile: ‘And, I’d just like to stress, never again will it be my field, either.’
She fixes him an arched eyebrow, holding it … until he looks away.
Until he looks down.
He’d learned the trick within a minute of meeting her.
A declaration: ‘Your crime.’ Suffixing it with silence, watching his posture deflate with the seconds. ‘It was never resolved, was it? In spite of the best efforts of Our law enforcement services, the … cash you were tied to was never accounted for, due largely to your intransigence on the matter.’
Shifting in his seat like a lice-host, brow knitted to file steel.
‘What say you on the matter, now, Mr McPike?’
He takes his time. Torn. Scrubbing a hand across his face. At last, appeal raw in his throat. ‘Getting out of here, Doctor, my re-acceptance into Society, means so, so much to me.’ A slight hardening: ‘… But it means less to me than survival itself.’
Light, dubious, jotting at a pad: ‘You’ve no intention of changing your story, then?’
Through frustration near to anger: ‘For god’s sake, I can’t! Like I told the Police, the Judge, the lawyers, the Parole Board, I was holding the money on behalf of an acquaintance. For my services I was to receive a little of it. I’m not sure where it came from … I didn’t like to ask. Because of his reputation, I felt too scared to turn him down … and I certainly felt too scared to name him to the Authorities when they took me in.’ A rueful sigh: ‘That situation hasn’t changed, Dr Saunders, and, short of the man’s death or ordination, I’m afraid it never shall.’
‘Hmmm. Well, I’m told the young lady who denounced you seemed to find this story somewhat unlikely.’
Jeza …
She waits for Gator to begin his retort before speaking over him, waving a hand grudgingly: ‘It’s not vital, anyway. The Judge convicted you of the crime you confessed to, and you’ve served your minimum sentence with adequate behaviour.’
What the fuck did you bring it up for, then? Looking to jump pay-scales?
Gushingly grateful: ‘I’m glad to hear that, Dr Saunders.’
‘Hmm.’ The ambiguous eyebrow. ‘Yes, I imagine you are. Let’s now deal with the real issues then, shall we? … Your mental state …’ Another measured wait. Coolly: ‘You claim to have faked the breakdown in order to serve your sentence in more … relaxed confines.’
‘That’s correct.’ Relaxed: freedom to shower without fear of rape.
Tutting: ‘In other words, you believed it proper to manipulate the Authorities in accordance with your own wants. I take it you don’t approve of Our system of incarceration then, Mr McPike?’
What kind of knee-jerk liberal do you take me for? Twenty-stone Moses Alofi molests a great-granny in her rest-home bed: he gets five to ten in a themepark. Donald from PR gets pinched with a bag of coke: he gets five to ten in hell itself.
Hastily reassuring: ‘Oh, no, Dr Saunders, you wrong me totally. I view our justice system as a model of perfection, an example to the uncultured world… I simply offended the wrong person early in my stay at Mt Eden and was left in fear of my life.’ Regretful: ‘Again, Dr Saunders, as much as it pained me, survival preceded ethics.’
‘Really?’ She spends a minute leafing through her file, reading, jotting. Announcing: ‘The thing is, Mr McPike …’, observing him closely, ‘in spite of the findings of every psychologist to examine you in the last six months … I’m not altogether certain your breakdown and suicide attempt were faked.’
Bitc …
Reeling in his seat, hurt: ‘What makes you say that?
Examining a paper from under her glasses, head tilted back, as if it reeks of decay: ‘Your first few weeks here were spent ranting to all who would listen — and plenty who wouldn’t — ranting of some creature. Some mechanis infernalis you felt was hunting you.’ Quoting distinctly: ‘“Hunting every fucking one of us; every man, woman and child of the Noble Pillage”.’ Eyeing him flatly: ‘How do feel about that now, Mr McPike?’
Gator laughs for her. Straight into her face. ‘I feel my originality wasn’t all it could’ve been. And I feel bloody lucky none of the doctors who first examined me were young enough to have grown up on Playstation. If they had I’d’ve been back in Mt Eden quicker than you could say “Tomb Raider”.’
Ruffled by his cheer: ‘Really?’ More jotting. ‘Well, most of the specialists who dealt with you in recent months did come to concur with this assertion.’ A long pause, a resettling of the plumage. ‘All, that is, except Dr Ralston. Dr Tony Ralston,’ leaning back in her seat, ‘who took the time to observe you in your sleep some weeks ago.’ Reading like garnish: ‘On the night of 7 October in fact, from 3.25am to 4.05.’
Cocksuck …
Still reading: ‘Dr Ralston writes that he distinctly heard you moaning in your sleep … moaning and sweating in fear of this “Juggernaut” of yours.’ Looking up, arching the eyebrow.
Flinching at Gator’s loud scoff.
‘Yeah, and Dr Ralston was also suspended from practice a week later for filching laudanum from the dispensary.’
She takes a long time over this and Gator holds her eye for every second of it.
At last, nodding slightly: ‘That’s correct. And on the strength of that dismissal, my colleagues resolved to ignore his findings on the matter.’
Gator, eyebrows high: ‘But not you, huh?’
Composing something on her pad, head down: ‘Well … it’s not within my licence to authenticate the invalidated.’ Tight smile: ‘I was more interested in your reaction to the illusion of my doing so.’
This time she’s the first to break their gaze.
Gator, a sad laugh: ‘Chicanery, it would see, is alive and well in the mental assessment process. A comforting thought. Care to enlighten me on your reaction to my reaction to your false reaction to Dr Ralston’s opiated reaction?’
A light cough: ‘Well your behaviour does appear to conform with our requisites.’
Hard smile: ‘We would seem to be getting somewhere.’
She begins flicking through her papers, too swiftly. In time, authoritative: ‘Right, then. We will consider concluded the issues of your criminality: you’ve served your time quite quietly and demonstrate significant remorse. I’m also as comfortable as I’ll ever be with your degree of mental health: if indeed you were ill, you seem acceptably cured.’ Clearing her throat loudly, straightening her shoulders: a reach for the high ground. Grave: ‘There remains then, only the matter of your ability to assimilate back into Society.’
Again, Gator meets her stare squarely, matches her silence.
‘What have you to say on the issue? … You certainly have intelligence on your side.’
And heaven forbid the dumb be equated with productive units.
A stately nod: ‘Thank you, Dr Saunders. Yes, in all modesty, my head does contain a brain or two …’ unlike some I’ve seen ‘… and I’m certain I can use this to fast-track myself back to the right path in life.’ Swallowing stale bitterness: ‘Believe me, Doctor, you see before you a man ready and willing to fill a niche in Society.’
Reading from another sheet: ‘By that I take it you refer to the business idea you shared in a group therapy encounter chaired by Dr Halloway.’ Reluctantly bright: ‘He seemed most impressed by the co
ncept itself — its integrity and viability — and more so by your enthusiasm for it. I can tell you now, this has weighed heavily in our assessment of your suitability for release.’
A winded silence.
… soul-patrol, mine young minds, spread the dread, fiction conscription …
‘Mr McPike?’
Gator finally finds voice; blurting: ‘I don’t wanna do that now.’
Puzzled: ‘Pardon?’
Too loud: ‘I said I’m not interested in that any more!’
‘Oh … I see.’ Behind her mascara, a dangerous frown slowly forms. ‘Well …’ Brandishing her pen like a gavel: ‘If this is the case … you leave me no choice but to return to my colleagues a significantly less upbeat conclusion than the one We’d almost arrived at.’
Colour drains from Gator as he stares at a place the doctor can’t see.
And for a while he sits perfectly still, perched on his seat like a bird near flight.
Nothing shifting but a pulse on his neck.
A beat so small it might’ve gone unheard.
Eyes snapping to focus with no warning; something lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘You know what? I’ll bloody well do it, then!’
She shrinks a little from the sudden cast of his features: the grinning eyes, the twisted lips. ‘You will, will you?’ Pausing. Grim: ‘… If this is an attempt to con me, Mr McPike, it won’t go unnoticed, I assure you. You see, for releasees like yourself — the employably challenged with sound business notions — grants are available. Indeed, there’s been talk of arranging one of these for you.’ Levelling a finger: ‘But if you were to be released and failed to pursue the venture with adequate ardour … you’d be forcing me to reassess any decisions made at this point.’
Rich irony wreathes itself around Gator’s grin; his whole body seems to ripple with it. ‘Trust me, Dr Saunders. My time here had created something of an … “ambition-dearth”. But you’ve just lit the wick again. I believe you’ll find my “ardour” frightfully adequate.’
Sucking at her teeth, she feigns indecision …
… by degrees allowing mollification to creep over her.
A proclamation: ‘Let us put the onus on you then, shall we, Mr McPike?’
But as she bends her head to the desk, writing hand skimming across the pad, Gator’s expression clears with awful suddenness … and his stare at her crown is as blank as a Gatling cannon’s.
Reading as she writes: ‘“Inmate exhibits sufficient empathy for the requirements of Society.”’
Impossible that the verve in his words could leave such a visage: ‘Oh, I think I know what Society requires, all right, Ruth.’
‘Good.’ A companionable smile. ‘I’ll be seeing you, then.’
Beaming back at her: ‘You can count on it.’
About the Author
Craig Marriner was born in New Zealand in 1974. He was raised and schooled in Rotorua. In the days since, he has mined gold in the Aussie outback, worked security at English soccer stadiums, wintered on an angry Ruapehu, MCed at an Amsterdam comedy club, haggled in the markets of Istanbul, and slept in more train stations than he cares to remember. His ambition is to hitchhike from Cape Town to Copenhagen, his favourite drink is a stiff bloody Mary, and he’s known to be less than pleasant company when the All Blacks are losing. Stonedogs is his first novel.
Copyright
A VINTAGE BOOK
published by
Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
www.randomhouse.co.nz
First published 2001, reprinted 2002, 2003, 2004
© 2001 Craig Marriner
craig@marriner.org
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 7755 3133 3
Design: Elin Termannsen
Cover photograph, artwork and design: Esther Bunning
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press