by HMC
Not everyone could be fixed, not everyone wanted to be fixed. More than anything her idea of being ‘fixed’ was reinventing itself. Her beliefs about what constituted a healthy person were fraying.
As she pulled into the car park of Rowan’s Home she realised it was far too serious a conversation to be having with herself, at such a ridiculously early time of morning, so she filed it away for later.
The daybreak sun caressed the grounds. The natural setting was breathtaking at this time of day; tall tallow trees encircled the buildings and the small creek that flowed past the bushland was rushing and overflowing from the recent storms. Spring had arrived. The sound was calming and Jade took a moment to close her eyes to appreciate it, undistracted. Perhaps she would do a meditation session with the patients. She could just imagine George’s delight.
‘Morning, sunshine!’
Jade’s eyelids flew up like window shades to see Morty sitting on the front steps. Oh, god, I must’ve looked like a moron. Jade smiled and waved clumsily, glad that Morty was far enough away to miss her embarrassed blush. She grabbed her briefcase and locked her car door. As she drew closer it was plain to see that Morty was exhausted. ‘Rough night?’
He yawned at her. ‘Yeah, how did you know?’
‘Just a guess.’
‘I look like crap, don’t I?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve seen worse.’ She really did feel sorry for him because she knew he’d have to be back in twelve hours to start all over again. ‘Well, I hope you sleep well today.’ Jade moved up the stairs and patted Morty on the back as she passed.
‘Before you go in,’ he said, ‘Freddy’s nightmares are getting worse. I thought maybe you could have a talk to him about it.’
Jade nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘And wait ’til you see George.’
‘Oh?’ Jade didn’t like the sound of that.
‘He’s gone bonkers.’ Morty laughed. ‘In a good way, though. It’s a little creepy.’
The doctor sat in front of her first patient and noticed that he was much calmer and clearer. Not to mention that he was speaking to her like she belonged to the same species. It had only been a week and three days but George Barter was looking at her with a normal face, and a very ordinary expression, scowl completely gone. The permanent furrow of his eyebrows had smoothed out. He had even put on a shirt and pants rather than leave on his beloved robe.
Perhaps having someone to listen had been all he needed to start off. It was strange for him – for anyone – to be progressing so quickly and easily. Had it been Sam? Could someone actually ‘knock some sense’ into someone else?
‘It’s very nice to see you looking so healthy, George.’
‘I am healthy,’ he replied.
‘Yes.’
‘Mentally healthy?’ he asked.
‘What do you think, George?’
‘No. Not quite.’ He leaned over as if protecting his chest.
‘What made you ask that?’ Jade said.
‘Well, I know that when I’m thinking these things that they are irrational. The things that make me get embarrassed or angry or severely depressed and the thoughts that make me anxious. I know they’re not real. But when they’re happening they feel real. They feel very real.’ His body was hunched over and he was stumbling over words.
His vulnerability surprised her. ‘Try not to hold back the feelings right now, George. Let them flow and don’t swallow that lump in your throat.’ It was very Gestalt of her.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘It’s after something has happened, when the emotion no longer overwhelms me that I can understand the complete absurdity of it. Then, I can go back and once again feel the irrational feeling that I have already scrutinised and found to be unreasonable. I have no control over these emotions.’
‘And that’s okay.’ Jade made a note on his file. ‘I want you to focus on how it feels in your chest right now.’
‘It’s tight.’
‘Tell me about that.’
After a short moment George burst into tears and Jade passed him some tissues. He took one and blew it to atoms. ‘Don’t try to push it away.’
Words poured out of him and Jade sat and listened. She’d never encountered anyone as skilled at beating himself up as George was. She let him wind down completely before speaking. ‘It’s time to start feeling a little bit of compassion, George. Go easy on yourself. You’re as human as the rest of us. You’ll make mistakes like the rest of us. We’ll work on letting this pain go.’
‘It hurts to let the pain go.’
‘That’s because you know it so well. It served you in the past. I want you to observe your thoughts for the next couple of days. Don’t try to change them, just observe. Can you do that?’ He nodded. ‘We’ll leave it there for now.’
George jumped up and moved out of her office, but at the threshold, he turned back.
‘Jade?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m scared of Sam.’
‘I know.’
‘But I deserved what she did to me.’
Before Jade could say another word he was gone. She could hear him press the buzzer as someone let him back in through the dining room and into the common area. There was still someone in the hall, though.
‘Is that you, Anne?’ she called.
She peered around the corner.
‘Hello.’
Jade’s heart missed a beat.
‘My god, Sam, you scared me. What were you doing lurking in the hallway?’
Sam smiled at her like a Cheshire cat. ‘Just waiting for my turn.’
‘But how did you get here? Did Anne let you through early?’
Sam didn’t answer.
The doctor was getting far too good at catching her out. It was her voice that gave it away. That higher pitch she could put past most people. But it exposed her to those who were attentive, like Jade. The doctor was trained to recognise things that others couldn’t and was certainly a match for her.
‘That’s strange,’ Jade said, sitting down and indicating that Sam should, too. ‘Anne wouldn’t let you through when George was so close by. You’re not supposed to be near him at the moment, and she knows that.’ Jade scrutinized her, looking for other subtle ‘tells.’
Sam thought that perhaps she wanted Jade to know that she could break out of this piss-weak hospital with little effort. Burgess, the old security guard and his teenage buddy were like the three blind mice, minus one.
‘Early arrival notwithstanding, I’m happy to see you’re out and about. I know Dr. Green has spoken to you several times about the incident with George. Would you like to continue discussing it with me today?’
‘No.’ Sam looked down, doing a very good job at appearing ashamed. ‘Thank you,’ she added. Maybe she was a little embarrassed at her behaviour, sitting in front of Jade alone right now. She’d tried really hard to make a good first impression.
‘That’s fine. I understand from the notes that you’ve already worked it through, anyway.’ Jade straightened an already tidy pile of papers.
‘Dr. Green works things through a little differently than you do.’ The session had been a lecture, on keeping hands and feet to oneself.
‘Well, all of us are different. What would you like to talk about today?’
Sam shrugged her shoulders.
‘I would like to start off where we left it, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Where exactly was that?’ Sam knew exactly where it was.
‘You said you don’t know where you would be without your father. That he was good at helping you talk about everything.’
Great. She’d used Sam’s exact words, which revealed absolutely nothing about her, except that she was thorough at her job. ‘Yes. I did say that. So you want to know about my relationship w
ith my father?’
‘A good idea, sure.’
Sam leaned back in her chair, making herself comfortable. ‘Well, his research has been significant and studied all over the world. His theories are continually substantiated. Genetic influence on Bipolar disorders ...’ Jade put a hand up to stop her.
‘Sam, I’ve read his studies and reviews. If you’re not willing to talk to me today, then you might as well go back to the common room.’
Sam grinned. ‘Fine.’
‘What’ll it be?’
‘I’ll talk.’
VISITOR
Morty sat nursing his half cup of coffee and watched his miniature television screen. He saw the moving images without registering entirely as to what they were. There were people moving across the monitor in flashes of colour but his mind was far away from them. So much for no television at work. He hadn’t turned it off in several hours.
Morty couldn’t sleep. He’d always been an insomniac. Even as a child. It was the reason he took the night shift – problem was – he wasn’t sleeping in the daytime anymore, either. He was thinking about how far away he was from the place he supposed he should’ve been. It was an unwise subject to be contemplating at four in the morning, after being awake all night, but he couldn’t help himself.
Morty hadn’t settled down like most of the men his age in Fairholmes. All of the boys he grew up with had wives and children. His mother was getting a little more persistent lately. Every time he went to see her, she’d always ask as she waddled around him: ‘so … have you found yourself a girlfriend yet?’ And Morty hated to disappoint her with his answer, as he usually did.
It was far worse, however, when he was able to say yes. Then of course the question changed to: ‘so how is that girlfriend of yours? When can I meet her?’
The relationship would then fall to itty bitty pieces before that ever happened. He knew it was due to his insensitive and tactless words, which he sometimes couldn’t fathom coming from his own lips. It was as if he’d leave his body and behave like a poltergeist had entered and spat fire at his beloved girlfriends. Why was he so horrendous to them? Morty never blamed a single one of them for leaving. He was an arsehole. Then he would have to come up with some contorted excuse for his poor mother, who just wanted grandchildren.
Maybe he could talk to Dr. Thatcher about his commitment phobias and where they’d developed. Jade, Jade, Jade. She was heaven. But this was how it always started. The infatuation, then the chase, then once he got her he probably wouldn’t want her anymore. Was there something wrong with him? Definitely.
Morty just wanted a woman who could laugh at herself and didn’t continually search for some type of validation that she was wonderful, who could know that she was wonderful all on her own.
As the early hours of the morning crept up in the form of a dull glow, something inside him stirred. Mistaking it for a cigarette craving, Morty washed out his cup and went to visit the front steps for a quick smoke. He had to stay undercover by the door in order to stay dry.
Outside the night was chaotic. The wind raged through the streets like a mad killer and the airborne detritus dimmed the streetlights. In the midst of the squall, a young man pulled a mask over his face and glided across the road, instantly drenched. His shoes squelched with the water, his dark clothing shiny and dripping. The cold seeped through to his skin and he shivered.
He checked his pocket to ensure the safety on his gun was engaged.
A car pulled past him so quickly that he wasn’t sure if the occupants saw him. Perhaps they would call the police? Perhaps he should stop now, while he still could, and go home to his television and couch. He wouldn’t be safer there, though, not when you owed as much money as he did. If he ever wanted to get out of debt, he was going to have to go through with it.
It’s now or never.
The man took out his SIG Mosquito, then changed his mind and put it away. Better to have two hands free for now.
The gun used to make him feel dangerous, protected. Now, it made him feel exposed.
When he reached the building, he took out a set of keys and jiggled the lock, letting himself into the laundry of Rowan’s Home Psychiatric Facility. He moved through the doors. Stopping abruptly, he looked up at the video camera staring straight back at him. He held his breath, he analysed. There was no red light; it was turned off.
His inside man was on the ball. He took slow deep breaths and calmed himself, before continuing down the corridor. Every second counted. This didn’t feel as easy as he thought it was going to.
The walls were filled with notices, children’s drawings, letters and windowless doors. He had expected peephole windows, like you saw in the movies, where a doctor peered through and wrote little notes on their clipboards.
The man counted the doors as he moved along the hall and when he came to the right room, he turned the handle gently. Unlocked. Maybe this would be easy. He had killed a man before, but never a woman. In and out in five minutes; stick to the plan and everything would work out.
The storm outside covered his noise. He was grateful for the cover but it also made him temporarily deaf to any warning sounds. Hearing footsteps was impossible. He slithered around the door and into the young woman’s room. Her hair was hanging off the side of the pillow, long and beautiful. Samantha. He took his gun out of his pocket and checked the silencer. Closing the door in case of any interruption, he felt safe that the woman wouldn’t wake with the sleeping pills they’d given her.
Aiming the barrel down, he pulled the trigger. The kickback was minimal and the darkness hid the bloodshed. The job was now half complete. Getting to the men’s wing was going to be the hardest part.
One down, one to go.
Damon Speirlsman opened his eyes.
Something was wrong.
Something was so wrong that it woke him out of a sound sleep.
Sweat fell down from his forehead and sat on his eyebrow. He let it linger there for a moment, trying hard not to move and interfere with his own listening. Blessed with exceptional hearing, in spite of the storm Damon was sure that someone was coming down the hall, and the gait pattern wasn’t that of either nurse. He listened for where they were coming from, where they were going and, most importantly, for how they came.
Keys jiggled in the door to the wing. Not a patient – the patients didn’t have keys. The door creaked open, but all the doors creaked. It wasn’t too far, not too close. The front entrance door would’ve been softer and the kitchen entrance louder. They’d come from the staffroom entrance, right through from the females’ wing.
It could’ve been Martha. But Martha-Jane wouldn’t have jiggled the lock with obvious difficulty; she’d done it a million times. She wouldn’t open the door this slowly because she knew that it creaked – the faster you opened it the quieter it was. These were not her footsteps – small and delicate women walked lighter, faster and coming in at this time of night she should’ve had some sense of urgency.
This could be one of the moments he’d been waiting for, trained for. Damon grabbed his gun from under his mattress and moved quickly over to his bedroom door to listen.
He crept into the hall.
There was a man there – a tall dark outline, creeping, with a gun in his right hand.
Wind howled outside the home and Damon followed the gunman. He was close, now, and tried not to breathe on the man’s neck.
The gunman entered George’s room and Damon took this as his cue. He pressed the barrel of his gun up to the man. ‘Drop it!’ The gunman snapped sideways and fired.
George Barter sat up in his bed, in shock. The dead body of a masked man on his floor had rendered him speechless.
Damon was standing over the body.
How did Damon get a gun?
George didn’t care; Damon had just saved his life. This unknown man, whom George had
previously loathed, had just swept in and saved his miserable life.
George had only awoken to scuffling. He had switched on his lamp to find Damon with a choke hold on a tall man in a mask. He had a gun at the stranger’s temple. The man was quick and tried to turn on Damon, but Damon had fired, ending the struggle. Blood had showered the room like an appalling fountain. He now wore it on his pyjamas. George had to remind himself to breathe. There were pieces of the masked man all over the room and his stomach lurched. George threw himself out of bed, in a futile attempt to escape the mess.
Damon took the silenced gun, with what could only be called practiced skill, from the would-be-murderer’s hand and shoved it into his waistband.
‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ George croaked.
Damon responded by putting his finger to his lips. He then placed his own handgun by the dead body.
He watched as Damon expertly and purposely placed fingerprints from the dead man’s hand, onto the new gun. George wondered how the hell he was dealing with all this fine detail when all George wanted to do was wet himself.
Damon looked up, so calm, so sure. ‘George, say something.’
‘Something.’
‘Pay attention, George. If you listen to what I say, everything will be fine. Nod if you understand me.’
He nodded.
The sound of voices calling out could be heard clearly. Morty opened the door after several false starts, and hurried down the corridor of the males’ wing, not certain which way he should go first.
Damon stepped out of George’s doorway and summoned him.
‘What happened?’ Morty shouted. He entered George’s room and found a dead man on the floor. His arms and legs were contorted in such a way that he looked like a child’s rag doll, carelessly thrown on the floor. There was blood everywhere and a gun beside the body.
‘Move away!’ Morty put his hands out. ‘George, come here.’ Damon and George moved and stood behind him, as he ushered them backwards and away from the body.
