Burn Patterns

by Ron Elliott

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m going to try a different tack this evening.’

  ‘Is he a pyromaniac?’

  ‘Is anyone?’

  Actual pyromaniacs were rare. There were many reasons for lighting fires; pure compulsion was offered in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders only if all other motives and psychological factors were ruled out.

  ‘Iris, we don’t need another psychiatrist. We need your expertise. We need you to do your thing.’

  ‘I’m still feeling my way with him.’

  ‘Thanks. You sound well.’

  ‘Sleeping like a baby.’ Iris buttoned off before Frank could press further.

  Iris buzzed Paul Hampton in, tried to switch gears.

  ‘So, you’ve been in the news, Iris.’

  Paul stood in front of her desk, leaning forward slightly at the waist, peering at Iris who sat behind her desk. His cologne didn’t disguise a strong smell of disinfectant.

  ‘Yes, lots of adventures.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ He said it oddly, as he did with many things involving feelings.

  ‘I’m quite all right, Paul. Thank you for asking.’

  He nodded, dismissed it, sat in the middle of the couch, both arms stretched out along the back. He wore a striped Country Road–style shirt, jeans and good boots, the horse breeder on a Saturday. Thirty-two years old, his body was starting to soften from the good paddock. His face was full, too pale to be the horse breeder.

  ‘Well, enough about you. Let’s talk about me.’

  Iris smiled. She suspected it was not irony, but the truth. ‘Let’s do that. It’s what you pay for.’

  ‘Exactly.’ His eyes went cold.

  ‘So, Mary tells me you needed this extra session because you have an emergency.’

  ‘Why were you so late?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul. I have a number of patients.’

  This seemed to make the narcissist in him angry. He paused, flicking through cards he might use before finally saying, ‘Mary tells me you’ve been out at Fieldhaven talking to a suspect in the school fire.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have shared confidential information.’

  ‘She’s not very bright.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Paul.’

  ‘Fair?’ He waved the word away. ‘Bigger fish to fry than my emergency.’

  Iris sighed. ‘I’m sorry Paul. I really am. I’m all yours now. You’re the biggest fish I’m frying.’

  He scanned her for a number of seconds before he found the joke and gave her a snort.

  ‘I fell off the wagon.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘On the weekend. I could feel it building.’

  ‘You didn’t call me?’

  ‘I gave in to it.’ Paul was an alcoholic, not so much a constant drinker, rather an abstainer who occasionally binged.

  ‘Your wife? The kids?’

  ‘They were away for the weekend. Her mother’s.’

  ‘So, are you able to control your desire to drink, when she and the kids are around?’

  ‘Well … it is … no, it’s irrelevant. I can go away too. Say I have a conference. Say I have to see a man about a horse.’ He snorted, checked she’d understood his joke. ‘She wouldn’t know if her arse was on fire, as you know.’

  Iris had met Paul’s wife only once when she attended a counselling session. She was quiet, eager to please her husband, proud of him and her children. She was compliant, outwardly, adoring of Paul’s everything. The only problem she had was during Paul’s dark moods when they all tiptoed around him. She was surprised to hear of Paul’s drinking problem.

  ‘Is this fair, Paul? She loves you.’

  ‘Of course she does.’ He missed a beat, came up with, ‘I can be very lovable, Iris.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure you can’t give AA another try?’

  ‘We’ve been over this.’ He was angry. Very angry. He sat forward on the couch. ‘I don’t believe in a higher power. I don’t believe in a higher power than me. It’s a stupid fairy story for idiots. I don’t believe in sitting around talking to morons.’ He caught himself. He leaned back on the chair, his arms back out. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make me angry, Iris. There’s no need. You are bright, I know, so you don’t need to badger me by returning to old ground. Let’s move on.’

  Iris suspected Paul would be happy talking to morons, just not happy having to listen to them.

  She said, ‘Bright people can have a problem with alcohol. If you found the right person …’

  ‘I have. It’s you. You have to try harder.’

  ‘Time out, Paul.’

  ‘What? No, I didn’t …’

  Iris raised her finger, like a schoolteacher, pointing it at him.

  He sat up straight, clutched his knees together.

  It was Iris who needed the time. She’d established rules of her own when Paul became too rude or manipulative. She was not going to enter into an abusive relationship with him. She suspected narcissistic personality disorder. He would not let her test. It was not her job to judge him in that way. His narcissism was part of his make-up and she must ignore it or work with it, exactly as she’d ignore the swearing of a Tourette’s sufferer.

  ‘Are you all right, Iris?’

  ‘Yes, Paul. Thank you.’

  ‘I was not trying to offend you.’

  ‘Good. Very well. When did you feel like you wanted a drink?’

  ‘Most of the time, but it built to a level a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We talked about identifying a trigger …’

  He shook his head. Then he thought of something that made him smirk. He met her gaze. ‘It’s like sex, Iris. You have sex. It’s good. It’s good even when it’s not great. You know what I mean.’

  Iris didn’t say anything. She waited.

  ‘If you don’t know what I mean, well, some things become clear. Let me tell you. After you have sex, your desire for more sex slowly builds. A pretty woman triggers a thought. Breasts pushing at the fabric of a t-shirt. A woman gets up on the bus. Another crosses her legs in the office. A commercial. The weather girl. Anything, everything, becomes a trigger because the desire has built … the pressure on the walls of the dam. I really want a great big … drink.’

  Paul had trouble with jokes, both in hearing and telling them. He was often inappropriate. Iris also suspected transference. He was over-keen on her past celebrity. He tried to flirt in an overt, distasteful way. On the other hand, Iris also wondered if his narcissism merely called for an admiring listener, like a kind of ear prostitute. Sit, listen, tell me how amazing I am and I’ll pay $120 per hour.

  ‘I only told you because you asked. I thought the sex metaphor a good one. It describes the many triggers and the none. The anticipation, too. Surely as a narrative therapist, you’d like a good metaphor.’

  ‘Do you have support mechanisms, Paul? At work?’

  ‘Yes. As I’ve told you, as should be in your notes, I’m on a committee for the local veterinary association. My staff are loyal, obedient. My wife would do anything …’

  ‘All the same, as we’ve talked about, veterinary physicians have a high rate of depression. Suicide risk. There are studies …’

  ‘Of averages. Of weak people. Boohoo. The dog is whimpering. Oh my, I could save the cat but this lady can’t pay, we have to put it down. Oh dear, I have to work long hours to save the horses. It’s the job, Iris. We save animals. We reduce suffering. We are paid good money to do it. I’ve told you before why I think we’re four times more likely to top ourselves – generation X and Y are spoilt children who think the world is their mummy. We have access to drugs which can easily end it and we know how to use them. The world is their mummy. Get over it.’ He stopped, red-faced. He wagged his finger at her, suddenly smiling with no humour in his eyes. ‘You got another rise out of
me. Did you do it on purpose?’

  ‘That was all you.’

  Paul was pissed.

  ‘Are those the views you express to the veterinary association?’

  ‘Good lord, no. Wise counsel. Colleagues all. To answer your question, yet again. Your real question, which is probably what made me angry, actually. You keep asking me about my work. I don’t feel stress from it. It pleases me. I am not depressed. I don’t suffer from depression. Except at your continued stupidity.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t have any problems, Paul. Why see me?’

  He sat blinking at her. He smiled his humourless smile.

  He was hiding something again. Iris couldn’t decide whether he’d fixed on her; was attempting to woo her in a massively contradictory way, or whether he did have something way down deep that part of him knew needed helping. It was as if Paul’s first language was not English, he was always translating before he spoke or showed his emotions.

  ‘As I’ve said from the beginning, the drinking.’

  ‘Which you don’t want to analyse, you don’t want to stop.’

  ‘I’m willing to listen to arguments that I should. Which don’t involve fairytales or gods. So far you’ve been less than convincing, Iris.’ He paused. Found a phrase. Added, ‘Is there a money-back clause?’

  He smiled again, smug. Was this a game he kept winning by blocking her? Was it, you can’t help me, no one can help me? Was this a game about his superiority? You can’t help me. I’m too complex.

  ‘Was your dad pretty tough on you?’

  ‘Now you’re going to earn your money. I’m in for a tough time now.’

  ‘Which is the same word I said to you. So he was?’

  Paul thought. Finally said, ‘Yes.’

  Iris waited.

  ‘All right, yes. He was tough, when he was home. Hard but fair.’

  ‘Where was he, when he wasn’t around?’

  ‘I’ve told you this. He was a fly-in fly-out worker before they were all called FIFOs. Mining.’

  ‘Did he drink?’

  ‘Average.’

  Iris waited.

  Paul didn’t go on.

  Iris was getting close. No more smirks.

  ‘The bedwetting …’

  ‘I knew it would get back to this.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘I should never have told you. You’re obsessive about it.’

  Iris hadn’t mentioned it, this or last visit.

  ‘It bothers you?’

  ‘Of course not. Children do. My children did. You learn bladder control and you don’t. Normal.’

  ‘You told me you still wet the bed sometimes when you were of school age.’

  ‘You’re going to use it against me at every opportunity, aren’t you? Page one of whatever textbook you read and never got past. I don’t wet my bed now. I’m not here about bedwetting.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul. I don’t mean it as criticism. Seeing if a pattern emerges, is all.’

  ‘Which you can’t do.’

  ‘I was going to ask if the bedwetting was worse when your dad was home.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘He would have beaten me. Don’t you listen to anything we talk about here? You haven’t written many notes today. I’m not surprised. I don’t think you’ll be back on television giving many interviews about the correlation between wetting the bed at ten years old and binge drinking.’

  Ten. He hadn’t said he was ten. That was late.

  ‘Can I write this? The bedwetting was worse when your father was away.’

  ‘Are you having a bad day, Iris? Why do you keep trying to provoke me?’

  Iris thought about this. ‘Yes, you might be right, Paul. I have had a bad couple of days. I do have trouble sleeping. If those things have made me less than generous in this session, I apologise. I mean it. You could be right.’

  He tilted his head slightly to the side as he studied her. It must be how he analysed a sick animal in his practice, thought Iris.

  ‘You were nearly blown up, Mary said.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘The police asked me for advice.’

  He tilted his head the other way, studying her again. Iris realised it was a dog he reminded her of, a dog trying to understand a human.

  She asked, ‘Was your mother tough?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your dad was tough on you boys, what about your mother?’

  ‘No. Wrong track.’

  ‘You used the word “mummy” in a sentence before. I think you said the new generation of veterinarians think the world is their mummy, which is the usual sense of it, but then you said, “Well the world is their mummy. Get over it.” What did you mean?’

  He missed a beat, said, ‘You’re an idiot. A moron. I can’t deal with you today. I’m completely wasting my time, aren’t I?’

  He stood, turned to scan the couch, perhaps to check for anything he might have left behind, then glared at her again. She remained sitting behind the desk, meeting his gaze. He shook his head as he walked out.

  Iris glanced at the clock on the desk and saw it was fifteen minutes early. It felt like a small victory. Not only because he’d left fifteen minutes early. She circled the word ‘mother’ on her notes.

  *

  Mary looked up from her desk when Iris came out of her office. ‘Rodney Fitzmorris has put in a call from the prison. He wants to see you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Iris did not feel like seeing Rodney again so soon after seeing Paul Hampton. In fact, she had a sudden desire to visit the butterflies.

  ‘Gillian asked when you were next expected in.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Um, probably something about Meredith Marsh.’ Iris wanted the butterflies. ‘Get me her mobile number, would you, Mary?’

  ‘Patricia wants to see you.’

  ‘No problem. On my way,’ lied Iris.

  She drove to the zoo playing a Brandenburg concerto. She wasn’t even sure which one. Mathew introduced her to classical music and it had grown on her over the years, especially in the car. It helped create a bubble. She also liked to play classical music in her home office, composing the narrative letters and patient reports. It eased part of her, yet did not interfere with the writing. She rang Biara but couldn’t get the duty psychologist. Iris left word to suggest Rodney Fitzmorris might need support intervention. Interview, possibly observation. He was not coping well in remand.

  It was a weekday, the zoo relatively quiet. Retirees, mums with toddlers. The dim smell of animals and the yeastier one of their compost filled the hot, still air. She wore a hat, straw yet stylish. She wore a sky-blue blouse, bare-armed. Iris realised she must have wanted the butterfly enclosure this morning before she left home. Her top was a good butterfly-attracting colour. She stopped at the otters, watched them tumble under water. A squirrel galloped up a palm tree. A lolly wrapper floated past, in a sudden wind gust.

  She entered the outer hatch, looking up to make sure no butterflies had made their way out before going through the other door into the humid rainforest inside. Monarchs were feeding on the orange hexagonal feeding tables. She watched closely as the proboscis unwound to dab at the sweetness, its wings flexing gently as if breathing.

  Iris stood up, letting her eyes find whatever took their fancy. The warm, soothing air held scattered flutterings. The butterflies didn’t so much fly as totter in the air, like random zephyr autumn leaves. The orange and the black and a splash of blue winked in real sunlight filtered through a panel in the roof.

  Iris raised her arms, closed her eyes. She could smell real flowers, sickly sweet, beginning their decay the instant they opened. There were bananas somewhere too. She listened to her skin. One landed, tickling. She examined her arm. A common grass yellow sat quivering. She scanned the front of her blouse to see another sunning on her.

  The butterfly
house was not a place to think. It was the opposite. It was a place where Iris allowed herself not to think. Simply to be. Mindfulness, it was called, but she liked to think of it as mindless, mind empty. Iris was a warm, floating flower. She allowed her sensations to rule, set to feel minute calibrations.

  ‘Look, Grandma. The lady has butterflies on her.’

  ‘Don’t touch, darling. Look but don’t touch.’

  ‘I’ll break them,’ said the girl, dutiful.

  Rosemarie had liked the butterfly enclosure when she was little. The animals were ticked off, as they tramped every avenue, but the butterflies were treated with appropriate awe. They were too delicate, too tame to be believed.

  Chapter seven

  As Iris was getting out of her car at the maximum security Park Wing in Fieldhaven, she noticed a man leaning on the bonnet of a yellow ute. He waved to her as he heaved himself up and limped towards her.

  He wore jeans, boots and a business shirt that strained around his gut, tucked in under a firey’s belt buckle. His chunky watch was clearly capable of calculating planetary orbits and sea depths. ‘Gidday, Doc. I was hoping to run into you.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor,’ she said by reflex.

  ‘Yes you are. It’s what we call all you medicos. Saves time. I’ve got a couple of questions for you, and a few I’d like you to ask him.’ He pointed towards the entrance.

  The entrance was glassed, the building red brick with a red tin roof. The security started further in.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me in.’ He raised his eyebrows, continuing to invite a complicity.

  Iris recalled him from the hospital. ‘The fire investigator,’ she said.

  He seemed hurt. ‘Chuck. I’m working the school fire.’ He stopped in front of her. His face was red, tanned, wind-chapped. His eyes were slightly weepy, which could have been from exposure to smoke and carcinogens – occupational hazard. His smile worked hard at reassurance.

  ‘I don’t understand, Mr …’

  ‘Call me Chuck. I hear you’re already interrogating a suspect. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Mr …’

  ‘Charles Koch.’ Now he was pissed off, which was how Iris felt too. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet to flip open at his fire service identification.