Burn Patterns

by Ron Elliott

  ‘Thank you Charles,’ Iris said.

  He lumbered out, his shoulders stooped, happy to be back working too hard.

  Pavlovic got off the desk, grabbed another chair. He brought it forward in front of Iris, planted his feet and eyeballed her from less than a metre.

  Iris glowered. ‘Every big break on this case has come from me.’

  ‘Did you have sex with him? In the room in the psychiatric hospital?’

  ‘No. I did not. I thought about it, but I did not.’

  ‘Did you let him light the fire?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Did you break him out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you assist with the fire at the zoo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you kill your secretary twelve months ago?’

  ‘What?’ Iris felt a wave a nausea. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not so sure. Did you kill your secretary?’

  ‘You must have the reports.’

  ‘I do. They don’t add up.’

  It was time, Iris realised. It had been on the edge, trying to come to, to break out of its compartment. It was time.

  Pavlovic went on, ‘She was embezzling you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her son put in a complaint. Explained your possible motive.’

  ‘I was having it out with her. Margret was her name.’

  ‘You lured Bradley Williams. You knocked him out and you locked Margret in your office and you lit the fire and went for a coffee.’

  ‘Except I didn’t. I was having it out with her. She was being unreasonable. She was making demands. I left to get coffee, to cool down.’

  ‘In that ten minutes, in that tiny window, that’s when he came and that’s when it all happened and you come back and it’s already too late. All in that ten minutes. You expect anyone to believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You only had one coffee.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s in one of the police reports. Young go-getter noticed you only had one coffee, even though you said, “I was getting us coffee.”’

  ‘Will you let me tell you?’

  ‘Tell away.’ He didn’t sit back. He stayed leaning forward, looking into her eyes.

  Iris took a breath. She could, she knew she could. ‘The thing is, I think I noticed his truck. I stormed out. She’d been ripping me off for years. She’d been taking about twenty-five percent of my profits. That is a lot. When I asked her, she went on the attack. She had problems and I had everything. Anyway, I was really angry with her. Livid. I left, not sure where I was heading. I was about to cross the road and I remember thinking, Bradley Williams’ truck. He owned a big, reddish, American utility. A Dodge? His own number plate, it all came up in the report I’d done, Pumper 1. A pumper is one of the fire appliances. It also suggests an inflated macho attitude, way too into it. Anyway, I was at the road, the image of his truck came into my mind. I crossed the road and ordered the coffee. I’d received a warning on him. He’d made a threat, about me, when they’d let him go. Do you know about his case?’

  Pavlovic said, ‘He was a candidate for firelighting. They were weeding them out of the volunteer brigade.’

  ‘I suggested they keep him, but watch him. So … he was in the carpark and I could have phoned the police. Immediately. I could have phoned Margret too. Told her to lock the doors or get out. I was angry and not thinking clearly. Are you happy? I did contribute to what happened. I could have stopped it, maybe. I could have gone back in. I might have talked him down. I might have been more explicit with how I directed the volunteer service to deal with him. As it turns out, he was a firelighting risk! And a killer. I suffered a mini breakdown. I kept seeing Margret in the window. I didn’t even call Fire and Rescue. I have been on sleeping pills. I have been trying not to think about his truck, seeing it in the parking lot and not taking a better action. I’ve been suffering from stress and imagined guilt and dissociation and also real guilt. Like a few of my patients, I’ve whispered to myself: I am not sick. And lo and behold, here I am, better, through time and other things, ready to face it. Pop. No, I haven’t finished, Detective. Margret was a nasty woman. I think she reminded me of my mother. I believe I kept her on for that reason. I let her get away with it for that reason. I felt guilty about hating my mother. I continue to feel guilty because part of me likes that she is dead, both my mother and Margret. Awful, isn’t it? What a despicable thing to understand about yourself. Someone you know is murdered and you’re glad. We are not brought up to find that acceptable. But I didn’t do it. I did not kill her. I am not responsible for her death. I am not a nice person. Or a particularly happy one. None of this makes me a killer.’

  ‘You only bought one coffee.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘How did he get knocked out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If she knocked him out, why didn’t she run out the front door, rather than back into your office?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What bothers me most is this same MO. The church, the zoo and maybe even the school are like the fire at your office. We have a fire where people die, we have a very obvious offender, the patsy who’s either mad or dead, wrapped up in a bow, and we have you, standing nearby with a cup of coffee and a Mona Lisa smile.’

  For a person who claimed to have such an open mind, Pavlovic proved to be dogged in his adherence to a single theory and a single suspect. Iris said, ‘Put me in with James. I’ll make another mistake and you will have your evidence. Bring the whole show.’

  Chapter twenty-four

  Which is how they did it. On a middle floor of the Royal Hospital – the very one that overlooked Hill Church where James had been electrocuted only days before – was yet another secure ward given over to violent patients and criminals of indeterminate mental state who needed medical procedures too complex for prison infirmaries.

  Pavlovic had gathered a team. To augment the permanently fixed camera high on the wall of the hospital room, were two camera operators from police technical support. They set up one camera facing James, another facing an empty chair next to the bed. John, the Chinese federal psychologist, appeared bemused. The uniformed policeman standing next to the bed presented as experienced. He was armed with a pistol and taser. Frank Silverberg arrived, acknowledging everyone including, but with no special attention, Iris.

  Iris said, ‘I feel like I’m doing my final exams.’

  No laughter.

  ‘Half an hour,’ said Iris. ‘I want half an hour with absolutely no interruptions. No other voices apart from mine. No eye contact, apart from those camera people.’

  ‘Demands?’ said Frank with a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Therapy as public sport, televised. You can be executive producer, Frank, maybe take care of casting.’

  Frank gave his wounded face, but said, ‘Iris has my confidence.’

  John said, ‘Half an hour.’

  Everyone turned to Detective Pavlovic who merely gestured towards the door of the hospital room where James lay.

  Iris went in.

  James was strapped to a bed with leather belts across his chest and legs. He was hooked up to an ECG, a drip. His left hand was heavily bandaged, as was his foot. His right foot was manacled to the bed, although the manacle was softened by a cloth collar around his ankle.

  His eyes were closed, his face pale, his dark complexion a little yellowed although his pallor might have been affected by the hospital lights.

  Iris said, ‘James. Hello. It’s Iris.’

  He opened his eyes. They were filmy. He’d been drugged. Iris should have asked what was in the drip.

  She sat, ignoring the camera person at the wall, the people behind her. She dragged the chair forward so she was closer to James’s face, then became distracted when the policeman moved forward too, his hand on his taser. Iris raised her hands to show him they were empty. She had been searched by her favourite police
woman before being allowed to enter the hospital.

  Iris said to James, ‘I told you I’d be back. I told you I was here for the long haul.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Can you hear me, James?’

  ‘Yes, Iris.’

  ‘More burns.’

  ‘Don’t cut it off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t amputate, even if it’s good for me.’

  ‘It was a metaphor. A bad metaphor.’ Iris felt pleased. He sounded like James, tired, sedated yet still lucid.

  ‘My foot is sore.’

  ‘The electricity. It went in your hand and out your foot, apparently.’

  ‘Which was the idea.’

  Iris didn’t pursue it. She said, ‘I asked them to lower your pain relief a little, so I could talk to you.’

  ‘Zeus. Everyone wants to talk about Zeus. I’m yesterday’s man.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Zeus.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ He talked slowly, his face unanimated.

  ‘I want to talk about you, James. I don’t want to talk about him. Zeus. What a poncy name.’

  James giggled. ‘The father of the gods. Don’t rile him.’

  ‘Who am I talking to?’

  ‘James.’

  ‘From Earth?’

  ‘Yes.’ James giggled again.

  ‘James Jules?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your wife’s name?’

  James went quiet. He grimaced. ‘Nisa. She …’ He sighed.

  Iris said, ‘It’s all right James. I don’t want you to have to think about that right now. Let’s talk about other things. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time.’

  ‘No, we … did you kiss me?’

  Iris felt a mild ripple behind her. ‘Possibly. I hugged you. I was forced to leave. I’m sorry. I talked a lot with a Martian.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I remember.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Bits. I lived rough. Couch-surfed. Roamed. Odd jobs. It was good, fun.’ He drifted for a while. Iris let him. James said, ‘I know it was a fantasy. I kind of knew all along but I couldn’t stop doing it. The more I did it the more I felt bound to keep it up.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘On the road. Queensland.’

  ‘Where in Queensland?’

  ‘In a circus.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I was born in a circus.’ He smiled the smile he used when he said he was from Mars. ‘Truth is stranger than delusion. You don’t have to believe me.’

  Iris decided she’d come back to it later. ‘What’s your full name?’

  ‘James Benjamin Jules.’

  ‘JJ.’

  ‘I don’t like being called JJ.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘My mother was a farm girl. My father was a horse rider, like a horse acrobat, in the circus, and knife thrower. It wasn’t a big circus. My mother became the girl who stood very still while the knives missed her by as little as possible. She … he … well, those things happened, two attractive young people. She took me back to her farm, but I am black, which meant it didn’t go well, apparently. She became hurt, bitter. We were forced to go back to the circus after a while because we … had to go somewhere. My father wasn’t there anymore.’ James drifted off.

  ‘You did tricks.’ It made sense suddenly.

  ‘Yes. Tough way to make a living, working the circus. Hot, dusty. No glamour at all. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘We don’t have to talk about the circus, James.’

  James shouted, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Shh, shh. It’s okay James. They tell me you’re a laboratory technician?’

  ‘I went to school. I was taken in. I went to school and university.’

  ‘Where did you go to university?’

  ‘I became a science teacher for a two years before leaving.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like science.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Georgio and Lena died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Car accident. They were old. I was down south working in a school. I left Australia after the funeral. I went to Malaysia. Lots of parts of Asia. I searched for my father for a while. I got a job as a lab tech, in KL. I met Nisa.’

  ‘How long were you in Asia?’

  ‘Six or seven years, I suppose.’

  ‘How often did you visit this city?’

  ‘Once in a while. Not often.’

  ‘Did you set up a fire at Barnard Christian College?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? You seem sure now. You weren’t before.’

  ‘I don’t see why I would.’

  ‘Where were you when it happened?’

  ‘With the girls.’

  ‘The girls were after. Where were you before the girls?’

  He thought for some time. ‘The desert. Hitchhiking. Walking sometimes.’

  ‘Do you remember the fire at your house, in Malaysia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  James was quiet.

  Iris thought she might have to steer him away from it again. She knew she was pushing things too fast, hoped the random nature was led by James.

  He said, ‘I wanted to die.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In my house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Nisa came back to save me. I thought they were gone. I thought they’d left me. I was behaving badly. Sick. Like the Martian, but not the Martian. I wanted to die. I lit a fire downstairs, went up to Benny’s cot. I lay in his cot, to sleep. Forever. They came back and they were the ones who burned, not me. I got out.’ James began to moan, his moan breaking down into sobs.

  Iris stood up, touched James’s cheek.

  The policeman made a sudden move and Iris saw the taser out of his holster. She glared, then returned to James.

  Iris said, ‘Shh, shh. It’s awful, James. It is very bad, I know. We’ll talk about this later. Your poor kids. You didn’t mean to, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  Iris stroked his forehead. She returned to her chair, keeping her eyes down. She didn’t want to see the crowd at the door, along the back wall of the hospital room. She sat on her chair. She wondered what had caused James to light the fire at his house. There must have been other incidents, an existing condition, a first cause. Iris would like to talk about the circus, his adoptive parents and his mother.

  ‘What?’ said Iris. He’d talked; she hadn’t been listening.

  ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Zeus. He calls himself Zeus.’

  ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Are you Zeus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you know, if he is inside you?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could be.’

  ‘Do you ever have blackouts? Missing time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you can’t be sure he’s not in you?’

  ‘I can’t answer that. No one could answer that.’

  Iris smiled. ‘Are you a Martian?’

  ‘No. I know I was … kind of living him. Living the character. I … yes, I see what you mean. He drugged me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He came into the hospital room. They moved me, after you left. He came in and gave me an injection.’

  ‘What does he look like, the man who calls himself Zeus?’

  Iris found herself holding her breath. Pavlovic had so persisted with his line of questioning even she was ready for James to say, ‘He looked like you, Iris. Zeus is you.’ How would she know if it was not knowable?

  James said, ‘It was mostly dark and I was drugged. He was kind of lik
e nobody. Blondish. About my height. Fatter. Fuller than me. He made me sneeze. I was in his van, strapped to a wheelchair, my arms were gaffer-taped. I was still upset about the things I remembered about the kids. I was confused. I was still the Martian, the kids were screaming and you were kissing me, not Nisa, but I was in the back of a van. Maybe one of the containers of ether had a faulty top because I drifted, thinking about Nisa leaving me and the fire. Back in Australia I was a Martian. Strange.’

  ‘You were in a van. Were you driving?’

  ‘No. Strapped to a wheelchair. He was driving, talking in the front. At first I thought someone else was in the van, only I couldn’t see anyone, it was only him talking and … he was excited, angry. He was admonishing, admonishing the world. He was … he called me “thing”. “You will be famous, thing. You will be me. You will steal my fame but I will know. It should be mine.” I kept passing out, I think. I also pretended to be out because I was working on the gaffer tape. It’s actually harder than handcuffs because you can’t get to it with your fingers. I used to get out of things as one of the acts in the circus, when I was small … and break into places too, on the road. We arrived before I could do more than loosen it a bit by stretching it.

  ‘He had trouble getting me off the van. He was grunting. He heard a noise and went off and came back. He said, “I put him down. Quick and kind. Put you down too, crazy thing.” We are at an old church. A huge church. I thought this has to be a dream. He wheeled me down some steps. He kept talking and I kept pretending to be unconscious. He said, “I’m not going to bring it all in. It’s not necessary to make the trick work.” He talked about you, Iris.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He thought they might have seen things under the school they shouldn’t have because Iris came and stopped it. He thought you’d done something to make the school go wrong. He got angry with you. He said you were dead. He … he has lots of different feelings about you, I think.’

  ‘Oh. Hmm.’ As Frank said, he was a fan, or a competitor.

  ‘He explained everything in detail, like the whole thing was how to put a clock together, describing what each thing’s function is. I was a thing with a function. He said, “They have to see you. This cord you have to hold. Do you understand? I know you’re awake. I only gave you three point five milligrams. You have to do your part. You won’t suffer. I could make you squeal and quiver and cry and make your eyes go wide with soul pain, do you know? Do you know how long I could keep doing it? So, you be a good thing. Hold this.” He plugged the extension cord into a wall socket, laid it out to the wheelchair. He poured water on the ground, on the stone pavement. He cut the gaffer tape. He had a knife. I thought of getting it but I sneezed. I couldn’t help it. I sneezed and sneezed again. He jumped back, holding the knife up. “Crazy Martian thing. You are going to be me.” He was going to electrocute me, you see. He talked to me like I was a monkey or a moron. I couldn’t stop sneezing. He is boring. Tiresome even when about to kill you. “You need to stand in this puddle and pick up the cord.” He flicked the power point switch, careful to jump back. “You need to stand and grab the cord.” Lights started flashing. They flashed on a wall, making the glass jars pulse blue. I wasn’t certain whether I was having another hallucination. He went to the steps. I kept my feet up on the rubber footrests of the wheelchair. Do you know about electricity and earthing? I knew it was a long shot. I put my hand in my pocket. I was hoping it’d go down my side. As long as it didn’t pass through my heart. As long as the amps were right. It’s strange, isn’t it, Iris?’