by Tim Roy
Additionally, the Government continues to deny an incident that transpired shortly after my discharge from the SAS. Those in power decide to deny certain facts and leave me grasping at fragments of truth. I plead with others to accept that my truth can be substantiated, if they would just do the research. They don’t and they won’t.
I have been trained to a level of expertise that civilians would prefer remain within military boundaries. Their attitude is: ‘we prefer to not have to know the truth, just let them do the job that none of us will do.’
The receptionist returns to her desk and picks up my file.
‘The Doctor will see you now. Please follow me.’
Today will tell me of Doctor Evans’ commitment to my mental health. I hope he has read the NSW Ombudsman’s report I left with him on my first visit; he might be of some help if he can see how blatantly the truth has been disguised and that the Government is covering up the past.
‘Please, come in, I will be with you in a moment.’
I enter his office and take a seat in the biggest chair, sitting on the edge with my back rigidly straight. The Doctor is busy reading the Ombudsman’s report. He has two pages to finish. I am pleased that he is seems interested in my concerns. He finally looks up and says,
‘This would be a great book, better still a movie.’
I have heard it all before. Friends who have read the report would make similar comments.
‘Well Doc, what do you think? Am I deluded about what they are denying? Does it give reason to be paranoid?’ I ask.
‘No, I don’t think you are paranoid or deluded about the raidfrom the NSW police. However, I believe that the years of stress that have eventuated because you felt that no one would believe your facts have resulted in signs and symptoms that can be arrested with the proper treatment and a bit of hospital rest.
In reference to the facts contained in the Ombudsman report, it’s very easy to see where the police have doctored the documents.
It is clear they carried automatic weapons and intended them to be used on you and your family. Please, can you recall to me the details of the evening of the Raid on you, after leaving the SAS?’
I look out the window into his garden, looking through the plants, not at them.
‘Do you know that there is no one out there?’ the Doctor inquires.
I turn and glance at him, signalling that I don’t need to be relegated to a hospital bed allocated to people who look out windows waiting for the shadows to move.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask knowing the answer. He doesn’t shame me by answering the question; my tone relieves the Doctor’s anxiety.
I withdraw a videotape from my daypack and tap it solidly— a favoured idiosyncrasy. I insert it into the video player and turn the on the TV. The tape is a recording of an interview that is an expose on incidents relating to the TRG that the government didn’t want to acknowledge. The opening scene shows me sitting at the table in my campervan, the journalist sitting opposite. Doctor Evans stares into the television, his pen poised to write in his pad. The journalist opens the presentation.
‘The Tactical Response Group of New South Wales Police Force, who once again get it wrong.’
‘Today we are at Mrs Roy’s house. What happened here last night was quite extraordinary. A simple household became a siege site. The Tactical Response Group raided this house with the assistance of the Military Police and the Bomb Disposal Group.
Mrs Roy’s son, an ex SAS officer, was having an open garage sale, selling off his past to collect funds to enable him and his girlfriend to travel around Australia in their campervan.’
‘Mr Roy; can you explain to me what happened last night?
‘I was awoken last night after midnight when I heard loud banging on my Mother’s front door As I put a pair of pants on, there was a knock on the campervan door. I opened the door to see three police officers. One had a pistol pointed at me. The other two had their pistols drawn in an extremely dangerous fashion.
‘Mr Roy what do you mean by extremely dangerous?’
‘In my training, short barrel weapons are considered dangerous, and people who use these weapons should be trained to understand their capacity. Last night the officer who banged on the door had a weapon pointed at his back from a fellow officer. The officer to the rear was pointing his gun towards the officer in front.’
‘If you didn’t have your training what would’ve happened if you had panicked?’
‘Two cops would have had holes in them. If I had run back into the campervan, the officers would’ve riddled the campervan with gunfire. They were that nervous. I calmed the situation before it escalated into a lethal situation, for them and me.’
‘Did you know that the police were informed that there were four to six ex-SAS officers hiding out at this address with explosives and weapons?’
‘No, but if they have been told that information, I would like to know where they get their intelligence from.’
Tn your training, what would have you done if you were to be placed in charge of the raid?’
‘Firstly, I would know the location of the target. I would do surveillance, and I would ensure that the civilians in the vicinity had protection—the police didn’t. A simple covert operation at the garage sale would have confirmed that their intelligence was flawed.’
‘The police also informed us that the Army bomb disposal officer identified an anti-personnel mine in your possession, is this true?’
‘No. That claymore mine has inert written on it for a reason; it’s a training item. The Army officer involved in the raid on me is totally incompetent and probably got excited about the weight of the Claymore mine. For training, we glued in steel weights to ensure we practiced with an operationally correct weighted load.’ The TV presentation portrays an Army corporal at the nearest Army Base who explains to the journalist about the capacity of an inert claymore mine.
‘Corporal, can you tell me about the item known as an ‘inert claymore mine’?’
‘The inert claymore mine has the word ‘inert’written, on it. The mine is only used in training.’
I vague out and don’t realise the presentation is finished, until Doctor Evans stops the tape.
‘The hardest patient to treat for paranoia is the one that has reason to be paranoid!’ Doctor Evans states.
‘How do you feel about that?’
He offers a fleeting look and returns to his pad ready to scribe. I look blankly at the Doctor and answer honestly.
‘Tired.’
He raises his head, sympathy seeps from his eyes, his pen remains stationary, as the answer requires respect and acknowledgement. He clears his throat. His professionalism returns and, before he speaks, ensures that we have eye contact. Our eyes interlock as the uncomfortable pause dissipates.
‘Tim, to ensure the validity of your claims to Veteran Affairs we must demonstrate your willingness to recover, therefore,
I want to admit you to hospital today if possible. Is that convenient?’
I think to myself: ‘I don’t think my life would be so tossed up if I am in hospital for a night or two.’
I start to drift off, but catch it. I answer the question abruptly. ‘Yes, I will come to the hospital. I just need help.’
‘Good, I will contact Veteran Affairs and tell them of your decision to go into hospital under my care tomorrow. Could you please wait out in my reception room until I have finalised all the necessary details with Veteran Affairs?’
‘Sure Doc, thanks.’
I shake his hand briskly.
I return to the reception room and experience another bout of hyper-vigilance: Carpeted floor. One door. Six chairs. Table centre of floor.
DETOX
BIG TIM—SOLDIER
My first psych ward admittance under the care of Doctor Evans lasts three days. The absence of numbing substances such as alcohol and drugs unearths a physical response that I can’t fathom. I wake on the third morning experiencing
a serious detoxification, and a stinging pain on the back of my thighs means that I cannot stand upright. The psychosomatic intrusion frightens and shames me simultaneously. I feel as if I have been buggered. I quickly pack my bag and wobble to the elevator. I need to get pissed and stoned.
As I exit the elevator I stride onto the shimmering surface of the large foyer. My mobile phone rings, I don’t answer it;
I’m truly perturbed and I must locate an exit. I find one; its’ sign illuminated above the door. I press the receive button on my ringing phone which is now drawing attention from others around me. The number displayed is foreign; more apprehension as the caller knows who I am but I don’t know them, yet.
‘Hello, T answer as my finger moves to rest on the ‘off’ button.
‘Tim its Stewart. Dads real sick, you better come to Sydney, this could be his last days,’ it’s my older brother.
‘Ok, I’ll catch the first plane. T feel a weird sensation as if I’m not linked to the conversation—or anything else. Stewart hangs up.
DYING
BIG TIM
I’m standing on a shiny tile floor. Trepidation chills my legs. How did I get here? At my feet is a large green duffle bag—the ones soldiers are issued. I know it belongs to me, I believe its mine.
If I keep convincing myself I will soon feel secure enough to pick it up. I lower myself as confidently as I can, expecting the possibility that any minute someone will scream, ‘Thief!’
If this occurs, I will quietly step over the bag and walk briskly to the exit I have been facing since I spoke to Stewart.
The bag is on my shoulder but no one points an accusing finger.
I know that I have left the Army but am confused as to why and when this was. The lost time must be a drug or alcohol blackout; this seems logical to me, but I know subconsciously there’s more to this mystery. Drugs and alcohol bury the truth. I am not ready to own this consciousness. The flight to Sydney must be organised; this feels better, a distraction.
This is the first time my brothers and I meet after many years of estrangement. I’m aware that the primary reason for this reunion is because our father is dying in hospital. We stand around a fire that is burning in the back yard. I watch the embers break away from a burning log; this is a foretelling of events that are about to unfold.
I have two brothers; Stewart is older, and James is younger. James has had a hard life, proclaiming Dad and Mum abused him. Not only that, he also accuses Dad of palming him out to paedophiles. He has approached me only once asking me to verify his truth. I can’t, I have no memory of such things. But now, looking at this fire, a burning hole within me grows stronger. I desperately want this to be extinguished; unfortunately, I have no resources to alleviate this frustration.
It’s hard to deny James’ truth. His adult life has revolved around countless hospital admissions and a multitude of therapies; all trying to arrest the effect of the trauma and the mental states he proclaims we suffered due to the abuse we endured as children.
The contrast of the weather, from rays of sunshine in Brisbane to the bleak cold of Sydney, is obvious. The fire warms my outside but I am feeling ice cold inside. I look at my brothers, realising that my addiction to drugs and alcohol is eventually going to be exposed; the signs and symptoms of withdrawal are becoming evident. They both suspect I use heavily but don’t know that I have stepped into addiction. I myself think I haven’t reached that level of uncontrollability, but if I’m honest I have. My older brother offers me a beer.
‘I’ll need a carton,’ I quickly stipulate.
He sends his wife to the bottle shop. We are completely alone. I look into the fire, hiding the fact I’m hanging out, needing to be stoned or pissed or both. It dawns on me; my alcohol and drug excesses are all about hiding the truth of the past. Some facts of my childhood illuminate themselves as the heat of the coals bums holes into my seemingly impenetrable shield of denial. Memories with no order or logic flood me; God, please let me get stoned.
I understand why three men can have three completely different realities from each other. As children, we were always isolated and put into situations where we couldn’t rely on each other. We couldn’t be confident that the other one wasn’t going to be tricked or manipulated in a subterfuge situation, where the Old Man had created a belief that your own brother had ‘given you up’.
Stewart’s reality is confirmed to us, not by admittance, but by lack of change; he is continuing to ‘swim up the Nile’ (remaining in denial). I decide at that point to get off the boat and join James on the banks of truth.
‘ James I believe you.’ I slowly raise my head and look at the face of a man who just doesn’t trust what he has heard.
I know we have to heal years of denial and mistrust.
Our survival has been independent of one another. We are overwhelmed at the thought of uniting, and now a period of time has to be dedicated to ensure that this realisation isn’t a lie, but time for healing and recovery to begin. I have no idea how to heal myself, just that every fibre within me wants to feel relief. I am willing to take the first enormous step. I know that James and I will now have the opportunity to heal our sibling relationship and learn to trust each other.
So here I am again, facing another death, this time it’s the Old Man’s. But I’m not willing to accept the expectation that I should experience a normal amount of remorse; that it’s appropriate to experience some level of loss. I feel the only feeling I know, numbness.
My brothers and I endure the long hours around the fire—it seems our silence keeps the flames flickering. There is awkwardness and an uncomfortable space between us. The brothers can barely remain in each other’s company. Nothing else is said. A pile of bottles litters the ground at my feet.
Ultimately, James leaves to be with his family. Stewart and I sit in silence looking into the fire, probably jointly dreading having to face the Old Man the next day. We finally go to bed not speaking another word to each other.
The next afternoon we visit the Old Man. James looks extremely distressed and ask me to stay close to him. He takes on the appearance of a young boy. I am shocked at the effect that the Old Man holds over him. I feel honoured that he wants me close by as I feel that I have let him down in the past—although it’s a reality I’m not ready to completely acknowledge.
I ask the Old Man to relieve my misunderstanding of past situations and incidents; he remains silent. James is very uneasy; Stewart is withdrawn and tries many distractions to stop me probing for the answers I want. Being totally deflated, I return to Stewart’s place. I feel drawn to the only belongings the Old Man has left. It’s pitiful; he only has a small suitcase with a novel inside, and carbon-copied books containing correspondence—six in total. I open one and find the dates go back to thirty years ago.
I pour myself a drink and scan the diaries; I take a lot of alcohol to ensure I am comfortably numb.
The diaries, in the form of carbon copies of letters, are written to a well-known Australian personality. The more I read, the more I become aware that the letters are referring to paedophile activities. The final drafts relate to how my father is blackmailing dozens of influential people in Australia.
These facts completely smash the layer of cement that covers the torment I have avoided for years: the complete stark and utter reality is exposed. James has lived with the memories every day of his life; I had suppressed them every day of my life until now. Almost immediately I want to know where Stewart stands.
My insistence to get some acknowledgement from Stewart leads him to snatch the diaries from me. We start having a physical fight in front of his family. His denial is deeply entrenched; he wants me to be complicit in this. And he wants the diaries detailing our depraved childhood to go away.
Quite rightly, he kicks me out of his house. James picks me up, and as we drive off we hear him yell something. I ask James if he heard what Stewart had said.
‘I think he said he burnt the diaries.’
/>
I fly out the next day for my hometown.
DIAGNOSIS
BIG TIM
A month later I get a phone call.
Tim, James here. The Old Man is dead. You didn’t get invited to the funeral because the family didn’t want a drug addict turning up.’
‘James, I’m three weeks clean.’
‘Good for you mate. You wouldn’t have wanted to be there anyway. I wish you were though.’
‘Sorry man.’
Tim I have to go.’
He hangs up the phone but not before I hear him sob.
He is alone again on his journey of recovery. This is something I dread; the more clean and sober I get, the more the memories and the pain of being robbed of a childhood bubble to the surface.
I don’t hear from anybody over the Christmas period. I hear from James again in mid February.
Tim, Mum’s dead. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I have been in hospital for the last six weeks. She died Boxing Day.’
I hang up the phone and two brothers sob simultaneously.
A friend notices that I am rapidly deteriorating and contacts the Veteran Affairs head psychiatrist. I am rapidly sliding into death-wish mode. The townsfolk dread the outcome of an ex-SAS operator losing the plot. The bike club members in town are no match for my madness—I taunt them to waste me or at least give me some physical pain to alleviate the emotional pain I am swimming in.
Paranoia encapsulates me. I honour its power; it almost acts as a friend, distracting me from the effects of the continued discoveries of a damaged childhood. I flee the mental damage by focusing on the perceived abandonment and rejection I endured whilst being employed as a Special Forces operator. Memories of these incidents fuel paranoia. I am also faced with the fact, which until now I have not acknowledged, and must openly admit that I lose time and memory.
