by Gary Davison
I’d been in St Vincent’s Hospital for three-and-half months when a small article about my case appeared in The Sydney Morning Herald and brought me to the attention of Karl Taylor. Karl Taylor was the kid that tried to rape Amber. I didn’t deny fighting with him, only that he started it and I couldn’t remember what actually happened in the fight, which is true. Ask anyone who’s been in a proper tear up and they’ll tell you the same: can’t remember a thing. Karl Taylor had been in intensive care and his face was unrecognisable. Two of his mates were also hospitalised that night with facial injuries.
Anyway, that sealed my fate. They said I had an antisocial personality disorder. I looked it up in the dictionary. Individuals with anti-social personality disorder are aggressive and their behaviour is often irresponsible and unlawful, showing a disregard of social conventions.
If someone tried to rape your girlfriend before your very eyes, you would become very anti-social, too fucking right you would; you’d be straight into them with everything you had, wouldn’t you? And most people would become paranoid and act out of character if they were being followed. All I’m saying is that given the right circumstances, we’d all have anti-social personality disorders.
They also said I had shown signs of psychopathy because I hadn’t shown any remorse for my crimes or empathy for my victims. How can I show empathy for the fucker that tried to rape Amber? And how can I show remorse for Charles Surman-Wells when I hadn’t even met him?
Anyway, we got the result and the judge sent me to St Vincent’s Hospital, indefinitely.
23
I co-operated fully with the doctors and psychiatrists, but after a while the one-to-ones became less frequent and I spent more and more time in the dayroom with the nutters. I counted a straight eighteen days without any member of staff having direct contact with me – apart from one of the nurses, Ian, a young lad about twenty-six, who looked like the Milky Bar Kid. He chatted with me in the mornings when he unlocked my door and took me to the dayroom. He reckoned that even when it appeared nothing was happening, I was still being monitored and it was an important part of the recovery process.
The months dragged by and I became increasingly frustrated.
After one session with a psychiatrist I broke down crying, admitting for the millionth time that I had broken into 154 Palmer Street and confronted Surman-Wells and then attacked him. It was after this session, sitting back in my room, looking out over the gardens, that I realised I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. That I was in a situation I could never get out of. You see, the psychiatrists say they know when I’m lying. They know when I’m telling them something I think they want to hear, and until I tell them from the heart what really happened, my recover cannot begin. If telling the truth is the only way I can make progress, then I can only tell them that I didn’t do it. If I tell them that, the evidence says otherwise, and they don’t believe me.
I went through this with Amber and the two of us cried all afternoon. I’m twenty-one-years-old and face spending the rest of my life in a nut-house.
Keith Gallagher had distanced himself from me, which left me only two options: escape and go on the run, or beg for help. I decided to beg for help. I told them the truth, that I didn’t think I had done it and if I had, I wanted them to help me. Help me remember. Apparently, this is what they had been waiting for.
I was expecting electric shock treatment, something radical, but all they wanted to do was shut me off from the outside world for a month. No letters, phone calls, visits, nothing.
25
I couldn’t settle and paced around a lot, checking out the windows to see if Amber was at the fence. I awoke at 12.15 every night and stared at the gates expecting to see Teatime’s tail swishing around her shins.
Ian was the only member of staff that spoke to me. Halfway through the second week I couldn’t even be bothered with him.
I sat at the window, counting the minutes down.
The four weeks passed.
Amber and I had arranged that I would ring her at nine sharp, she was taking the day off especially. Her mobile was out of service. I tried the flat number: no answer. I sloped off and joined the back of the queue.
I rang the flat on the hour all day.
I checked my post the next day, expecting a backlog of letters from her, like I had in my room, but there were none. After another frantic day on the phone, I realised what was happening. They, and Amber must be playing along, had cut her off ‘for real’ to see how I’d react.
A week past and Ian checked with the psychiatrists, and they said she was free to come and see me.
The phones were bothering me. They could stop my mail and Amber visiting easy enough, but the phones? I rang Buckley, got through and asked him to check Amber’s number. When I rang him back the fucker wouldn’t take my call.
It took me a while and after switching and re-switching phone cards with other patients, I sussed out how they were doing it.
I was next in line.
The lad in front finished his call and walked away.
I waited.
Then, simultaneously, I grabbed the receiver, stuck it to my ear and looked over at Sarah in the tuck shop. I heard two loud clicks and Sarah lifted her eyebrows, like I’d caught her doing something. The fuckers were diverting my calls to Amber. I was probably ringing a number somewhere else in the building.
How long could they legally keep us apart?
I had this out with Ian the next day, and he said that my conspiracy theory made me sound like some of the more permanent patients. He suggested that maybe my girlfriend had had enough.
Four weeks passed and my daily routine never changed. Up, on the phone, sit down and write her a letter, rejoin the phone queue. Others in the day room had started calling me Buzby and shouting “it’s for youhoooo” every time I came into the room. I didn’t give a shit.
One afternoon, I was sat in the day room in my chair next to the window. It had been raining all day. Half the window was steamed up. I watched the rain build up on the rubber seal, then spill over and run to the bottom. I was reminiscing about the robbery when I spotted someone at the gates.
I jumped up, pressing my face against the window. It was Amber in her blue hooded jacket, red on the sleeve, walking back and forth, Teatime sticking to her side. I ran round to the nurse on duty and demanded to be let out into the garden, that someone was here to see me. He wouldn’t let me out so I grabbed his keys and tried to snap them off his waist, pulling him towards the door. I wrestled him to the floor and ripped his pants off at the ankles.
Before I could get the key in the lock, the other nurses arrived and sedated me.
In the dayroom I always sat next to the window with my back to everyone. It was the only way I’d know if Amber had been. It reminded me of being at home, looking out onto Mill Lane. A couple of times I got wound up thinking about Amber and had to be taken away to get my arm seen to. I explained about the eczema, but no one was really bothered. They just wanted me cleaned up and back in front of the window so I didn’t cause any trouble.
A new starter, on his very first day, sat in my seat. I had a word and he moved away. The next day, I caught him staring at me in the dayroom. I heard he was carrying so I dropped a palette knife out of the window during art and picked it up later.
The following day, I waited in the dayroom for him. When it got to lunchtime, I went looking for him. I couldn’t find him in any of the classes and his room was locked.
I found out later that he had been transferred.
I didn’t know how long they intended to keep me like this or how long I could put up with it, but that morning they pushed me too far and I decided to revoke our agreement. I’d made up my mind. I wanted to go back to prison and stand trial for murder. At least that way I’d be serving a set sentence. The way things were, I couldn’t see me ever getting out of there.
Today was their last throw of the dice to fuck me up and it didn’t work.
> I was in my room waiting for Ian, holding the letter I received that morning. The letter was from Amber.
Dear Spence, I hope the treatment is going well. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the time we’ve been apart, and I think, maybe, oh, I don’t know what I think. It’s just that, after speaking with the doctors it might be best if we didn’t see each other for a while. I mean, more than a while.For good. I’m so sorry, and I can hardly write these words but I think we will both be better off without each other, especially you. They say you need time alone, to, you know, find the problem, and start getting better andI’m an outside influence and, well, you know it’s for the best. I’m so sorry. I’m doing this for you.
I’ll always love you, Spence.
Love A xx
I very nearly fell for it. Fuck me, I was so close to being taken in because it sounded just like her, the words used were the same as hers, but they made one glaring mistake – one only Amber and I could spot. We sign off every letter with three kisses. Always. That’s how many times we kissed each other in quick succession that first night in the park. HER-ME-HER. KISS-KISS-KISS
Ian unlocked my door.
I was standing in the corner, letter behind my back.
He came in and picked up my flip chart. “So,” he said, taking a pen from his top pocket. “What’s on the agenda today?”
I stepped towards him and held up the letter. “First up. I want to know who –”
“Wrote this letter?” He sighed and sat down on the corner of my bed. He took his glasses off, pinched his nose and muttered, “Jesus, God.”
“Then I want to –”
“Speak to my brief?”
“That’s, eh, right.”
Ian looked dejected that morning and I suggested that maybe he was doing too many hours.
“It’s not that, Spence,” he said, running his hands through his hair and putting his glasses back on. “Do you know how hard this job is? When you came in here, you were no different to me. Now… now, you’re…”
“I know what they’re trying to do, Ian. That’s why I want you to sort it so I can see Gallagher.”
“Everyday see Gallagher and get sorted.” Ian stood up. “What’s it going to be, Spence? Hand the letter over to me and spend the day in the dayroom, or be sedated and left in here?”
“Eh? What you on about, sedated? Are you telling me,” I stepped up to him and he backed away, “that you know nothing about this letter?”
“Spencer, you got to let it go.”
“So you know nothing about this letter?”
Ian looked at me, then at the alarm button on the wall.
“Tell me you know this isn’t from her.”
“Look, Spencer, take it easy.”
“Tell me you know this isn’t from her.”
He edged away.
“Tell me you know this isn’t from her.”
He hit the alarm and lunged for the door.
I kicked it shut and smashed my head into the glass.
“Tell me you know this isn’t from her!”
With the footsteps and voices nearly upon me, I reached under my mattress for my blade.
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