by Tess Evans
Hal couldn’t sleep. He had done nothing all day and it was only seven o’clock. He began to hope that his medication included sleeping pills. The voices were quiet at the moment, but he feared their return in the emptiness of night. He had two souls to watch over now. Two precious souls—my grandmother and me. It made him quite ill to think of the responsibility. Two dear, precious souls. And unseen powers trying to thwart him. How could he apply himself to the task while he was locked up in this place? To do the job properly, he needed photographs. He missed his poster. It was almost completely faded with age, but he knew every inch, every nuance of that poster. To him, the images remained as bright and sharp as the day he had bought it. He needed to make a home for my grandmother and me. But how to get the photographs?
Sealie’s response to his request was the cause of Hal’s first outbreak in J-Ward. He was sitting in the dayroom when she came in, holding her handbag in front of her like a shield.
‘Dad?’ She couldn’t bring herself to kiss him and touched her cheek to his so lightly that neither of them felt it. ‘How are you?’ she asked, her eyes not quite meeting his.
‘I’m alright,’ Hal replied ungraciously. ‘Apart from freezing every night.’
Sealie was shocked. How could her father be so—ordinary? ‘I’ll speak to someone. Another blanket . . .?’
She looked at her father from under her fringe. He stared doggedly at his hands. The unspeakable lay between them and she sought refuge in the banal. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘A photo of your mum. Or maybe the poster in my room if you can get it off the wall without tearing it.’
Sealie took out a scrap of paper and made a note. Any activity was welcome.
Hal snorted impatiently. ‘Surely you can remember that without writing it down?’
‘Anything else? I got some cigarettes and a Cherry Ripe but the nurse took them.’
‘A photo of Grace. I need a photo of Grace.’
‘A photo of Grace? Dad! I can’t give you . . . Zav won’t . . .’
Hal’s mood changed in an instant and his face crumpled with grief. ‘Sealie. Have they got to you too?’ He began to wring his hands. People actually do wring their hands, Sealie thought, shocked at the extremity of his distress. He clutched at her arm. ‘You’re the one person I can trust. You’re my daughter.’ He was shouting now. ‘You must help me, Sealie. I have to have photographs.’
Bells rang, and within an instant two nurses were restraining Hal who was pawing at his horrified daughter. ‘You’d better leave now, Miss,’ they told her, as Hal’s pleas turned to curses.
Sealie ran from the room, her father’s voice pounding in her head. Stopping in the corridor she leaned against the wall. She was trembling and aware of a sobbing noise. It must be her sobbing. There was no-one else there. She fished in her handbag for a tissue and blew her nose.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ A hand was under her elbow, guiding her to the dining room. It was the bandido, whose dark eyes peered sympathetically into hers. As they drank the sweet, instant coffee, Sealie tried to smile her thanks.
‘You’re very kind,’ she said.
‘You’ve had a bit of a shock,’ said the bandido, whose name turned out to be Steve Farrugia. ‘They do that sometimes. Go right off without warning. What was the problem? Do you know?’
‘You know his history, of course.’
Steve nodded.
‘He wants a photograph of Grace.’
‘Grace?’
‘The child he drowned.’
Steve frowned. ‘Don’t know about that. It could cause further relapse.’
‘It’s not even that. I feel it’s a betrayal of my brother—he’s the baby’s father,’ she explained. ‘But look at what I’ve done in refusing to bring him the photo. I’ve made things worse.’ She began to cry again.
Poor little bugger. Steve patted her arm. ‘Leave it with me, love. I’ll have a chat to Matron. He can talk to the doctor.’
Sealie was relieved to pass on the responsibility. ‘Thank you so much.’ She paused. ‘I feel embarrassed to mention it now—you’ve already been so kind—but he says he’s cold at night. He usually wears pyjamas.’
‘Sorry, love. Can’t help with pyjamas. We can’t risk . . .’ He ducked his head, embarrassed. ‘It’s a suicide precaution. That’s why we took the sweets and cigarettes. You’d be surprised at what they use to self-harm.’ Sealie winced at his use of they. ‘He can have the lollies and smokes under supervision, though.’ Her rescuer drained his coffee. ‘My break’s over. I’m sorry you had to witness that.’
When Sealie returned home, she went to Hal’s room. It had not been unlocked since what everyone referred to obliquely as ‘the tragedy.’ The bed was made with military neatness and Hal’s book, I, Robot, lay on the bedside table, bookmarked at page fifty-six. The poster was a blur of greys, and when Sealie tentatively pulled at a corner, the area crumbled, taking with it what might have been the toe of the last swan. She jumped guiltily, as though she had deliberately defaced it. I’ll have to find something else. She went down to Hal’s study where she took a small portrait of Paulina from a silver frame. This will have to do. Now, should she find a photo of Grace, just in case? There was a family photo of Zav, Kate and me in another frame, but she rejected that. Not fair to include my parents, who had every reason to hate Hal. She went to his desk drawer. Pens, stapler, loose change, rubber bands and a small photo album. ‘Grandpa’s Brag Book’ it said on the cover. She slipped it into her pocket. She couldn’t look at it just now. It required courage to delve into those memories, and she had used all her reserves at the hospital.
When Sealie reported her father’s request and his reaction to her refusal, Godown offered to visit Hal in her place. ‘Just this once—to give you both time to get over it,’ he said, when she demurred. ‘Okay? Well, then—have you decided what to do about the photo of little Grace?’ His voice still shook when he said my name.
‘I had a call from Nurse Steve,’ she said. ‘Apparently the doctor thinks it’s a bad idea. You know him best of all. What do you think?’
The big man had lived with Hal’s obsessions for many years. ‘Hal had a notion,’ he said reluctantly. ‘A notion that he was protecting your mother’s soul. It had something to do with that poster and the photograph he had on his desk. I don’t want to go against the doctor,’ he added.
Godown had aged overnight, it seemed. His shoulders were stooped, his thick hair looked dusty. The light had gone from his eyes and the passion from his voice. He looked like an old man, and she couldn’t ask him to take responsibility. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
Poor Aunt Sealie. She had been the favourite child, and the time had come to pay her dues. She still loved her father but was appalled that she did. She loved me too, and was conflicted as to how she should approach the issue of her father’s illness. Intellectually, she understood that it was an illness, but deep in her heart, she felt that Hal could have chosen to act otherwise. Zav would have nothing to do with his father. She had acknowledged that Godown had done enough and Hal had taken against Mrs Mac and Bob. So who could she turn to? She had no-one. She folded her arms on the desk and lay down her head. Her throat ached with the need to cry. She wanted her mother. It wasn’t fair. Here she was, at the beginning of her life and there was no-one. She was, by default, head of the family. With all the responsibility that implies.
She went into her room and closed the door. Cutting a strip from the back of a birthday card, she picked up the photo of Paulina. She measured it and cut a little off the edges. Then she sat down and held the Brag Book on her lap, turning it over once or twice before opening it and scanning the pages as quickly as she could. Finding a small photo of me on a bunny rug, she took it out and trimmed it too. She folded the strip of card then stuck the photos inside the fold, leaving the glue to dry while she fetched Hal’s novel and removed the bookmark, replacing it with the concealed photos. Now m
y grandmother and I clung together between pages fifty-six and fifty-seven of I, Robot, which Godown promised to deliver the next weekend.
It was Godown’s first time at Ararat and he had to will his feet to climb the steps of the forbidding, bluestone building. At reception, he was asked if he had any gifts for the patient and handed them the book and a pack of cigarettes which were put in a pigeonhole labelled Heraldo Rodriguez. Steve was on duty and, after checking that Godown had no contraband, led him to the dayroom.
‘He’s been unsettled since he got up,’ Steve said. ‘I think he’s expecting his daughter. Tell her I’m sorry about the photos.’
‘Where’s Sealie?’ Hal demanded as his friend sat down across from him, shocked at how thin he had become.
‘Work,’ Godown lied. ‘But she sent something for you.’ He tapped the side of his nose.
Hal’s eyes gleamed as he looked around to ensure they were not overheard. ‘Where is it?’ he said out of the corner of his mouth and Godown explained about the book.
‘Brilliant.’
‘They don’t want you to have it, so be sure to keep it hidden in the pages.’ Godown was ashamed to pander to Hal’s paranoia, but was more worried about what might happen if the photographs were found and confiscated.
‘Good old Sealie,’ Hal chortled, inviting a sharp look from the duty nurse. ‘I’ll beat the bastards at their own game.’
So the marker moved from book to book as Sealie’s and Godown’s visits continued. For Hal, it was both a source of comfort and a focus for his delusions. He was not able to read every day in J-Ward. All activities had to be supervised and staff were allocated according to need. Reading Days became so significant that Hal thought of them in the upper case, like Christmas Day and Melbourne Cup Day. He developed a cunning that saw him take his book nonchalantly from the nurse and stroll over to a chair where he’d fuss with the cushion and only then, open the book at the marked page. Glancing quickly around the room, he’d sneak a look at the photos—Paulina first and then me. This was the prelude to a strictly observed ritual. He would read five pages exactly, finishing mid-sentence, if necessary. While he did this he held the bookmark in his right hand. (He never touched it with the left, the sinister hand. That belonged to the devil.) After turning to, but not looking at the sixth page, he slipped the bookmark open and looked at Paulina, saying her name in his head, three times, touching his lips and then her image to complete the sequence. After reading another five pages, he would do the same for me. When his reading time came to an end, he placed his hand over the bookmark and murmured, ‘Keep them safe,’ before handing the book back. This last invocation was very important. Each time he said it, another brick was placed in the wall of the house that, one day, they would live in together. Keep them safe. He could say this three times three per day, but on Reading Day, with the images under his control, often a whole twenty bricks were mortared into place.
Hal was cautious about the other patients. He didn’t join in any of the group activities in the exercise yard but he did occasionally try to have a chat. He had always been something of a loner, but he needed to know the sort of people he was dealing with. He was shocked to discover that they were mad, bad or both.
One handsome young man, with a plummy accent and a languid slouch, was a final-year medical student. His surgical skills were useful, he told Hal one morning as they leaned against the wall, taking advantage of the sun-warmed stones. ‘I had access to scalpels, of course,’ he said conversationally. ‘And the expertise. You can’t just hack away with a scalpel.’ He held out his hands, revealing long, strong fingers. ‘The women said I have pianist’s hands, but they served me equally well as a surgeon. The women? I made love to them first, you know. They were happy when they died and they bled to death very prettily. With one, I even managed a star-shaped blood pool. Not easy,’ he told a horrified Hal. ‘But there’s no sense in false modesty.’
A gentle old man with faded-blue eyes also heard voices. They told him that he had to cleanse and scour the city and he consequently set a string of fires in Melbourne brothels. Two prostitutes and one customer had died as a result. ‘They don’t understand that I’m doing them a favour,’ he told Hal, sadness washing his eyes to an even more faded hue. Hal nodded gloomily. He understood the reasoning, but setting fires! The poor old coot needed to learn self-control.
So Hal worried about his fellow patients and was appalled when, on the first wet day, they were taken to the dayroom to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. He had seen it before but watched it again with increasing disquiet, fearing that the psychopathic murderer on screen might give his companions ideas they could well do without. He sat through the first half on the edge of his seat, gnawing at his nails and shooting glances at those he considered most unstable. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he leaped to his feet and sought out the bandido, whom he had come to trust.
‘Can I have a word?’ Hal muttered, sidling up to him. ‘It’s about—you know,’ he said, looking significantly at the screen.
‘No, I don’t know.’ Steve hadn’t seen the movie and still had one eye on the action.
‘You can’t show this stuff to people like that.’ Hal jerked his head to indicate the rapt audience. ‘Most of them are mad as hatters.’
The bandido pulled at his moustache. ‘I know. That’s why they’re here.’
‘Please. Switch it off immediately,’ Hal pleaded. ‘Or I can’t be held responsible.’
‘You’re not responsible,’ the bandido said wearily. ‘We are.’
Hal was not to be trifled with. ‘Then I must take unilateral action.’ And darting towards the projector, Hal tripped over the sprawling leg of the blue-eyed arsonist whose shout roused the others. The staff took quick action and a riot was narrowly averted but the movie was switched off and patients taken to their rooms early. Hal was not popular after that. But then, he reasoned, he wasn’t here to be popular.
What was he here for? He often wondered about that. There was plenty of time to wonder. He’d gone right off talking to the other patients. He’d be as loony as they were, if he didn’t look out. He was aware, of course, that he, too was considered to be mad. He was a reasonable man, and in one way, he could see where they were coming from. From their point of view, the drowning of a granddaughter must be either mad or bad. He knew he wasn’t bad and if they (whoever ‘they’ were) thought so, he’d be in jail. So he was deemed to be mad and locked away with really dangerous people. He never sat next to the surgeon at mealtimes and always kept a nervous eye on him when he used a knife and fork, even though that personable young man had explained that he had no desire to make love to Hal or to create patterns with his life-blood. ‘It’s just red-haired women,’ he’d explain over and over. But Hal wasn’t willing to take any risks.
So what was he here for? Hal began to look at the question in a more existential way and, sadly, found no answer. He did light upon an explanation, however. His enemies had found a way to manipulate those in charge of the system so that they were unable to understand that his ostensibly mad or bad action had been, in fact, a sublime sacrifice. He understood that this made a return to the real world extremely difficult because he had no way of dealing with unseen or maybe just unrecognisable adversaries. Hal lived in a complex world peopled by enemies; former friends who had been corrupted by his enemies; the ignorant and uncaring who couldn’t or didn’t want to understand; police, medical and nursing staff who were either collaborators or dupes; the real mad and or bad inmates of J-Ward; Sealie and Godown. The last two were the only people in the whole world that he was sure he could trust.
With his highly developed cunning, he decided to approach the bandido. This nurse had some empathy, Hal thought. He really seemed to care, so maybe he was just one of the ignorant and not one of the corrupt.
One mellow autumn day, the bandido was on duty in the exercise yard. He had been supervising a thin young man playing a guitar. The young man was pathetically gratefu
l, blissfully playing the same chord over and over again until one of the others threw a basketball at him. ‘Can’t you play anything else, dickhead?’ Distressed and confused, the young man started to cry as others began to shout, some at the perpetrator, some at the victim. Once again, the staff averted the impending crisis, but the guitar was locked away and the young man became increasingly two-dimensional, day after day, sitting slumped on a hard wooden bench.
‘Can’t he have his guitar back?’ Hal asked the bandido, looking across at the fading figure. ‘He wasn’t doing any harm.’
‘Not my call. We can’t take the risk. He could’ve started a riot.’
‘He didn’t start it. That fat bloke did.’
‘I know. It’s not fair but we have to keep them safe.’
Hal was instantly alert. Keep them safe. Was this a coded message? He would have to tread warily but . . . ‘I don’t feel safe here,’ he confided. ‘The loonies seem to come and go. How do they get out?’
‘Patients. You’re patients.’
‘That’s as may be, but how do they get out?’
‘Some are well enough to return to the courts. Others are moved on to Aradale—that’s our main campus. You may have passed the big white building when you came in. There’s a lot more room there. More to do, too.’ More pleasant for your daughter, as well, he thought. He didn’t mention that some patients return home. For someone in Hal’s condition, it was a forlorn hope.
‘So how do you get to go to Aradale?’ Hal said as casually as he knew how.
‘Keep your head down. No more movie riots. No more looking for adders under your bed. Eat your food without demanding a taster’ (the latter two were recently acquired precautions). He didn’t mention the depression that occasionally overwhelmed his patient. Hal was still considered a suicide risk and the privilege of pyjamas seemed as far off as it had ever been.
