Burn Patterns (19 page)

Iris went on, ‘I'm talking about whether what I want to do is wrong. I think I know what's wrong with you. At least where to look to find out. I think, when we get to the other side of this event, it will be towards a better condition. I hope. Maybe this playful, funny, intuitive, light, inquisitive self is a preferred
one. Who am I to say you have to grow up? I have come across all kinds of things. I can imagine … well, to lock it away forever, never remember, would be a fair decision. Only it's not locked away, is it James?'

Iris leaned forward in her chair.

James didn't move, but his eyes remained open.

‘I'm trying to explain, but my mind isn't very clear. I think of it like an injury. Like a car accident or war or skiing. Let's go with skiing. You take a fall, or hit a tree and your leg is shattered. It has to be taken off because you will get septicaemia or all kinds of blood loss and infections that will kill you. So, without your consent, they cut the leg off – to save the rest of you. But … and my little story moves beyond that – you're at the point where we can give you a prosthetic. We can get you walking again. Not as good as before. Maybe as good as before. Different, because of the accident. The crash. The prosthetic, the solution, the physiotherapy and uncomfortable fittings, sweat; retraining your body is worth the new things you will be able to do. Not as good as before the skiing accident, sure, but better than only one leg.

‘That's my metaphor. That's my story for this. You have rights about taking on a false leg. You have the right to refuse to learn to walk again. You don't have rights about losing the leg. The code amongst doctors forces them to decide that. Well, so here is where I am, I guess. If you did try to blow up the school, if you did burn those old people and those backpackers and who knows what else, then not remembering those things … well. I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine that far.' Iris stopped speaking. She dribbled to a halt, sighed.

James lay on the bed looking across the room at Iris. She was sure he was listening.

‘I don't think you are, but if you are this bad person, I am going to find you. I'm here for another crack, without your permission. Your leg is shattered. Whatever happens, I will not abandon you, even if you are the bad man, hiding. I'm here for the long haul, one way or the other. We leave no man behind. My promise.' Iris pulled her chair closer to him. ‘So, we're going to conduct an experiment.'

James's eyes came up to meet hers.

‘I'm proposing a dangerous type of therapy, like aversion therapy, where you might confront your fear, and by confronting it learn it is not insurmountable. Sounds a bit like Shakespeare, doesn't it? By opposing, end it.'

Iris touched her pendant nestled at the base of her neck.

‘You've commented on my jewellery. You like jewellery. Nice, old things. Here's another Australian antique. Silver, eighteen-nineties. I think you'll like it. Old.' Iris took the pendant, pulled the chain over her hair, held it out towards James.

He still lay on the bed, his head on the pillow, but his eyes focused on the dangling silver object Iris held out to him, slightly below his eye level.

She kept speaking, in a calm voice. ‘I can never quite decide whether it looks like a book or an empty sack. Maybe it mostly looks like a purse, a long, skinny purse. See the shape at the top. Look at these marks on it. Do you think they are actual writing? Or is it fake writing? Etched marks? Can you see it?'

Iris let the pendant swing slightly at the end of the chain.

‘I can see writing, Iris. It looks like writing.'

Iris let out a long breath. ‘I think it is. Do you think it says anything? Can you see?'

‘Is there writing on the back? Look closely. It says, “Look at me. Look at me.” You look tired Iris. Relax.' His voice was low and constant like Iris's, as though he were matching her slightly monotonous pace. ‘Relax your neck while you read the writing. That's good. Relax. The pendant is floating, floating in the air. “Look at me,” it says.'

Iris said, ‘Look at me. Are you reading it?' Her voice sounded distant to her.

James said, ‘It says, “Read me. Read me.” Imagine it is your breathing. Imagine you are calm and at peace. Breathing with each swing, each swing of the pendant. Imagine you are resting, Iris. Resting and happy and asleep. You want sleep. Sleeping peacefully. Finally at peace. No worries. Peace.'

Iris heard James sigh. Or was it her own sigh.

James sat up on the bed. He wore boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. He took the pendant from her. ‘It's very pretty, Iris. Like
you. I like your old jewellery, the way you've left it tarnished with a hundred years of dust and human sweat in the crevices.' James reached past Iris, came back with her handbag. He said, ‘I might borrow your car. Do you mind? Can I borrow your car?'

Iris said, ‘Yes.'

‘It might be time to go.' He froze, looking in the handbag. He sat on the bed looking deep into the opening. He reached in slowly, pulling out the green plastic cigarette lighter Iris had taken from the table at the pub that afternoon.

Iris sat, immobile. She couldn't stop him. She didn't want to stop him. She watched him.

‘No,' he whispered. ‘No, no.' He closed his hand into a fist around the lighter. He was looking somewhere far from the room where he sat.

‘What do you see?' said Iris.

‘The bedroom.'

‘Whose bedroom?'

‘Mine. Ours.'

‘What's happening?'

‘They're leaving.'

‘Who?'

‘No.' James lay down on his side on the bed. He raised his legs up. He sang something, low. It sounded like a nursery rhyme, but in another language. He stopped singing. Said, ‘Sleeping.' He put his thumb in his mouth. He still held the lighter in the other hand.

‘What happens now?'

‘I light the fire.'

‘Do it,' said Iris.

James sat up again, opened his hand to reveal the lighter. He searched about him, saw Iris's pad in her lap. He took it, tore pages out of it, layering them in a tiny pyre on the bed. He pulled up the sheet, fashioned it loosely around the paper.

Iris sat, unmoving, watching James prepare his fire.

James lit the paper. It caught quickly, the sheet started to smoke. It took up the flame. James watched his fire, intent.

‘What do you see?'

‘Fire.'

‘Where?'

‘My house.'

He froze again, as though listening.

‘What is happening?'

‘No. Got to get them out? Oh no. I have to get them out.'

‘Who?'

‘The kids.'

‘What kids?'

‘My kids. I have to get them out.'

‘You said they've left?'

‘They're here. They're shouting.'

‘Go to them.'

‘I can't.'

‘Go to them.'

‘Fire. Fire everywhere.'

Iris stood, bumped past James where he sat on the bed next to the circle of burning sheet, grabbed the pillow, and smothered it. She leaned on the pillow over the fire, grinding down on it, not wanting to release the smoke from under.

James remained sitting on the bed. ‘I have to get them out.'

‘What do you do?'

‘I go to the door.'

‘Do it.'

James stood, walked.

‘What do you see?'

‘Fire everywhere.'

‘Where are your children?'

‘Downstairs, screaming.'

James fell to his knees.

Iris, still leaning into the pillow, said, ‘What's happening?'

‘Something fell on me. It's burning.'

James stood, twisting around.

Iris said, ‘What?'

‘She's screaming?'

‘Who?'

‘Nisa.'

‘Who's Nisa?'

‘My wife. I have to get them. I have to save them. I have to get
them. They're burning.' James's body began to shake. He gave an anguished cry.

Iris let go of the pillow and went to him. ‘It's all right.'

‘They died.' He drew out the words like a fragile bird cry.

‘Shh. James, you are not there.' Iris knelt next to him. ‘That was in the past. It is gone. You are here, with me now.' She hugged him around his shoulders, pulling his shuddering body to her. ‘It's all right now. Shh. Shhh. We will fix this. We will heal you.'

‘They burned. I burned them,' he whispered.

‘You're safe. Let's go back. Before the fire. Why did you light it?'

‘No. Please.' He begged.

James was crying.

‘It's okay. Shh. Enough now. We've done enough for today.' She kissed his wet, salty cheeks. He smelt of hospital soap and of fresh male sweat, kind of animally and leathery, like horses and wheat. A chaff smell. How did he smell like flour? Iris had her hands in his hair. ‘Shh. Shh,' she was saying or was he saying, ‘Shh. Shh.' His hands were on her hips. He held her hips while she held his head. She tasted his tears. ‘It's okay now. It's all right. We'll talk about the fire. We can talk about it now,' she whispered. Why was she whispering? Or were these thoughts, unspoken words?

Her hands found their way inside his t-shirt. He was wet. His shoulders were wet with hot sweat, her hands were rubbing down his sides. She found his scars, the tessellated pocks on his back, smooth yet rippled. Her fingertips played with the dips and ridges of the burn scars. ‘Poor boy. It's okay now. Poor boy.'

His hands were at her breasts, on the outside of her blouse. His fingers were plucking at her nipples. No!

Iris pushed him away. She skittered up to stand by the bed. An alarm sounded, outside of her. Above.

He knelt before her, head bowed. ‘I'm sorry, I …'

‘I'm sorry. This is unforgiveable. James, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?' Iris reached out and touched the soft dark hair on his bent head, a reverse act of contrition.

‘Do you remember the fire?'

‘Yes,' he said. His head was still bowed.

The fire alarm continued to whine. Iris saw a movement at the viewing window. She saw Julie, the night nurse's dark face, eyes wide.

Iris considered the charred bedding. She looked down to see the top of her blouse unbuttoned, bra showing. She could hear an alarm. Not a fire alarm.

James stood, dazed.

Iris spoke quickly, as she searched the room for her pendant and the cigarette lighter. ‘I took advantage of you, James, and I will be punished. I will come back. You've faced this awful thing in your past, but we have to talk about it again. Okay?'

Iris went to James as the door opened and two orderlies came in. She touched him on his arm, on the bicep. She said, ‘You hid this memory from yourself because it is awful. But you are strong enough to deal with it. Do you understand?'

James said nothing. He stood in the room looking towards the bed.

Iris said, ‘James? Can you hear me?'

Julie said, ‘I think you need to come with me.'

Iris said, ‘James?'

One of the orderlies held up the blackened pillow. ‘There's been a fire.'

*

‘He confronted the traumatic event which triggered his psychosis. He needs to be watched.' Iris continued to argue for James's welfare in spite of the orderlies taking him away, in spite of being escorted herself to the ward office near the front door.

‘How did the fire start?' asked the ward supervisor.

‘Where is he?'

‘We've moved him.'

‘Has he been put on suicide watch?'

‘We will.'

‘It needs to be done now.'

The supervisor nodded to a male nurse who headed off.

Julie hovered in the doorway. She had remained silent so far concerning what she'd seen or not seen through the viewing window whenever she'd arrived. Julie was conflicted,
aware she'd bent the rules perhaps in allowing Iris unfettered, unaccompanied access to a patient after hours without direct authorisation.

‘How did the fire start?' repeated the supervisor.

Iris had her own battles. Full disclosure, right now, would not help anyone, least of all James. ‘I was writing notes. I'm completing an assessment for Dr Frank Silverberg, who I believe is reporting to the School Bombing Federal Taskforce. I thought James was asleep. He managed to get a cigarette lighter out of my handbag. I panicked, but then I managed to get the pillow and smother the flames. Completely my fault. I shouldn't have left it in my handbag. I was tired.'

‘You know we lost a patient to a fire last year? Set fire to his mattress.'

‘As I say, completely my fault.'

The supervisor turned to Julie.

Iris said, ‘After I got the fire out, we struggled, well more grappled. He tried to get to the ashes. I stopped him. It wasn't violent. He was upset.'

The supervisor paused. She looked to Julie again.

Julie was fitting the pieces of what she had seen with what she now knew.

Iris said, ‘The fire compulsion is strong. Something for Dr Silverberg, I suppose.'

‘He's on his way. I need you both to write this up. While it's fresh.'

‘Yes. All right,' said Julie, refusing to look at Iris. Her jaw was loosening. She thought maybe this could have been what happened. She might have jumped to the wrong conclusion. She would have to think about it while she wrote. She still might go either way, although one way would clearly have greater consequences than the other way.

*

Frank found Iris in a small crib room in Grange Wing around three am.

‘You look like shit,' she said.

‘I'm old. I need my eight hours sleep. You look strangely radiant, which is a worry.' He didn't sit, instead went to the sink
and started the kettle. It whirred, hissed in the background.

‘Why are you here, Iris?'

‘I couldn't sleep,' she said brightly.

He examined a coffee mug in the dish rack before teaspooning instant coffee. His coat was covered in dog hair as usual. Frank's hair was wild, full of cowlicks, tufts, thickets. He'd rushed in, without a shower. He was used to this, of course. Part of the gig as a government psychiatrist. Always an emergency.