Burn Patterns (11 page)

Iris suppressed a gasp. She said evenly, ‘What do you know about it?'

‘Quite a lot.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Gas cylinders under the Barnard Christian College gymnasium, with a timer made from an old urn. A flammable liquid spread on the floor as an accelerant. Blocked doors.'

‘Do you mind if I write this down?'

‘By all means. Everyone knows it already.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘The detectives. They were questioning me about the explosion.'

‘And you remembered …'

‘What they questioned me about. They asked enough questions to suggest why you're all so keen on me. People tell you a lot when they interrogate you, if you listen.'

‘Did you blow up the gymnasium, James?'

He said, ‘I don't think so. I hope not.' No grin.

‘Only you don't remember.'

‘No.'

‘Have you ever worked at the school?'

‘I'm from Mars.'

‘This body, the form you are in. It's very beautiful.'

‘You're not so bad yourself.'

‘I would have thought with the crash it would be damaged?'

‘I took it, after the crash.'

‘How?'

‘I believe it's our spores. We can enter the crevices of an ailing human where we grow, wear the body.' He moved his arms, rather elegantly. In spite of the willowy nature of his stature, he gave the impression of strength and athleticism.

‘Do they – the ailing human – remain inside still, after you've taken over?'

‘No. Gone.'

‘Not even memories coming from the body's past, like a residue you can't explain?'

He folded his arms for the first time. Thought. ‘I do know things, don't I?'

‘Anything? Feelings?'

‘I think, deep inside, he's very sad. Lonely. Very, very sad.' James sat looking into the empty corner of the room. A tear came. He blinked, refocused on her.

Iris said, ‘Do you want me to help you with that?'

‘Yes. And I'll help you with your sadness in return.' He wasn't joking, then suddenly he was. ‘This is all we have time for today, Iris. Jordan, can you show Iris back to her room?'

*

‘Gillian.'

‘Yes?'

‘It's Iris. Iris Foster. From the practice. Is it too late to drop in for a chat?'

‘When you called, I thought you might be a client. Scared the shit out of me, lovey,' said Gillian as she opened the front door of her duplex. She was in tracksuit pants and a Bali t-shirt.

Three kids were sitting on a couch playing with a variety of electronic devices while watching a singing contest on the television.

‘Come out the back. Iris, this is Karen, Trenton and Rebecca.'

Iris said, ‘Hi Karen, Trenton and Rebecca.'

‘Hey,' said someone.

‘Hi,' said another.

‘You wanna drink?' asked Gillian in the kitchen. A bottle was open on the kitchen table.

Iris said, ‘Yes, sure.'

‘I hate those late-night phone calls, especially if I've had a couple of wines and shouldn't drive, let alone talk someone down.'

‘I'm sorry I came by so late, without warning, too.'

‘I didn't mean you.'

‘This school bombing keeps hoovering up my spare time,' explained Iris.

‘When was the last time you used a vacuum cleaner?'

‘Well not me, obviously, darling. My Filipino maid. She does it badly unless I direct her. I have to supervise the other servants of course. Lazy, all of them. The whippings can be gruelling. You have no idea.'

‘Sorry.' Gillian led her out the back to a table and chairs on the patio. She lit a mosquito coil. A scuffed old dog came out of the darkness, pushing its head up under Gillian's hand.

Iris sipped her wine. The night was warm. The scent from the coil was nearly pleasant.

‘I am seeing Meredith Marsh, your shy client, next week. Any tips?'

Iris said, ‘Let's talk about you.'

‘No foreplay?'

‘Very well. Nice old dog. How old is it?'

‘Ha ha. My children's ages are nine, eleven and thirteen. I reckon it's still thirty degrees. Boy, it's hot.'

‘It sure is warm,' said Iris.

‘What happened to dual relationships?'

‘I'm not seeing you as a colleague. I'm not seeing you as a patient. I've dropped in after work. I'm not treating you. Just talking. Only wine will change hands.'

‘That's right. Your husband is a lawyer.' Gillian finished her drink, glanced over at Iris's barely touched glass and poured herself another, finishing the bottle. She looked from the empty bottle to Iris. ‘I'm having trouble coping. I drink too much.'

‘Are you a single parent?'

‘Yes.'

‘That makes things harder.'

‘Not necessarily. It is just a matter of fact. The kids are great. I'd be lost without them.'

‘It makes it difficult to find time to switch off, I imagine.'

‘Do you have kids?'

‘Yes, a daughter. She's away at university.'

‘It's not the kids. It's the patients. I'm feeling jaded. Tired of them. Burnt-out.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘I am telling you about it. Joke. So, what do you do?'

Iris studied Gillian, rejecting the obvious glib answers. She thought about the truth, but offered something halfway between. ‘I struggle too. And I'm struggling with narrative therapy. I suspect I'm not patient enough.'

Gillian seemed disappointed.

Iris said, ‘I try to stay focused on each patient and their needs. I remind myself of the successes.'

Gillian got up and went inside.

Iris peered into the dimness of the backyard. The lawn needed mowing. She made out bikes, chewed dog toys, patches of dead grass at the edges of the patio light.

Gillian returned with a new bottle of wine. ‘A good vintage, this one. At least four months old, I'd say.' She topped up Iris's glass, then her own.

Iris said, ‘Can you give me an example of what puts you over the edge?'

Gillian said, ‘My main problem is one particular patient. Well, she's not really a patient anymore. I've had her for ages. Over fifteen years, I reckon, from when I worked for the Department of Community Health. Those were the days.'

Iris nodded but didn't say anything.

‘What happened was this. Her husband was bipolar. Lots of problems as well as drinking, not taking his meds, refusing injections. Same old same old. Three kids. Yeah, just like me. I know. Don't go there. Anyway, this one night. Barbara was out with the kids. It had gotten bad: I think Barbara took the kids for a walk, a long walk up to the school, around the oval. I'm pretty sure they were in their pyjamas, hoping it'd blow over in a bit. When they came home he'd locked them out. He was a big man. He used to scare me. You know the eye-blaze angry schizophrenics can get. So they went round the back. They can see into the kitchen through the windows onto the back veranda. Enough windows for everyone to see. Barbara's calling to him, “Ernie, let us in.” He's sitting at the table. He stands, he's got the carving knife. While Barbara and the kids are watching, he cuts his throat.'

‘Oh Gillian.'

‘Yeah, well. Fuck, eh. Cops, welfare, ambulances. Investigations. Anyway, she was my client as part of Mental Health. Once Ernie died, she was supposed to be removed from our case list. No service. Bastards. Anyway, so I kept seeing her and the kids, off the books, you know. Over the years, whatever job I was doing or whoever I worked for, I kept in touch. She's this amazing survivor woman. She tried to tough it out from the start. Focus on the kids, take on board how her husband's illness wasn't her fault. She's a battler. But her kids. A mess. Before you know it, well not before you know it, there was years of work, getting them into support. Before you know it, her oldest son has committed suicide, her daughter has schizophrenia too – nature/nurture, who gives a shit, right? Now the youngest has overdosed. A fatal.'

‘Gillian!'

‘Yeah, about six months ago. Another story in the naked
city. I didn't see it coming. I mean we knew about the drugs but I couldn't stop it. She couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything for those kids. Nothing I could come up with. Various departments, caseworkers, so many people over the years. I can't even make any sense to her about her life, about the awful events of her life, the vicious torture of it. I mean you can't even begin to make a happy narrative of it. You know, “At least the milk comes.” “At least you've still got both legs.” She doesn't crack, not really. She's like made of emotional titanium. Is that the strongest metal? Every night. She comes home from work, she starts drinking and at a certain point she starts weeping until it's time for bed. Depression, yes. I can't help her. She doesn't want drugs apart from the alcohol. During the day, at work, she's fine. Cups of tea. Busy. She copes. Her daughter is living with her, taking her meds. Every night, she drinks, she cries. From the start I haven't made one bit of difference. Not saved her kids or helped her pain. Fifteen years of useless fucking talk.'

‘Not useless, I'm sure.'

‘Sure, are you?'

Iris said, ‘We can't cure everyone.'

‘Who said? Do you believe that?'

‘I think we aren't an infinite number of psychologists with an infinite number of hours.'

‘Glib bullshit. I fix people. That's why I got into this. To fix people.'

‘That's an incredibly high standard to set yourself.'

‘You should talk. You're a machine.'

‘Not. Okay, well, she keeps coming back to you, doesn't she?'

‘A bad habit.'

‘You must offer her something. Maybe something she can hold onto. A constant in her life. Maybe you're the one person who understands. Really understands all of it, in detail, from the beginning. She wouldn't have to re-explain with you. You know what she's been through. What she's going through. You're her witness.'

Gillian looked dubious, but not resistant.

‘You're in her corner. Over all these years. Maybe in the end we all need at least one sympathetic ear. A shoulder. Maybe it's enough. Maybe that's all she's got. You're all she's got. Can you
imagine if she didn't have you?'

‘All right.'

‘All right?'

‘Well, it makes sense. It seems to me it might be a useful way of thinking about it, cognitively speaking. We'll see if it makes any difference to my inner workings.' Gillian examined her empty glass. ‘My non-figurative glass is definitely completely empty. Another?'

‘I'm good.'

‘Don't you judge me!'

Iris was taken aback. Then Gillian guffawed.

Iris said, ‘You set tests.'

‘Yes. Trust issues.'

‘Some of them are traps.'

Gillian grinned. ‘You keep passing the tests.'

Iris said, ‘If you want another drink go ahead. I'm not sharing my Quaaludes.'

‘Those were the days. Marijuana didn't cause psychosis, sex didn't kill. It only broke your heart.' Gillian sighed. ‘Why do I only remember my failures?'

‘The sex or the dope?'

‘Sex with dopes.'

‘We remember our failures because it's how we're programmed. Survival for hundreds of thousands of years has depended on remembering pain, death, the mistakes. Our wiring privileges pain.'

‘We have to sleep at night, surely, without drugging ourselves.'

Iris stood. ‘Really? Who told you that?'

Gillian grimaced.

Iris said, ‘It's been a long few days since I was nearly blown up.'

‘Do you want to talk about it? I owe you a shoulder.'

Iris smiled, shook her head.

Gillian said, ‘I'm not only loud and gauche. I can do gent till and sub till.'

‘It's nothing to do with you. Truth is, I don't think I can take counselling from a woman. I'm not being sexist. Mother issues. Please, don't start. I'm too old to be cured of my mother.'

Only the burglar light was on. The rest of the house was dark. Iris noticed that the gardener had been, leaving the smell of fresh mowed lawn in the warm summer night. She looked up to the sky, wondering whether Mars was visible, if James knew where to point amongst the litter of stars. She heard a car and turned to the street where a Mercedes four-wheel drive was parked across the driveway. The veranda security light came on, illuminating Iris where stood.

The passenger door opened, triggering the interior light in the Mercedes. It was Mathew and June, Roland Hyland's wife. She gave a wave. Mathew closed the passenger door and came down the driveway.

‘Hello darling,' he said, tiredly.

‘Was that June Hyland?'

‘Yes, she gave me a lift home from the city.' He went to unlock the front door. ‘Another long day.'

‘Yes.' She followed him in.

Mathew said, ‘We made a huge breakthrough, so had dinner in the city. It was too late to ride home – not after the wine.' Mathew went through the lounge and into his study with his briefcase.

Iris followed to his study door.

She said, ‘June was at dinner?'

‘Good lord, no.' He was emptying papers from the briefcase, laying the stack on the desk, his back to her. ‘She came by to pick up Roly. She works in the city at the Arts building. Roly was working on so she dropped me off. They live down along
the river. You know that.'

‘Yes, I suppose I do. Yes.'

Mathew came towards her but kept on past to the kitchen. ‘We've had a breakthrough on the Nullabin Peninsula. The local people have agreed.'

Iris followed him, leaving her own work bag outside her office door.

‘All hands to the pump before they change their minds, or a greenie group digs up the contrary family members. The younger ones are a bit put out. Leave cancelled. Flights to and from, lots of paperwork before anyone changes their mind. We've got state-government backing. In fact the premier has taken a special interest. Jobs, jobs, jobs.' Mathew went through to the toilet in the laundry.