Burn Patterns (13 page)

‘Yes, it's a tough job, not for everyone,' Bennett interrupted,
glaring to make clear the extra threat.

Iris tried to recall more statistics.

The AC took her silence as acquiescence. She rewarded Iris with a confidence. ‘This comes from the top. If PTSD gets hold, it'll be the new RSI. We'll be so busy compensating and watching the numbers skyrocket, we won't have anyone left to fight fires.'

‘Money's hard to come by but we can always grow more firefighters.'

Bennett hardened. ‘You're a bright, motivated self-starter.' She pushed a file towards her. ‘I want you to go to a place called Quantico, in Virginia, attend the workshops they are running. Interviewing has always been a strength. I want you to start boning up on arson profiling. I want you to start working for the service instead of against it.'

Iris woke up in bed. It was light. She felt blurred, dull. Thirsty. She was naked. She'd been in the bath. Mathew was gone. The sound of a distant car door slamming had woken her. Mathew's taxi?

Iris drank water and coffee while she dressed. Grey skirt, enclosed shoes, an apricot blouse. She got a glass of orange juice but left it sitting while she did her face. She recalled grapefruit juice and Triazolam did not mix. She wasn't sure about other juices. She went to one of her jewellery boxes and chose the white opal chandelier earrings she'd found on a country trip.

She bought more coffee, and a bacon and egg burger on her way out to Fieldhaven. She played an Amy Winehouse CD Rosemarie had left in the glovebox, skipping ‘Rehab' to play ‘Wake Up Alone' on repeat. She'd squeeze in a session with James before seeing her patients at the clinic.

The front desk staff were reluctant to let her in until she reminded them of the importance of the case, the time component.

‘He's showering,' they told her at the nurses station in the locked ward. One of the male psych nurses pointed to a bank of small television screens where high angle views of each cell were displayed. James was in the top quarter of his screen, naked in the shower. His body was beautifully proportioned, long-limbed and muscular without bulk. His chest seemed hairless. Iris saw a clump of dark hair under an armpit, the hair on his crotch and balls, water-slicked and dark.

‘Ah, you probably shouldn't be watching that,' said the nurse.

Iris turned to see him smirk, like he'd caught her.

Iris looked back to the screen, as James swivelled under the shower to reveal two symmetrical burn marks on his back. The shrivelled, shiny skin was like melted plastic. Yet, as James moved under the shower water, Iris saw the beauty in it, like the markings on a butterfly wings.

‘They're burns,' said the psych nurse. ‘He's got another one on his arm you can't see on the monitor.'

‘They do look like folded wings, don't they?'

‘What?'

‘I'll go out here, shall I?' said Iris heading for a hard chair in the corridor outside the nurses station.

Frank found her five minutes later.

‘What are you doing here?' she said.

‘I sometimes work here. Remember?' He was angry with her. ‘Let's talk.' He gestured down the corridor.

Iris followed him. He wore baggy trousers, a loose business shirt without a tie, a thinning sports coat covered in dog hair.

‘Your phone is off,' he said without turning.

‘You're up early,' said Iris brightly, as they paused for a door to be unlocked.

‘Mathew telephoned.'

‘My Mathew?'

They went outside to the large grassed area with the picnic tables. Deep ashtrays, too heavy to lift, were plentiful. Three separate fences ran between them and the carpark. The first was constructed of wire mesh, the gaps too small for even a toehold. The next fence was topped with barbed wire, the third with a large round plastic cylinder, again to prevent climbing. There had been escapes from Fieldhaven, usually with fatal consequences to the escapee, but none from this recreational yard.

Frank sat on a bench on one side of a picnic table in the shade of the building they'd come from. Iris sat opposite.

‘He said he pulled you out of the bath, unconscious at midnight.'

‘Ah, my guardian angel. Him I mean. I try to be asleep by midnight Frank, in bed not in the bath. No razor blade, if that's what you're thinking. I'm sorry he rang you.'

‘Your eyes are a bit rheumy.'

‘Roomy?'

‘Misted. Blurry. He's worried about you.'

‘He's worried about the mess I might make.'

Frank studied her, troubled.

‘I'm fine. Another big day. I took two spare sleeping pills before my bath. I recall reviewing my life. I must have drifted off. Best night's sleep in ages.'

‘Mathew said you kept demanding sex. Quite aggressively.'

‘Did he? Nice of him to share it with you. Did he give in to my demands?'

‘I'm going to take you off the Martian case.'

‘I've barely started.'

‘The Feds want to ship him off to a medium security prison, so they can interview him more fully. He's not blathering.'

‘He's sick.'

‘Not your problem.'

‘He has obvious evidence of trauma. He's stuck on reworking the event. He's constructed …'

‘Those are matters to be dealt with over years, Iris, and by a psychiatrist. The job at hand was to assess his competence – which I have done. And for you to give an opinion on his firelighting.'

‘Which I am nearly ready to do. He's got a science background by the way. He may have been a teacher.'

‘Interesting. I'll pass it along to the police.'

‘Oh come on, Frank. Are you going to punish me because I fell asleep in the bath because of the drugs you prescribed me? Or because I stole my husband's socks and undies?'

‘You what?'

‘Mathew is off up north for the weekend, another weekend. I went into his suitcase, took out his socks and underpants. He likes his underwear. He likes the feel of expensive stuff against his skin.'

‘Why did you do it?'

‘I don't know. I'm being naughty – acting out.' Iris slowed herself. ‘I have been feeling flat since the school thing but I am working my way through things. Working with this patient is helping, as I'm sure you anticipated it would. I can help you, the police and him. I am actually good at this.'

‘Iris, you're not a psychiatrist. The recidivist firelighting, a brief profile for the police.'

‘Okay. One more visit then I'll file my report.'

‘No more tranquillisers. I prescribed them under a different set of conditions.'

‘Aye aye sir.'

‘You need to come see me. For a proper session. No more of this bullshit trying to throw sand in my eyes.'

‘Yes.'

‘One visit followed rapidly by the report.'

‘Deal.'

*

Iris was shown into the interview room where she found James sitting on the other side of the table. He stood up, delighted to see her, his arms wide for a welcome hug. ‘Iris.'

‘James.'

‘No hug?'

‘No hugging, no.'

‘I thought on your planet this was a harmless greeting.'

Iris said to Brad, who was standing in his usual place by the door, ‘I don't want to interview him in here. Is there another room?'

‘You can have this side of the table.'

‘No, not here.'

‘I'll find out,' said Brad. ‘Um, I'll have to take him with me.'

‘Fine by me.'

‘Are you angry with me?' asked James.

‘Yes.'

‘What have I done?'

‘I don't know but it must have been very bad.'

He blinked meekly as Brad took him gently by the arm.

*

The psych nurses, a doctor and a shift supervisor negotiated against Iris. It was finally a phone call to Frank that got them into a secure day room. The flooring was scuffed grey linoleum. The battered couches were purple, the chairs orange, the security boxed television off. Half the room was empty, though, which suited Iris. She wanted to be able to move around, also to deny
James his control-shifting games.

Brad and James walked into the bright room. James opened his arms to the space, turning a complete three-sixty degrees before looking at Iris.

‘Have a seat, James.'

‘Do you mind if I stand? I've been a bit cramped lately.'

‘How did you get the burns on your back?'

He blinked a couple of times before he said, ‘Maybe they are my wings, my Martian wings.'

‘You never said you could fly.'

‘You never asked.'

‘Weak answer. That's what you told the Norwegian girls. You've practised it. Did your wings burn off in the crash?'

He spun away in a kind of pirouette and walked to a large window overlooking the grassed area.

Iris followed. ‘Can you tell me about the crash, James?'

‘Can we go out there?' He pointed to the grass. A patch was bright with sunlight at the end of the building shadows.

‘How about the other side of the fence?'

He turned, beaming, then saw she was only joking. He was suddenly crestfallen, then almost instantly modulated it into a performance of crestfallen. He must be able to charm people to do all kinds of things he wanted. ‘Nice earrings,' he said.

‘Thank you.'

‘You like delicate earrings. Fancy, old.'

‘Australian antiques. I like looking for them in second-hand shops in the country. There's a myth though. The bargains are long gone. I don't care. I like the dusty glass cabinets, the smell of country dust.'

He was watching her.

Iris said, ‘Dr Silverberg doesn't think you're schizophrenic.'

‘Glad to hear it.'

‘Why would he say that?'

‘Lack the symptoms, I suppose. No little voices.'

‘Yes there are. There are voices at your crash. I know you hear them.'

‘You're getting tiresome now, Iris. One track. Like Dr Silverberg working his way through the
DSM
-
Four
questions.'

‘Where have you had those tests before, James? Australia?'

‘He makes me sneeze. He's got a dog hasn't he?'

‘Yes. A labrador.'

‘I'm allergic to dogs, so I sneeze. You know what kind of dog he has, so you're more than colleagues, I suppose.'

‘When I left you yesterday, you told me you were sad and lonely. I said I could help you with that.'

‘I'm not sad.' He put his arms out, performing slow high steps like a minuet from a medieval court. Was acting in his background? The theatre? He was avoiding.

‘Why did you say you were?'

‘I lied. I thought you were sad. You have this smile that's forced, a tight smile of the lips but your eyes don't join in. Mostly. Just occasionally you forget your troubles and you smile for real. I said I was sad too because I thought it would make you feel better.'

‘Crap.'

‘To which part? Do you want to dance?'

‘You dance. Show me.' Iris stepped back to prop against the back of a couch.

James stepped into the clearer part of the room to dance. He did a couple of ballroom steps with an invisible partner before segueing into tango. He was rusty, although Iris supposed it must be harder without actual music.

Iris clapped and he bowed. Even his bow was elegant with a hint of self-mockery.

Iris said, ‘Dr Silverberg says I throw sand in his eyes so he can't see my problems.'

‘He treats you?' James was astonished.

‘He's my psychiatrist as well as a colleague and a friend. It's how I know about his dog.'

James stood still, leaning ever so slightly towards her, listening.

Iris went on, ‘You dazzle. You point bright lights, toss fairy dust. With one hand you distract and leave them … smiling, while you …'

‘Dance away,' he said, not dancing away.

‘Or throw a knife?'

‘No knives,' he said showing her his palms.

‘What if you're not a Martian?'

‘What if I am?'

‘I think you picked up bits from
Starman
and
K-PAX
, and whatever other alien-on-Earth films you've seen and added snippets of science about Mars.'

‘Because you can't imagine such wonder.'

‘Wonder? It's kind of banal. It's only half a step more complicated than thinking you're Jesus or Hitler or Elvis.'

‘Now you're just being mean, Iris. You look like you've had a bad night. Your eyes appear hollow, a little weepy. Are you having trouble concentrating? What are you taking?'

‘You know quite a bit about psychiatric matters, James.'

‘Martians trapped on Earth learn about psychiatric matters, Iris.'

‘Yes, well the Earth isn't kind to Martians. If you want to get back to Mars, don't you need to think about the crash? Don't you need to maybe find the spacecraft, repair it so you can get back?'

‘I'm marooned.' He stared out the window again.

‘Because you did something wrong.'

He didn't answer.

‘Do you have consequences on Mars, James?'

He didn't answer.

‘Is there right and wrong? Are there bad things on Mars which hurt other Martians?'

‘Of course there are.'

‘Did you do something wrong that caused the crash?'

‘I can't remember.'

‘You don't want to remember.'

He twisted to her. ‘Okay, maybe I don't want to remember. What's wrong with that?'

‘You've done something or experienced something your mind can't deal with. It has locked the event away, not to be remembered or confronted. It's so frightening, your mind can't even think about it. Junk psych says confront it. Me, I'm not so sure. If you can successfully lock it away, leave it gone. I have the same arguments with Frank.'