Burn Patterns (6 page)

‘You mustn't tell,' screamed Kimberly.

‘Kimberly, what are you doing?' said Lisa in alarm.

Iris turned to see Lisa step back as Kimberly stood on the mat, wetting herself. She stared down at the spreading wet patch and the urine dribbling down her legs. ‘You mustn't tell.'

Iris did tell. There was no choice. She was legally bound to notify authorities. Like all health people, her first duty was to protect the child. Above all else, protect the child.

Patricia convinced Lisa to have the health check, merely as a precaution. She assured Lisa it was probably nothing. The medical examination found evidence of sexual activity: bruising and thrush around Kimberly's genitals and her mouth. It set in train a series of procedures which included alerting Child Protection. They convinced Kimberly to give up her secret about cleaning Daddy's dingle till it squirted. The police became involved and Kimberly's father was charged and remanded to Biara Prison. His name was Rodney.

Lisa and Kimberly discharged Iris's services immediately. Clearly, Lisa felt betrayed by her. She continued to believe her
family had been ambushed and was not yet ready to believe Rodney's guilt. Then Rodney engaged Iris. The logic of this continued to give Iris considerable pause.

*

The last visitors of the day were leaving the carpark when Iris arrived at Biara. A woman and two children in their Sunday best, handmade and over-washed, were getting into a faded Cortina. Two men with big beards climbed into a massive green Dodge. Prison carparks were strained, desolate places, hope overcome by the dry, dull glare of another hot afternoon.

Iris showed her card and was buzzed in. She sat, was moved forward, sat again.

Iris suspected Rodney's plan was to win her over somehow and somehow (Rodney was a long-term thinker) persuade her not to testify against him. After much discussion with Frank, amongst others, Iris's plan was to turn Rodney into a decent human being.

So far, Rodney had mostly refused to take responsibility for his actions. Iris had been trying to work with Rodney on breaking down the stories he told himself to justify his abuse of Kimberly. She had been attempting to get him to admit to himself that the sexual acts with his seven year old daughter were not reciprocal or appropriate. The behaviour was not justified or excusable, with awful consequences for his child.

‘I looked after them. I looked after Kimberly and Lisa and Lisa's mum. Nothing was too good for them. You know that don't you.' This is a story male abusers tell themselves. The Father Christmas story.

‘Lisa was being a bitch. Once her mum got sick, I'm cut off. “I'm looking after my mum so you can get stuffed.” After all I've done.' This is the Wicked Witch story.

‘Kimberly. She started, you know, kind of coming on to me. In a basic way she was flirting and wriggling.' Lolita.

‘It wasn't even sex, per se. You know. Affection. We were both lonely. We both needed affection. A cuddle that went too far.' Denial. Projection.

Iris worked hard to establish empathy, not for Rodney, but on Rodney's part towards his child.

Iris could get Rodney to the threshold of accepting responsibility for the awfulness of his actions, but at the doorway he'd slip away again, discover and practise new excuses for the next visit, as though it was merely an argument, one he hadn't quite mastered yet. The minimising, denying, justifying, blaming, deflecting, avoiding, false appeasing and negotiating seemed endless.

Iris was keyed through another door at Biara to the visitors room gate.

‘Rodney Fitzmorris,' said Iris, showing her credentials again and a copy of an email the prison medical officer had organised.

The prison guard checked an authorisation list then telephoned. She came back carrying a clipboard. ‘Bringing him over from Special Wing.'

Iris was surprised. Rodney had been within the general population.

‘Are you aware of a prisoner awaiting psychiatric assessment?' she said. ‘Picked up in Candonin?'

‘The death-ray Martian.'

‘Maybe. Death ray?'

‘He's already set fire to a cell. Apparently, on his way down from Candonin, he set fire to the police van as well. I hear he death-rayed a whole motel complex in the desert. If you want to see him, he's locked in the Crisis Centre.'

‘Oh, I don't have permission.'

She waved the clipboard at Iris. ‘Yes you do. Says you're going to assess him in the next couple of days.'

‘What? Who?'

‘Dr Frank Silverberg and Iris Foster. Assessment of prisoner on remand.'

Son of a bitch, thought Iris. Frank had made assumptions. Iris was annoyed he'd read her so easily.

‘Don't piss him off,' said the prison officer.

‘What?'

‘He'll zap you with his death ray.' A joke. She was joking.

*

Iris was shown into the visitor's room. It was empty but not yet cleaned. It smelled of male sweat and crisps. A birthday card lay on one of the tables.

The door was unlocked, Rodney shown in. He was in prison greens, about thirty, and soft around the face with dark curly hair.

‘I've been sent to Special Wing.'

‘Hello Rodney.'

‘Some big bloke came up in the yard. I'm gonna get bashed.' He remained standing. ‘I'm no paedophile and they got me in with the rock spiders. I'm a marked man in here.'

‘It's to keep you safe.'

‘You gotta get me out.'

‘Not in my power.'

He sat down in the chair opposite Iris. He said, ‘Lisa has dropped the charges.'

‘She didn't charge you.'

‘Kimberly. Kimberly was mistaken.'

‘I thought we were working on that, mate. I thought we were taking responsibility.'

‘But if she doesn't give evidence …'

‘It would hurt her, Rodney.'

‘I'd make it up to her. See, I get the empathy. I'd see her right.'

‘I would never support that.'

Rodney stood again.

Iris stood too, stepped back from her chair.

The guard inside the door took a step towards them. He was young and not so big.

Rodney said, ‘How can there be charges if there's no witnesses?'

‘There are. The police, Child Protection, the GP and me. We're all witnesses. You too, Rodney. You're the main witness to this.'

He banged the table.

The guard came all the way forward, ‘Settle down, sport.'

‘Fuckin Lisa shouldn't have taken her. You fuckin dykes got into their heads. They'll do me in here.'

‘I know you're angry, Rodney, and I know you're scared, but let's think about Kimberly.'

‘Can we think about me for a sec? How about that?' he
demanded. He glared at Iris, his fists bunching. ‘You're supposed to be helping me!'

Iris edged back casually to put the table between them. The guard tapped Rodney's shoulder, stepping back before Rodney could turn. His feet were balanced. ‘You are out of order. Lockup time.'

Rodney glanced at him. Calmed, his head dropping. ‘Right, right man. Sorry. Getting stitched up here.' He raised his hands showing surrender, compliant. Then he pointed at Iris. ‘You put me in here. You get me out.' He allowed himself to be led towards the door.

The guard paused there, looking back to Iris.

She shook her head. No trouble. No report. No progress either.

*

Two guards led Iris to the Crisis Centre. She walked across an inner yard, ignoring a distant derisive catcall. It would be dinnertime soon, followed by the long night of prison. A gate was unlocked and relocked. A white door. A white corridor.

The Crisis Centre only had eight beds. It was a secure hospital-like ward which held potential self-harmers and successful self-harmers. Those who harmed others populated other parts of the prison and those particularly vulnerable to those men were held within another protective area. Iris passed a young man with bandages on his wrists. Someone was calling, plaintive, pained. One wall of the cells was open plexiglas, each with a closed-circuit camera. The toilets were visible with non-moving seats. Everything was fixed with rounded edges. Table, bed, toilet. Iris paused at a cell where a man in his thirties sat on his bunk growling to no one, ‘Leave it. Leave it now. Leave it.' A schizophrenic not taking his medication, in need of a bed somewhere other than in a prison.

The statistics suggested one quarter of the prison population suffered from a diagnosed mental condition. This was besides those with personality disorders: the narcissists, borderlines and sociopaths. This was before they came to prison. Then you could add depression, anxiety and growing feelings of powerlessness. Followed by drug abuse and violence and
enormous amounts of empty time.

Halfway down, they came to an Anglo-Indian. He was dressed in prison greens, his left arm bandaged.

He sat on his bunk with his feet on the floor of the cell. Iris detected the barest hint of rocking. He turned to her, when he sensed she wasn't moving on. He stood and bent slightly in a bow.

Iris stepped to the small round communication holes in the plexiglas.'

Hello,' said Iris, ‘My name is Iris Foster. What's yours?'

‘James. You can call me James.' His accent sounded Australian.

‘Glad to meet you, James.'

‘Really?'

‘Do you know what day it is, James?'

‘Let me see. A lot has happened in a short space of time. We travelled for a day. Some locking up and locking down. Is it Tuesday?'

‘Yes.'

‘Afternoon, nearly evening because I can smell food coming. I don't watch the news, I'm sorry, so current affairs won't be a useful topic. Can I choose astronomy for double points?'

‘Have you been psychiatrically assessed before, James?'

‘You remind me of an actress.'

‘Oh.'

‘Jodie Foster.'

‘Why do I remind you of her?'

‘You look like her. The hair, your face. Your figure. Jodie Foster.'

‘My surname too?'

‘What?'

‘Foster. Iris Foster.'

‘Oh, sorry.' He seemed momentarily uncomfortable, but recovered his grin. ‘Hmm, that was probably the big clue.'

‘She was in
Silence of the Lambs
, wasn't she?'

‘Yes, she was.'

‘Would you have a part in the film?'

‘I'm not an actor.'

Well, he wasn't barking. Perhaps with elevated happiness
given his circumstances. Even charming. His thinking seemed ordered if slightly vague. It felt like he was playing games though. An ironic vibe.

‘Do you hear voices, James?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh.'

‘I hear yours. I can hear murmuring. One of my neighbours is having a bad time. He's hearing voices, I suspect. Those two guards are talking world soccer.'

‘Why do you light fires?'

He didn't answer. His shrug might have been apologetic.

‘Tell me about fire, James.'

‘It's not good. Terrible. Destructive things, fires. Heat.'

Iris felt James was reflexive about the fire, rote, expected replies, which were also disjointed. She watched his face, subtly contorting with an inner demon perhaps. He beat it down, and gave her his attention once more.

‘What's your surname?' she asked.

‘I don't have one. Are you angry with me, Iris?'

‘Where are you from?'

‘You won't answer my question.'

‘I was asking.'

‘Vee vill ask zee questions.'

‘Where are you from?'

‘Mars.'

Iris didn't say anything.

He smiled, embarrassed, ‘I should answer differently. It always causes such problems.'

‘You appear so human.'

‘Yes. Everyone says that.' He stood quite still. His hands were clasped before him.

The Norwegian girls had described him as quite beautiful, Iris recalled. ‘You know a lot about Earth.
The Silence of the Lambs
, for instance.'

‘Yes. I've been here for a while. Jodie Foster was also in a film called
Contact
.'

‘I haven't seen it.'

‘Oh.'

‘What's it about?'

‘She discovers aliens.'

‘Ha ha. Really?'

He grimaced.

‘Do you really think you are a Martian, or is it a kind of joke?'

‘No joke.'

‘A little bit?'

‘I understand you think it's weird.'

‘Have you always been a Martian?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are there times, were there any times, when you wonder if the whole thing seems a bit “unreal”, like a dream?

‘Yes. Lots of the time. Do you ever feel like that?'

‘You're educated.'

‘What does educated mean, really?'

‘Yes. You're right. I've heard you can throw knives, juggle.'

‘Would you like me to show you? The juggling, I mean. Have you got items in your purse?'

‘A lighter?'

‘Oh.' He appeared shamefaced.

‘Do you remember the girls in Candonin?'

‘Where is that?'

‘In the desert, I think.'

‘Ahh.' It meant something to him.

‘Do you remember you were brought here by policemen?'

‘Yes, I was in the back.'

‘There was a fire.'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you want to escape?'

‘I had to get out.' James walked away from the glass, sitting again on the bunk.

‘How was there a fire?'

‘I crashed. I crashed, we crashed. They were shouting.'

Iris leaned closer to the communication holes to hear him properly. ‘Do you remember the school, James?'

‘I have to get back to them. Get them out.'

‘At the school?'

‘At the crash. There was a crash.'

‘Did you hurt your arm in the crash?'

‘Yes, there was fire.'