The Free Spirit
and
Open Windows
The Free
Spirit
He sat staring through the chain link fence, the passage of
time fly past him as he did so. For three long years, every day in the same
place, he sat there watching.
Carl watched the lanes, but not just all the lanes. He
watched the second one in from the kerb, the supposed slow lane, as he did
every day, counting the vehicles and itemising each into groups of cars, vans
and four wheel drives, trucks and buses.
And whilst he sat there, he also practised. The same
routine, but each day the exercises attained new and better results, achieved
hitherto unreachable heights. The key to all this was his inimitable patience.
Patience he had plenty of time was not a problem. If it was going to take
forever, it would, such was Carls mind-set.
Yet still the traffic flowed. Such is the ritualistic vigour
of the human race, precision machines, driven by near precision drivers, at the
same precise speed. The four lane motorway was the epitome of modern man. It
was also Carl’s fixation. And sitting as he did within 3 metres of that
continual traffic flow, he couldn’t be nothing but fixated. Such was his
demeanour these days that fixation was a pastime worth contemplating forever.
Suddenly, the tempo of the traffic changed in front of him.
The peak was beginning to ebb and the make up of the flow was changing too.
Less cars and four wheel drives, less buses, but steadily increasing flows of
vans and trucks, the commercial daily grind of business taking over from the
mad rush of the worker ants rushing off to work. Carl noticed the change
instinctively, hardly reacting to it. He knew it happened but anyone else
watching would not have even seen the change. But he knew. After three years of
studying it, he knew.
Now it was time for him to put into practice all he had
trained for, to bring to bear the fruits of his patient labours. All the
precise calculations were set in his mind, the heights, the speeds, the
distances between moving vehicles. Now was time to test his honed skill. He
looked up from his deep contemplation and spied the exact point of his action.
The second lane was now thinning as commercial traffic used the two faster
outer lanes. There were the normal cars filled with people on vacation
negotiating the motorway for the first time, the elderly safe in the knowledge
that this lane was the safest for them, and the younger drivers feeling their
way in life. Occasionally, a commercial van would whiz on through, beating the
faster traffic that was going too slow for its liking. Even 13.3 vehicles to be
precise, thought Carl. Even more rarely, a laden lorry or lightly populated bus
would pass by, every 28.9 vehicles.
It was time, for sure. He scaled the fence, taking care with
each step, as his size thirteen feet were not adept at the small holes.
Carefully manoeuvring his way up the 5-metre edifice, he marvelled at the
change in perspective of the target zone, mindful of both his current
situation, and the objective situation he was destined for. Anyone looking at
his 1.9 metre frame would have admired his strength and flexibility, and the
panther-like grace he displayed in his physical endeavours. They would have if
they had seen him, but no one could see him. Even if they did, he thought to
himself, would they really care to notice? The world had changed too much in
the past three years since the change.
Carl leaped flowingly down the other side of the fence,
landing as softly as a prowling leopard on the course grit. He wasn’t worried
if he made too much noise, the motorway traffic would drown it out anyway. But
the soft landing allowed him to tune his muscles to what lay ahead so the
movement was appreciated in his own mind. Feeling better for the action, he turned
and faced his objective.
There were no doubts now, no time for second thoughts. He
was as prepared as he would ever be. He closed his eyes tight shut, took a deep
breath, felt for the heartbeat of the traffic, and stepped out into the first
lane, pacing methodically and accurately into the second lane, measuring off
two and one half steps into the lane, then he turned towards the oncoming
traffic and opened his eyes. Just in time to see a small two door coupe driven
by an ageing blond coming towards him 5 metres away.
With little effort, he leaped into the air, the car
careening under him a full metre bellow at the apogee of his leap. He landed
softly, as he had trained himself, in time to take a breath before the next
vehicle approached. Once again he leapt into the air, and once again he cleared
it by a handsome margin. Carl was starting to feel more at ease with his
mission now, knowing that cars were no problems.
Pretty soon, in fact the fifteenth vehicle since entering
the traffic flow, a van came towards him, his first real test. He had to hope
that the vehicle would be averaging 90kmh to ensure the manoeuvre would
succeed. He had trained for a margin of error of plus or minus 10kmh, and his
agility was primed primarily for the 80 100kmh range. Any slower and he’d no
doubt be clipped by the back of the vehicle on the way down, and any faster the
vehicle would collect him on the way up. The chance of this happening was 1 in
3000 so his preparation had been full. But still, the opportunity for failure
existed. As did the anomaly of trailers and other towed vehicles. Caravans were
no problem, he could land on them, run their length, and jump off, he was sure
of that, but small undetectable trailers were a concern.
However, if anyone had observed his leap off the fence, they
may have noticed a slight deceleration of his leap at about one third of the
way down. Carl was prepared. He knew it.
The van, a 1965 VW Kombi chugged along towards him, the big
circle with the VW monogram on the front growing bigger by the second. Carl
estimated it to be travelling at 60kmh, so it didn’t come as a surprise that
the music the driver was listening to, reached Carl well before the van did. In
fact, the strains of Alice Coopers "I Love The Dead" boomed eerily
towards him, and suddenly the driver sped up as if to run Carl over
deliberately. Unfazed, in fact thankful, Carl began his leap, attaining his
apogee well clear of the sure cruise microbus, the drivers intonation of
"Great Leap Man" bellowing out over Alice Cooper, as Carl floated
back to the tarmac behind it, in its smoggy residue.
He continued this all morning, the only other close call
coming from a small utility vehicle towing a trailer sailer, Carl barely
missing the following mast. But the time was now nearing, the time of his
objective. The large Scania 18 wheeler would be roaring down the lane very
soon, the second truck this morning to use this lane. But this wasnt going to
be another leap of faith. This was the objective Carl had been both training
for, and waiting for, all these years. His thoughts were only once disrupted
when a cyclist, bearing heavy panniers and signs of a long distance traveller,
including the obligatory "Jesus Loves You" sticker on the back
pannier, yelled out to him, "God Loves ya man" and carried on his
merry way.
Then he saw it. He looked down at the scratch marks on
hardtop where his motorbike had been dragged along motorway, the point of
impact. He leapt instinctively over another two cars before the moment of truth
arrived. The Scania. The driver was mindlessly in control of his vehicle still,
as he always had been when he observed him in the past years. The cigarette, or
sometimes a joint, dangling between his lips. The wan, vicious smile
permanently in position. Boy, was Carl ever ready. The truck approached,
steadily rumbling along in the slow lane as it always did, at a sedate 120kmh.
The large flat frontage still bore the scars of his
motorbikes last rites. His pride and joy Harley Fat Boy had borne the brunt of
that ugly truck. But he was going to get even, attain retribution. Not only for
himself, but for all the others who travelled the slow lane who had suffered
the ravages of this maniacs wrath and lawlessness.
The time was nigh. Carl leapt, but not high enough this
time, and sailed through the windshield, landing abruptly on the front seat
adjacent the driver. The windshield was intact. Carl knew it would be. The
driver didn’t realise that Carl was sitting next to him. Carl knew this would
be as well. But he had time. And he had the place.
The obnoxious creature driving the truck lit up another
smoke, a joint no less. Perfect thought Carl. The smoke had no effect on Carl,
but the driver became a little less positive in the control of his truck. Carl
looked at the manifesto on the clipboard next to him, and noticed that he was
hauling a consignment of Kawasaki motorcycles. Thankfully, Carl didn’t like
them, but how apt it was this guy was hauling motorbikes.
The truck soon overtook the cyclist, the driver leaning
heavily on the horn as he whizzed by as close as he could get without hitting
the cyclist, but close enough for the slipstream from the rig to blow him into
the side gutter of the road. The VW Kombi also received the same treatment, the
hippie carelessly chucking a finger at the passing beast. Soon the traffic
thinned, and truck gathered speed, wobbling unsteadily as the marijuana took
hold of the hapless idiot. Carl saw the chance, and as another Fatboy streaked
past, Carl turned to the driver, coughed at him, grabbing the drivers attention
for the first time.
But he stared dumbly into empty space. Suddenly, his
features turned ashen, as Carl guided his hand into the morons body and grabbed
his heart. He started squeezing, the affect on the driver instantaneous. The
squeal of pain shattered the windscreen as the truck veered off the road and
drove headlong into the ditch, disintegrating into oblivion as its 130kmh
catapult forced the back of the trailer through the front of the truck,
dismembering the driver in doing so.
Carl sat behind the fence contemplating the now near
deserted highway. The truck still steamed in front of him. It had been easier
than he thought it would have been. A vehicle pulled over, the Kombi, the
stereo spilling the sounds of Roger Waters Every Strangers Eyes across the
landscape. The bearded driver climbed out and surveyed the carnage. As he was
checking out the remnants of the cab, the cyclist pulled up, and did the same
thing. They exchanged pleasantries then both turned and approached Carl.
"Hey" crooned the hippie "nice job. How does
it feel?"
"Yeah, how does it feel?" echoed the cyclist.
Carl looked at both of them. He didn’t trust his own voice
since it hadn’t been used for three years.
The two spectators were still looking at him questionably.
"I feel much better, thank you" replied Carl
"but how can you see me, Im a spirit"
"Man, you don’t get it" laughed the hippie,
"we share your spiritualism."
"Yep," said the cyclist, "and now at least
you can rest in peace. God loves you and so do all those he terrorised."
"Thanks, but what do I do now, now that it is
over?" asked Carl uncertainly.
"You’re a free spirit, man, do Gods will."
Fin
Open
Windows
He’s
alive! He sees the Tiger hasn’t chewed
his legs off. He realises the White
World has not enveloped his vista and sent him into another demented rambling. He feels his arse and pinpoints the
injections tell tale signs. He knows he’s
just turned sixteen, but what he remembers the most is the dreams and the
daytime thoughts that cloud his sixteen year old mind. He remembers his mother (Gertrude) and father
(Hans) visiting earlier, but what they said was a blur. He remembers their rough English, their
German accents still strong after 18 years in Aotearoa.
The
door opened slightly. He laid still,
eyes closed, not wanting human contact.
“Michael,
it’s time for your afternoon meds.”
This
contact was the worst. The nurse was a sweetie, and meant well, but he had this
impression he needed to be on his own, to deny he was in Manawaroa
Hospital. He’d heard of the place
through friends at school who had ended up there through family admissions. Now he was here, drab puke green walls,
placid pink panelling’s, and pastel blue doors that could indicate the one road
to hell. He felt it was Hell. He opened his eyes then and motioned the
nurse into his room. He hated the meds,
but knew they did help his psychosis.
Heck, even the ECT was helping him regain his former control. He didn’t hate the place, he thought, he
hated that it was he getting the treatment.
“Ready
for another day, Michael. You have Gym
today, and the Pool Table is back in operation.”
He
thought then of Adam, the 27 year old paranoid schizophrenic, and part time
crim. He’d asked Mike for a smoke (he
never had his own) and Mike had turned him down. Adam had then done his nut and tried to whack
Mike with the pool cue. He’d ducked, and the cue smashed into the pool table
and smashed in half. He’d then tried to
use the sharp end to stab at Mike, but Mike’s senses were attuned and he’d
leapt back, barely missing the cues intent.
The male orderlies were on the case very quickly and subdued the
culprit. The nurses also arrived and
help placate Mike and recommended he go to his room for quiet time.
Malcolm
turned another page, his homework for Science flowing like a breeze. It had been quiet for a few weeks now, and
knowing his brother was getting the right treatment helped his own mind to
focus on his own life. The past few
months had been sheer hell, and his moods and his work had suffered. Mum and Dad wouldn’t let him come with them
to see his older brother. He resented
this reasoning, he knew Mike was worthy of a visit from his brother and part
time friend. He’d argued until blue in
the face that he was ok if he could visit.
He stopped thinking about it, and got back to his studies. Mike had flunked school badly, but now there
was a reason for that to happen.
“Malcolm,
are you ok to be by yourself”
His
mother’s accent made him smile. He loved
the lilt and the harshness in one breath, and though she was a wonderful
person. He also thought she didn’t
understand her oldest son, and that what was happening to Mike was not actually
in his best interest, but ‘hey’, he thought, ‘what would I know’
“Yes
Mum, say hi to Mike for me and tell him I love him and miss him badly. Oh and
tell him about my B+ for English, let him know I want to write a story about
him for my next essay.
Gertrude
walked through the door to Manawaroa with her husband. He was usually very silent about these visits
and his own mind had trouble attaching fancy to reality. She knew her husband was deeply affected and
he felt that it was duty to see his son, more than a means to gaining a
successful treatment. He was old school;
she remembered his comment when Mike was taken to hospital. ‘The boy always had
a weak mind’
She
noticed the paint on the walls and doors, the panelling and found it somewhat
comforting. This was their third visit
and each visit, for her, was less demanding and more a realisation. She loved her boys, and this admission of her
oldest son to a Psychiatric Hospital was having an unbearable strain on her own
resolve but she was now resigned to the whole situation. Dr Avery, her son’s resident psychiatrist,
was optimistic about his recovery, saying the treatment was working very
well. She thought about this as she
walked down the corridor to Michaels room.
The
open door suggested to her things were on the improve. She remembered all too well her sons’
petulance with having his door closed at home.
He’d totally shut himself away, and refused anyone entry to his
haven. She’d remembered the fights, the
disagreements, the pain he caused her, the frustration she felt for her lovely
boy. She remembered the smiling ten year
old in the back garden playing with his brother. She recalled the shine in his eyes when
twelve and passing tests at school with flying colours. She remembered the fourteen year old starting
to place Iron Maiden and AC/DC posters on his wall, and his drive to have a
decent stereo in his room. That was the
catalyst, she felt. Puberty robbed her
of her son, and the descent into schizophrenia bought pain to all, especially
her Michael.
She
walked into the room ahead of her Hans, and saw the nurse medicating her dear
boy. He saw her then and smiled, and
then he saw his Dad and his smile disappeared.
There
were always telephone calls from the Police.
Han’s never handled them, knowing it was about his Michael. Malcs usually took them when his mother was
out and he’d deal with the fall out from his errant brothers’ life. Sure, he loved his brother, but after
fourteen years of distraction, it was starting to wear very thin and even he
was showing the strain. This time Mike
was in Dannevirke Police Station after starting another fight he couldn’t
win. He told his Dad, then txted his
mother to come home and be ready to pick Mike up again. When he got the reply
she was on her way, he made himself and his father a coffee and sat at the
table wondering what was going through his fathers’ head. He never spoke about these events and the
harder he tried, the more closed shop his father got. He didn’t hate his father for not
understanding, but he did loathe his disinterested thoughts on the matter. Often when it was about Mike, all he got from
his father was a very dismissive ‘Humph!’
“Close
the bloody windows, Mike!!
Malcs
plaintiff plea could be heard through the door and Mike just shrugged his
shoulders for the umpteenth time that morning.
He couldn’t tell if it was his schizophrenia playing up or not but no
doubt when Mary Creswell, the key worker, arrived at midday, he’ll know if he
is not right.
“Why
do you play this silly game, Mike? .”
Mike
felt the cool breeze on his exposed cheeks and thought it would soon be time to
close all the windows he’d opened earlier that morning.
“Hey
Malcs, don’t fret bro, I’ll shut them after Mary has been and you’ll be right
then.
He
continued rolling his Park Drive tobacco into a viable cigarette. Normally both he and Malcs would smoke with
the house all shut up, but he had to open them to freshen the place up when
they had visitors, which were few and far between.
His
psychosis opened his mind and his thoughts started racing. First there was the image of Malcs in a
motorised wheelchair driving up and down the hallway keeping away from the
drafts. Malcs useless legs, and the
accident, and then to him being held by Police in Dannevirke for vagrancy, the
reason the accident happened.
“Ok
Mike, I won’t ask you again, you bastard.”
Mike
thought then of that fateful day two years ago, the day after his 34th
birthday. He’d been caught in a deep
psychosis and when he was like that, he roamed, though only normally in the
lower North Island. He’d been to
Dannevirke and back to Palmy several times with no problems. Not with the Police anyway. But this time he’d gone deep, and his mind
was overtaken with visions and nightmares.
He knew a mate in Dannevirke that suffered the same and had hitchhiked
there in the evening. But his mate
didn’t like the looks of him, and refused him a joint or something to help the
thoughts.
He’d
then taken off downtown to the Masonic Hotel to see if he could drown his
sorrows, but the psychosis by now was severely debilitating. Someone looked at him the wrong way and he
threw his glass at him. Next thing
several patrons were knocking the shit out of him. The Bartender had called the Police and when
they came, Mike was in the middle of the floor with blood pouring from a split
cheek. They’d taken him then to the
Police Station, determined he was psychiatrically disturbed and he needed
treatment. Mike had pleaded with the cops
to let his parents pick him up and take him to hospital if they thought he
required it, which the Police acquiesced to.
He’d
waited and waited. After a few hours,
the Police rung his parents again, telling him there was no answer. They then determined to take him to
Palmerston North Hospital to be assessed and dealt with accordingly. The ride in the back seat of the police car
was without incident until they had progressed a third of the way into the
Manawatu Gorge. All west bound traffic
was banked up, with east bound traffic navigating around a couple of
ambulances, some tow trucks, a fire engine and several Highway Patrol cars.
“Been
an accident huh?”
The
cop in the driver’s seat nodded his head, but didn’t speak. Mike was aware enough to know that any
accident in that part of the gorge was pretty serious, the long drop into the
river likely to be instant death. He saw
the marks on the Armco barrier where the unlucky vehicle had gone over. Not once did he think of his parents though
he was aware that maybe they should have been in Dannevirke a lot earlier to
pick him up.
“Mike,
I know you’re a total arsehole, I need something warm on. That icy southerly is cutting right into
me. Could you get me a blanket or
something else to keep me warm?”
This
time the plea in Malcs voice was pathetic, and ate into Mike’s thoughts.
“Coming bro, just wish you’d stop whining.”
“You
know I can’t do anything by myself, why do you always play this stupid game
with me. I know you have mental issues,
but surely you could for once be accommodating”
“Seriously,
you think I have issues. Yeah I have
issues! I killed Mum and Dad and got you paralysed. Ya don’t think that doesn’t weigh on my mind
all the time.” He took another drag on
his cigarette, the smooth sensation of peace clouding his fragile mind.
“We
got the van today Mike?” Malcs suddenly sounded happier, more perked up.
“Yeah
we got the van, three hours today. Where
do you want to go?”
“I
want to go to Mangatainoka and have a beer at the brewery. I haven’t had a decent beer for weeks, Mike,
and I’d really love that.”
“We’ll
have to go the long road, over the Pahiatua Track; you know I can’t drive the
Gorge.”
He
flicked the last of the ash to the ground at Malc’s useless feet. The poor bugger couldn’t feel a thing from
his lower back down, and needed constant help for toileting and anything that
he couldn’t do himself.
“No,
you have to drive the Gorge, Mike, it’s time you faced your demons head
on.” Malc’s scratched his head, bald since
the accident, and always itchy. He
looked at Mike and could see he was nervous and fidgety, and maybe not up to
driving. Mike had driven him once a fortnight in the Mobility Van and he
appreciated the effort this took, but with the anniversary just around the
corner, it was time Mike went that little bit extra.
The
smell of petrol was strong. The sound of
running water below was even stronger.
He lay wrapped around a tree in a staple formation. He’d moved his arms and head, to try and see
where the car was, to see how Mum and Dad were.
The dull ache in his lower back was annoying, but not as annoying as the
lack of feeling in his legs.
“Mum,
Dad, are you alright?” He’d called out
several times after being ejected from the spinning car through the rear window
that had smashed out. He hadn’t been
wearing his seat belt, and knew he was in the predicament he was because of
that. Mum and Dad always wore theirs, so
he supposed they too had survived the long drop off the Gorge Road. He couldn’t see the car, although the river
was scant meters below him. The petrol
smell was a worry, what if a spark set it alight?
“Muuuummmm,
Daaaaadddd, answer me!”
The
sound of a siren in the distance shifted his focus. Rescue!
He’d point the rescuers down to the car, to get his parents out and off
to hospital first. He could wait.
Another
siren; this one an ambulance. Good they
can save them, get them the help they needed.
The river seemed to be bubbling now, and he guessed the car was slipping
underwater.
“Mum,
Dad, get out, you’ll drown!!”
The
smell of petrol dissipated, now he felt the sudden pang of loss. He also had a vision of Mike being told what
he was responsible for. He tried moving
his legs again, to stand up and rescue his parents. The tree stopped all movement. And then there
was his back.
“Is
anybody down there?” A shout from the
road, maybe cop, maybe anybody who could help.
“Help
my parents, help my parents” Malcs urged.
Then nausea took over and he drifted off into unconsciousness.
“Malc’s
snap out of it, you’re thinking about the accident again. You know you freak me out when you do that.
Look I’ve been thinking, what say I make some white crosses up, and we go nail
them to the Armco where the car went over.
We both have to deal with this issue and there really isn’t any going
back from it.”
“Good,
it’s about time you faced it eh?”
“Yeah,
you’re right, though I doubt anyone will like us stopping the van in the lane
though.”
“There’s
a lay-by about two hundred metres from the site, we could stop and make our way
from there. We shouldn’t hold up any
traffic walking that distance.”
A
knock on the door suddenly wrenched them from their plans. The key worker was here to see Mike, so Malcs
wheeled himself to his room, shut the door, and moved over to his computer to
continue the story he had been writing.
He could hear muffled conversation in Mike’s room too and felt better
when he knew his brother was getting the right attention. He should be in a good mood to drive this
afternoon.
“So
how did it go then Mike?” Malcs had come
out of his room when the front door closed.
Mike was going around closing all the windows, to stop the chill, and to
let the cosiness of the home return to normal.
“Yeah,
sweet bro, she thought I was in a good space and seemed to be coping with my
own care and your care too. She’s going
to get me to see Dr Hankin to do a slight med alteration, but apart from that,
sweet.” He closed the last window, took
a loving look at his younger brother and winked with a wry smile.
The
van arrived at 2pm, as arranged, with the delivery driver explaining all the
ins and outs to Mike, which they did every time they got the van. The mobility lift was an electric one, and
thankfully a smooth loader. Mike placed
the two crosses he’d hurriedly prepared in the front of the back section, then
loaded his brother into the main section, secured all the clamps, and they
drove off, with his window wound down.
“Close
the bloody window Mike!!”
“Oops,
yeah sure, sorry I forget sometimes.” Mike had forgotten about Malcs morbid
fear of open car windows, and wound it back up.
He was annoyed by this, because it meant he couldn’t smoke while
driving. They wound their way down Main
Street heading east towards the ranges, and the Manawatu Gorge. They slipped past Ashhurst, over the Manawatu
and Pohingina Rivers bridge, and into the belly of the Gorge.
“Mike,
I’m sweating, I’m really petrified mate”
“Don’t
worry bro, I’ve got a major sweat on too, in fact I need to dry the steering
wheel fast.”
They travelled
at fifty K’s, holding up traffic, but no way were they both going to tempt
fate. They pulled over in the first
lay-by about a 1/3 of the way in, letting the traffic build up slide past. When an appreciable break occurred in the
east bound traffic, they slipped back onto the main road, and driving with care
eventually made the lay-by short of where the accident occurred.
“Are
you ok, sir?” He’d regained
consciousness, in time to see a fireman standing metres from his face. He could see the rope the man was dangling
from and guessed that the rescuers were at hand.
“I
think my legs have gone, I can’t feel them.
How are Mum and Dad?”
The
look on the rescuers face suggested not good, but he looked back down below him
and then back to Malcs.
“What’s
your name, sir?”
“Um,
Malcolm, how are Mum and Dad?”
“I’m
sorry Malcolm, they didn’t make it.
Right now Malcolm, we need to get you into the ambulance. We’re going to send down a stretcher soon,
and we’ll get you into it and off to hospital. Do you understand?”
Malcs
was panicking. The fireman had said they
didn’t make it, yet they were in their seat belts. Many things rushed through his mind, the pain
of loss, the pain of failure, why them and not him? The pain in his back too sent him reeling.
“Yeah,
Ok, I think I’m in bad way.”
The
traffic was lighter now, and it made their next journey less treacherous. Malcs set off first with the chair opened up
to full speed. This job had to be done
expeditiously and Mike walked behind with the crosses and the hammer and nails.
None of the cars passing them tooted them in rage, perhaps seeing the white
crosses they understood what was happening. Malcolm started to cry, his tears
staining his cheeks and the memories started flooding back.
“How
are you going Mike?”
Silence. Malcs could hear his footfalls behind him,
but in his own way understood that Mike was finally facing his demons, and that
this moment would be significant for both of them. He’d seen Mike had taken time to use a Vivid
Marker on the crosses with Mum and Dads names on each cross. It felt good that Mike felt this way, it
helped Malcs cope too.
“Here
are the marks,” Mike said quietly. Malcs
had almost driven past them. He hadn’t
known where they were, but did remember Mike saying he’d seen them from the
Police car on that fateful day.
He
started nailing the crosses to an Armco support beam, the sound of an insistent
hammer banging solidly on a compliant nail making both brothers feel the
finality of the whole episode. With both
crosses up, they both offered a thought or two for their parents, and then
returned to the van. Both were breathing
heavily and Mike was showing a sign of a tear or two.
Mike
loaded Malcs and the wheelchair into the van, then he got into the drivers seat
and slowly drove east towards the Balance end of the gorge. As they passed the crosses, each had separate
thoughts.
He
was taken to the psychiatric hospital ward, a place he had been several times in
his youngish life. They placed him in
the High Needs Unit, where he stayed for a week before being transferred into
the day ward. By now his schizophrenia
was under control and he was no longer a danger to himself or others. Many times during the next three weeks he
wondered where his parents were. He’d
tried ringing home but the phone was never answered. This worried him. Even if Mum and Dad were out, Malcs was home
writing his next novel and doing his Massey studies. But no one answered and no one came. What’s more no one had taken the time to
telling him what had really happened, presumably to keep his mental distress at
a low ebb.
Then
there was the day Malcs finally visited him.
At first the wheelchair didn’t play on his mind, the fact that his
brother was here to see him overrode all thoughts. He’d given up hope of seeing any of his
family again. Then when he told him, his
older brother, to sit down and listen carefully, he was reluctant. ‘Mike’s in a
fucken wheelchair’ suddenly hit him.
This was news, not good news, but news.
“Where
are Mum and Dad? I’ve been trying to
ring all you bastards and no one answers.
And what’s with the wheelchair?”
Malcs
laid it all out. And suddenly the memory
from the Police car hit him like a ton of bricks. What hurt the most was the tone of Malcs
voice. Accusatory at best! Condescending! Harsh!
He’d even said the he owed him big time.
But worst of all, they both had been willed the house and they had to
live there together. Malcs said he couldn’t
move back in until he, Mike, was right again, as he needed fulltime care.
The
enormity of the conversation didn’t strike Mike at all well, and he felt
himself regressing. Malcs said he was
staying in the STAR Ward just down the hall and doing physio work in the gym to
stop his muscles atrophying. He would
visit more.
They
passed through Woodville heading south to Mangatainoka, to fulfil their
original plan. They drove in a dense silence, the sound of rubber on cooling
asphalt the only sound both could bear.
Mike wouldn’t drink; in fact he’d not had a drink since the news reached
him. His
only two preoccupations were smoking and the care of his brother. His perverse mind would mean both would fight
vocally till either tired. Blame ruled
their lives.
“Man
this would have to be the best beer in the world,” proclaimed Malcs “and with
the best brother in the world next to me, I propose a toast. To Mum and Dad!”
They
clinked pint with plastic coke bottle and tipped the contents down their respective
throats. After three rounds they got
into the van and headed off to Pahiatua to do the round trip, avoiding the
gorge. They both swore then they’d never
see those crosses again.
“Mike,
close the bloody window”
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