The Labyrinthine Way - 1. Prologue

The Labyrinthine Way

Prologue

The room had the patina of neglect that I had come to associate with public-service offices over the last two years. All the cues were familiar now, hard-won intelligence from a long-fought campaign: the paint a nondescript shade of not-quite-grey, with great patches flaking away. My favourite room of all was one I was in a year ago belonging to Social Services that had contained a random poster of Beethoven, attached to paint so thick and decayed it was peeling away in a great slab, taking Ludwig with it, so he was curled over and facing the floor wearing a perpetual curled snarl. Alas, this room was poster-free, with nothing to cover up the great scabrous patches of yellow undercoat showing through.

The furniture consisted of the standard Formica desk sporting a chipped, wood-grain laminate and basic metal-framed chairs – four, in this case. Finally, there was something no public-service room would be complete without: the white circular clock, which presumably came from Central Clock Factory Number 7 somewhere in China. Many rooms contain one of these dispensable beauties, but only a public-service room would have one so resolutely far from the actual time. It was showing 9:37, but my senses told me it was just after lunch, probably about 2 pm. Unfortunately, I no longer had my watch, but an uncanny sense of time was one of my gifts – another oddity, strangely, all a part of my generally odd nature. Anywhere, any day, I could give the time to within 5 minutes or so. Even in extremis, the gift still worked, not that it mattered any more, really.

Being a public-service office, this one also contained that other indispensable item, a real, live public servant. Two, in fact: one case worker and one doctor. Like the room, they were a definite type, and both were classics of their species. The case worker had the perpetually earnest but harried look of someone who wanted to be caring but also wanted the pension to hurry up and arrive. The doctor had mastered the fixed smile – one usually used when approaching an unfamiliar snarling dog that had somehow gotten hold of your car keys – allied to a hand-knitted tie and tweed jacket. I had to stifle a laugh; they would be easy meat, like all the rest.

The case worker consulted her files, nodding reflexively, it seemed, on every paragraph. The doctor remained very still, looking at me with a disquieting sense of purpose. I mentally reset my defences; maybe, this one wasn’t as easy as the others. We would have to see.

Finally the silence was broken by the case worker who by now I had mentally dubbed Madam Noddy.

“Christopher, my name is Janette Marsden, and I am a caseworker with the DHSS. I have been reviewing your files here with my colleague Doctor Levi Weissman. Both of us need to speak to you today. We need to make an assessment of your current situation, both for your ongoing medical care but also to determine whether the Department needs to become actively involved in your case. Our total focus is what is best for you, and we are here to help you. Do you understand what I have said?”

“Yes, Janette, I think I do.” I drawled, letting contempt flow from every syllable. There was no way I was letting this one off lightly. “If you have read my file you will know the Department has previously graced me with its assistance. As you have probably read, that turned out just super, so perhaps you will be okay with me telling you to take your help and shove it up your ass? Oh, and by the way, give your colleague Miss Ramsden a big, fat sloppy kiss from me if you see her, and tell her to fuck off, too.”

I lapsed into sullen silence, facing the clock as it traced the pointless seconds towards what might have been 9:40. If I knew my worker bees well, they all smoked like chimneys, and the nicotine craving would be kicking in soon. Another 30 minutes of this and they would terminate the interview to hop outside for a fag, and I could retreat to my room – stalemate and a victory of sorts. This was a campaign after all, and I had been fighting for longer than I could remember. Stalemate was fine for me, I reasoned. In a war of attrition, stalemate just meant the victory would go to the one with the strongest will, and though I lacked almost every positive quality, will was something I had in spades. It would see me through, as it always had.

My reverie was interrupted by a sound so unexpected I forgot myself and looked up. The doctor was laughing, a real genuine belly laugh. He seemed unable to control himself in spite of my frank stare and, I noticed, Captain Noddy’s as well. In fact, she looked as if she was trapped in a room with two lunatics, not just one. As it turns out she may well have been right.

Finally his mirth subsided. “You are exactly what I was expecting, Chris!” he chuckled. “I am glad you didn’t disappoint me.”

I struggled to regain my composure, thoroughly nonplussed now. “I am glad you aren’t disappointed,” was the best I could manage as I now appraised him anew.

“Chris, there are a few things you need to know. The first of these is that I know more than you think. I have done my homework on you and spoken to a lot of people, including your previous psychiatrists and psychologists. They all agree you are a handful, but they also all agree that you are worth the effort, so I have been digging. I know a lot of what has happened – maybe not everything – but enough to make a start.

“The other thing you need to know is that you are not in charge of your own destiny now. “

I bristled at that, nostrils flaring, ready for combat, but Dr. Weissman noticed and made a calming gesture before I could get into full swing.

“Chris, you are an intelligent young man -- according to all reports, way above average. So I will do you a favour and cut the bullshit and treat you as the intelligent adult you undoubtedly are, and I am sure you will be grateful for that. Here is the situation as it is currently known.” He broke off and opened a folder in front of him.

“You were admitted to the emergency room at Geelong Hospital in respiratory arrest three days ago. You had been found unconscious in a rock cave near your home, and you were unresponsive. Toxicology results indicated you had ingested a significant quantity of alcohol along with a potentially lethal dose of Nitrazepam.

“After you were stabilized, a physical examination indicated you had sustained significant bruising some time before, consistent with a beating administered with a belt or similar object; also present was evidence of more recent sexual trauma. Since you have regained consciousness and your physical state has improved, you have not been responding to requests for information, and you have been evasive or dismissive.” He closed the file and looked at me, the smile gone, to be replaced by a look of calm intent and compassion.

“Very well, Chris, now listen to me. Everything points to two things: first, that you attempted suicide; second, that you have been the victim of abuse over some period. I know part of your background, and I have spoken to some people in your life who have filled in some details. As a result, I can confidently say that unless you can prove otherwise, I have to consider you at risk of self-harm. I have three colleagues who agree with that assessment, and, as a result, as of now you are involuntarily confined to State psychiatric care.”

Shock finally registered on my brain, shock and fear. For some reason One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest came into my mind, images of Jack Nicholson being smothered by a pillow. Playing the wise-ass McMurphy no longer seemed such a good idea.

“Now I have your attention.”

“Yes…” was all I could muster, words finally failing me as the enormity of my situation hit home. I had been avoiding it as best I could. After the initial shock of waking up and the despair that comes from being such a failure that I had even failed to kill myself properly, I had eventually settled in to continue the game, letting no one into my real thoughts and playing a role. Soon, I would go home and bide my time until the next opportunity. It was an agreeable fantasy while it lasted.

“Chris, even with what little I know, I can imagine the pain you are in right now. I am here to help, but you have to help me help you or we are going to get nowhere. So this is the deal: I will work with you to help you through this and to get you to the point where you can go home, and I will continue to work with you even then. Or, you can stay here and be a frightened wounded kid hiding under the disguise of a smart-ass brat. I can’t make the choice for you, but I do hope you make the right one, because I really want to help you, and I think I can.”

I looked up finally, glancing at Captain Noddy, looking for support, even anger or disdain, but finding only compassion in her face, too. It made me feel even worse. I could deal with hate, with contempt, but not this. Finally, I had met my match, like a submarine surrounded by destroyers until it’s pinned beneath the waves with no way out except to surface and surrender or to be blown to the bottom.

Finally, the tears came after being held in for so long. It didn’t seem to matter now. I was the ultimate failure, and there was nothing much left to hide. The voice that haunted my head these days returned with its usual refrain: worthless, worthless, worthless, repeated with the regular cadence of a metronome and with a renewed venom in its tone. Maybe I didn’t deserve even to die, denied the comfort of that release. Well, if that was it, then I needed to play it to the end, come what may.

“What do I do?”

“You can start by telling me about what led up to you being admitted to hospital.”

“How did I get here, you mean?”

“Yes, if you like.”

I sighed, a long weary sigh. Turning my memory to the places I tried not to go, I winced involuntarily at the thought of giving voice to all the hurt, all the rage. “This could take a while.”

“Don’t worry, Chris, we have all the time you need.”