Pongo #65

Casenotes

(from subject's recreational record)

Today I am on a tiger hunt,
tight-swollen with revenge.
At least, the idea of it. The sketch
overdrawn in song,
inked in by gang war movies.
A claw is lodged
deep in me from the last charge
and I think I love it, prodding
the wound. A barrel of curare drips
into my eye. Someone
holds a cup above my face,
catches drops, shields, only failing
when the vessel needs emptying – a split
second burn. I punch her but she stays,
I cut her, jab, spit, but she remains.
Today I bombard a friend. Today
the tigers hunt me.

(from subject’s recreational record)

Insa, Insa, I am twisting
the cord of my robe. I am
twisting rubber bands to snapping point. I
am twisting you like wool
into bracelets in my brain.
You’ve been sat there
in the back of my skull
all along. I feel it, feel
you stretch every morning,
your hands brushing
the part that sparks dreams.
The same part, whitecoats believe,
that sifts faces, landmarks,
emotion, visual response.
Now your hands stroke my hair. I see
you have broken out.
Soft stranger, who

(from subject’s rehabilitation record. A handwriting exercise)

My name is Cadderine Harver. My sister is Insa Harver. My mother is Mother or Candel Harver. My doctor, whom I can trust, is Dr N. Quellar M.D., fellow of the Central College of Psychiatry, originator of the Idolmorphosis theory and Cartt Prize Nominee. My name is Cadderine Harver. My sister is Insa Harver. My mother

{from observation)

Although the subject seemed introverted during the initial meeting with her sister, her creative output has since rocketed, and close analysis of the resulting writing reveals that she is now attempting to reconcile herself to reality. The sister has sat with Cadderine on most of the occasions where the writing has been most fluent and prolific, though she has yet to be engaged for a prolonged period by the subject, even after hours of sitting so close they are practically touching. Rather, Cadderine seems to find it easiest to ‘converse’ with Insa through her writing. These valuable bursts of creativity must continue to be gathered and closely monitored if we are to enter fully Cadderine’s mind.

Insa

Dr Quellar summons me to his office and ushers me inside gravely, as if hiding me from spies.

“Insa, I have some unsettling news. Do sit.”
I do sit.

“What is it?”

“The police would like to interview your sister.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why, Insa.”

“She didn’t stab Gilligan. She told me she didn’t stab Gilligan.”

“Insa,” he says, and I become a troublesome patient to whom he must speak slowly and with authority. “Your sister is very ill.”

“I know she’s ill,” I say slowly and with as much authority as I can muster. In fact I make a bid for patronising.

“Then,” he ups the patronise-o-meter, “you must understand that she may do or say a lot of things that aren’t necessarily lies, but that are not necessarily the truth either.”

“Surely that’s true of everyone, doctor.” I am hiding in deliberate perversion.

“Now really isn’t the time for philosophical debates, Ms Harver. The police will be here this afternoon.”

“If you’re prepared to let someone as mentally unstable as you say she is be interviewed by the police about attempted murder charges, then I’m taking my sister home. I want her discharged.”
That got his attention. And I mean it too.

“Don’t you think a hospital is the best place for an ill person Ms Harver? Don’t you want your sister to receive the best treatment for her condition? Treatment from specialists like myself who know exactly what conditions she requires for recovery?”

My fingers itch.

“The girl’s got a malignant tumour the size of an orange growing out of her, doctor. Now what provision have you made for her recovery regarding that?”

The clock pings twelve from his mantel.

Dr N Quellar M.D.

She glares at me.

“Well?”

“You know the new law, Ms Harver. We are prohibited from commencing chemotherapy without Cadderine’s express consent.”

“Ha!” The young woman bullets saliva as she scoffs. “And what if I were to get Cadderine’s consent today?”

“Then I would reject it until we felt she was in a stable mental condition.”

“By which time she could be dead!”
Insa bangs her head on a framed photograph of my dog. In my mind I go through possibilities for her condition. Everybody has a condition, to a greater or lesser extent. Sometimes the symptoms scream out at you, sometimes you have to fill in the blanks a little. For Insa Harver I have pencilled in the potential for self-harm, paranoia, delusion, hyperactivity, asthma.

“This is perfect,” she says, throwing arms wide and standing. “You’re going to watch her shrivel to a raisin, are you? How is that just?”

“You know the law, Insa.” I hold my finger, kestrelesque, above

“Yes, I know the law. I also know that the law is about the most fluid thing imaginable. You yourself have been consultant to a couple of landmark cases – chunks of legislation made obsolete in a swipe.”

“You’ve read up on me.” I feel proud and afraid.

“I began the day Cadderine came home with your diagnosis sheet in hand. You were watching her. I was watching you. Now I’ll level with you. I’m a little distrustful of your methods. I would like, if I may, to take my sister home. If she worsens, I will bring her back to you, but this place is enough to drive anyone nuts.”

“I'm afraid we have already obtained permission to retain Cadderine here in Mayver,” I tell her, fingering the papers in my hand that were rush-faxed through this morning in anticipation of this very conversation. We explained to the relevant authorities that -”

“It was for her own good. Right, right. So answer this: if the coppers reckon she did the Gilligan stabbing, and want to cart her off...?”

“She's protected as long as she remains under psychiatric supervision.”

Insa Harver considers head-butting my dog again, but slaps her chin onto her hand instead, frowning
out the problem.

“I see.”

Another furrow. I cringe at the waste of her clear forehead, at the ghost of crinkling yet to come. She is a striking girl, not pretty like her sister, but interesting and without acne.

“Can I use the toilets?”

I point her in the right direction and she stalks out of the door.

It is at least five minutes before I remember that is also the direction of Cadderine's room and Insa has used the toilet at least ten times since her arrival in Mayver. Before I can press the alarm, two nurses in quick succession bring respective news. Number one, a blonde I think is called Kell, tells me the police are here. The second, a new redhead, tells me that Cadderine and Insa Harver have gone.