Today, he is wearing his best clothes, beige chinos and a neatly ironed white shirt, and I see comb marks in his lightly oiled hair. Straight lines, front to back.
I shuffle along the row of seats until I’m close enough to shake his damp hand.
‘You came.’
‘Of course. How are you?’
‘Nervous.’
‘Dr Baillie says you’ve done well so far.’
‘I hope so.’
Elias glances anxiously at the main table and the three empty chairs.
Another door opens and three people enter. The panel. Two men and a woman. They take their seats. Each has a name badge, but they make a point of introducing themselves. The legal representative, Judge Aimes, is a small rather plump man in a pinstriped suit, with greying hair swept back to form a wave that covers a bald spot. The psychiatrist, Dr Steger, is wearing a business shirt, rolled to his elbows, and an MCC tie. His hair is spiked with gel, and he has a heavy silver bracelet instead of a wristwatch. The lay member of the panel, Mrs Sheila Haines, looks like my old kindergarten teacher and I can imagine her jollying along proceedings and suggesting a mid-morning ‘fruit break’。
Everybody new in the room must be identified. Their eyes turn to me.
‘I am Cyrus Haven. Elias’s brother.’
‘Are you his closest family?’ asks the judge.
I’m his only family, I want to say, but that’s not quite true. He still has grandparents, aunts, uncles and a handful of cousins, who have been remarkably silent for two decades. I doubt if being related to Elias is one of their dinner-party stories.
‘I’m his nearest living relative,’ I say, and immediately wish I’d used different words.
‘Are you a medical doctor?’ asks Mrs Haines.
‘I’m a forensic psychologist.’
‘How fascinating.’
Judge Aimes wants to move on. He addresses Elias.
‘Have you been given any medication that might affect your ability to participate in these proceedings?’
‘Only my usual drugs,’ says Elias, in a voice that is louder than the occasion demands.
‘What are you taking?’ asks the psychiatrist.
‘Clozapine.’
‘Do you know what would happen if you stopped taking your medication?’
‘I would get sick again.’ He adds quickly, ‘But I’m better now.’
Judge Aimes looks up from his notes. ‘We have received reports from two consultant psychiatrists, as well as heard oral submissions from Dr Baillie and the ward nurse and two resident psychiatrists. Have you been shown these statements?’
Elias nods.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, sir.’
‘This is your opportunity to make your case, Elias. Tell us what you’d like to happen now.’
Elias pushes back his chair and is about to stand when the judge says he should stay seated. Elias takes a piece of paper from his pocket.
‘I would like to express my thanks to the panel for this opportunity,’ he says, blinking at the page, as though he’s forgotten his glasses. Does he wear them? It’s been years since I’ve seen him read anything apart from the comic books and graphic novels I bring him when I visit. Dad needed reading glasses when he turned forty and I expect it will happen to me.
Elias continues. ‘I know what I did, and I know why it happened. I am a schizophrenic. What I experienced that day – what I saw and heard – the voices, the hallucinations – none of that was real. But I did unspeakable things to my family. Unforgivable things.’
He looks quickly at me and away again.
‘I have to live with that stain on my soul. I broke many hearts – including my own – and every day I pray to God for His forgiveness.’
This is also new information, although I’ve noticed him dropping Bible quotes into our conversations on my fortnightly visits to Rampton. He wipes perspiration from his top lip.
‘I have been in this place for more than seven thousand days and in all that time I have never left the grounds to visit the shops, or see a movie, or walk along a beach or ride a bike. I want to decorate a Christmas tree and wrap presents and go on holidays. I want to live a normal life, to make friends and get a job and meet a girl.’
I picture him practising this speech for weeks, looking at his reflection in the anti-break mirror.
‘What job would you do?’ asks the judge.
‘I would continue to study law. One day I hope to be sitting where you are, helping people.’
‘That’s very noble,’ says Mrs Haines.
Dr Steger seems less impressed. ‘Almost half of all patients we release fail to keep taking their medication. Eighty per cent of them have relapsed within two years.’
‘That wouldn’t happen to me,’ says Elias.
‘How can we be sure?’
‘I have worked on a recovery plan. I have coping skills.’
‘Where would you live?’
‘With my brother, Cyrus.’
The panel members look to me. I nod. Dry-mouthed.
‘Do you have any questions for Elias, Dr Haven?’ asks the judge.
Elias suddenly looks flustered. He didn’t expect me to speak.
‘How did it begin?’ I ask. ‘The voices.’
He blinks at me, as though unsure of the question. The silence fills every corner of the room and rises like water making my ears pop.
He finally speaks. ‘There was only one. I thought it was my imagination at first.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I didn’t think it was talking to me. It never said my name.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It … it … talked about someone else. “Can he stay awake all night?” “Can he skip school?” “Can he steal money from Dad’s wallet?”’
‘Was the voice telling you to do these things?’
‘I didn’t think so – not at first.’
‘Why did you listen?’
‘I thought it would make the voice go away.’
Nothing Elias has said is new. It has been documented, discussed and analysed. He is a case study now, taught to university students who are studying psychiatry and psychology and sociology.
‘Do you ever think about them?’ I ask.
Again, he blinks at me.
‘Mum and Dad. Esme and April. Do you ever think about them?’
He shrugs.
‘Why not?’
‘It upsets me.’
‘Did you love them?’
‘I was sick. I did a bad thing.’
‘Yes, but did you love them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘I barely know you,’ he whispers.
‘I appreciate your honesty.’
His eyes have filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for?’
‘For what I did.’
‘And now you’ve changed?’
He nods.
I glance at the judge and tell him I’m finished.
‘Well, let’s take a break,’ he says, addressing Elias. ‘We shall have a decision for you shortly.’
2
Evie
The manager has a moustache with waxed tips that curl at each end like frightened millipedes. It’s the sort of facial hair you see on old-time villains dressed in black capes who tie women to railway tracks and cackle when they laugh.