STRAIGHT JACKET
Adrian Deans
Adrian Deans is the author of two richly praised previous novels, Mr Cleansheets and THEM. He is a lawyer, journalist and novelist who grew up on something like the North Shore depicted in this story. He lives at Avoca Beach with his wife, Karen.
Praise for Straight Jacket
Adrian Deans does for Sydney’s leafy fringes what Irvine Welsh does for Edinburgh’s council estates. Straight Jacket is a ripsnorter of a ride through the dark heart of the burbs and may just be Australia’s answer to American Psycho.
Kirsten Krauth, just_a_girl, NSW Writers’ Centre
Sometimes funny, sometimes disturbing, and always compelling. With a super original premise and a one-of-a-kind protagonist, Deans’ entertaining follow up to Mr Cleansheets delivers on every level.
Tony Wilson, Making News
A disturbingly good read. Unnerving and darkly comic.
Stuart Quin, Ealing Studios Australia
High Horse Books
Copyright © Adrian Deans
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
First published in 2013 by High Horse Books
Typeset by High Horse Books
Cover design by Lucy Barker, www lucybarker.com.au
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Deans, Adrian, author.
Straight jacket / Adrian Deans.
ISBN: 9781742983431 (eBook)
A823.4
For my Father, who would
have really hated this book
Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognises genius.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
(The Valley of Fear, 1915)
No matter how good you are, there’s always someone better.
Anon
I’m among these people.
We’re upstairs in someone’s house — a bit like a bar. I’ve been here before, because I know the way the late afternoon sun flows red over black and white floor tiles, and the shadows cast at Picasso angles by iron lace furniture.
Instead of music, there is the sound of rushing water.
The girl with the dirty claret hair is watching me. There can only be one reason for her interest.
As I knew she would, the girl comes and sits at my table. She is younger than I remember.
She doesn’t speak and the roar of water seems louder. I feel myself drawn into the dead black depth of her adolescent stare, but before I lose myself completely, I see movement reflected, and I know they’re behind me.
I leap from my chair, and I’m flying through a window — landing on the ground in a shower of shards, unharmed, and racing through familiar but unfamiliar streets, as though someone had torn to shreds the suburbs of my experience and reassembled the pieces at random.
In my confusion, I run across a field, making for the back lane home. But instead of home, I see the old public toilet block at Kenley Park — an eerie sanctuary in the violet gloom before the street lights come on.
Then I hear the baritone drone of motorbikes in the distance.
They are coming.
Psychometric Review, Tape 1
‘A winged horse … white as snow … running in slow motion over the tops of the clouds … in dazzling bright moonlight …’
‘Then what?’
‘That’s all. I don’t remember any more.’
‘Hmmm.’
He wanted to know about my dreams, but what could I tell him? I never dream. I made up the horse, in case he thought ‘not dreaming’ was strange.
He ran his fingers through his de rigueur goatee and gleamed at me through rimless spectacles, more Freudian than any complex.
‘A flying horse,’ he mused, ‘but moving in slow motion … fascinating. It’s almost as though you are craving to be free, but sense that any form of freedom has its impediment. Am I right?’
The question hung in the air between us, and he seemed to be holding his breath.
‘You may be right,’ I said, all deft and delicate. ‘But if so, you’re talking about a freedom I’ve never sought consciously. I’m very happy with my life … especially since my appointment. I think the flying horse may be my desire to serve Gulliman Cross well, but the slow motion represents the need to be responsible in pursuit of my ambition.’
A single arched eyebrow, but I could sense it was almost over. The doctor scribbled briefly on his clipboard and backhanded a couple of obvious ticks — ticks are good.
Then, with the contrived gravitas of the professional justifying his existence, he said, ‘So … nothing else you think I ought to know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He tapped the pen against his perfect teeth, savouring his judgment.
‘What about the dazzling bright moonlight, Morgen? What can you tell me about that?’
‘I don’t think it’s important.’
‘You were quite specific. I always find the key to the psyche is in the details. Two men standing next to each other witness a murder. For one, the key memory is the face of the victim … for the other, it may be the colour of the sky or a button on the sleeve of the killer. What we remember, or choose to remember, is very revealing.’
I wasn’t sure he wanted me to respond, so I did my best to radiate boredom — to let him know he was wasting my time. He scribbled some more on his clipboard, then at last he said, ‘Alright Morgen, I think I can probably recommend …’
At that moment, an almost subliminal burr broke his concentration, and he reached into a shoulder holster to retrieve his telephone, peering closely at the displayed number before answering.
Fuck it! Another three seconds and I would’ve been gone.
He continued to stare at me while pressing the phone to his ear — occasionally murmuring a monosyllable — and I did my best to stay calm. It would all be over in a minute. I’d walk out with my appointment confirmed and everyone else could kiss my arse.
The doctor’s face became grave, but his eyes never left mine.
‘I see,’ he said.